Red Moon Rising Sputnik and the Rivalries That Ignited the Space Age - Matthew Brzezinski [57]
If there was one consolation, one sliver of good news, it was that the American missile effort seemed to be faring even worse. There were encouraging reports of explosions and misfires plaguing the Thor and Atlas trials. Von Braun’s Jupiter program was on the verge of being canceled, and its first test launch had ended in a spectacular fireball. Most heartening of all was word that the American secretary of defense had just announced his intention to cut $200 million from rocket spending. Wilson was putting a freeze on all new missile proposals and had banned overtime on existing projects.
Though it didn’t appear that the U.S. missile program was going to overtake the Soviets anytime soon, for some reason Korolev was fixated on the notion that von Braun was going to launch a satellite at any moment. The Americans are on the verge, he kept telling anyone who would listen, and he obsessively scoured Nina’s translations of Western publications for any hint that might betray America’s orbital intentions.
The Chief Designer’s manic paranoia on the subject had begun to irk his exhausted colleagues at Tyura-Tam, where tempers were flaring and the blame game among the designers was reaching new heights. They had now had five failures, and everyone was pointing fingers.
“And you and your rocket? Are they not to blame?” Glushko shouted at Korolev during a particularly heated exchange. “What about the draining [valves]? What if the feed line erupted?”
“You should understand,” Korolev shot back. “There are no Korolev rockets. These are our rockets with your engines, with his radio guidance,” pointing to Nikolai Pilyugin from the NII-885 design bureau. “Your approach to this case has been flawed from the beginning,” he went on. “Yes, the rocket can fail because of his launch pad”—Korolev nodded toward Vladimir Barmin, the man behind the Tulip—“because of the failure of your engines, because of the failure of his equipment”—Korolev’s glare now fell on Viktor Kuznetsov, the inertial gyroscope expert—“or because of my drainage valves. But each time is a failure of our rocket. We all should be responsible.”
Vasiliy Ryabikov, the chairman of the State Commission on the R-7, the Kremlin’s direct representative, wasn’t buying it. “You are a very cunning person, Sergei Pavlovich,” he said. “You spread so much stink on others while perfuming your own shit.”
Marshal Mitrofan Nedelin also seemed to have lost confidence in the once-golden Korolev. The head of the Soviet Union’s strategic rocket forces now wanted testing stopped.
“I agree with Mitrofan Ivanovich,” Glushko piled on, knowing that his opinion carried far more weight than all the other subcontractors. His bureau had a virtual monopoly on Soviet rocket engine manufacture, and he supplied all of Korolev’s competitors. Without his motors, there was no Soviet missile program or space program. “There’s no reason to continue these tests,” he huffed. “[Fifteen] of my excellent engines are destroyed, and if it goes on this way, my production line won’t be able to keep up.”
“But Valentin Petrovich,” Konstantin Rudnev addressed Glushko, in Korolev’s defense, “if the rockets flew according to schedule your engines would be destroyed anyway.”
“I wouldn’t begrudge the engines if they served their purpose,” Glushko retorted. “But why should I suffer from somebody else’s mistakes?”
“This is not somebody’s fault,” Korolev exploded. “It is our fault.”
Despite Korolev’s attempt to spread the bureaucratic blame, the message from Moscow was clear: it was his rocket and his responsibility, and the State Commission on the R-7 was getting ready to recommend pulling the plug. Korolev’s career, his dreams, his future—possibly even his freedom—hung by a thread. He was alone, literally sick and tired, stuck in the hellish Kazakh desert, and the vultures were circling. For the supremely self-confident Korolev, it was an unaccustomed