Sidebar: The Intercontinental Ballistic Vehicle

Intercontinental Ballistic Vehicle schematic

A schematic of the IBV as printed in LIFE Magazine, March 7, 1955 via Google Books. Artist unknown, possibly Michael Ramus. © Time, Inc. Click for a larger view.

We’ve previously discussed Eugen Sänger and Irene Bredt’s wildly ambitious Silbervogel, a suborbital spaceplane that they worked on in Germany prior to the end of WWII. Mentioned in passing at the time was Stalin’s interest in it after the war, and Mstislav Keldysh’s unsuccessful attempt to scale back its necessary technological innovations so that the USSR could build something similar. What we didn’t look at at the time was the high-water mark of Sänger and Bredt’s craft in the United States.

Their core design paper was translated into English in 1946 as A Rocket Drive for Long Range Bombers (and is readily available today on the web), but otherwise there was not a lot of interest in it in the West. Sänger and Bredt lived in France for several years after 1945, having secured positions there, but worked on other projects.

Grigori Tokaev/Grigori Tokaty

Grigori Tokaty (to use his preferred name) in 2001, more than a half-century after revealing Stalin’s interest in rocket bombers to the West. Public Domain image via Wikimedia Commons.

Then, in November 1947, Soviet rocket engineer Grigori Tokaev defected to the United Kingdom. According to him, Stalin had become aware of the work on Silbervogel, and assigned the trio of Tokaev, Stalin’s son Vasily, and future head of the KGB Ivan Serov to the case. The Germans scientists were to be convinced to come to the USSR (Tokaev’s preferred approach) or kidnapped (Serov, naturally, for a man nicknamed “The Butcher”). The pursuers were unaware that the two they sought were no longer in Germany, though, and none of the three trusted any of the others, so nothing came of it. In 1949, Tokaev became an author under the Ossetian version of his last name, Tokaty, writing several popular articles about Soviet ambitions with long-distance airpower and other then-advanced weapons, then getting into an extended war of words about them with the hard Left in the UK.

Into this furor stepped John Earley and Garret Underhill in LIFE’s March 7th, 1955 issue, with an article named “From Continent to Continent”. Based on their own understanding of Sänger and Bredt’s work, as well as Tokaty’s story, they sounded the alarm. Keldysh’s aforementioned failure would not become known outside the USSR for many years, and the two LIFE authors felt that instead the USSR was probably working on the project with alacrity.

Their particular iteration of Silbervogel was closely based on the German design with a few variations suggesting that the authors didn’t really know what they were doing (for example, changing its trapezoidal cross-section to a circular one, which would be hell on re-entry). Launched from a rocket-propelled sled it would get up to a speed of 10,600 MPH (17,000 km/h) and 113 miles (182 kilometers) in height, then skip/glide its way around much of the planet. On a sortie from the Soviet Union, the authors thought that this craft would fly over the Arctic, bomb the United States, and then make a landing in the Pacific “for recovery by submarine”—which seems a bit optimistic but may reflect the idea in Sänger and Bredt’s original paper that WWII German Silbervogels could land in the Japanese Mariana Islands.

Really, “From Continent to Continent” is a bit of a head-scratcher until one realizes that it’s not a proposal, but is instead largely a con job, presumably written for the purpose of stirring up trouble and increasing circulation. For example, as can be deduced from the previous paragraph, the authors took the particular tack of describing how the IBV would be used to attack the United States even though the ostensible purpose of their article was to suggest that the US build one themselves, by their estimate in three years for a mere $23 million. Its mission as an American craft was left unstated, and was surely not the exact inverse of their favoured blood-curdling scenario of a Soviet attack.

There’s also the way the article’s authors are described: “[John] Earley, a rocket designer, and [Garrett] Underhill, a former Army officer who is an expert in Russian weapons” looks crafted to make unsuspecting readers think that they were insider sources for another, different LIFE correspondent. They’re almost certainly the authors of the piece themselves, even though it’s unbylined. I can find no other references to John Earley, but Garrett Underhill was the military affairs editor for LIFE in 1955 and had been out of the military intelligence business for most of a decade. Incidentally, if you’ve heard of Underhill, it’s as a minor figure in JFK conspiracy circles who committed suicide in 1964.

Taken as a whole, the IBV is more interesting as a snapshot of its time than it is as a quite ill-founded proposal. In a way it’s the flip side of the contemporary Moonship of Wernher von Braun: it was a popularization of the future military use of space, as opposed to its scientific exploration. The major difference between them is that von Braun’s fundamental vision was the one that took hold, making the way it was laid out in Collier’s and by Disney into well-known classics. Meanwhile the IBV has long since dropped into obscurity.

VR-190: Stalin’s Rocket


Diagram of the VR-190’s capsule. NASA image via

What it was: An attempt to turn a Soviet copy of the V-2, the R-1, into a suborbital manned rocket.

Details: After the fall of the Third Reich and the scattering of its rocket scientists to the winds, all three of the main Allied powers found themselves in possession of at least a few V-2 rockets. All of them then considered putting a man on top of one for a suborbital flight. In the case of the British and the Americans this was barely more formal than someone saying “Hey, why don’t we put a man on top of one of these things?”, but in the Soviet Union a considerable amount of design work was done before the project eventually came to a halt.

To some extent this was because the Russians did far more work with the V-2 than the other two powers. They managed to retrieve only a very few German-built V-2s and so set about learning how to build them on their own. In 1951 the home-built R-1, a copy of the V-2 with a few local improvements, was accepted into the Soviet military as their first operational ballistic missile. This work was done by OKB-1 under Sergei Korolev and lead quickly to the R-2 (AKA the Scud), the abortive R-3, and eventually the R-7 that was used to launch Sputnik and Yuri Gagarin into space.

The R-7 was famously built to use a core engine with strap-on boosters (four in the case of the R-7), as opposed to the Americans’ pre-Shuttle tendency to use serially fired stages for manned flights. The initial Soviet studies on strap-on launchers were done by a relatively unknown GIRD member named Mikhail Tikonravov, who was one of the very few notable rocket engineers to escape the pre-War purges and so was well-positioned to work on Russian missiles as soon as the war was over.

His projects prior to studying the pros and cons of what he called “packet” launchers included the VR-190. As mentioned earlier, the US and UK never got very far into manned space travel based on the V-2 due to extreme skepticism on the part of the responsible parties in both countries. The USSR was the exception, and surprisingly Stalin was not only aware of it—Tikhonravov mailed a proposal directly to him in March 1946—the Soviet dictator specifically approved of it. The designer, who was Deputy Chief of NII-1 (“Scientific Research Institute-1”) worked on this goal until 1949.

Dubbed the VR-190 (Vysotnaya Raketa, “High-Altitude Rocket”), Tikhonravov’s variation on the V-2 took advantage of Russian work (partly done by the German engineers they had dragooned back to Kaliningrad) on separable nosecones for the V-2 that had been incorporated into the R-1. The German missile had problems with falling apart as it re-entered the atmosphere and the Russians and their Germans had realized that they could save weight and trouble by only worrying about the payload — the rocket itself had done its job by the time the dive back down arrived, and it could be dispensed with.

With the idea of a nosecone that could be swapped in or out now floating around, there were several different ideas put forward for how this capability could be used scientifically. In the early 1950s OKB-1 would fire R-1s into suborbital space with scientific instruments, gas sampling containers, and “biologicals” on board; the first living things to go to space and return were a pair of dogs, Dezik and Tsygan, who went up on July 29, 1951 (Charmingly, Tsygan was adopted as a pet afterwards by physicist Anatoli Blagonravov, later a negotiator for the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project. Dezik, unfortunately, did not survive his second flight).

The VR-190’s payload was to be a manned capsule containing two cosmonauts—a word coined by Tikhonravov—seated side-by-side but facing in opposite directions. Its mission was not even suborbital in the technical sense that it would not have been launched any distance downrange. Rather, it was a pure vertical hop, aimed for maximum height at the cost of all else.

Perched atop the modified R-1, the cosmonauts would have ridden up to 190 kilometers before their capsule separated from the main body of the rocket. A parachute would have returned them safely to Earth, where dry land was the target. A moment before actual landing a probe on the underside of the capsule would detect the ground and fire retrorockets to counter the last of the craft’s speed—a tactic familiar from actual Soviet and Russian craft built later, first conceived of here.

What happened to make it fail: Despite Stalin’s approval, it seems to have bogged down in bureaucratic rigmarole and never got the attention or funding it would have needed. Certainly many of the people to whom Tikhonravov reported were skeptical of spaceflight, and in the atmosphere of terror that Lavrenti Beria cultivated in the 1940s USSR few were willing to stick out their necks, not least because there’s evidence that Beria himself was not sold on manned spaceflight. A few months after making his proposal Tikhonravov was moved out of NII-1, where he was under the control of a doubtful Ministry of Aviation, to the newly formed NII-4. This new bureau’s job was to develop theoretical concepts for military use of rockets but he was assigned quite strictly to that. He and his team continued to work on the VR-190 in his spare time.

By 1949 the focus of biological experiments had been shifted to the aforementioned dogs, and Stalin’s interest had drifted toward the far more sophisticated Sänger-Bredt spaceplane and sent Mstislav Keldysh on a quixotic quest to build one for the Soviet Union. Tikhonravov’s attempt to refocus it back in early 1950 was slapped down by the powers-that-be, who felt he should stick to what he had been asked to think about. Tikonravov was demoted from his position at NII-4 and eventually wound up at OKB-1 working under Sergei Korolev as a spacecraft designer. His previous work was instrumental to getting approval for launching Sputnik 1 in 1957, and he was a key person in the design of “Object D”, later dubbed Sputnik 3, which followed Sputnik 1 and Laika’s Sputnik 2 into space.

What was necessary for it to succeed: At the time rocketry was #2 on Stalin’s list of important military goals. Developing nuclear weapons was #1 and rocketry research was relatively focused on military applications of fission and then fusion bombs. The key turning points both came in 1953: Stalin’s death in March, and the first Soviet thermonuclear bomb test on October 12, 1953. The Soviet leadership was thrown into fratricidal chaos internally and stasis externally, not least because of Stalin’s micromanagement—for example, Georgy Malenkov, one of the initial triumvirate which took over, was ostensibly on the committee controlling the development of ballistic missiles prior to Stalin’s death but in practice he actually knew very little about the projects he supposedly oversaw.

With the pressure off to catch up with the United States in nuclear arms after the successful test, missiles to deliver them moved to the top of the Soviet wish list at the same time the grip of the country’s leadership had faltered enough to let the designers work on space projects that would have got them shot under Stalin and Beria (the latter judicially murdered himself in December 1953).

So the key to getting the VR-190 into space with its two cosmonauts aboard might be to have Stalin die (or be assassinated) not long after he approved Tikhnonravov’s initial proposal. The new leadership would be inclined to let things roll on their course for a while until more sure of themselves (as they did in real history) and the shakeups of the Politburo’s civil wars might have got pro-rocket Ministers in place of the pro-aviation ones that stopped Tikhonravov in 1949-50. This wouldn’t have been a sure route, but it would at least open up possibilities that did not exist in the late Stalin-era USSR.

That the VR-190 could have been successful is fairly clear given the pace at which events moved from 1953 to 1957. The R-1 was much less powerful than the R-7, but then the R-7 was much above the requirements of a suborbital flight. Reaching space in a vertical shot is much easier than orbiting the Earth, yet Vostok 1’s historic flight was a full orbit  launched on top of a slight variant of the very rocket which produced Sputnik 1 in 1957. The VR-190 would have been dangerous (two of its eight dog flights ended in death) but the USSR or, for that matter, the US or even UK with their captured V-2s, could have grabbed the first laurel of human spaceflight sometime about 1951, more than half a decade before the Space Age actually began.

Sources: Challenge to Apollo, Asif Siddiqi. “The Man Behind the Curtain”, Asif Siddiqi, published in Air and Space Magazine, Oct.-Nov. 2007. “Tikhonravov”, Russian Space Web, Anatoly Zak.

Sidebar: Sonnengewehr, the “Sun Gun”


Illustration of the Sonnengewehr “Sun Gun” as published by Life magazine on July 23, 1945. Image copyright status unknown, possibly owned by Time, Inc.. Click for a larger view.

At the end of World War II the United States famously snapped up as many German scientists as it could with Operation Paperclip. While they were from a wide variety of disciplines, the ones most remembered today were the rocket designers and, as London and Amsterdam were still sporting spectacular V-2 craters, public interest in them was high at the time.

By the end of 1945 most of them would relocate to the United States, but in the period immediately following the end of fighting in Europe they were still in Western Europe and being interrogated by US intelligence personnel keen to learn about a line of weapons development in which the Nazis had jumped far ahead of the rest of the world.

It was in this setting that a few articles were published in major US newspapers and magazines (Time, Life, the New York Times and others) during July 1945 outlining one bit of information the US was getting from the captured scientists. All the articles were based on a single news conference held in Paris at the end of the previous month. While the conference apparently covered a wide variety of weapons that had been under development when the war ended, the articles picked up on one spectacular one and focused on it: the Sonnengewehr, quickly dubbed the “Sun Gun”.

The Sun Gun idea had been brought to the attention of the US by a group of scientists and engineers at Hillersleben, Germany (now part of the town of Westheide in Saxony-Anhalt, which was once part of East Germany). Though mostly unassociated with Wernher von Braun’s more-famous group they too had experience with rocketry, having worked on rocket-assisted artillery weapons and tank shells during the war.

As reported, in an unfortunately garbled way that makes it clear the reporters didn’t understand the underlying physics, the Sun Gun would have been a disc-shaped space station in a 3100-mile (5000-kilometer) orbit; some sources say 5100 miles, but this seems unlikely as German engineers would have expressed themselves in kilometers and that would be an unwieldy 8208 of them. Either way, neither would have been geosynchronous, an oddity pointed out even by some of the reporters in 1945.

Regardless, the station would have been coated with metallic sodium—chemically reactive and so easy to tarnish in the atmosphere, but which would stay clean in vacuum—polished into a mirror. The mirror would be pointed at a receiver off the coast of Europe and used to boil ocean water for power, but when the need arose it could be used on military targets—it had a projected ability to heat anything on the surface to 200 Celsius. Other numbers are scant and not clearly from the scientists themselves, but one that raises an eyebrow is that the mirror would have had an area of 5000 square miles (a round number in non-metric units, which is suspicious, and matches a diameter of 128.4 kilometers). Other sources suggest a much more realistic 9 square kilometers.

Life magazine was the most expansive on the topic, and published several drawings on the construction and operation of the station. Unfortunately their accompanying text and some of the details in the illustrations themselves suggest that the article’s authors were engaging in speculation on both topics. For example, they have the station being built of pre-made sections—cubes, oddly enough, which makes it a bit hard to produce a disk—when there’s reason to believe that it would have been made on a skeleton of long cables reeled out from a central station. Also contrary to this, Life has the inhabitable area around the edge of the disk, though this would have turned the Sonnengewehr into a “filled-in” version of the torus-shaped stations so favoured by von Braun during his lifetime

Immediate post-war reports to the contrary, it’s very unlikely that there was any sort of official work done on the Sonnengewehr beyond some tentative memos and discussions. If nothing else, consider the sheer mass of material that would have to be lifted into high orbit to build it. One source suggests one million tonnes of sodium metal, a figure considerably larger than the mass of everything ever lifted into orbit by all the world’s nations between 1957 and the present day.

Instead it seems to have been at best something batted around as a possible ultimate destination—even the scientists involved were thinking along the lines of the year 2000—in the culture of grandiosity that Nazism embraced and that also produced things like the Landkreuzer P. 1500 and Hitler’s architectural enabler Albert Speer. Even the mainstream rocketry program at Peenemünde was looking to run before it learned to walk, and this was just an extreme example of this attitude in the embryonic German space program. It may not have even been as tentative as that: at worst, it was merely discussions of an idea floated by the father of German rocketry, Hermann Oberth, in 1929.

Any gloss of reality the Sonnengewehr got likely came once the war was over and the Hillersleben group were under the control of the American military. In that precarious situation they would have been searching for anything to impress their captors of their usefulness and the Sun Gun inflated from cafeteria-table discussions to the preliminaries of a project. It did get them a little attention at the time, to be sure, but its sheer fantasticalness made it quickly drop back out of the limelight.

Sidebar: Von Braun’s Moonship


Detail from the diagram of Wernher von Braun’s conjectural Moon ship published in the Collier’s Magazine issue of October 18, 1952. Click for a larger, complete view of the whole diagram.

Wernher von Braun, Willy Ley, Fred Whipple, and others famously jump-started American interest in space with their series Man Will Conquer Space Soon!, published over eight different issues of Collier’s Magazine between March 1952 and April 1954. This is from the second one, October 18, 1952’s “Man on the Moon”.

Though unsigned, it is likely the work of magazine artist Rolf Klep—Chesley Bonestell is remembered for the paintings he did for the series, but Klep did most of the more diagrammatic images. It depicts two variants of the same basic ship, one a passenger ship and one a cargo ship. Both would have been built in orbit after a space infrastructure of orbital rockets and a space station had been put in place.

Two of the “passenger” version would have carried a total of 50 scientists and technicians between them, while the “cargo” version would have been on a one-way trip to the Moon carrying the supplies the 50 men (and the title of the series leaves little doubt that it would have been only men) would need for a six-week stay on Earth’s nearest neighbour. Their goal would have been the Sinus Roris near the Moon’s North Pole—and later used by Arthur C. Clarke as the setting of his A Fall of Moondust, in all likelihood because of its mention in this article.

The ships are 160 feet tall, which is to say just about the same height as the entire Space Shuttle stack. They were to have burned nitric acid and hydrazine, which was quite prescient on the part of Dr. von Braun as that’s one of the three most popular rocket fuel combinations (along with LOX/LH2 and LOX/Kerosene) down to the modern day. Less prescient is its mercury-vapour powered turbine, which uses the parabolically concentrated light from the Sun to evaporate liquid mercury and generate 35 kilowatts. They were the hot new thing in 1952, but fell out of favour not long after. So far as I know there’s never been one in space.

Naturally on arriving at the Moon, the astronauts would set about building a Moon base using the cargo they brought as well as the one ship that brought it. From there von Braun confidently predicted that it would not be too much longer before the first manned trip to Mars ensued.

While this ship was never a serious proposal like all the other posts to this blog have been, it’s historically significant. Though published in 1952 it originally dates back to a non-fiction book written by von Braun in 1948, Das Marsprojekt. Bearing in mind that this is only three years after he was forced to leave Germany, it likely reflects his long-term goals for the German V-rocket program. As is well-known, he was highly interested in diverting it from focusing solely on weaponry into space exploration—indeed the winged rocket ships used to get von Braun shipwrights into orbit to builld these Moon ships look like a hybrid of the most speculative and advanced idea Peenemünde floated, the A12 and the winged A6. Who knows? In a different, more peaceful world we may have seen Germany sending something like this to the Moon in 1980, dedicated to the memory of the recently deceased father of the German space program.

M-46/M-48 (VKA-23): The First Soviet Spaceplane


The VKA-23’s two designs, Vladimir Myasishchev third attempt in the 1956-60 period to propose a small spaceplane to Soviet leadership. The one on the left was based on his second try, the M-48, while the second design, on the right, was the ancestor of several other Soviet attempts at a lifting body re-entry vehicle in future years. Based on two images of unknown source, believed to be from the USSR–if you know of their source, please contact the author. Click for a larger view.

What it was: Four interrelated, but different, designs for a small Soviet spaceplane. While almost all Russian spacecraft descend from Sergei Korolev’s R-7 and Vostok, they began as an independent line of approach pre-dating 1957, building up to orbital operations by creating ever more extreme airplanes. Only after Korolev’s crowning achievement of orbiting Yuri Gagarin in a ballistic capsule was it definitively folded into the main line of Soviet space exploration. Even after that its descendants repeatedly threatened to split back off again right up until the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Details: We’ve previously discussed Eugen Sänger’s Silbervogel and how it was the first serious attempt to build a spacecraft by an alternative means to ballistic rocketry—building a plane so extreme that its speed and height qualified it for orbit. After WWII ended there was some interest in his work in the United States, but as designing a spaceplane is relatively difficult as compared to a ballistic capsule, it never went anywhere interesting until the development of the X-15.

In the Soviet Union, however, airplane designers kept their eye on the possibility starting as soon as they discovered Sänger and Bredt’s work. Stalin is reported to have been very interested in the possibility of an orbital bomber, and in 1947 tried to have a Soviet rocket engineer, Grigoriy Tokayev, convince Sänger to come to the Soviet Union or, failing that, have the NKVD kinap him (Tokayev chose to defect to the UK instead). Before this, though, in November 1946 Stalin directed Mstislav Keldysh—arguably his most talented plane designer and one of the three men (along with Sergei Korolev and Mikhail Tikhonravov) who suggested in 1954 that the Soviet Union launch an artificial satellite—to build something like the Silbervogel.

Keldysh concluded that the Silbervogel was entirely too advanced for Russian industry to build any time soon. Nevertheless he went for a somewhat less-extreme ramjet-and-rocket-powered craft that kept the same basic suborbital boost-glide approach suggested by Sänger. What he comes up with is still too sophisticated for Russia to make, so it’s not hard to conclude that it wasn’t a serious proposal and more just a way of getting Stalin off his back.

In the years immediately following this, Vladimir Myasishchev was the most serious of early Russian spaceplane designers. Well before Sputnik I his design bureau, OKB-23, was working on radical weapons like supersonic bombers and the Buran cruise missile. When Korolev demonstrated to the Soviet leadership’s satisfaction that ballistic missiles were the best delivery system for nuclear weapons, Buran was cancelled in November 1957, but Myasishchev was still interested in going faster and higher with his planes. So he continued working on an idea he’d had while working on his missile for a suborbital reconnaissance spaceplane called the M-46. Note the date: he was already working on it prior to the launch of Sputnik I, which makes it one of the select few spacecraft seriously considered before the dawn of the Space Age.

Not a lot is known about the M-46 other than its existence, as the work was done entirely on Myasishchev’s own accord; when he was found out he was sanctioned and told to pay back the funds he had spent. Archive materials on it were apparently destroyed some time thereafter. Nevertheless, there’s reason to believe that it would have been a manned version of the Buran missile, which is to say a ramjet-driven, delta-winged craft some 23 meters long, boosted up to speed by four nitric acid/kerosene rockets. The ramjets would have gone out for lack of oxygen long before it reached space, but it would have had enough speed for a suborbital hop above 100 kilometers with an intercontinental range.

Two years after being slapped down for his initiative, Myasishchev’s situation changed. Early reports of the US Air Force’s Dyna-Soar inspired the Russian military to counter with a spaceplane of their own. Korolev’s OKB-1 worked with Pavel Tsybin to develop one possibility, the PKA, while Myasishchev’s OKB-23 was given the go-ahead to develop a new one of his own, which he called the M-48. Both were designed to be boosted by Korolev’s R-7, just like the Vostok spacecraft for which they were considered an alternative. As it’s much easier to build a ballistic re-entry capsule, Yuri Gagarin made his historic flight in the relatively unsophisticated Vostok 1, but work continued on both the PKA and the M-48 until October 1959 and October 1960 respectively.

Myasishchev’s first attempt at this commission produced the M-48 proper, about which again not very much is known. One day the Soviet archives may open enough to give us more details, but for now our best idea is that it was long, flat-bottomed, triangular craft (with the two forward sides of the triangle much longer than the other one,) with a relatively simple faceted crew cabin for one attached to its upper surface. Its flat underside is particularly interesting, as it makes the M-48 one of the first waveriders, which is to say it took advantage of the shockwave on the belly of the craft to provide lift. The whole concept of doing this had only been discovered in 1951, and its discoverer (Terence Nonweiler) was only just developing a plan to use it (in the never-built British Nonweiler Waverider re-entry vehicle) as OKB-23 was doing the same. Waveriding is a difficult and sophisticated technique, and even in the 21st century only one aircraft has ever been built that used it, the 60s-era XB-70.

Perhaps it was that sophistication, as well as the general audacity of designing a spaceplane, that got the M-48 into trouble. When Myasishchev submitted his design for approval, it was savaged by governmental engineer/bureaucrats, and he had to head back to the drawing board. This time he came up with two designs. Though technically still the M-48, they’re sufficiently different from the original (and from each other) that they’re usually referred to by their alternate designations: VKA-23 design 1 and VKA-23 design 2.

The first of the two designs was similar to what he had done with the M-48, but with changes intended to address the objections to the previous design. It would have been 9.4 meters long and built of steel and titanium, which would then be covered with ceramic foam tiles embedded in a frame made of silicon and graphite. It would have been able to carry one pilot and 700 kilograms to orbit, with the entire loaded and fuelled craft weighing an additional 3500 to 4100 kilograms. This is very small, smaller than even SpaceShip One and only a few hundred kilograms heavier than the unmanned X-37 spaceplane. This size was dictated by the fact that it was to be lifted by one of Korolev’s R-7 boosters, which would do most of the work of getting it into orbit.

The second design is the particularly interesting one, though. In contrast with the first design’s faceted appearance, this one was a rounded lifting body, recognizably like almost every small winged re-entry vehicle developed since then. On the Russian side this is not coincidental. The chain of proposed Soviet mini-spaceplanes running from Raketoplan to Spiral to LKS to MAKS are all dependent in one way or another on the work done on it, or the engineers who developed it. Like design 1, it had to be light to go up on an R-7, and so it rang in at 3600 to 4500 kilograms, and its payload was the same—700 kilograms. It likewise used the same ceramic tiles and silicon/graphite frame as a heat shield. It was slightly shorter than its brother, at 9.0 meters.

Both would have been fitted with a small turbojet engine for maneuverability once they had reached the lower atmosphere during re-entry.

Despite its numerous descendants, the VKA-23 was still quite primitive. In both designs its one astronaut actually had to take a trick from the similarly basic Vostok and parachute out from it to safety once he dropped below 8 kilometers (but before getting to 3 kilometers); the plane itself would have had landing skids (design 1) or had a parachute to bring it safely to ground (design 2).

What happened to make it fail: In 1959-60 Khrushchev starting reducing the size and complexity of the Soviet military establishment. OKB-23 was dissolved in October 1960, and many of the VKA-23 engineers were re-assigned to Vladimir Chelomei’s OKB-52, where they became an important part of his Raketoplan spaceplane design team. When that too was cancelled, they were moved to Mikoyan, where they worked on Spiral.

What was necessary for it to succeed: None of the original four designs was ever going to fly. Spaceplanes have turned out to be considerably harder than anyone ever suspected, and even the United States was far away from building one in the late 1950s and early 1960s. The Soviet Union was even less able to do so.

But In a sense, Myasishchev’s little plane came very close to succeeding in the long run. During all their travels through various Soviet design bureaus, a variable group of Myasishchev engineers kept a recognizable core of VKA-23 design 2 knowledge moving forward. A scale testing model of Raketoplan was launched on a suborbital re-entry experiment in 1961, and another model tested the design’s hypersonic maneuverability in 1963. The Spiral spaceplane got to the point of a full-scale subsonic version, the MiG-105, which was used to study its low-speed handling. Two sub-scale versions of Spiral, BOR-2 and BOR-4, were launched into orbit. Even the larger-scale Soviet shuttle that did finally fly in 1988 had its cockpit designed by the Myasishchev bureau, which was reconstituted in 1967. It had the name Buran, which was a nice callback to the manned Buran cruise missile plans that started it all in 1956-7.

Incredibly, the Myasishchev design bureau was still chugging along on their own distant descendant of the VKA-23 (after a long fallow period) as late as 2009—this time with the aim of using the result for space tourism. That dream finally died when they were acquired by the Russian government’s United Aircraft Corporation in that year.

Army/RAND World-Circling Spaceship: War is Over, Space Is Just Begun

World-Circling Spaceship

Three views of the World-Circling Spaceship. On the left is the two-stage LOX/LH2 version, while in the centre is the more-developed four-stage LOX/Alcohol version. On the right is a view of the four-stage rocket as it might be assembled on the pad (support vehicle shown, far right). Images from Preliminary Design of a World-Circling Spaceship. Click for a larger version.

What it was: The first attempt to build a ship that could actually reach orbit by an organization that had the wherewithal to do it. Proposed in May 1946, the World Circling Spaceship was in fact two of them: a four-stage Liquid Oxygen/Alcohol rocket whose 500-pound (227-kilogram) upper stage would reach orbit, and an alternative two-stage LOX/Liquid Hydrogen rocket with a similar 500-pound upper stage. While primarily intended for unmanned payloads, putting a man into space with either was considered.

Details: The WWII German rocket team had a design, but no backing. Right after the war, the US Navy could have come up with the funds, but their design (actually several designs) to build a single-stage-to-orbit vehicle would never have worked—SSTO was beyond the technology of the 1940s.

The US Army Air Force, however, could have had both sometime immediately following the spring of 1946. In March they arranged for Douglas Aircraft to put together Project RAND to study intercontinental warfare by means of missiles. Their list of consultants was stellar, and even included Luis Alvarez, later much more famous for his paper proposing an asteroid strike as the cause of the extinction of the dinosaurs, and who would also be on the commission looking into the Challenger disaster.

By May 2, 1946 they had produced the first of what would be a very long line of reports from what would soon be the Rand Corporation. This one was devoted to artificial satellites and was called Preliminary Design of an Experimental World-Circling Spaceship. In it they studied the various issues standing between the present state of the art in rocketry and putting something into orbit, and they came to the conclusion that it could be done with 1946-era engineering. Working backwards from a goal of putting 500 pounds into orbit, they then proceeded to lay out two preliminary designs: a four-stage rocket using liquid oxygen and alcohol for fuel (the same fuels used by the V2 rocket) and an all-cryogenic two-stage rocket using liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen. They also noted that their initial analysis’ conclusion that a rocket burning LOX/LH2 would be best if it had two stages had turned out to be wrong, and that if time permitted they would have redesigned the second concept to use three stages—not a bad result for 1948, as this prefigures any number of successful three-stage rockets developed since then.

The first actual all-cryogenic three-stage rocket didn’t come about until the Delta IV in the early 21st century, though, as liquid hydrogen is a bit of a bear to handle. In 1946 the knowledge of how to do so simply didn’t exist, so the alcohol fuelled rocket was considered the more conservative choice. As a result the report focused on the four-stage vehicle. Its length was 60 to 70 feet, and its width at its maximum was 12 to 14 feet. Altogether before launch (and including fuel) it would have weighed about 100 tonnes. Promisingly, this makes it quite similar in size to the two-stage Atlas B, a late 1950s rocket which had a payload of 70 kilograms.

A hypothetical launch of one of these rockets would begin on an equatorial Pacific Island, an idea we’d see again a few years later in the Army’s proposal to use Christmas Island as a spaceport for a lunar base. As with that future plan, this was to take advantage of a long downrange area clear of human life as well as getting the maximum possible boost from the Earth’s rotation.

The rocket’s four stages, from largest to smallest and first-firing to last, were charmingly named Grandma, Mother, Daughter, and Baby, with the final one being the orbiting section; in the cryogenic rocket, Baby was perched on one single large stage (unnamed in the report, but call it “The Mother of All Stages” if you like). Each of these stages would have been stripped-down accumulations of fuel and rocket engines with the exception of Baby; it was in charge of guidance for itself and any earlier stage still attached to it and firing, an approach taken by the Proton K/D used for the Soviet circumlunar Zond spacecraft.

Baby’s payload cone would have been 3 feet (0.9 meters) in diameter and 7 feet (2.1 meters) in length, with an internal space of 20 cubic feet (0.57 cubic meters), and the payload’s weight would be no more than 500 pounds. While the assumption was that at first the Baby would be unmanned, a short chapter in the report—almost an aside, not even two full pages long—suggests that this would be big enough for a man and a vivarium to provide him with oxygen. Considering that the cramped Mercury capsule, by far the smallest manned craft ever made, had 60 cubic feet (1.70 cubic meters) of internal space, this was probably optimistic.

Baby’s instrument payload would be swapped in and out to fill a variety of roles. Fundamental research of the near-Earth environment was first, and RAND also pointed out the usefulness of a satellite for geodesy, ultraviolet astronomy, and communications. They even discuss the advantages of a satellite in geostationary orbit, but never actually mention that there’s a considerable difference between 500 pounds to LEO and 500 pounds to 35,786 kilometers up. Probably bearing in mind that RAND was funded by the Army Air Force, they also suggested that Baby could watch the weather over enemy territory, act as a spotter for a nuclear missile in a co-orbit, and send back pictures after an attack to assess its effect. There’s also a surprisingly prescient prediction, eleven years before the Sputnik 1 flap, that Baby would provide value simply by existing, so that it could increase world opinion of the United States.

Though they do mention using television to return images, they considered how best to return Baby to Earth with photographs until such time as radio downlinks were up to the task (and not incidentally so our previously mentioned claustrophilic astronaut could come home). Their solution was to add small wings about 30 square feet in area (2.8 square meters) to the orbiting capsule. This is particularly interesting as it only highlights that Harvey Allen’s discovery that a blunt shape actually reduced re-entry heat with its bow shock—one of the fundamental discoveries of space exploration—was still several years in the future. Lacking that knowledge, RAND suggested that Baby could use its wings to slow the craft’s descent and cut the temperature that way. Both the wings and the capsule’s skin were to be made with stainless steel, which is worrisome in hindsight and appears to be the only place where their analysis missed out on a good understanding of what would be necessary to launch and retrieve an orbital satellite.

RAND suggested that, once given the go-ahead, designing and launching the World-Circling Spaceship would cost US$150 million and take 5 years.

What happened to make it fail: RAND’s report came out at a time when rockets were on the upswing with the Army Air Force (and the independent USAF that followed in 1947). In particular, they were headed by General Carl Spaatz, who was believer in the future role of rocketry in war.

He retired in February of 1948, however, and in October of the same year General Curtis LeMay took over the Strategic Air Command—and they were in charge of any Air Force missiles on American soil. LeMay was of the opposing school to Spaatz, and believed that the future of air war was in bombers. As a result his influence stalled any and all long-range missile projects, let alone one that was as speculative as an orbital launcher in a time of military budget austerity. The World-Circling Spaceship never gained the backing it needed, and soon withered away.

What was necessary for it to succeed: If it had been launched as designed, with stainless steel leading edges on the wings, the first few Babys may have made it into space but weren’t coming home. Apart from that, though, Preliminary Design of an Experimental World-Circling Spaceship is remarkably close to something that could fly considering that it was spec’d out in the Precambrian of the Space Age. With the right personnel (say if Wernher von Braun and his crew had gone along with the Air Force during the divorce from the Army) and someone other than Curtis LeMay in charge of the Strategic Air Command, it’s not hard to see an upgraded Baby beeping its way around the Earth by the end of 1952—a tight schedule, but not out of the question.

Even if they didn’t pull it off by then, after the election of Eisenhower in November of that year it’s an open question if the new president’s preference for civilian control of space exploration would have been enough to stop a project that hadn’t yet put something into orbit but was getting close.

Douglas Model 671/684: The X-15’s Shadow

Model 684

A schematic diagram of the Douglas Model 684. It was submitted to NACA in 1954 as part of the X-15 design competition. Though evaluation suggested it would be the superior suborbital spacecraft, it lost to North American Aviation’s bid. Image from “USAF Project 1226, Douglas Model 684 High Altitude Research Airplane”. Click for a larger view.

What it was: Douglas Aircraft’s 1954-55 attempt at a suborbital spaceplane, with support from the US Navy and eventually NACA, intended for testing high Mach numbers in the atmosphere. Launched from a bomber, it would use a ballistic flight to get as high as 344 kilometers and then use the drop back down into the atmosphere to build up speed.

Details: NASA’s predecessor, the National Advisory Committee for Aerospace (NACA), was devoted to basic aerospace research programs whose results could be used by industry to make better aircraft. By the 1950s hypersonic travel was in the cards and they resolved to develop a research aircraft that could reach Mach 7, solely for the purpose of studying the aerodynamic and heating problems of moving through the atmosphere at that speed. Interestingly, they were not interested in studying spaceplanes or re-entry, as they considered manned space travel something for the 21st century, but the speeds involved were creeping up on those issues regardless of their intentions. With that in mind engineers at their Langley Research Center roughed out a basic design that is recognizably the X-15.

A lot of NACA’s work was done in conjunction with the US Air Force and Navy, partly because they were the groups most interested in cutting-edge aviation and partly because the Department of Defense had a budget roughly 150 times larger than NACA did. Accordingly, basic design in hand, NACA met with the other two organizations on June 11, 1954 to discuss where to go next.

The Air Force had been working with Bell Aircraft—builders of the X-1 and X-2—but the Navy had been working with Douglas Aircraft on two successive planes, the D-558-1 and the D-558-2. At the meeting they revealed that they were in the early stages of getting Douglas to work on what the manufacturer called the Model 671 (informally known as the D-558-3 in years since, though that name was never actually assigned to it).

Unlike the NACA idea, the Model 671 was designed for height as well as velocity. Although the work done on it was still preliminary, Douglas had already come to the conclusion that they could make it reach 1,130,000 feet—or, in more modern terms, 344 kilometers. The International Space Station is actually allowed to drop as low as this before being boosted again, so this is well into space; Douglas did admit that the pilot would probably not survive the G forces of that flight and so recommended nothing higher than 770,000 feet (237 kilometers). The plane’s downrange capability was 850 kilometers for both high and low flights, which is suborbital, but for both in height and distance this is considerably farther than Alan Shepard went in Freedom 7.

Given that NACA and the Air Force were now looking at similar programs, the Navy cancelled the Model 671 and joined up to launch a design competition. On December 30, 1954 twelve contractors were invited; only four came up with proposals, probably because of the risk involved and the minimal profits that would stem from the two airplanes that NACA wanted built. Three of the replies were from Bell Aircraft, North American Aviation, and Republic Aviation.

Douglas replied with the Model 684. Their proposed craft would hit a maximum of 7300 kilometers per hour, and reach heights of 114 kilometers—in other words, they had to tone down the Model 671 just to meet the NACA requirements. Even at that, this is still the edge of outer space: the Model 684 would have been the first suborbital spaceplane.

As it was headed for space, the pilot compartment was completely pressurized, and could carry two if the research instrumentation was removed. Anyone onboard would wear a pressure suit (the X-15 program would actually develop the space suit used by Mercury astronauts), and in case of a dire emergency the entire forward fuselage would cut loose, push away from the main body of the craft on a small jet, and drift down to Earth under a parachute.

The Model 684 would have been lifted to about 30,000 feet by a B-50 Superfortress bomber where it would be dropped. At that point it would have ignited its liquid oxygen and ammonia engine and taken off on a trajectory for either speed or height. After reaching its apogee it would glide back to Earth, eventually landing at a long conventional airstrip at about 300 kilometers per hour.

Like the other proposals this was a “hot structure” craft, which is worth explaining. The Space Shuttle’s fuselage, for example, is built mostly of aluminum. As a result it’s completely incapable of standing up to the heat of re-entry and must be kept cool. In the particular case of the Space Shuttle this was done by covering it with ceramic heat tiles, but other cold structure options include ablative coverings (which the Model 671 would have used) or cooling using some sort of liquid inside the skin that would be allowed to boil off.

A hot structure, on the other hand, approaches the problem head on: build the fuselage out of a material that holds up to high temperatures. NACA had suggested to the design competitors that they might want to look at Inconel X, a nickel-chromium alloy that doesn’t begin to soften until very high temperatures. Three of the bidders took the hint.

The Model 684 would have used HK31, an alloy of magnesium, thorium, and zirconium which is no longer in use since the three percent that is thorium makes the alloy radioactive. At the time its relatively low radioactivity was not considered much of a problem, though, and it had the advantage of being much lighter than Inconel X. This meant that the Model 684’s skin could be much thicker, which would reduce costs and would dramatically increase the heat capacity of the plane and keep it from pushing 1000 Celsius on re-entry. The leading wing edges would be made of copper, which would conduct heat away quickly into the rest of the plane.

The total estimated cost for research and development, then the production of three planes, came to US$36.4 million, with the first flight anticipated by March of 1958.

What happened to make it fail: This one actually came quite close to existing, as it was a strong second in the NACA competition to the North American Aviation ESO-7487; in the formal evaluation it actually outscored its rival 152 to 150. Essentially the decision came down to unhappiness with the choice of the HK31 alloy for its fuselage over Inconel X. As a research craft, they wanted the X-15 to be subjected to the heat of hypersonic travel. Inconel X would go up over 800 Celsius when at the heights and speeds NACA wanted; HK31’s higher heat capacity would have kept the Model 684 to about 300 Celsius during the relatively short flights the X-15 would undertake. It was a better solution if one were just making this aircraft, but not if the whole point was to study high temperatures in flight for future aircraft.

Basically it came down to what NACA was looking to build. They didn’t want a spaceplane, they wanted a regular, if extreme, aircraft. The NAA ESO-7487 may not have been able go as high as the Model 671, but that was OK. In looking to make something that would be relatively easy to develop into something the Navy would want to buy later for service, Douglas was too ambitious for their own good. The ESO-7487 would become the X-15.

What was necessary for it to succeed: North American Aviation actually asked to withdraw from the X-15 competition in October 1955, after it had informally been awarded the contract but before it was official. A slew of new design work had come their way and they no longer thought they could make the 30 month deadline for first flight that the contract would impose.

NACA, the Air Force, and the Navy mulled over two options. Either they could award the contract to the Model 684 if it was switched to an Inconel X skin, or they could give NAA an eight-month extension. They decided on the latter course, but if they hadn’t the Model 684 would have flown.