Epic Rivalry Read online

  Finally, in August 1960, Discoverer 14 ended its mission successfully, completing a unique high-wire act as its reentry capsule was captured in a perfect mid-air recovery. The capsule’s film yielded photographs fit to show a president, and that is precisely what CIA Director Allen Dulles did personally in the Oval Office on August 24. A reel of developed Discoverer film was unrolled at Eisenhower’s feet. A sampling of the satellite’s total mission “take,” it showed high-quality photographs of Soviet and Eastern European territory taken from 115 miles above Earth.

  Overall, the photos showed dozens of air bases and surface-to-air missile sites and a major new Soviet rocket facility at Plesetsk, in northern Russia, where a very small number of Soviet R-7 ICBMs were later based. In sum, Discoverer 14 had provided more useful intelligence information than four years of U-2 flights (which had ended in May 1960 after a U-2 was shot down over Russia). The photographs showed objects as small as 6 to 9 feet.

  The significance of all this was summed up in a later comment by Albert “Bud” Wheelon, the CIA’s deputy director for science and technology: “It was as if an enormous floodlight had been turned on in a darkened warehouse.”45 Other Discoverer satellites continued to bring back photographic proof that, despite Khrushchev’s boasts that Russia was producing ICBMs “like sausages,” there were no hidden caches containing hundreds of Soviet ICBMs ready to strike the United States without warning.

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  Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin sits at the ready at Baikonur cosmodrome shortly before his launch into orbit, April 1961.

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  THE HUMAN DIMENSION

  A manned space mission represented the next logical step in the American space program—what became known as “Project Mercury.” T. Keith Glennan, administrator of the newly organized National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA), chose a day filled with symbolic meaning to unveil this new initiative—December 17, 1958, the 55th anniversary of the historic flight of the Wright brothers at Kitty Hawk. For NASA planners, these future space travelers, soon to be known popularly as “astronauts,” would ride into outer space in a specially designed spacecraft and then return safely to Earth. For the first time, there would be a human presence in outer space.

  There was also a thinly veiled subtext: The Mercury program reflected the determination of NASA to place a human in orbit—and ultimately the pursuit of a lunar landing—ahead of the Soviet Union. Most Americans believed that the Soviets possessed hidden capabilities to achieve the same lofty goal, given their recent space exploits. By contrast, the American space program appeared backward, seemingly adrift and without focus.

  There was a new dynamic at play, one calling for a race with the Soviets for prestige and preeminence in space. Given this emerging space rivalry with the Soviets, President Eisenhower—to the frustration of the NASA leadership—persisted in a go-slow approach. He had warmly endorsed the goal of launching artificial satellites, which was justified in his mind as a genuine scientific undertaking and in harmony with his own goal of affirming the freedom of space. Moreover, for Eisenhower, satellites offered the United States an effective platform for aerial reconnaissance—in the context of the Cold War, a vital function to assure America’s national security. Consequently, Eisenhower gave human spaceflight a lower priority, even though he had allowed Project Mercury to take shape. In his last budget to Congress, he recommended that no human spaceflights be pursued beyond Project Mercury unless they possessed “valid scientific reasons.”1

  Eisenhower had been instrumental in forging America’s missile technology and even laying down the institutional foundation for the American space program. His interest in space, however, had remained narrow, for the most part tied to the need for reconnaissance satellites. He had no appetite for space spectaculars. In the immediate aftermath of the Sputnik launches, a chorus of critics arose to accuse the Eisenhower administration of inertia and drift. Efforts by Eisenhower to reassure the American public proved largely ineffectual. Being privy to highly classified intelligence reports, Eisenhower was aware of the technological weaknesses of the Soviet Union—and, ironically, the advanced nature of American Atlas, Titan, Polaris and Minuteman missile programs. He fully understood that there was no missile gap. Moreover, he rejected the idea that the Sputnik satellites mirrored some sort of strategic advantage for the Soviet Union. He feared that any embrace of a long-term “space race” with the Soviets would be foolhardy and unnecessary.

  The Eisenhower approach reflected a strong preference for robotic probes into outer space for scientific research. By contrast, the pursuit of manned programs—into orbit and beyond—required greater expenditures and prodigious engineering feats. For Eisenhower, any ambitious program for the human exploration of space would be costly, requiring a vast expansion of the aerospace industry. This position became increasingly untenable in the post-Sputnik environment. The voices clamoring for the United States to aggressively challenge the apparent Soviet superiority in space only grew in intensity as the decade ended. Project Mercury, if defined narrowly under Eisenhower as a program for manned spaceflights in near-Earth orbits, would become the seedbed for a more ambitious American endeavor in space, one that would rival in its scope the Manhattan Project of World War II. The key force behind the shift in national policy would be John F. Kennedy, who would be elected to the presidency in 1960.

  NASA became proactive in promoting the American space program, even with only a tepid display of support from the Eisenhower White House. At the core of the new NASA organization was the old National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics (NACA), a venerable and highly productive research entity that traced its origins back to 1915. Building on these NACA roots, NASA took under its wing a number of key research organizations, including the Langley flight research center (soon to become the home for Project Mercury); the Lewis Flight Propulsion Laboratory in Cleveland, Ohio; the high-speed flight center at Edwards Air Force Base; and the Wallops Island test facility in Virginia, among others. In October 1958, the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) came under NASA, as did much of the army rocket program at Huntsville in the fall of 1960, eventually becoming the George C. Marshall Space Flight Center. With the latter transfer, Wernher von Braun found himself under a civilian agency with a clear mandate for space exploration.

  During the years 1958-1960, NASA attempted a number of satellite launches. Success was eventually attained, but only after a number of embarrassing mishaps. The four attempts in 1958 all ended in failure. Another 14 launches in 1959 garnered nine successes. The year 1960 showed greater progress, with a record of 12 successful tries in 17 attempts. During this same period the Soviets scored a series of remarkable successes with their Luna series: Luna 1, the first to range outside Earth’s gravity; Luna 2 crashing into the Moon’s surface; and, most memorable of all, Luna 3 taking photographs of the far side of the moon. Still, NASA could point with pride to launching the first weather satellite, TIROS 1, in April 1960, and the first navigation satellite, Transit 1B, the same month, among other benchmarks.2

  NASA administrator Glennan, the past president of Case Institute of Technology and a prominent member of the Atomic Energy Commission, proved to be an effective administrator in consolidating a number of diverse research entities under the NASA umbrella. But others also played key roles in shaping the emerging American space policy.

  Hugh L. Dryden, the long-term NACA leader, had displayed a keen interest in promoting a viable space program in the United States. He had led the high-flying X-15 test program in the late 1950s. He also played a pivotal role in mapping the future space program while still at NACA. Dryden appointed Robert Gilruth, the hard-driving head of the Langley research facility, to assemble a panel (to be known as the Space Task Group) to formulate a long-range program for spaceflight. The work of Gilruth and his special panel set out the essential architecture for Project Mercury. Both Dryden and Gilruth would join Glennan at NASA headquarters.3

  For
Project Mercury, there was a compelling need to fashion a whole new cluster of technologies to allow for human spaceflight. Any vehicle carrying humans into space had to be capable of resisting the perils of outer space—extremes in temperature, the airless void of space, and the newly discovered dangers of radiation. The optimal design for a capsule prompted debate and competing designs. Some argued for the older configuration of an aircraft, to fly into space and then glide back to Earth. The X-15 provided one such model, since it could reach an altitude of 67 miles, but it lacked the necessary acceleration to enter space on its own power. H. Julian Allen, who had established himself as a leading NACA engineer in the 1950s, argued for a missile to launch a blunt-shape capsule, one that would resist the heat generated upon reentry and still provide the requisite aerodynamic properties to assure a safe landing.4

  However, the preferred option, approved by Glennan, originated with Maxime Faget, an engineer at Langley. He argued for a capsule with retro-rockets to slow the orbital momentum, allowing for a gradual descent into the atmosphere. The final design reflected this basic approach—a cone-shaped capsule with a cylinder at the top (then fitted with a special tower containing a solid-propellant rocket to fire and lift the capsule to safety in case of any emergency on the launch pad). The capsule was rather small, offering its occupant little comfort while in orbit, and the astronaut sat in a custom-designed seat. Eighteen small rockets, which were operated manually by the astronaut, controlled the attitude of the capsule and directed the spacecraft into a home trajectory from orbit. The capsule’s ablative heat shield protected the astronaut during reentry into the atmosphere. Parachutes slowed the capsule during final descent for a splashdown in the ocean. It is interesting that these far-reaching plans were articulated before July 29, 1958, when President Eisenhower signed the legislative act to create NASA. Finally, McDonnell won the contract for the development of the capsule on January 12, 1959.5

  NASA employed different booster rockets to catapult the Mercury capsule into space. The “Little Joe” rocket served as a booster to launch dummy capsules into the upper atmosphere for testing. The venerable Redstone, in reality an upgraded variant of the V-2, was deemed ideal for sub-orbital flights of dummy capsules and eventually astronauts. For the final step, the launching of an astronaut into an Earth orbit, NASA decided to use the Air Force’s powerful Atlas rocket. The Atlas, still in development in 1958, would be fitted with engines capable of 180 tons of thrust. The Atlas—a massive ICBM with a range of 9,000 miles—offered the astronaut an extraordinary ride into space at 17,500 miles per hour. General Dynamics had been given the primary contract for the development of the Atlas.6

  In the second half of 1958, NASA began recruiting the first class of astronauts. Gilruth’s Space Task Group assumed the leadership for this selection process. The initial job description, written up in the framework of a civil service position, cast a rather wide net for hard-nosed adventurers—one could qualify from myriad pursuits such as submariners, parachute jumpers, and Arctic explorers. This open-ended appeal soon was abandoned in favor of a more narrow set of criteria, insisted upon by President Eisenhower in late December 1958: The astronaut corps had to be recruited from the community of military test pilots on active duty. Now refocused, the selection process proceeded forward. Only males between the ages of 25 and 40 could apply. They could be no taller than 5 feet 11 inches, and had to possess a college degree or equivalent experience in an appropriate technical field. Flying experience became an essential factor, a minimum of 1,500 hours with extensive cockpit time in jets. The initial pool consisted of some 110 candidates, which was distilled down to 69 applicants who weathered an intense round of tests and interviews. The relentless process of whittling down continued until the group was reduced to seven.7

  The selection of these seven men, the nation’s first class of astronauts, was announced to the public on April 9, 1959. Reflecting Eisenhower’s narrow criteria, they all came from the ranks of the military, all were aviators, some with considerable experience as test pilots: Marine pilot John H. Glenn; Navy aviators Alan B. Shepard, M. Scott Carpenter, and Walter M. Schirra; and Air Force fliers Virgil “Gus” Grissom, L. Gordon Cooper, and Donald “Deke” K. Slayton. Their debut, to NASA’s surprise, created a sensation. The public expressed a keen interest in the new corps of astronauts, seeking to know more about their lives, families, and interests. The Mercury Seven became immediate celebrities, the object of an adoring populace and media. A year after their debut, the astronauts signed a contract giving Life magazine the exclusive right to tell their personal stories. The public image of the Mercury Seven reflected a blend of patriotism, bravery, and technical competence. They were the heroes of the new space age—at the cutting edge of America’s campaign to gain dominance in the space race with the Soviets. Novelist Tom Wolfe, in his memorable bestseller The Right Stuff, captured this moment: “…all seven, collectively, emerged in a golden haze as the seven finest pilots and bravest men in the United States. A blazing aura was upon them.”8

  Less apparent to the public and the adoring media was how problematical “flying” in the Mercury program became, at least initially, for these seasoned pilots. Seated and wired, the astronaut was catapulted into space in a highly automated flying machine. He had minimal opportunity to exercise manual control in the spacecraft. The elite fraternity of test pilots, most notably fabled airmen Chuck Yeager and Scott Crossfield, viewed the space enterprise as a lower order of flying, one that was more robotic in nature and at odds with the test-pilot ethos. Jokes abounded that the astronauts were merely going along for the ride, no longer pilots but “spam in a can.” Quietly but forcefully the astronauts compelled NASA to entertain key design changes in the spacecraft to allow a greater scope for the astronaut to exercise effective control over his spacecraft.9

  SPACE AND THE NEW FRONTIER

  The presidential election of 1960 proved to be a close contest. John F. Kennedy defeated Richard M. Nixon by just 118,000 votes—a mere 0.2 percent of the popular tally. The new president labeled his program the New Frontier, in a highly effective move to suggest that he offered vigorous new leadership for the United States. “Let every nation know, whether it wishes us well or ill,” Kennedy asserted in his inaugural address, “that we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty.” These words calling for a forceful response to the challenges of the 1960s resonated well with the mood of the country. One legacy from the 1950s was the emerging space rivalry between the United States and the Soviet Union—and Kennedy soon found himself confronting this lingering issue from the Eisenhower years.

  On the campaign trail in 1960, Kennedy had been blunt in his assessment of where the United States stood in the space race vis-à-vis the Soviet Union. “They [foreign nations] have seen the Soviet Union first in space,” he told a crowd in Idaho. Referring to Russian space achievements, he noted: “They have seen it first around the moon, and first around the sun…. They have come to the conclusion that the Soviet tide is rising and ours is ebbing. I think it is up to us to reverse that point.” Speaking at New York University in New York City’s Washington Square in October, he asserted: “These are entirely new times, and they require new solutions…. The Soviet Union is now first in outer space.”10

  At another point in the campaign, Kennedy noted that American science and education enjoyed a reputation “second to none” around the world. Yet, he lamented, “[t]he first vehicle in space was called Sputnik, not Vanguard. The first country to place its national emblem on the moon was the Soviet Union, not the United States.” Even the first dogs sent into space and safely returned to Earth “were named Strelka and Belka, not Rover or Fido, or even Checkers,” Kennedy added.11

  Kennedy’s campaign rhetoric raised profound and nagging doubts about Eisenhower’s leadership in the face of the Soviet challenge in space. Notwithstanding these charges, the Eisenhower admin
istration could point to some substantial strides forward in the aftermath of the Sputnik launches. In fact, the relative standing of the United States and the Soviet Union in space was more nuanced than Kennedy’s campaign rhetoric suggested. After a slow, even embarrassing start, the Eisenhower administration had made real progress in advancing the U.S. space program.

  By October 4, 1960, the United States had orbited 26 satellites and launched two successful space probes, compared to six satellites and two space probes by the U.S.S.R. in the same period. It had responded to the Soviet space challenge on several levels, including development of new categories of satellites. One was Echo, a “passive” communications satellite in the form of a 100-foot diameter inflatable balloon that reflected radio waves back to Earth, permitting real-time two-way voice communication via space for the first time. Another important U.S. success was TIROS (Television and Infrared Observation Satellite Program), the world’s first weather satellite, which transmitted thousands of images of cloud cover, severe storms, and other weather phenomena back to Earth. TIROS was the precursor of today’s global meteorological satellite information system. Both were orbited in the final year of Eisenhower’s term. The United States also achieved a significant technological breakthrough when its top-secret spy satellite program, Corona, successfully returned the first man-made object ever recovered from space.12

  Another issue that loomed large in the 1960 campaign was the alleged “missile gap” between the United States and the Soviet Union. In the immediate aftermath of Sputnik 1, there had been the widespread fear that the Soviets would soon have hundreds of deployed ICBMs capable of delivering a catastrophic surprise thermonuclear attack on American cities. Khrushchev himself had fueled such speculation when he announced in the late 1950s that Russia was producing ICBMs “like sausages.” On the campaign trail, Kennedy and his running mate, then U.S. Senate Majority Leader Lyndon Johnson, readily embraced the existence of this superpower missile gap. In August 1960, Kennedy, in a speech before the Veterans of Foreign Wars in Detroit, asserted that “the missile lag looms larger and larger ahead.” A month later, he continued on the same theme, calling for “crash programs to provide ourselves with the ultimate weapons…which will eventually close the missile gap.”13