These same ministers were insisting we send two cosmonauts around the Moon in a relatively untested L-1! The eighth L-1 wasn’t even completely built, though we expected it to be shipped to Baikonur in time for a launch attempt in July. Two successful unmanned tests of the L-1 were required before Soviet cosmonauts could follow.
What was waiting for Shiborin and me and the boys from the Kuznetsov organization at Baikonur was the first of the Carrier rockets, the giant white shells (at least that’s what the Carrier looked like to me: an artillery round) that were to lift the L-3 lander and yet another version of the Soyuz into Earth orbit, then fire them toward the Moon.
The weather at Tyuratam was beautifully springlike. We were quartered in a new hotel, the Cosmonaut, just opened in spite of the fact that it was not completely finished: The floors in my room were still bare wood. But with the warm nights and warmer days, it was tolerable.
That afternoon Shiborin and I were bused to the launch site along with the Kuznetsov workers. I had not visited Baikonur since joining the military cosmonaut team, and was stunned by the amount of construction that had been finished in little more than a year: The assembly building at Area 1 that had formerly dominated the landscape was now dwarfed by a longer, taller structure to the north. Beyond that was a pair of launchpads, massive concrete pits, each one flanked by a lightning tower 180 meters tall and a launch-support structure, an open collection of platforms, pipes, and girders 145 meters high, that, I was informed by one of my fellow travelers, actually moved to one side prior to ignition of the Carrier rocket itself.
This new assembly complex was called Area 110; the pads were 100-Right and 100-Left. And heading for 100-Right was a Carrier, flat on its side, giant conical tail first.
Even Shiborin was impressed. “Too bad the Americans can’t take a look at this. They’d quit.”
“Their Saturn is bigger,” I said. “And, believe me, they’re watching this right now. We could stand out on a field and wave, and in a few days our pictures would be at the CIA.” I think my statement surprised him. The fact that the USSR flew picture-taking spy satellites for years was well-known; it was what most, if not all, of our many Cosmos spacecraft were. Shiborin was probably not aware that America’s spy-satellite program was even more extensive, and had been active longer, or so my father had once told me.
“Maybe I should drop my pants and show them my ass.” Shiborin hated any suggestion that the U.S. was superior to the Worker’s Paradise.
We entered the cavernous assembly building, where pieces of yet another Carrier were stacked. I got my first good look at the first stage of the monster, and counted thirty engines in it! It was as appalling as it was daring. Even the American rocket program, blessed with the cream of Nazi designers and their years of experience, had shied away from the Nova rocket because its first stage required eight engines. I could have stood looking at this beast all afternoon, but at that moment I saw something equally, or even more, interesting — my old friend Lev Tselauri.
He was, as we all were by now, wearing a white coat. Unlike Shiborin and me, who were gaping at the unassembled Carrier like peasants inspecting a new tractor, he was busily putting our Kuznetsov bureau companions to work. I debated how to approach him. If I should.
Then he solved the problem for me, excusing himself from the clutch of white coats and walking toward me. Shiborin noted this. “Friend of yours?” he said.
“I don’t exactly know.”
Lev’s arms opened and he embraced me. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “Marina told me how you came to check on her.”
Remembering the exact events of that social call — I tortured myself by thinking about our kiss at every opportunity — only made me feel more guilty. But it was clear that Lev was once again my friend. Or, at least, my ally. I felt this when I introduced him to Shiborin, when Lev asked if we could speak privately.
“I feel responsible for what happened to you,” I told Lev. “Your interrogation.”
“Why? Did you denounce me?”
“No. But I talked you into leaving the Chelomei bureau.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t have missed the last year for anything! It’s been most educational. Artemov, Filin, Feoktistov, all of them — they are fascinating men. Brilliant engineers, each in his own way.” He pointed up at the Carrier’s first stage. “Of course, my old boss, Chelomei, has a monster Moon rocket of his own on the drawing board. Much better than this.”
“Is he going to build it?”
“If he had the money, he would. But our country is committed now to this one.”
“It looks impressive.”
“Yes, it does. If it flies, it will be even more impressive.”
“You sound doubtful.”
Lev shook his head and looked at the concrete floor. Though new, it was already showing cracks, perhaps due to the strain of bearing the monstrous weight of the Carrier. “It’s a collection of compromises. Too many engines. My God, thirty in the first stage. The Saturn 5 has only five. So did the second stage of that vehicle, though they were smaller, and two of them failed on the launch last month.”
“Well, with thirty engines, surely we can withstand a failure or two.”
“If one engine fails, you automatically lose a second.” Now he pointed at the tail section, where two dozen engines were arrayed around the rim, like points on a twenty-four-hour clock, with six clustered in the center. “Each engine has a twin on the opposite side. If, say, number 3 fails, number 17 automatically shuts down, to keep the thrust symmetrical.”
“Then the remaining engines have to burn slightly longer.”
“Correct. I see that you’ve retained your keen Bauman training.” He smiled as he took out a cigarette and lit it. “It’s a plumbing nightmare, though.”
“How did such brilliant engineers like Artemov and Filin let this happen?”
“The failures of this design, according to Artemov, are Korolev’s fault. For one thing, he wouldn’t use the fuels Glushko wanted.” Glushko was the master builder of Soviet rocket engines. “They had such a huge disagreement that Glushko refused to work on the project. Which is why we’ve got Kuznetsov’s designs, which aren’t as powerful or reliable—”
“Which is why you’ve got thirty engines as opposed to twelve or—”
“—or five, like the Saturn or Chelomei’s 700 rocket. It’s going to be very difficult to teach the Carrier to fly. The one on the pad right now never will.”
That was news to me. “I thought the first launch was going to take place as soon as the fit checks were complete.”
“Theoretically, it could.” He gestured with his cigarette toward the area just above the thirty clustered engines. “But we found stress cracks in the first one before we even raised it to vertical. Someone badly blundered in calculating the strength of materials, especially once subjected to extreme cold.” The fuel tanks in the Carrier used only kerosene, as Korolev had insisted, but the oxidizer was liquid oxygen, cooled to minus 150 degrees.
“ ‘Those responsible will be punished.’ ” I assumed Triyanov and the rest of the kindergarten still had reason to say this.
“If not punished, then interrogated at length.”
“That must have been awful.”