Thirteen days before Apollo 11 launched, in the middle of the Kazakh desert — the Soviet N-1 rocket exploded whole atop its launch pad. One of the largest non-nuclear explosions in human history. Yet the USSR hid the fact for 47 years. And in the end, they staked their real bid somewhere other than the Moon.
The day we saw in EP05 — the Saturn V launch of July 16, 1969. Thirteen days earlier, on July 3, in the middle of the Kazakh desert. A U.S. reconnaissance satellite, the KH-8 "Gambit," passing over the Soviet Baikonur launch site around midnight, captured an enormous fireball.
That was the second launch attempt of the N-1 rocket. A massive 110-meter white rocket — 23 seconds after liftoff, it fell back down and exploded together with the launch pad itself. Estimated yield: 7 kilotons. Half the Hiroshima bomb. It's classified as one of the largest non-nuclear explosions humanity has ever produced.
That explosion was effectively a death sentence for the Soviet lunar program. The next N-1 attempt would have been years away. With the American Saturn V just 13 days from launch, there was simply no way to close that gap.
Why the N-1's design was so hard comes down to a single number. Thirty first-stage engines. The American Saturn V had five. Six times as many engines had to fire in perfect unison.
Why did they do it this way? Because Korolev didn't have time to build one big engine. America spent seven years building a single F-1 engine (4 m in diameter, 770 tons of thrust). Mishin, the successor to Korolev (who had already died in 1966 — EP04), didn't have that time. So instead he went with a "cluster" design — bundling thirty small NK-15 engines (154 tons of thrust each) to produce the same output.
But making 30 engines fire in perfect unison is one of the hardest engineering problems in human history. If one engine runs 0.3% stronger, one side of the rocket lifts. If one engine ignites a second late, the thrust goes off balance. An automatic control system (KORD) had to handle all of this — and 1960s computers simply couldn't deliver that precision.
After the second N-1 explosion (1969.07.03), the United States knew about it almost immediately. A KH-8 reconnaissance satellite photographed the explosion debris six hours after launch. The CIA's conclusion from its analysis: "The Soviet lunar program is, for all intents and purposes, over."
Yet the United States did not make this information public. The reasons:
On the Soviet side too — they did not officially admit the N-1 explosions until 1989. They were first disclosed during the glasnost era as KGB documents were released. It wasn't until 2016 that the KH-8 photographs themselves were declassified. A total of 47 years of silence.
Between N-1 attempts — June 1971. The USSR had launched the first space station, Salyut 1, the previous year, and now wanted to send humans there. Soyuz 11. Commander Georgy Dobrovolsky, flight engineer Vladislav Volkov, and test engineer Viktor Patsayev — three men.
They spent 23 days aboard Salyut 1 (the longest human stay in space at the time). On June 29 they undocked. Early on June 30, reentry began. Everything was normal — by the telemetry Houston was tracking.
But after the capsule landed safely on the Kazakh steppe — when the recovery team opened the hatch — all three men were dead, still strapped into their seats. The autopsy finding: just before reentry (at an altitude of 168 km), a ventilation valve on the capsule was jolted open by vibration, and the air inside vented into space in 35 seconds. Their lungs ruptured instantly.
Knowing this — the decision the Soviet government made created a pattern that recurs throughout this series. Wrapping death in heroism. The three men were interred in the Kremlin Wall. And the West — it took a good while before it learned the truth of the accident.
After the N-1 explosions and the Soyuz 11 tragedy — the USSR changed its strategy. It conceded that it had lost the race to the Moon, and resolved to get ahead of America in a different field. That field was long-duration crewed space stations.
Six years after Apollo 11. The Vietnam War was drawing to a close. U.S.–Soviet détente. The two superpowers agreed to mount a joint space mission. Its name: the Apollo–Soyuz Test Project (ASTP).
On July 15, 1975, an American Apollo capsule (crew of 3) and the Soviet Soyuz 19 (crew of 2) each launched. On July 17 — they docked in Earth orbit. The docking adapter opened, and American astronaut Thomas Stafford and Soviet cosmonaut Alexei Leonov (the very man who exposed Gagarin's accident in EP04) shook hands in the middle of space.
"Hello, friend!" — Leonov (in Russian)
"Zdravstvuy, drug!" — Stafford (in halting Russian)
Looking only at the Moon race — America won overwhelmingly. Between 1969 and 1972, twelve people walked on the Moon. The USSR: zero.
But if you shift the lens to "humanity's ability to live in space" — the USSR was dominant for 30 years:
So — the Moon was a brilliant chapter that passed, and the everyday life of the real space age began on the station. And that everyday life — the USSR built it.
In the next installment (EP07) — January 28, 1986, the 73-second tragedy watched live in school classrooms. The Challenger explosion, and Columbia 17 years later. Both accidents were known to the engineers in advance — a second tragedy of NASA's management culture.