Epic Rivalry Read online

  The missile gap, in reality, was a myth, a fact obscured from the electorate in 1960. The Soviets had constructed only four R-7 ICBM launch pads, a small network with merely a half-dozen R-7s actually deployed.14 But the true facts were only beginning to become known to U.S. intelligence agencies, given the very limited reliable knowledge available in the West about what was really taking place in the Soviet Union. Using the scant information available to them, the American intelligence community split between the Air Force analysts claiming that there could be as many as hundreds of deployed Soviet ICBMs and the CIA’s view that there were no more than a dozen. These estimates changed frequently and analysts differed in their assessment of the actual threat.15

  Beginning in 1956, U.S. efforts to pierce the Iron Curtain began to pay off. The desperate need to know definitively how many long-range ballistic missiles were in the Soviet arsenal became the driving force behind two major American strategic intelligence programs: the U-2 spy plane and the Corona photo-reconnaissance satellite. The U-2 overflights, initiated in 1956, covered only part of the vast Soviet land mass. The U-2 intelligence data suggested no large Soviet ICBM deployment, but the Air Force seized on the incomplete coverage of the U-2 airborne cameras to press the argument that large numbers of ICBMs might still lurk unseen, arguing that it remained prudent to deploy a large number of American ICBMs. Coincidentally, the only American ICBM ready for deployment at that time was the Air Force’s own Atlas. When Kennedy made the “missile gap” a campaign issue in 1960, many in the public sphere expressed alarm and a sense of urgency over national security.16

  This claim was made despite the fact that both Kennedy and his running mate, Lyndon Johnson, had been briefed by then CIA director, Allen Dulles, on the exact nature of Soviet ICBM deployment. The briefing took place in July 1960, a session where Dulles—in his own words—provided “an analysis of Soviet strategic attack capabilities in missiles and long-range bombers.” Notwithstanding the intelligence briefing, Kennedy chose to maintain the “missile gap” as an effective campaign issue in the last weeks of the 1960 presidential campaign.17

  The dramatic series of Soviet space triumphs—all launched by the powerful R-7 rocket—added credibility to this bogus issue. During the campaign Nixon winced at the charge that the Soviet triumphs in space dwarfed the American effort. He took issue with Kennedy’s critical comments, asserting that it was “irresponsibility of the highest sort for an American presidential candidate to obscure the truth about America’s magnificent achievement in space in an attempt to win votes.”18 Nonetheless, the Soviet Union did enjoy some significant advantages over the United States, which Kennedy sought to exploit in his campaign rhetoric. Primary among these was Russia’s ability to launch into orbit vehicles weighing far more than U.S. spacecraft, including the five-ton Vostok, launched in May 1960, a test vehicle later used for Russia’s manned orbital flights. As it turned out, the Vostok, complete with a “dummy” astronaut, was intended to return to Earth, but a malfunction sent it instead into a higher orbit.

  On January 19, the day before John F. Kennedy’s inauguration, Glennan spent his last working day at NASA, departing Washington in a winter blizzard for his home in Ohio. Glennan’s departure offered the Kennedy administration the option of appointing a new administrator, a person who would embrace fully the space program of the New Frontier. The man selected for the job was James E. Webb, who assumed his duties in February 1961. Abe Zarem, a well-respected scientist and engineer, felt Webb fit well the demanding portfolio for the space agency—“an evangelist, with a keen sense of our national rendezvous with destiny…an efficient manager…a man of exceptional social manners, particularly for briefing Congress.”19 In addition to his extraordinary energy and strong organizational skills, Webb brought a wide variety of experience to his new position. Trained as a lawyer, he had been a highly successful business executive at Kerr-McGee Oil in Oklahoma. His ties to Washington were substantial: He had been a congressional aide, Truman’s director of the budget, and undersecretary of state under Dean Acheson.20 Webb always sought out talented people for his inner circle, a trait that became evident immediately when he chose Hugh Dryden as his deputy administrator, a man who had served NASA under Glennan. Though Webb lacked technical training, he approached the leadership of NASA with boldness and vision.21

  Jack Valenti, then a Houston newsman and a future aide to President Lyndon Johnson, wrote a brief biographical sketch of Webb, titled “Thank the Lord for the Good Men.” Valenti described Webb as a dynamic and forceful leader of the new space agency, moving with “the energy of his Atlas boosters.” Those who worked at NASA headquarters with Webb also made a positive impression on Valenti, in particular Robert Seamans, Hugh Dryden, and Robert Gilruth. In Valenti’s words: “They have found rapport with achievement. They have built a strong house where valor dwells.”22

  Webb assumed the leadership of NASA at a time when it was expanding through a variety of new program initiatives. In 1961, four new offices were established: manned spaceflight, space sciences, applications, and advanced research and technology. By the end of that year, NASA had just under 18,500 full-time civilian employees. In addition, its contractors employed 58,000 people in 1961 and 116,000 the following year. This was just the start of an expansion that would peak at 377,000 jobs in 1965. NASA’s budget grew apace from 964 million dollars in 1961 to a total of 32 billion dollars for its first 10 years. As a sign of that growth to come, NASA facilities grew as well. First to be addressed was the need for a separate operation for manned spaceflight operations. Following a review of 20 cities, Webb announced in September 1961 that Houston would be the site of a facility that would design, develop, and manufacture all manned spacecraft; select and train their crews; and oversee their actual space missions. Texas was the home state of Vice President Johnson, a strong supporter and initiator of the space program. In 1962, NASA also took over 111,000 square acres at Cape Canaveral, next to the military launch sites there. The Department of Defense had run the entire facility from May 1949, when President Truman had authorized the missile launch range. In addition, the various NASA centers were supplemented by a rocket-engine test facility in Mississippi and an electronics research center in Massachusetts, among others.23

  There was one fitting, if belated, move by the new Kennedy administration to correct the hyperbole of the 1960 campaign regarding missiles. In January 1961, just days after his inauguration, Kennedy ordered his new defense secretary, Robert McNamara, to conduct a full review of the Missile Gap issue. The results of that study were summed-up in the headline on a page one New York Times story published on February 7, 1961: “Kennedy Defense Study Finds No Evidence of a Missile Gap.” The piece set the historical record straight, reporting “studies made by the Kennedy administration since Inauguration Day show tentatively that no ‘missile gap’ exists in favor of the Soviet Union. The conclusion appears to back the views of former President Eisenhower, who told Congress last month that the missile gap ‘shows every sign’ of being a fiction.”

  For all his pronouncements, Kennedy entered the White House with little knowledge or interest in space, except for his keen appreciation of how issues involving the American space program dovetailed with the politics of the Cold War. He was not a visionary or, for that matter, necessarily enraptured with the romantic prospects of space travel. Kennedy shared the existing American consensus on the Cold War, the necessity of advancing the national security of the United States in the era of nuclear weapons. In diplomacy, he expressed a keen sense of realpolitik and worked hard to maintain the balance of power and spheres of influence in American-Soviet relations.24

  Hugh Sidey, the White House correspondent for Time and Life magazines, enjoyed extraordinary access to Kennedy. He wrote, “Of all the areas of bafflement when Kennedy took office, space seemed more perplexing than the others. Kennedy seemed to know less about it, be less interested in it.”25 However, Kennedy was committed to supporting a more robust space pr
ogram than his predecessor. And he envisioned increased emphasis on manned spaceflight as opposed to the narrow agenda of launching communications, mapping, and weather satellites. This focus ran parallel to his robust support for the American military space program, including ongoing ICBM development, the Navy’s submarine-launched Polaris missile program, and reconnaissance satellites. As president, Kennedy recognized the strong public appeal of the Project Mercury astronauts then in training and wanted to ensure that the program received full support from his administration.26

  Even before Kennedy assumed office, NASA had achieved the important goal of taking control of the scattered institutions essential for a viable space program—part of the legacy of the Glennan years. NASA acquired the Navy’s Project Vanguard staff in November 1958. As a civilian agency, NASA also acquired the U.S. Army’s two prized space-age possessions—the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena and the von Braun rocket team at the Redstone arsenal. (The Army, in its quest for a continuing and even expanded space role, had consolidated its Ballistic Missile Agency, JPL, and other related agencies under General John B. Medaris, in early 1958, creating the Army Ordnance Missile Command.) The process of consolidation was met with resistance and no small amount of infighting. For example, Medaris quickly acquiesced to the transfer of JPL, but resisted fiercely the transfer of the army’s missile programs, a struggle in which he was actively supported by von Braun and his team. Yet the NASA takeover of Medaris’ empire was complete by July 1960, when the Redstone Arsenal was renamed as the George C. Marshall Space Flight Center. With von Braun and his team came yet another great prize for NASA—the design work for the mighty Saturn rocket, which would later power the Apollo missions.27

  By January 1961, NASA was ready to send into space a primate stand-in for the astronauts to come, using a Redstone, the same missile the astronauts would use on suborbital flights. (In May 1959, two monkeys, Able and Baker, had survived a suborbital flight in the nose cone of a Jupiter IRBM.) Ham, a chimpanzee, was selected for this honor, and his 17-minute suborbital flight and recovery on January 31 were successful. The choice did not please the Mercury astronauts, who were chagrined by the idea of sending primates into space before a man. Two of them, Slayton and Shepard, later wrote, “The irony of playing second fiddle to a chimpanzee was particularly galling to these highly intelligent and skilled men.”28 Soon enough, though, events would renew the focus of the astronauts and the nation on the task of getting Americans into space.

  A RED STAR

  The Soviet space program, Tom Wolfe aptly observed in The Right Stuff, maintained “an aura of sorcery.” The Soviets, he noted, “released practically no figures, pictures, or diagrams. And no names; it was revealed only that the Soviet program was guided by a mysterious individual known as the Chief Designer. But his powers were indisputable! Every time the United States announced a great space experiment, the Chief Designer accomplished it first, in the most startling fashion.”29 The year 1961 would offer little respite for Americans—indeed, the Chief Designer had some more surprises in store for NASA and the world.

  The new arena for competition became manned spaceflight, the urgent quest to launch a human being into orbit—at the time still a radical notion. Project Mercury looked ahead to this seminal moment. The Soviets, even if operating under a shroud of secrecy, also hinted at such a bold undertaking. In fact, Korolev and his associates had made substantial progress testing prototype capsule-satellite technologies. The Korabl-Sputnik series, dating back to May 1960, used dogs and other animal species to test the impact of spaceflight on living creatures. Some of the Korabl-Sputnik missions failed, typically in the reentry phase, killing the animals; others, such as two launches in March 1961, proved to be highly successful. These same experimental launches offered an avenue for perfecting landing techniques of capsules after reentry into Earth’s atmosphere. Upon reaching a safe altitude, the canines were ejected from the capsule and parachuted to Earth, the very same system that would be used in future missions with cosmonauts. These tests became part of what later was known as the Vostok series.30

  Two grim footnotes to the triumphal march of the Soviet program occurred during the interregnum between Sputnik and the debut of manned spaceflight: the explosion of the R-16 ICBM. On October 24, 1960, the prototype R-16 blew up on the launch pad after a fire erupted in the second stage of the rocket. The massive conflagration that followed killed about 130 people, including General Mitrofan I. Nedelin, then commander of the Soviet Union’s Strategic Rocket Forces. Test pilot Dolgov met his death in an accident while testing the ejection seat mechanism for a future manned spacecraft. These setbacks remained concealed behind a curtain of secrecy—only the triumphs of the Soviet space program were trumpeted to the West.31

  As with Project Mercury, the Soviets had quietly begun the arduous process of screening candidates for their cosmonaut corps. The preparatory work was broadly based and in some respects parallel in its character to the American program. The Soviet Air Force, for example, established a special department in aviation medicine to focus exclusively on the new realm of space.32 By March 1961, this effort had reached maturation, and a group of finalists was introduced to the emerging Vostok spacecraft technology. At this juncture, in anticipation of an imminent manned spaceflight, cosmonaut training proceeded at a rapid pace. No less important, Soviet technicians worked feverishly to perfect the life-support system for the capsule, the space suit, and the critical ejection-seat mechanism. The preparatory phase for manned orbital flight reached a critical milestone on April 8, 1961, when Yuri Gagarin, one of six finalists, was designated as pilot, and German Titov received the nod to serve as his backup pilot. Three days later, both men met with engineers and technical staff at the launch pad for a final briefing. The date for the mission was now set for April 12. The Vostok capsule would be launched at 9:07 a.m. (Moscow time). Korolev remained at the epicenter of these events, working with his talented staff, including Nikolai Kamanin, in charge of cosmonaut training, Mstislav V. Keldysh, a distinguished mathematician and physicist, and Konstantin Feoktistov, one of the leading engineers associated with the Vostok program.33

  Yuri Gagarin was 26 years old when he joined the elite group of cosmonauts in January 1961. Before that time, Gagarin and his fellow cosmonauts had endured a rigorous period of preparatory work in simulators and parachute training. Gagarin came from the Smolensk region, west of Moscow, from a family with a proletarian pedigree. Having graduated from secondary school, he entered the Soviet Air Force, qualifying as a military pilot at the Orenburg Higher Air Force School in 1955. Assigned to an airfield at Zapolyarniy, in the far north above the Arctic Circle, he quickly established himself as a talented aviator, but he never became a test pilot like his American counterparts in the Mercury program.

  Once chosen as a candidate for the cosmonaut program, Gagarin—with his engaging smile—made a positive impression on all with his intelligence, motivation, and discipline. B. V. Raushenbakh, a close associate of Korolev in OKB-1, remembered Gagarin for his innate modesty and tact, his impressive memory and attention to detail, his quick responses, and his aptitude for celestial mechanics and mathematics. Gagarin could be forceful and outspoken on matters of principle, but his manifest talents were never compromised by arrogance or undue self-promotion. He was popular and highly respected by his fellow cosmonaut trainees. Korolev was impressed with Gagarin when he met with the six finalists for the first time; some believed this interview elevated the young pilot from Smolensk to the forefront for the pivotal Vostok mission. One final consideration, if unstated, was the fact that Gagarin came from an ethnic Russian background (Great Russian). This favored ethnicity, combined with his impeccable working-class background, confirmed Gagarin’s eligibility to be the first man into space.34

  On the eve of the historic flight, Gagarin and his backup pilot, German Titov, were housed in a special cottage near the launch pad at Baikonur. Doctors attached sensors to both cosmonauts to monitor their vital
signs. They slept well that night, notwithstanding the excitement associated with the launch. By 5:00 a.m., even before Gagarin awoke, the various ground stations tested their communications links. As these tests went forward, both cosmonauts were awakened at 5:30 a.m. Korolev himself had spent a sleepless night, fretting over the potential problems that might arise with the third stage of the Vostok spacecraft—what if it failed in the ascent phase, forcing an emergency descent in the ocean near Cape Horn?

  The fateful moment finally arrived: Gagarin, in his space suit, was driven to the launch pad. As a precaution, Titov was dressed in the same way, in case of a last-minute requirement to replace Gagarin. Given the significance of the event, Gagarin was greeted by Konstantin N. Rudnev, who headed the State Commission for Vostok. The pace then quickened to meet the scheduled time for liftoff at shortly after 9:00 a.m. Korolev oversaw the seating of Gagarin in the launch vehicle, and his technicians attended to countless details in the launch-preparation sequence. When the hatch was closed, it was discovered that one of the sensors would not function, so the hatch had to be reopened, the sensor adjusted, and the hatch closed again. At T minus 15 minutes, Gagarin put on his sealed gloves and helmet. The tower arms moved away. As the tension mounted, Korolev took a tranquilizer pill to calm his nerves. He and his staff knew that R-7—if a powerful rocket—did have a large number of launch mishaps.35