FRESH, BUT UNCERTAIN START: PROJECT 921

Even though project 714 was one of the more successful secrets of the period, rumors of Chinese plans for manned spaceflight surfaced repeatedly during the 1980s. Pictures of spacesuited astronauts appeared from time to time, in isolation chambers, simulators, centrifuges, and observatories, almost certainly at the Institute of Space Medicine (there was even a profile in the domestic press, on 10th—11th January 1980, for example). It was a story that just never seemed to go away. We now know that a group of 12 men was recruited in April 1979. They were never formally constituted as an astronaut squad, even though they studied the stars, tested isolation and pressure chambers, underwent all the difficult physical tests such as the orientation chair, tested negative body pressure suits, tasted space food, made drop tests, and may even have undertaken simulated space missions.

In 1992, the Hong Kong press reported that plans for a manned spaceflight were now under way. Considered at the time as just another rumor, this story was actually true, for the government made such a decision that year, as confirmed by its code name, project 921, derived either from the first decision of “92”, 1992, or else 21st September of that year (the 21st of the ninth month). The decision arose from two feasibility studies carried out under the project 863 research program (for background to the program, see Chapter 5). In February 1987, an expert group, 863-2, was set up

Name Design bureau Features

Source: Lan, Chen: Dragon in Space: A History of China’s Shenzhou Manned Space Program. Spaceflight, 47(4) (2005); Wade, M. Tian Jiao 1, available online at www. astronautix. com.

to establish long-range goals for the space sector. It determined that having a space station in Earth orbit was the hallmark of a great power in the twenty-first century, signifying national strength and international visibility. Plan 863-2 led to two sub­studies: 863-204 was for a new manned spacecraft and launcher, while 863-205 was for a manned space station [1]. The competition was run by the Ministry of Aerospace, which gave it an additional title: project 869. Six designs were presented in June 1988 and these are detailed in Table 8.2.

In the event, the China Academy of Launcher Technology (CALT) shuttle design, the Tian Jiao, was rated first (84%), followed closely (83%) by the China Academy of Space Technology (CAST) design. The proposals went to a conference in Harbin in July 1988 where the debate revolved between a conservative design (CAST) and a leapfrogging design (CALT), but one with higher design risk and a later date. An expert group took a year to reach a final decision, reversing the original recommendation in favor of CAST. At the time, we knew nothing of this great competition, although relics of it were in fact hiding in plain view. The aerospace – plane design was displayed at the 1990 International Astronautical Congress and may still be seen in the company office. Tian Jiao, meantime, was exhibited at the Hanover, Germany Expo 2000.

The proposal entered a three-year period of great uncertainty, being alternately on and off while technical, economic, and political issues were argued out in party and government, eventually forcing Deng Xiaoping out of retirement to prevail on his colleagues and especially reluctant premier Li Peng to make a decision. As an

Chinese spaceplane, probably based on the Tian Jiao concept. Courtesy: Mark Wade.

interim step, there were further studies to refine outstanding issues and an exchange program with Russia, whereby 20 young engineers went there, while the Russians sent expert lecturers in exchange. The technical studies focused on deciding between three possible versions of the CAST design:

• a three-module configuration, with the re-entry module on top and the orbital module in the middle;

• a two-module configuration, with no orbital module (like the Soviet Zond spacecraft);

• a version close to the Russian Soyuz, but with a larger orbital module capable of 180 days’ independent flight, originally proposed by Ren Zinmin in 1987. This was the choice.

Although the politburo eventually made its decision on 21st September 1992, it was not confirmed or publicly announced until the end of the decade. The original plan foresaw an unmanned launch by 1998, manned launch by 2002, a small space station by 2007, and a Mir-class station by 2010. Put in charge of project 921 was a disciple of the Soviet chief designer (1966-74) Vasili Mishin: Wang Yongzhi. A special Human Spaceflight Project Office was established to manage the program, reporting back directly to the state council. The name “Shenzhou”, or “divine heavenly vessel”, was applied to the project in 1994. Key tasks were assigned to different bureaus. Although led by CAST, the Shenzhou propulsion system went to SAST (Table 8.3).

Shenzhou: Qi Faren

Launcher, CZ-2F: Liu Zhusheng

New launch complex at Jiuquan: Xu Kejun

Recovery: Zhao Jun

Tracking system: Yu Zhijian

Astronaut training: Shu Shuangning

Payloads, applications: Gu Yidong

Evidence of an emerging Chinese manned space project became ever more compelling when, in 1996, two Chinese cosmonaut instructors were spotted in Star Town in Moscow: Wu Tse and Li Tsinlong, both 34-year-old Air Force pilots with over 1,000 hr flying. Although Star Town had now become very cosmopolitan, with many Europeans and Americans in training there, there was only one reason why Wu Tse and Li Tsinlong could have been there: they were cosmonaut instructors in training.

In fact, China had renewed its relationship with its long-estranged partners in Moscow in early 1993 and a formal cooperation agreement had been signed there on 25th March 1994. The following year, the Chinese went shopping, deciding to buy critical elements for their manned space program. They bought an entire spacecraft Ufe-support system, a Sokol spacesuit, a docking module, a Kurs rendezvous system,

Wu Tse and Li Tsinlong training in Moscow, 1996. Courtesy: Neil da Costa.

and a full Soyuz capsule, but it was a stripped-down shell, without any equipment or electronics (the Chinese had hoped to buy a complete Soyuz, but negotiators would not agree a price). Thermal protection systems were tested in Russian wind tunnels. The Chinese baulked at the €8m price of the stabilizer for the launch escape system and built their own in the end.

The two cosmonaut instructors spent a year in Star Town, learning how they could train a squad of their own, assisted by 20 specialists. As they did so, recruitment began for China’s second astronaut squad in 1996. As was the case before, Air Force pilots were favored, with a preference for over 1,000 flying hours, with an initial pool of between 1,000 and 1,500 people, reduced to 60, then 20, and finally whittled down to a final selection of 12 in 1998, with the two instructors later added, giving a second squad of 14 men (no women). The criteria were for height up to 175 cm, weight up to 80 kg, age 20-45 (but 25-36 preferred), a university degree in science, and a foreign language. Table 8.4 shows those who were selected.

Table 8.4. China’s second group of astronauts, 1996.

Zhao Chuandong Chen Quan Pan Zhanchun Zhang Xiaoguang Deng Qingming

Wu Tse (also written Wu Jie) (instructor)

Li Tsinlong (also written Li Qinglong) (instructor)

Although they did most of their training in China, they did travel to Russia for weightless training in the 11-76 plane. One outstanding question remained: what to call China’s spacemen? The original term for someone who flew in space, from the 1930s to the early 1960s, was “astronaut” (someone who traveled to the stars). On the first anniversary of Yuri Gagarin’s flight, in 1962, the Soviet Union introduced a term devised by writer by Ari Stemfeld – “cosmonaut” (someone who traveled throughout the cosmos) – as a distinctive term for its fliers. The most popular term used in China, dating to the 1950s, was “yuhangyuan” – the official term and the one used in this book. Several others have also been used, including “hangtianyuan”, a professional or academic term, and “taikongren”, the term most familiar to overseas Chinese and people in Hong Kong and Taiwan. An anglicized version of “taikongren” is “taikonaut”, which has the merit of symmetry with “cosmonaut” and “astronaut”. This was favored by the Western media and even gained ground in China itself.

The manned space program decided on in 1992 meant a huge expansion of the infrastructure of the Chinese space program – indeed, its most systematic develop­ment since it began. The first need was for a training center, set up as a walled village in Haidian, a secluded area protected by military guards in the north-western suburbs of Beijing, whose function was comparable to Star Town and the American facilities in Houston [2]. It was built on the site of the original training center in 1970
and was not that different in layout from Star Town in Moscow. The main elements were a Shenzhou simulator, docking simulator, launch escape slide, and centrifuge 8 m long, able to run at 42 rpm and achieve 16 G (although 6 G is the normal run). A typical training period to qualification was four years. The training center had a spinning chair which whirled people up and down, left and right, around and around, in dizzying combinations, and an isolation, thermal, and vacuum chamber from which the air was sucked out and where astronauts learned to live in an air-free environment for several days, testing their psychological fitness to the limit and subjecting them to a range of temperature and humidity regimes. For gravity tests, the astronauts were put in a cylindrical tower 10 m tall and then shot up at great speed, to simulate the stresses of launching. To test the other end of the mission, they were dropped in a fast lift in a four-storey-high building. There was plenty of theory to learn, too. When they arrived, the yuhangyuan were handed a 600-page manual, Manned Spaceflight Engineering, covering everything from flight dynamics to cosmic rays and navigation systems.

The astronauts trained there five days a week. They returned home to their families each weekend. They had ordinary apartments to the standards of a cadre division commander. During the week, they had their own transport and police escort for visits outside the training center but, at the weekend, they were expected to get around like anyone else by bicycle or car. As was the case with many in the Russian cosmonaut squad, most of their wives also worked in the training center or in the space industry.

At the same time, a mission control center was built in Yenshan (Swallow Mountain) district, 40 km north of Beijing’s center, not far from one of the emperor’s summer palaces. Called the Beijing Aerospace Command and Control Centre (BACCC), it opened in March 1996. BACCC has five walls of consoles, 100 in all, connected by fiber optic cables, with a huge wall-to-wall screen at the front, with clocks, images of the worldwide tracking system, and television relays from the launch center, its gleaming and futuristic appearance confirmed by up to four presentations of three-dimensional displays at the front. Its appearance was not unlike that of mission control in Moscow, the TsUP, used to control the International Space Station (ISS). In between missions, the controllers spend time honing their skills in simulations. When they are not doing this, the screen puts up a graphic of a Long March taking off against a background of pagodas and distant mountains. Computers and high-speed links connect BACCC to China’s national ground control system in Xian and the Yuan Wang comships. Mission control handles not just manned, but lunar and interplanetary, missions.