The development of radiation safety measures for space flights required regular trips to the cosmodrome. Working with cutting-edge technology has always fascinated and satisfied me. Therefore, I enjoyed attending the preparation and launches of spacecraft carrying our equipment for studying the characteristics of cosmic radiation. Each trip brought new experiences. Unfortunately, my most vivid memory is associated with the death of cosmonaut V.M. Komarov and the subsequent events.
I didn't know Vladimir Mikhailovich, but his personality was discussed many times at the cosmodrome, and these weren't idle speculations. In the lead-up to the flight, our doctors—psychologists, neurologists, physiologists, and others—worked with Komarov. From their words, it was possible to paint a fairly objective portrait of the cosmonaut. Moreover, at the cosmodrome, I often had the opportunity to interact with members of V.M. Komarov's first crew—B.B. Yegorov and K.P. Feoktistov. The impulsive Boris Yegorov, prone to jokes and pranks, and the serious, often categorical K.P. Feoktistov, lead designer of the reentry vehicles for the Vostok and Soyuz spacecraft, always spoke highly of their commander.
Rumor had it that Vladimir Mikhailovich knew space technology better than anyone else at the Cosmonaut Training Center and was extremely demanding of everyone working with it, and that after his second flight, he might become the head of the Cosmonaut Training Center. Some saw this as a step forward, others were downright apprehensive, and still others were simply envious.
After the Voskhod spacecraft's flight with three cosmonauts on board, our press (which at the time was limited due to censorship) briefly reported that the ship's commander, V.M. Komarov, had initially been "rejected" by doctors due to heart defects. It took independent examinations from several medical institutes to clear this diagnosis. Now we can only begin to imagine the enormous effort—physical and mental—he had to make to prove his right to fly into space. This in itself exemplifies his tenacity in achieving his goal.
I'll always remember the rally on the launch pad before V.M. Komarov's flight. Vladimir Mikhailovich's backup was Yuri Gagarin, who himself dreamed of flying into space again. They both stood in a square neatly delineated by rows of soldiers. Representatives of the design bureau, the plant, fitters, and the head of the Main Directorate of Space Systems took the microphone in the center. V.M. Komarov spoke at the end. He spoke of his faith in the excellence and reliability of Soviet space technology and his readiness to fulfill the task assigned to him.
At the time, the program for this flight resembled science fiction. For the first time, two manned spacecraft were to dock in orbit. Valery Bykovsky, Alexey Eliseyev, and Evgeny Khrunov were preparing for launch aboard the second spacecraft. After the ships docked, Eliseyev and Khrunov were scheduled to perform a spacewalk and transfer to the Soyuz to join V.M. Komarov. But something went wrong with the program from the very beginning. While still in the assembly and test facility at Site 2, where the first Soyuz spacecraft and rocket were being prepared, a valve in the nitrogen tank pressurization system failed during a test run, and then another defect was discovered. Both issues were quickly corrected, however.
The usually sunny weather in these parts was gloomy and miserable. Clouds obscured the sky, and at times it rained.
But the launch itself was extraordinarily beautiful. It was at night. After seeing the cosmonaut off to the bus heading to the launch site, I, along with a group of doctors examining V.M. Komarov, rode a minibus out into the steppe. We chose a spot with a clear view of the launch pad. The rocket, illuminated by the spotlights, resembled the bell tower of an Orthodox church, adorned with garlands of lights. The same few steps and, instead of a dome, an emergency escape system with an upward-extending boom, at the top of which, like crosshairs, jutted the nozzles of the jet engines.
A chain of lights slowly separated from the rocket—the cable mast had pulled away. Another moment—and the engines ignited. Clouds of smoke appeared in the spotlight beams, and the rocket, as if reluctant to leave Earth, slowly began to rise, gradually accelerating. Finally, it broke away from the clouds of smoke, and a bright flame shooting from its nozzles illuminated the surrounding area. A moment more—and it disappeared into the clouds, a pale spot shining through them, then suddenly reappeared in a break in the clouds and vanished completely from sight. Everyone burst out:
- Hooray!!!
Vladimir komarov and Yuri Gagarin
A bottle of liquid "for wiping electrodes" appeared in the doctors' hands. A glass was immediately passed around, and each person, drinking the scalding liquid, wished the one at the tip of the needle that pierced the cloudy sky a safe journey and a soft landing.
The next morning, we learned that the solar panels had failed to deploy, and the command was given to conserve power. The second spacecraft, which was on the launch pad, also developed some malfunctions. A decision was made to scale back the program, cancel the launch of the second spacecraft, and force V.M. Komarov to land early.
On the last television picture transmitted from the ship, I saw my device, which the installer had just tied with tarpaulin tape to the handrail in the utility compartment—and then the transmission cut off. From the depths of my subconscious, memories of the conversation that had taken place behind me, while I was on the slipway installing the device, involuntarily arose. My memory automatically registered the bickering between the military representative and the installer, unknown to me. The military representative was scolding the worker for a component in the solar panel that deviated from the drawing, and the worker assured him that the deviations were insignificant and the system would work reliably. It was now difficult to say which deviation from the documentation had played a fatal role, but there were several, and likely more than one.
The loudspeaker in the room housing the systems specialists suddenly went dead. It was broadcasting the conversations between the mission controllers and the cosmonaut, along with reports on the program's progress. The announcer literally fell silent mid-sentence. Everyone suddenly seemed deaf and blind. Even cosmonaut doctor Boris Yegorov, who led the team I was part of, couldn't explain anything to us
- by Lev Nikolaevich Smirenny, a Doctor of Engineering Sciences, a Corresponding Member of the International Academy of Astronautics, and the Head of Department at the Research and Testing Center for Space Object Safety of the Russian Ministry of Health. From 1966 to 1990,
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