Red Moon Rising Sputnik and the Rivalries That Ignited the Space Age - Matthew Brzezinski [119]
All this must have flashed through Khrushchev’s head as he prodded Korolev. “It’ll be forty years of Soviet power, which is a big milestone. Wouldn’t it be nice,” the Soviet leader asked wistfully, “to have something for the holiday?”
The question, with all its implications, hung in the air momentarily. But it was obvious where Khrushchev was headed. He had invited all the leaders of world communism to Moscow for the anniversary (which because of the switch from the old Julian czarist calendar would actually take place on November 7) and wanted another feat to impress his honored guests. He was especially keen to woo China’s Mao Zedong with Korolev’s magic, since the Chinese had been growing increasingly aloof and independent ever since his secret speech at the Twentieth Party Congress. Beijing had blasted Khrushchev’s assault on Stalin as “revisionist” and had made ugly noises about no longer recognizing Russia’s role as the ideological standard-bearer for communism. But Mao was veritably smitten with missiles and had openly marveled at Sputnik. Khrushchev, eager to bring the Chinese back into Moscow’s fold, had promised Mao missile technology, starting with the R-2, which was to be transferred in 1958. (The Chinese, in turn, would transfer the technology to their client states, and in time the R-2’s DNA would figure in virtually all future generations of Asian missiles.)
Khrushchev clearly relished the prospect of Mao in Moscow, salivating at another display of Soviet missile muscle flexing. Mikoyan also seemed to have caught the gist of his boss’s loaded question. “Maybe,” he suggested, “a Sputnik that will broadcast the ‘Internationale’ from space.” The “Internationale” was the pan-Communist anthem, a hymn that reverberated for the October Revolution in much the same way as the “Marseillaise” sounded the French Revolution.
But Khrushchev didn’t think much of the idea. “What?” he snapped, cutting off a cowed Mikoyan. “You and your Internationale. Forget the Internationale. [Sputnik]’s not a damn music box.”
Glaring briefly at Mikoyan, Khrushchev once more turned to his Chief Designer, his expression immediately softening, his eyes attentive and hopeful. Korolev’s mind must also have been racing throughout the exchange. He had the parts to assemble one more rocket; otherwise the next batch of R-7s would not be ready until January 1958. So he had a launch vehicle. But what about a satellite? Nothing was ready on that front, and he couldn’t simply replicate PS-1. Whatever he came up with had to top the original Sputnik: be bigger, better, and create an even greater sensation. The bar was significantly raised, and the time frame was beyond brutal. It had taken three years to launch Sputnik. Khrushchev was giving him barely three weeks.
A wiser man might have said that it was impossible, that it couldn’t be done. But Korolev did not hesitate. “What if we launch a Sputnik with a living being?” he asked nonchalantly, as if building a spacecraft from scratch in a matter of days was the easiest thing in the world. The military, Korolev explained, had been sending dogs on high-altitude, suborbital rocket flights and parachuting them back to earth in special hermetically sealed compartments. He could borrow one of those canine chambers, outfit it with a life-support system, and cobble something together.
Khrushchev’s face lit up as he listened. “With a dog in it!” he exclaimed, as if the idea had just spontaneously come to him and Korolev was an extension of his own iron will, merely a mechanic who filled in the blanks and fussed over the details. “Can you imagine, Anastas?” Khrushchev cried triumphantly, addressing Mikoyan, who was nodding enthusiastically, as he always did whenever the first secretary looked to him for reassurance. “A dog in space.”
It would be such a coup. Not only could the USSR stake another claim to cosmic supremacy, but it would also