by Amy Cherrix
Yangel also received important high-level support for his R-16 rocket. When it came to rapid response to an enemy attack, the R-16 was the obvious choice for Marshal Mitrofan Nedelin, the commander-in-chief of the Strategic Missile Force. Khrushchev agreed that the R-16 could be a better choice than Korolev’s rocket. The Soviet leader also believed fierce competition among his best designers would result in superior technology.
Yangel and Korolev had one important thing in common. The same man, Valentin Glushko, designed both their engines. The legendary engine designer threw his full support behind the R-16, breaking ranks with Korolev in favor of Yangel. Korolev was furious at Glushko’s betrayal.
With Khrushchev and Nedelin’s support, and Glushko designing his engine, Yangel stepped forward to challenge Korolev. If he succeeded, the chief designer’s quest for the moon would be over.
On October 24, 1960, the day of Yangel’s R-16 launch, Major General Aleksandr G. Mrykin was on duty. He headed for a bunker, about five hundred feet from the launch site, for a cigarette. Along the way, he spotted Yangel and asked the rocket designer to join him.
Yangel welcomed the invitation to step away from the hectic work happening around the rocket. The R-16 had been plagued by a string of pre-launch setbacks. The ground crew was well into their seventy-second hour of work, with Nedelin barking orders from his chair, fifty feet way from the rocket. There was no justification for the reckless pace. The launch was scheduled to coincide with the anniversary of the Russian Revolution; they were not under attack. But Nedelin insisted that Yangel make the deadline as promised. To save time, Nedelin reportedly said, “We’ll modify the missile on the launchpad! The nation is waiting for us!”
Although experienced technicians knew how deadly a fueled rocket could be, they ignored safety precautions and put themselves in harm’s way to satisfy Nedelin’s outrageous and dangerous demands. Some milled around the base of the fully fueled R-16. Others perched on the gantry close to the rocket, high above the launchpad. Standing next to any fully fueled rocket was irresponsible in the extreme, and the R-16 was a temperamental metal beast with a bellyful of nasty, organ-dissolving chemicals.
Not long after Yangel and Mrykin stepped inside the bunker, an electrical error opened the valves of the rocket’s second-stage engine.
The hypergolic fuel instantly ignited.
In less time than it took for Yangel to take a drag from his cigarette, the rocket’s fuel tank detonated.
Yangel couldn’t believe his eyes. A three-thousand-degree inferno raged at the launchpad. The men on the gantries were instantly incinerated. Anyone who could still stand, lungs choking in the poisonous gases, attempted to flee the conflagration. “People ran . . . toward the bunker,” one witness reported. “But on this route was a strip of new-laid tar, which immediately melted. Many got stuck in the hot sticky mass and became victims of the fire.” Another witness remembered that, “One man momentarily escaped from the fire but got tangled up in the barbed wire surrounding the launchpad. The next moment he, too, was engulfed in flames.” Accepting the offer of a cigarette from Mrykin and entering the bunker had saved Yangel’s life. Marshal Nedelin, seated close to the base of the rocket, had been killed instantly in the blast. His corpse was later recovered, but it was burned beyond recognition. Only a single gold star from his uniform verified his identity.
The Soviet government’s reaction was to immediately classify the catastrophe and forbid survivors to speak about it. Russians had died senseless deaths in what amounted to a rushed and ill-advised publicity stunt. Khrushchev knew that failure on such a large scale would shatter the illusion of the powerful Soviet space program. In truth, it was not so advanced that it was foolproof. Total secrecy was the only way to shield the USSR from humiliation.
In official public statements, the cause of Nedelin’s death was falsely reported as an aircraft accident. It wasn’t until 1989, almost thirty years after it had happened, that the truth of the fire was declassified. For the first time, the facts were reported in the media and witnesses could speak openly about what they had seen. By that time, however, the Soviet Union was undergoing major political changes, and the revelation was overshadowed by more pressing current events.
In total, 126 people died in what would come to be known as the Nedelin disaster, named for the one man who could have prevented it.
Chapter 28
The First to Fly
The American space program also kept secrets. Just as the Soviets covered up disasters and hid their failures, the United States tried to protect itself from ridicule, especially when it came to its astronauts. The Mercury Seven were portrayed as heroes, with untarnished reputations and the highest moral character. The image reassured the country that these men were trustworthy—a trait worth its weight in gold, since NASA depended on taxpayers for funding.
John Glenn believed that the Mercury Seven astronauts had a responsibility to the American people as role models, and he was not shy about voicing this opinion. His disciplined attitude earned Glenn the nickname “the Clean Marine” from his fellow astronauts. When Glenn discovered that Alan Shepard might be involved with women who were not his wife, he was outspoken in his disapproval. He argued that scandalous press reports could have serious repercussions for the space program. Shepard and some of the other astronauts didn’t appreciate Glenn’s criticism. They respected his spotless reputation and status as a celebrated war hero, but his candid opinions and rigid adherence to the rules of good behavior sometimes made him unpopular within the group.
By contrast, Alan Shepard was a wild card who liked to test boundaries by pushing them to the absolute limit, both in the cockpit and on the ground. It made him a daring and accomplished pilot, but it complicated his relationships, especially with Glenn. Shepard refused to play by the rules Glenn wanted to enforce. He knew that he was expected to look and act like a squeaky-clean hero for the television cameras. But behind the scenes, Alan Shepard wasn’t a squeaky-clean guy who always cared what people thought. In fact, some of the astronauts felt as if they didn’t know Shepard at all. One anonymously admitted, “You might think you’d get to know someone well after working so closely with him. . . . Well, it’s not that way with Shepard. He’s always holding something back.” Shepard and Glenn both wanted the first Mercury flight and to become the first American in space. Shepard didn’t bother hiding his ambition from anyone, especially John Glenn.
In January 1961, Bob Gilruth, head of NASA’s Space Task Group, called a meeting with the astronauts and threw them a curveball. NASA would not select the first Mercury pilot—the astronauts would decide in a peer vote. Glenn was devastated. Shepard might have been distant and mysterious, but Glenn wore his strict opinions on his sleeve. He knew by that measure, he fell short.
When the votes were counted, the honor of the first Mercury flight eluded the Clean Marine. Although Glenn would later make spaceflight history as the first American to orbit the Earth on February 20, 1962, he was not chosen to be the first American to travel into space. Instead, his team chose a brash and unapologetic rule breaker. Alan Shepard, they agreed, was hands down the most talented pilot of the Mercury Seven. All he needed now was a ride.
Von Braun’s modified Redstone was the rocket scheduled to carry Shepard into space, but its last test flight had been measured in inches instead of miles. Von Braun refused to allow an astronaut aboard until the rocket was proven safe. A three-year-old West African chimpanzee, known as Number 65, was selected to fly in yet another launch test. The animal had been trapped in the wild and sold to the US Air Force, who trained him, along with approximately forty other chimpanzees, for participation in the space program and life in captivity. Like the space dogs that paved the way toward human spaceflight for the Soviets, the chimpanzee’s was the first life that would be risked in the Mercury program. Before his flight, it was decided that if Number 65 survived, he would be given a new name.
Chimp Number 65 (aka Astrochimp Ham) and a team
of technicians prepare for launch.
Number 65 was placed in the primate capsule on top of the Redstone rocket and lifted off from Cape Canaveral on January 31, 1961. The poor chimp endured a troubled seventeen-minute flight. A valve malfunctioned, allowing too much fuel into the rocket’s engine, causing the capsule to fly off course. Inside, temperatures rose to dangerous levels, threatening the chimp’s life. The trip concluded with a splashdown in the Atlantic Ocean, but Number 65 was still in jeopardy, nearly drowning when salt water poured inside the capsule. The rescue helicopter arrived just in time. Unlike the Soviet space dog Laika, the chimp was safely recovered, and his flight was considered a success, despite the problems. Number 65 had narrowly survived but had earned his name, Astrochimp Ham, and a place in spaceflight history.
The test failed to convince von Braun that the Mercury-Redstone rocket was safe enough for Shepard’s launch. The death of an astronaut at this stage could set the space program back for years, or destroy it altogether. President Kennedy’s advisers agreed, also recommending additional test flights before approving the rocket for Alan Shepard’s flight.
When Shepard heard the news, he was livid. He had beaten six of the best pilots in the world for the honor of being the first Mercury astronaut. He had endured painful medical tests, completed grueling survival training in the desert, and studied mechanical engineering, rocket systems, and astrophysics. He was a test pilot; risk came with the job—he was ready to go! He believed the delays were costing the United States time it didn’t have. While America buried opportunity beneath miles of red tape, Shepard feared the Soviets would deliver them another crushing defeat.
Chapter 29
The Russians’ “Right Stuff”
In the Soviet Union, cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin didn’t look like he was trying to defeat much of anything as he lounged on a sofa in a Soviet medical center waiting room. Fellow cosmonaut Alexei Leonov recalled watching Gagarin relax that day with a copy of The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, one of the few American authors whose work had been translated into Russian. Hemingway’s manly, larger-than-life characters personified the conventional image of strength and bravery valued in Russian culture. If Gagarin was nervous about his examination, it didn’t show. The dark-haired, five-foot-two fighter pilot sat shirtless in pajama pants, calmly waiting for his turn. Like the Mercury 7 astronauts, the twenty men selected to be Soviet cosmonauts also endured invasive medical tests and rigorous training.
“Little Eagles”
The cosmonauts were well into their training by the time they were first introduced to the chief designer and learned his true identity.
“Hello, my little eagles!” Korolev said to the group.
“Hello!” the excited pilots replied, honored to finally meet the mysterious rocket engineer.
Korolev unfolded a sheet of paper listing their names as he inspected his first corps of cosmonauts. “He was looking at us with such intensity,” Alexei Leonov later remembered. “It was as if he was looking through us. When he got to Gagarin’s name, he asked about his parents, where he was from, everything.” It was obvious that Korolev favored Gagarin.
The two men shared a similar background. They both came from proud, working-class families. As young men, both attended trade schools. Gagarin had a cheerful, outgoing personality, which Korolev also liked. More than that, he thought Gagarin looked like a stereotypical hero, with blue eyes and a bright smile. The cameras would love the grinning, charismatic young pilot with the easy laugh and unflappable attitude—qualities that could not be taught but were prized by Khrushchev. It came as no surprise that Korolev selected Gagarin to be the first cosmonaut in space.
Yuri and the Devil
Yuri Alexeyevich Gagarin’s resilient spirit first emerged during boyhood. He was born on March 9, 1934, in the village of Klushino, a hundred miles from Moscow. His parents, Alexei and Anna, worked on one of Stalin’s state-owned collective farms and struggled to keep food on the table for Yuri; his older brother, Valentin; his youngest brother, Boris; and his sister, Zoya.
By October 1941, the Nazis had invaded the Soviet Union and occupied Klushino. They seized the Gagarins’ house and forced the family from their home. The six Gagarins had no choice but to seek shelter in their zemlianka next to their house. Russians used these makeshift dugouts for storage. Inside the crude outbuilding, the family slept on the ground, which they covered with straw.
One day, Yuri and Valentin witnessed a wounded Russian colonel being interrogated by two German soldiers. The dying man gestured for the officers to approach him. When they were close, he detonated a hand grenade. The colonel was dead, but he had taken his two interrogators with him.
Yuri never forgot this act of heroism and resistance. He longed to be a hero too, and the young Gagarin brothers sought payback against the Nazis. The three boys, Yuri (age eight), Boris (age six), and Valentin (age eighteen), along with other village children, collected all the glass they could find and broke it into pieces, scattering it along the roads frequented by German military vehicles. Then the junior saboteurs hid behind bushes along the roadside to watch as large German supply trucks rolled over the glass and their tires exploded.
The children’s resistance activities attracted the attention of a particularly cruel Gestapo official, whom they nicknamed the Devil. The Devil rightly suspected that the Gagarin brothers were among the troublemakers.
Sometime later, with the promise of a chocolate bar, the Devil lured the youngest Gagarin brother, Boris, closer to him. Boris reached for the chocolate and the officer stomped on his small hand. Boris wept and his fingers bled. Using the scarf Boris wore, the soldier hanged him from a nearby apple tree. As the terrified child gasped and choked, the man laughed and took photographs. When Boris’s mother, Anna, arrived on the scene and fought to save her son, the Devil pointed his rifle it at her. Just as he was about to fire, he was called away by an officer. Anna managed to rescue her son from the tree. He was still alive, but the ordeal left him unable to walk for a month after the incident, and the child suffered nightmares thereafter.
The attempted murder of his little brother enraged Yuri, who redoubled his attacks against the Nazis. He shoved dirt into the tailpipes of their vehicles, destroying the valuable equipment. The Devil searched everywhere, promising to kill Yuri if he found him. But he never got the chance. He was transferred from the village before he could make good on the threat. The Gagarin children and their parents survived the war, and Yuri had discovered what it meant to be a hero.
In the Soviet space program, though, being a hero could be deadly. Like the American astronauts, the cosmonauts knew and accepted the danger. As Gagarin finalized preparations to become the Soviet Union’s first person in space, other members of the cosmonaut corps were training for future missions. In late March 1961, Valentin Bondarenko was confined to a locked and soundproof pressure chamber as part of a routine fifteen-day exercise. He was removing medical sensors from his body and cleaning those areas with a piece of alcohol-soaked cloth. He tossed it aside, failing to notice that the fabric had landed on a nearby hot plate and burst into flames. The oxygen inside the chamber ignited. By the time a technician noticed the blaze, the chamber, with Bondarenko trapped inside, was engulfed in flames. The technician frantically tried to open the door, but it was pressure sealed and took several minutes to open. By the time Bondarenko was finally pulled from the fire, his body was horribly burned, but he was still alive. “It was my fault,” he reportedly said over and over again. “No one else is to blame.” He died hours later in the hospital.
Whether or not any of the other cosmonauts knew about Bondarenko’s death at the time remains unclear. As it had with the Nedelin disaster, the Soviet government concealed his tragic death until 1986.
Chapter 30
“Poyekhali!” (“Let’s Go!”)
APRIL 12, 1961
A few weeks after Bondarenko died, Yuri Gagarin was ready to risk his life in an attempt to become t
he first person in space. At liftoff, he could be heard shouting, “Poyekhali!” (“Let’s go!”) from inside the Vostok 1 spacecraft as it rose from the launchpad. Flight doctors monitoring Gagarin’s vital signs in the minutes before liftoff noted his heart rate was a relaxed sixty-five beats per minute.
Four minutes into the flight, the chief designer spoke to his cosmonaut from the ground.
“Everything is normal. How do you feel?” Korolev asked.
“I feel excellent, in a good mood,” said Gagarin.
“Good boy! Excellent! Everything is going well.”
Gagarin reported that his visibility was good. “I see the clouds . . . It’s beautiful!”
Yuri Gagarin (left) and Sergei Korolev (right).
Yuri Gagarin orbited the Earth for 108 minutes. As he prepared for reentry, the Vostok was scheduled to detach from its rear equipment module. The two parts of the spacecraft separated, but a tangle of electrical wiring prevented a full detachment. The capsule struggled against the weight of the attached equipment module, hurtling Gagarin’s Vostok toward the Earth’s atmosphere at a deadly angle. As his spacecraft spiraled violently out of control, Gagarin almost passed out.
Miraculously, the cable connection severed on its own, and Gagarin safely ejected from the capsule and floated to Earth by parachute, one hour and forty-eight minutes after he had lifted off, having traveled a total of twenty-five thousand miles.
Gagarin later received full honors in Moscow’s Red Square. Thousands crowded the streets. Korolev watched as his fellow Russians cheered with pride for Gagarin’s accomplishment. As the cosmonaut waved and smiled, basking in the glory of so much admiration, Korolev viewed the scene in secret from inside an unmarked car in the motorcade to protect his identity. He listened as his countrymen chanted “Gagarin!” while Korolev’s name remained top secret.
