After a long flight from the Isle of Wight, Black Arrow R-0, stood out on the launch gantry in preparation for the launch. Connected to the launch gantry by three quick release cables, steam protruded from various orifices of her first and second stages, as final tests of the release valves were taking place, prior to lift-off.
The exhausted British rocket team had worked hard to get this far. After watching the rocket’s departure from Bembridge, they had taken a short flight themselves across to Ferryfield in Kent, and then after a long coach ride to Heathrow, had boarded a Quantas Boeing 707, which after short stops in Bahrain and Singapore, where they had all enjoyed their Singapore Slings on the balcony of the Raffles Hotel, had arrived at Adelaide a few days ago.
Now the weary men stood in the control bunker, watching the scene play out through the viewing window. Ron Hallett was happy with the proceedings. ‘She seems to be doing all the right things at the moment,’ he remarked, to his appointed deputy, Brian Mitchell.
Mitchell looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Okay, let’s sound the siren.’
Paul Baxter acknowledged, and pushed a green button on the desk. In seconds, the area filled with the shrill of the alert siren, to indicate an impending launch. Around the site, red flags had also been hoisted on their poles.
In the control bunker, tension mounted, as the sea of white shirted personnel, stood in anticipation for a good launch. Hallett in rolled-up shirt sleeves, and wearing a headset, braced himself. This was it, the final journey of what had seemed to him a lifetime’s work. He stared at the white and silver object, a few thousand yards ahead of him. Then, after checking with each member of the monitoring team, gave the order to commence the countdown.
Behind him, Baxter spoke loudly, counting down to the launch, and all eyes were now on the spectacle, situated a few miles outside their 4ft thick concrete safe haven. ‘Ten — Nine — Eight — Seven — Six — Five — Four — Three — Two — One…’
Hallett pushed the firing button himself. There was a few seconds delay, and in that time, he had wondered if there had been a misfire. Then, a tremendous rumble hit the bunker. Out at the gantry, steam had engulfed the rocket. Black Arrow R-0 started to lift; the staff watched in awe and eager anticipation, as fire ejected from the base of the vehicle, as it moved away from its securing ropes.
Then, without warning, having only raised as high as the top of the gantry, the rocket began to vibrate. Hallett watched attentively, hoping that this mishap was only temporary. He clenched his fists, anxious there would not be any further problems, not after coming this far, and more so, all the events that had occurred around it. Then as the British rocket climbed higher, the vibrations increased, causing it to pivot from side to side on its trajectory axis. This motion continued, as it protruded into the sky. It had encountered combustion instability, and it was getting worse. It was now at ten thousand feet, and a crucial decision had to be made.
Hallett watched as the rocket began to turn over and head back down towards the ground. He knew instantly, he did not have an option, and accepting defeat, shouted to Mitchell, acting as Range Safety Officer. ‘Abort test, abort test, Brian, please hit the bloody button.’
Brian Mitchell, reached in front of him, opened a flap on the console, and pressed a red button. In the sky, there was a huge explosive plume and ten seconds later, the bunker was hit by the blast wave, as sections of the remotely detonated Black Arrow rained down, smashing into the sea.
The project had come this far and had failed. To alleviate the disappointment among the faces of the team, Mitchell quipped humorously across the room. ‘Thank you, gents, I’ve always wanted to blow a missile up.’
Later, in the station bar, the barman had asked the team about their rocket. Then, as if this query had been set up, an Australian technician had teased them, “Aw, what happened, did our Aussie winds blow ya match out, lads?’
Paul Baxter had decided it would be a very good time, to start an inter-service bar brawl.
The next morning, Gable handed Swan the newspaper. ‘Bad news, Alex, the Black Arrow launch, failed.’
Swan gripped the paper and read the report. ‘Oh, this is bad news indeed. How must Ron Hallett and his team, be feeling right now?’
Gable sighed. ‘Pretty damn miserable I reckon. All that hard work, Kevin Powell’s murder. All for nothing.’
Swan nodded. ‘Says here, the Ministry want to give it another try though, and have ordered another launch for next year.’
‘That’s something, I suppose,’ sighed Gable.
Later, he sat with a cup of tea, as his colleague recounted his experience of the Black Arrow, during his time at Highdown. Swan had explained about the engine tests, and despite the sinister incidents, the contagious euphoria of the team, to see the project through. ‘I have never seen a team work better together, than the men at Highdown,’ he concluded.
A few days later, in the late evening at the Baikonur Cosmodrome, all was ready. The N1 stood poised on her platform, pointing towards the night sky. It was to be the first unmanned mission, to see how the colossal rocket would perform, and if successful, the Soviets would go all out for a Moon landing, before the year was out.
Within the control bunker, were gathered the hierarchy of both the NKB space programme, including the new engine designer Kuznetzkov himself, and officials of the premiership. Muller stood with them, cursing silently. With all the urgency to beat the Americans, the personnel to get the replacement N1 prepared, had been tripled. This had made any opportunity to fix a deliberate failure, a near impossible task. He stood next to his commanding officer, who whispered to him. ‘All we need now, Comrade, is a good prayer. The flight engineer looked across the room for Muller to acknowledge commencement of the countdown, and he nodded his approval. All eyes were now on the floodlit silver tower, a thousand yards in front of them. In Russian, the engineer began with the countdown. Then on ‘odin’, he pushed in the green button with his thumb, and an almighty roar, filled the complex as the thirty engines lashed out their fiery tongues, and the N1, slowly began to lift off the platform.
In the bunker, everyone held their breath. Then, they blinked and shuddered, as a great ball of orange light appeared before them. The N1 had barely cleared its support gantry, when a bolt had been sucked into a fuel pump, causing the most powerful explosion in the history of space flight; Fragmented hot steel descended into gas and flames, and on impact, scattered debris over a field of ten kilometres.
Everyone looked at each other in a bewildered state. On the spot questions from the premiership officials were asked in frustration. The disaster would never be revealed, of course. This state secret would have to be kept from the West for the long, foreseeable future. Surely, this would now clearly pave the way for Von Braun’s team to be the first to the Moon.