Man Very High/Project Adam: Mercury Before Mercury

Adam

The Mercury-like mission profile of Project Adam. Originally based on the cramped Project Manhigh capsule, by the time of this proposal the astronaut’s pressurized area was even smaller. Public domain image. Click for larger view.

What it was: The Army Ballistic Missile Agency’s attempt to capitalize on their successful riposte to Sputnik, Explorer 1, after the embarrassment of Vanguard TV3. Having lost the laurel of “first satellite” in frustrating fashion, Wernher von Braun‘s group quickly suggested a manned suborbital program, building on the US Air Force’s Project Manhigh, to try and take the prize for “first man in space” as quickly as possible.

Description: By the mid-1950s the USAF had got down to business of studying the effect of extremely high altitudes on pilots. One of the programs they ran was Project Manhigh, which lifted a pilot to 30 kilometers high twice in the months immediately preceding the launch of Sputnik 1.

Manhigh crammed a human being into a pressurized aluminum gondola weighing just 598 pounds (not including ballast), or 271 kilograms. The pill-shaped craft was 8 feet tall and 3 feet wide, or 244 cm × 91 cm, and that’s the first time I’ve had to use that unit in describing a crew compartment. Unsurprisingly, it housed one, though on the second flight it housed him for a remarkable 32 hours.

However, in the scramble that followed the unexpected dawn of the Space Age, the Manhigh gondola was a resource, and it was one that the ABMA latched on to, firing off a proposal in January of 1958, a few weeks before their modified Jupiter-C put the USA’s first satellite into orbit.

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Major David Simons in one of the original Manhigh gondolas. Apart from a thin aluminum shell, that was it in its entirety. Image from LIFE magazine, September 2, 1957. Click for a larger view.

Not even the 1950s military was quite prepared to fire a naked Manhigh gondola to space—they were usually lifted and returned gently by balloon, with only a shock absorber needed for the landing. So the question was what needed to be done to bridge the gap between its original capabilities and a minimal craft that could withstand a swift trip above the atmosphere. Von Braun’s proposal gave one possible answer.

First named Man Very High, the initial proposal was for the Army to supply a modified Redstone based on the Jupiter-C used to launch Explorer 1 and an exterior shell using the principles of the Jupiter’s nose cone to handle the heat of flight and re-entry. The Air Force would supply a passenger cabin derived from the Manhigh capsule, and the Navy would handle recovery procedures. As part of this von Braun invited Manhigh fliers Joseph Kittinger and David Simons to Huntsville to see about adapting a Manhigh gondola for even greater altitude.

The Air Force as a whole was uninterested, though, so by March 1958 the ABMA rebranded Man Very High to Project Adam (a biblical reference, not a Frankenstein riff), and made it a joint Army/Navy project. Now the Army handled everything to do with the rocket and spacecraft, with the Navy continuing to be relegated to recovery and the USAF doing nothing at all. This they then submitted to ARPA the next month, this being the newly formed agency devoted to the military and civilian use of new technology and the unspoken mandate “Don’t let the Russians surprise us again”.

This ultimate version of Adam used two nose-cone derivatives arranged base-to-base. The upper cone would occupy the usual position of a Redstone missile’s tip, while the lower cone would be embedded tip-down in the body of the missile. This lower cone would house the astronaut and the various life-support and guidance equipment he would need. In particular, a Manhigh-like capsule would be rigidly installed horizontally, at the cone’s widest point, and the pilot would be loaded in from the gantry tower on a sliding wheeled sled before the cap sealed him in. This horizontal arrangement strongly implies that the capsule would have been even smaller than the Manhigh gondola, as the Jupiter-C was not quite 70 inches in diameter (177 cm), and no sketch of the Adam perched on top of its launcher shows a bulge near the top of the rocket. On the other hand, another diagram showing only the lower cone has its base clearly larger than this, and a third schematic of the crewed interior shows the pilot at a slight angle, feet downward. Make of that what you will.

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Getting onboard the Project Adam capsule. Public domain image.

In any case, with the pilot bolted into place more than seated, the Jupiter-C would be lit and our astronaut would be underway on his journey. After reaching the end of the rocket’s burn time, the double-cone craft would be cut loose, sail past apogee at 150 miles (240 km), the cut loose the upper cone as superfluous. The lower cone containing its crewman would re-enter, with deployable vanes supplying some steering, to water-land under a parachute.

Much like the first two Mercury flights he wouldn’t be going too far or for too long: six minutes of burn time, ten of free-fall, and a symmetrical 150 miles downrange to a splashdown to the north of the Caribbean Sea. Total price tag was claimed to be US$4.75 million (down from about US$12 million for the earlier, USAF-using version), with the flight to take place before the end of 1959.

What happened to make it fail: When first proposed, it was subjected to some rough handling by NASA’s predecessor, NACA, which was then working on the X-15 program with the Air Force, and the USAF itself, which was working on their Man Into Space Soonest project. Ironically enough, considering how Project Mercury flew its first couple of times, NACA head Hugh Dryden pooh-poohed it by comparing it to a circus’s Human Cannonball act.

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What the US Army claimed they were working toward with Project Adam, the Redstone Transport Vehicle. Public Domain Image. Click for a larger view

Dryden did have a point. Though the Army dressed up Adam as leading to troop drops from space, the hybrid Adam capsule-craft had no development potential. Conversely, once NASA absorbed Man In Space Soonest and Max Faget sketched out the Mercury capsule, they were on their way to something that could go into orbit on top of the Air Force’s pending Atlas and Titan boosters. That would lead the way to Apollo in the long run (Gemini not being even a twinkle in anyone’s eye at that point). Meanwhile, while the Army had boosters in development to match the two Air Force rockets they were much further behind.

With all of NACA’s relevant people now heading NASA, and with NASA given a strong mandate to run the space program, von Braun’s group and the Army were frozen out until such time as the Redstone Arsenal was handed off to the new agency too, to become Marshall Space Flight Center. By then it was July of 1960, and Adam was long sidelined in favor of Mercury.

What was necessary for it to succeed: In the event, the key part of Adam—using a Redstone missile derivative to lob a capsule of some sort on a suborbital trajectory—was quickly absorbed into Mercury, and Americans #1 and #2 into space flew Adam-like missions downrange from Cape Canaveral to the Atlantic northeast of the Bahamas. So that part of the mission presents no real problems.

As for the capsule…Adam was proposed in a short section of time where everything about the United States in space was in flux. It’s largely forgotten now that NASA was actually the second agency set up in response to the USSR’s public relations coup, and that from February to the end of July in 1958 the responsible party was ARPA (modern-day DARPA). ARPA’s leaders were definitely interested in becoming something like NASA when it came to space: when NASA was formed, ARPA’s director, Roy Johnson, resigned in protest.

Fitting the project through this window of February to July ’58 would mean the USAF-less Project Adam would have had to be the proposal out of the gate, rather than ABMA trying to get the Air Force to develop the capsule as they did early on. As it was, the opposition from the Air Force and NACA meant that the ultimate Project Adam came too late to have a chance to move forward.

It’s actually a bit surprising that von Braun didn’t get his chance here—it’s hard to overestimate the prestige he had in the United States immediately following Explorer 1. Certainly his instinct that the Space Age was as much about the USSR and US showing each other up as it was about research was correct, despite the pushback on this from Dryden and crew.

As it was, Project Mercury won out and, notoriously just missing out on the first that Project Adam looked to accomplish: the USSR launched Yuri Gagarin on the first flight into space on April 12, 1961. The United States followed with Alan Shepard just five weeks later.

Sources
Von Braun: Dreamer of Space, Engineer of War, Michael Neufeld.

“First Up?”, Tony Reichardt. Air & Space Magazine, Sep. 2000.

How the U.S. Almost Beat the Soviets to the First Man in Space“, Ron Miller. Gizmodo, April 17, 2014.

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Chief Designers 5: Wernher von Braun

von Braun and Nebel, c.1932

Wernher von Braun, right, and VfR compatriot Rudolf Nebel, circa 1932. Image origin unknown, believed to be in the public domain. Please contact the author if you have more information. Click for a larger view.

For many years Wernher von Braun was considered the paramount figure in the history of spaceflight. Certainly he had the unique distinction of being a key figure in two national space programs: the precocious and abortive German one, and the dominant American one. However against this we need to set the fact that he was “only” a rocket designer and was not intimately involved in developing the spacecraft that rode on top of them—one could make the argument that Max Faget was the most important figure in American manned spaceflight history because he was dominant in that role—and he pales in comparison to what we have learned about Sergei Korolev’s role in the Soviet space program since the 1980s. He and Korolev were the two greatest visionaries of the early space program, but then von Braun also suffers from having the most morally problematic career of any leading person in the history of space as well.

Wernher Magnus Maximilian, Freiherr von Braun was born in Wirsitz, Germany (now Wyrzysk, Poland) on March 23, 1912. From 1915 he and his family lived in Berlin. Reportedly the present of a telescope and later a copy of Herman Oberth’s seminal book Die Rakete zu den Planetenräumen (By Rocket into Interplanetary Space) fascinated him and drew his attention to space.

A peripatetic school career let him develop his skills in physics and mathematics, ultimately leading to a degree in aeronautical engineering from the Technische Hochschule Berlin in 1932 and a degree in physics from Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität in 1934. It was in 1930, however, that his future was cemented by his joining the Verein für Raumschiffahrt (“Spaceflight Society”, commonly known as VfR), which had been founded three years previously. Their experiments with rocketry drew the attention of the German Army, particularly Walter Dornberger.

Under Dornburger, von Braun became the head of a rocket research program at Kummersdorf—the thesis for his 1934 degree was classified and unpublished until 1960—and civilian testing of rockets was banned. Unfortunately for Germany and the world as a whole, these preliminary steps were taken under the new German government of Adolf Hitler and the Nazi party. Von Braun’s fortunes and that of German rocketry would rise and fall with them.

After several years of success at Kummersdorf, von Braun’s group was moved to Peenemünde on the Baltic coast. There they developed the A4 rocket, better-known as the V-2. This was the first man-made object to reach space, doing so several times on suborbital test flights, possibly as early as the steep misfire that was the fourth V-2 test flight on October 3, 1942 and certainly no later than the end of 1944. Unfortunately for von Braun’s future legacy it was used to launch conventional warheads at the UK and later the invading Allied armies after D-Day. Both London and Antwerp suffered under his rocket. Perhaps even worse was the fact that from the autumn of 1943 the V-2 was built in the Mittelwerk using slaves taken from Mittelbau-Dora concentration camp. Von Braun managed to distance himself from this during his lifetime by pointing to his imprisonment by the Gestapo for two weeks in the spring of 1943, but the historical consensus since then is that von Braun knew more than he let on during his life and did little to resist the SS (who ran Mittelwerk, and of which von Braun had been an honorary member since 1940) after his release from prison so long as he could continue his rocketry work.

Ultimately his efforts to clandestinely jumpstart a German space program as a side effect of his military research came to a halt with the end of World War II. He and some 500 others of his Peenemünde group surrendered to the American 44th Infantry Division and were eventually sent to the United States as part of Operation Paperclip, a program to transfer as many key German scientists as possible out of Germany and away from the USSR and UK. Upon arriving in the US he and his compatriots had their war careers and Nazi activities hidden by the American government. For the next five years his role was to teach the US Army about the V-2 and its underlying technology while essentially under house arrest at Fort Bliss, Texas.

In 1950 he and what was left of the Peenemünde group were transferred to Huntsville, Alabama, where their conditions were relaxed and they were allowed to enter civilian life in the United States. Von Braun became technical director of the Army Ballistic Missile Agency, whose purpose was to develop a long-range ballistic missile. This they did, the Redstone. During this time, von Braun also became famous as a public advocate of spaceflight, helping to write a popular series on the future possibilities called “Man Will Conquer Space Soon!” for Collier’s magazine in 1952-4; later he was technical director and a spokesperson for a highly rated television special on the same topic for Disney in 1955. He also became an American citizen during this time.

At this point the United States was close to launching its first satellite into space, but the government was loath to have it done by the German expatriates. Only after the launch of Sputnik 1 and the answering failure of the United States’ first Vanguard launch on December 6, 1957 was the Army and von Braun able to overcome this reluctance. On January 31, 1958, the first American satellite, Explorer 1, rode into orbit on top of a Jupiter-C rocket—a Redstone derivative produced by the Huntsville team.

Wernher von Braun's NASA portrait, 1960

Wernher von Braun’s NASA portrait, 1960. At age 48 he had just become director of Marshall Space Flight Center after already being the most important person in Germany’s wartime rocketry program. Public domain image.

For the next two-and-a-half years, von Braun’s responsibilities were slowly transferred from the Army to the US’ new civilian space agency NASA. Project Mercury was begun, and used Redstone derivatives for launches. Hunstville began work on a heavy launcher named Saturn, initially for an Army space program but then that was transferred to NASA too. Finally all Army space activities were passed over to NASA on the order of President Eisenhower. On July 1, 1960 the Redstone Arsenal in Huntsville was renamed the Marshall Space Flight Center and put entirely in the hands of the civilian space agency. Von Braun was to be its first director, a position he held until 1970.

Those ten years saw von Braun living his dream, developing the Saturn V and being a key contributor to the Apollo program that landed men on the Moon. His vision of America’s future in space began to diverge from reality post-Apollo 11, however. He was a strong advocate of continuing on to Mars—the Integrated Program Plan’s Mars mission was largely his baby—and after two years in Washington following his transfer from Huntsville he came to realize that it was not going to happen. He resigned from NASA on May 26, 1972.

In 1973 he was diagnosed with kidney cancer, which slowly sapped away his life. Before he was done, however, he helped to found the National Space Institute, one of the precursors the National Space Society, a major space advocacy and education group. He served as its first president before his hospitalization and then death on June 16, 1977 at age 65.

Project Horizon (Part III): Landing Soldiers on the Moon and Keeping Them There

project-horizon-lunar-outpost

A depiction of the construction of the second, larger part of the 12-man Moon base proposed as the end goal for Project Horizon. The initial part of the base, shown covered in lunar material at left, was to be built within two months of the first manned landing. The proposed Lunar Landing Craft can be seen soft-landing in the background. Public domain image from Project Horizon: Volume I. Click for a larger view.

What it was: The culmination of the US Army’s Project Horizon proposal of 1959: sending a direct descent/ascent spaceship to the Moon, then building and populating a twelve-man Moon base shortly thereafter.

Details: Having taken off from Christmas Island Launch Facility in the Pacific aboard a Saturn I to the Minimum Orbital Station (MOS), two Army astronauts would receive further fuel launches and then finally an unloaded Moon craft perched on top of a Saturn with a specialized third stage. The third stage has already burned through its fuel to get the heavy direct descent ship into orbit, so after matching orbits with the MOS the Moon crew and the other men living longer-term on the station refuel it. Then the two men bound for points further afield climb aboard and use the stage to burn for their trans-lunar trip.

As well as the TLI stage, the proposed Horizon lunar craft consisted of two more stages. One soft-landed the spaceship on the Moon, and the other would detach from that one (leaving it behind) and return its astronauts to Earth directly. It in turn would separate from a crew return capsule used for re-entry into the atmosphere and splashdown into the ocean.  Altogether this two-stage vehicle would have been some 16 meters long and weighed 64 tonnes. This is huge: the Apollo CSM/LM combination was 45 tonnes, and even at that carried three men instead of two. Even a Saturn V (which was still in its early development during the times of Project Horizon, and is only roughly spec’ed out as a “Saturn II” here) wouldn’t be able to lift that off of Earth, and so the need for refueling in orbit.

To make up for this, there were actually two different types of landers suggested, one of which could be launched directly from Christmas Island on a Saturn I. To meet that requirement, this second type would have been relatively small: 12 tonnes with a payload to the Moon of 2.5 tonnes, a figure made possible only by the fact that they didn’t have to return to the Earth. One would be sent before the first two astronauts started on their journey to the Moon, carrying construction materials for the base. By the end of 1966, there would be four in all sent on their way.

The first manned lunar landing, of two men, would be in April 1965, guided into the site where the base is to be built. In the 1959 report, the Army even had three possible sites picked out: “the northern part of Sinus Aestuum, near Eratosthenes, in the southern part of Sinus Aestuum near the Sinus Medii, and on the southwest coast of the Mare Imbrium, just north of the Appennies”; the last of these is actually not far from where Apollo 15 landed. The Army astronauts’ job would be to explore the immediate area and make sure that the site was acceptable for building a base. They would live in their landing craft until the construction crew arrived in July 1965 (ninety days or so, as compared to Apollo 11’s 21 hours and 34 minutes) at which point they would head home.

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A cross-sectional view of the initial two compartment quarters that would house nine to twelve men while they built the larger remainder of the base. Public domain image from Project Horizon, Volume II. Click for a larger view.

This construction crew would consist of nine men, and they would get to work using explosives and tools to dig a deep trench in which they would build their own quarters within fifteen days (or at least no more than thirty) and then cover them with lunar material for protection; a ramp at either end would allow entry and exit from their quarters’ airlock. These accomodations would necessarily be Spartan, but when done the crew would have a small underground base with a cylindrical cross-section (double-walled with vacuum between for insulation), while leftover cargo pods and the like would be buried nearby to hold LOX/nitrogen tanks and waste. The crew would also set up two nuclear reactors to power the base and erect communications equipment so they could stay in permanent contact with Earth.

Now enhanced to twelve men by another landing, the construction crew would get down to building a second, larger cylindrical section at a right angle to the first. When completed the living quarters would be moved here, and it would also contain an office and a sickbay. The original cylinder would be fitted out as two labs, one for biological studies (the proposal charmingly suggests it could be used to check for life on the Moon) and one for physical experiments. The sections of the base wouldn’t link up, but the ramps on one end of each would touch for relatively easy access between them, or as easy as having to put a spacesuit on to walk a few feet can be. A diagram of a remarkably odd-looking spacesuit is included for reference in the report; it has mechanical hands (the astronauts’ real hands were to be cocooned inside the sleeves), and large plates attached to his feet to support him if the lunar dust turned out to be thick.

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A diagram of the Horizon spacesuit. Note the odd mechanical hands and “lunar dust walking” plates. Public domain image from Project Horizon: Volume I. Click for a larger view.

By the end of 1968 there would have been ten manned missions in all to the Moon, and eight returns, meaning that the Horizon base would still be inhabited into the indefinite future after that.

What happened to make it fail: The first part of Horizon that we discussed, the launch facility, was perfectly well laid out and not overly different from what ended up being built at Cape Canaveral (though it was bigger and had more pads). The second part is more speculative and is fairly different from what actually happened, but this is mostly because of the change to a Lunar Orbit Rendezvous mission by NASA a couple of years after Horizon was proposed. Still, in retrospect it looks as if they didn’t quite think their station through.

When we get to this third part, though, the speculative nature of what the Army wants to do is front and center. The ways they propose to build and maintain a Moon base are bizarre to modern eyes, mostly because they literally didn’t know the extent of the problems they would face. A close read of the relevant documents reveals a large number of weasel words embedded in every attempt to describe the way things would be done on the Moon if Horizon got the go-ahead. Even Horizon’s summary report admits that the Army wanted another eight months and US$5.4 million dollars just to nail things down before moving on to starting the hardware development for the program.

Having a Moon base was a possible ultimate goal for an American space program, but planning one down to the point of having dates and proposed sites was very premature. Ultimately Project Horizon didn’t fool enough people into thinking that the Army knew what they were doing. Even looking past the previously-discussed antipathy that President Eisenhower had for the military in space, he was known to have used the words “Buck Rogers” more than once to describe the nebulous plans he got from the Army and others, and he was justified in saying so.

What was necessary for it to succeed: The Project Horizon proposal wasn’t actually about how to get to the Moon. It was an attempt by the US Army to establish precedence over the other armed services and, later, the upstart NASA. With Horizon filed away in various Washington bureaucracies, they could point at their long-standing work on manned space travel and plausibly say “Why give money to these newcomers? They’d be starting from scratch and you’d have to pay for that! Give it to us; it’s the wise course to take”.

Then, if anybody bought what they were selling, the way they actually went about it would conform to Horizon only incidentally as they got around to determining how to build this part of their empire. They could always go back and get more money and more time if they needed it, once the US committed to doing it through them.

So Horizon Base was never going to get built. It’s not an appropriate way for housing 12 men on the Moon because when it was designed the proper ways to do it were literally unknown, and would remain unknown for some time. But all it needed to succeed at its actual goal was to fend off Eisenhower long enough for someone in Congress to step up for them and ram through a bill giving the Army control of manned space exploration. It was a decent bet, just one that didn’t pay off.

Project Horizon (Part II): The Minimal Orbital Station and the Orbital Return Vehicle

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A “conceptual view” of the Minimal Orbital Station. Based on the mockup of the initial two-module station (linked below), the actual MOS would have looked somewhat different, but one module would be for human habitation and the rest would be gas tanks for fuelling the Moon ship and its injection stage, top. Another tanker is approaching, as it would take four fuellings in total to top up for a journey to the Moon. Image from Project Horizon: Volume I. Click for a larger view.

What it was: Project Horizon was the US Army’s full-blown proposal to put a man on the moon (and, in fact, start up a whole lunar base) by the end of 1966. While much of its focus was on the base itself, it also included extensive discussion of both the Earth-bound and orbital infrastructure they felt was necessary to reach their goal. The Minimal Orbital Station (MOS) was essentially a gas station in LEO for ships headed to the Moon, while the Orbital Return Vehicle was to be used to bring the gas station’s attendants back down to Earth when their tour of duty was done.

Details: In Project Horizon, Part I we discussed the US Army’s proposed launch facility on Christmas Island in the Pacific. Had it gone ahead, American soldiers and civilian experts would have been loaded on Saturn I rockets (or possibly a “Saturn II”, an early design of what would lead to the Saturn V) and launched into orbit.

Where would they go? To the space station, of course. The Project Horizon proposal blandly asserts “It is very likely that a previously constructed completely equipped space platform will be available in 1965 for use as housing facilities and for other support for the refueling operation.” It does then admit that it’s at least possible that 1965’s near-inevitable space station might not be suitable as a base for the Moon mission (by, for example, being in the wrong orbit). On the off chance that this happened, they proposed the Minimum Orbital Station.

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A view of the MOS mockup shown in 1960. The bottom module is a Saturn stage converted for habitation. The cone at top is the ORV. Public domain image from NASA. Click for a larger view.

Building the station would start with a launch of a Saturn I with a payload of men in the nosecone. Once in a 640 kilometer equatorial orbit (a height selected so that the station would circle the Earth in an even fraction of a 24-hour period, making it easier to return to the launch point after the mission was over) the nosecone and the upper stage of the rocket would both reach orbit, at which point the two would disengage. The upper stage’s remaining propellant would be blown out, and the aft end of the nose cone would be mated to the top of the stage—or possibly the side if this variety of Saturn I was redesigned to have an airlock there. The astronauts could then enter the empty stage and fit it out as a living and working space; this “wet workshop” concept would appear again in the designs of the Manned Orbiting Laboratory and the original Skylab.

This basic MOS was enough to house the astronauts, but not to support a Moon mission. Project Horizon assumed that the lunar landing would be a direct descent, which implies a considerably heavier load of fuel than was needed for the Lunar Orbit Rendezvous approach that NASA came to favour in the years following the Army proposal. The Saturn I was completely incapable of lifting both a direct-descent landing craft and the necessary fuel at the same time, so the two had to go up separately. Once the MOS had one empty stage housing its crew, another Saturn I would be sent up, only this time it was carrying a full load of fuel instead of men. The fuel-laden tank would attach itself to the side of MOS, and then the process would repeat: the baseline lunar landing mission in the proposal suggested four tanker launches would be needed before enough fuel was in orbit. More missions might be sent up carrying men, depending on how many orbital personnel were deemed necessary for the next step: getting the lunar craft fuelled and underway.

One final Saturn I launch would loft an unfuelled direct descent ship (that’s six launches now, if you’re keeping count), which would rendezvous with the MOS. The station’s crew would get into their spacesuits, spacewalk out into LEO, and transfer the fuel from one to the other. Three crew would then get aboard the lander and head off to the Moon. The remainder would either re-board the station for the next mission (the pace of Project Horizon’s launches, as discussed in Part I, was downright frantic), or head back to Earth.

Those headed back to Earth would use the Orbital Return Vehicle. This is where the word “minimal” really comes into play, as it was essentially just a conical capsule roughly 7 meters long and 4 meters at its base. After detaching from the MOS, a small retrorocket would knock it out of orbit and its crew would ride down to the ground. Astonishingly, the Project Horizon report suggests that it would have carried anywhere from 10 to 16 men at a time—bear in mind that the actual Gemini capsule gave its two astronauts 5.7 x 3.05 meters to play with, and no-one ever described the Gemini as “roomy”. This feat was accomplished by dividing the interior into no less than three decks (four, if you count the equipment compartment in the nose). There would be no room for sitting or standing here, so the astronauts would lie prone for the entire trip. Here’s hoping they didn’t miss their initial de-orbit burn time and have to wait 90 minutes for the next.

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An unfortunately blurry diagram of the ORV from Project Horizon: Volume II. Notice the number of astronauts depicted. Click for a larger view.

Ultimately, the plan was to turn the MOS into a destination in its own right, chaining together more and more Saturn stages converted for habitation and then eventually curving the chain back on itself to form a ring station that could be spun for artificial gravity.

What happened to make it fail: As mentioned in Part I, Project Horizon fell afoul of Eisenhower’s dislike of military activity in space. He’d already tried to pry manned space programs away from the Army, Air Force, and Navy by forming ARPA in February 1958. When that failed (ARPA then famously moving on to other projects like the development of the primitive Internet), he tried again and got them transferred to NASA.

In the particular case of the Horizon space station part of the larger Project Horizon. The Army’s main interest was militarizing the Moon, and the station was just a step toward that was made necessary by an EOR mission profile. When Eisenhower specifically took space exploration missions away from the services and gave them to NASA, the Army Moon program was dead and an Army space station to support it became superfluous.

What was necessary for it to succeed: The station was only going to go ahead if the Army had been given the green light on all of Project Horizon. Something like it might have been built if NASA had decided to use an EOR strategy for the Apollo program, but even that isn’t certain. The USSR considered a similar approach and felt that they didn’t need a station: their Moon ship would have fuelled up directly from the tanker rockets.

When NASA decided to go with a Lunar Orbit Rendezvous lunar landing in July 1962, the chances of seeing something like the MOS dropped from “maybe” to “none”. Space stations would be built in future, from Salyut to Skylab to Mir and the ISS, but none of them would serve the peculiar function of the MOS. Any similarity between them and the Horizon station was a function of position only, and not purpose.

As it was, the MOS and ORV made it to the mockup phase and no further; a diagram of one of these mockups can be found further up this page. Oddly enough it was put on display at the Daily Mail‘s 1960 Ideal Home Show in London, of all places. Somewhere between 150,000 and 200,000 visitors passed through it, and by all accounts it was one of the hits of the show.