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“T minus ten minutes,” blared the loudspeaker, as Korolev, Voskresenskiy, and the other R-7 State Commission members filed into the underground control bunker 200 yards from the launchpad. Above them, powerful spotlights illuminated the frost-covered rocket, which glistened in the night like a giant icicle. Steam hissed from its bleed valves, enveloping the launch stand in thick, billowy clouds bisected by sharp beams of light.

At 10:20 PM, the rocket’s automated guidance systems were switched on, and its inertial gyroscopes began spinning, emitting a low hum. Inside the crowded bunker, the military operators manning the dimly illuminated panels and dials of the various control stations scanned their indicators for signs of trouble. Almost immediately, a warning signal on the Auxiliary Systems panel started flashing. It was the fuel tank sensor in one of the peripheral boosters. The level of liquid oxygen was low. All eyes turned to Korolev. Was it serious? Should they abort? Korolev and Voskresenskiy exchanged meaningful looks and huddled in a whispered conference with the two ranking military launch commanders. It wasn’t critical, Korolev decided. They would proceed with the countdown.

Voskresenskiy returned to the helm of one of the bunker’s two periscopes and stared out through the viewer. The R-7 seemed fine. He flashed the Chief Designer a brief, helpless smile. He and Korolev had just made their final decision. The launch was now out of the scientists’ hands, an entirely military operation, and as civilians they were henceforth just spectators.

“One minute to go,” announced Colonel Aleksandr Nosov, swiveling the second periscope like a submarine commander. This was now Nosov’s show, and though he was aiming at space, the launch would be treated like a regular ballistic missile training exercise. “Key to launch,” he ordered, and Lieutenant Boris Chekunov, the “button man,” inserted the key that controlled the circuit breaker on the firing switch. “Key on,” Chekunov responded.

“Roll tape.” The telemetry readouts began rolling off the printer like a stock market ticker tape. “Purge the system,” Nosov called out ten seconds later. Inside the rocket, compressed nitrogen was blasted through the engine feed lines to flush out any gaseous residue from the fueling and testing. “Key to drainage.” Chekunov flipped the switch, and all the bleed valves closed. The hissing and steaming abruptly ceased, and the vapor clouds around the rocket disappeared as the last of the feed lines that topped off the evaporating liquid oxygen was automatically disconnected. Two minutes passed before Nosov issued his next command: “Pusk,” or “Launch.”

Chekunov pressed the launch button, starting the automated sequence. Inside the R-7, compressed nitrogen rushed into the propellant tanks, pressurizing them to the bursting point. The umbilical mast with the ground electrical connections retracted and the missile switched to onboard battery power.

“Roll tape two,” Nosov commanded ninety seconds later. Every ground receiving station in the Soviet Union was activated to full power, ready to track the rocket. It was now 10:28 PM. Inside the R-7, valves opened, and the turbo pumps began sucking thousands of gallons out of the propellant tanks. “Ignition,” called Chekunov, reading the flashing light on the panel in front of him. From their periscopes Voskresenskiy and Nosov could see a cloud of orange smoke envelop the rocket, as flames poured out of the thirty thrusters. But the fire was languid and lazy, dancing, directionless. “Initial stage,” Nosov called out. The engines were only warming up; the turbo pumps that fed fuel to the combustion chambers were operating at a fraction of their capacity. This was normal and followed after a few seconds by a ground-shaking roar. “Primary stage,” Nosov shouted, as the R-7 went to full thrust. An ear-splitting din, like the sound of lightning as it strikes, penetrated the bunker’s thick concrete walls, and