Public Loneliness: Yuri Gagarin's Circumlunar Flight

By Gerald Brennan

October, 1967. Yuri Gagarin sits atop a Proton rocket, ready to launch. After several turbulent years in the public eye, he's been chosen in secrecy to captain the Soviet Union's latest space spectacular: the first manned flight around the moon.
The second story in the Altered Space series, Public Loneliness is a detailed and imaginative look at a country and a space program with a curious schizophrenia regarding publicity and secrecy. Based on extensive research, it's also a lively and literary story that references familiar classics (like Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea) and forgotten landmarks of Soviet socialist realism, while also touching on universal themes of adventure, alcoholism, heroism and shame. It's a compelling look behind the massive posters at the all-too-real man who led the human race into space.
The titles in the Altered Space series are wholly separate narratives, but all deal with the mysteries of space and time, progress and circularity. Each one is an ensō of words in which orbits of spacecraft, moons, planets, and people allow us fresh perspectives on the cycles of our own lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tortoise Books
• Release date: Jul 29, 2014
• ISBN: 9781948954464

Gerald Brennan

Gerald Brennan earned a B.S. in European History from West Point and an M.S. in Journalism from Columbia University. He's the author of Resistance, which Kirkus called “an extremely impressive debut,” and four space books including Island of Clouds. ("Speculative sci-fi at its finest." - Neal Thompson, author of Light This Candle.) His writing has appeared in the Chicago Tribune and Newcity and was on the latter's 2019 Lit 50 list of notable literary Chicagoans; he's also the founder of Tortoise Books, a Chicago-based independent press that WGN Radio's Rick Kogan recently called “…one of the best, most provocative, and rewarding publishing houses in the entire country.”

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Other titles in the series:

Zero Phase: Apollo 13 on the Moon

Island of Clouds: The Great 1972 Venus Flyby

Infinite Blues: A Cold War Fever Dream

Alone on the Moon: The Soviet Lunar Landing

PUBLIC LONELINESS

YURI GAGARIN’S CIRCUMLUNAR FLIGHT

PART OF THE ALTERED SPACE SERIES

GERALD BRENNAN

TORTOISE BOOKS

CHICAGO, IL

THIRD EDITION, JUNE, 2021

Copyright © 2021 by Gerald D. Brennan III

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Convention

Published in the United States by Tortoise Books. (www.tortoisebooks.com)

ASIN: B08MBGYSBP

ISBN-10: 0-9986325-1-1

ISBN-13: 978-0-9986325-1-3

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, scenes and situations are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Meeting of Yuri Gagarin in Vnukovo airport, 1961. Photo credit ITAR/TASS. Used with permission per license agreement.

Yuri Gagarin, 1965. Photo credit ITAR/TASS. Used with permission per license agreement.

Yuri Gagarin statue photograph Copyright © 2014 by Viacheslav Lopatin. Used with permission per standard Shutterstock license agreement.

Lyrics from Vladimir Vysotsky’s I Have Two Selves In Me Copyright © 1969 by Vladimir Vysotsky. Courtesy of Vladimir Vysotsky: The Official Site. (www.kulichki.com/vv/eng/) Translated by Alec Vagapov.

Cover Artwork Copyright © 2014 by Gerald D. Brennan III

Tortoise Books Logo Copyright ©2021 by Tortoise Books. Original artwork by Rachele O’Hare.

I wake up.

I am lying on my back in the moon ship.

I am alone in the 7K-L1, stacked atop a Proton rocket at the firing range at Tyura-Tam.

It is finally the day.

I boarded the ship two hours ago. I had to crawl on a board, an actual wooden board, from the gantry through the access point in the launch shroud. (This mission has been planned in such haste that there’s been little time to develop all the small extras, like a proper metal access ramp.) Then I had to drop through the moon ship’s top hatch legs first, holding on to an actual rope rope while the technicians watched warily. Once I got settled and strapped in, we ran through communications checks with the ultra-high frequency antennas, but while monitoring the other systems someone saw a low pressure reading in the liquid oxygen tank on the Block-D stage. They told me to wait while they topped off the tank and monitored the pressure to make sure it wasn’t a leak. And while they were doing that I had nothing to do and so I fell asleep. I was alone in the ship without even a porthole—they’re covered until the shroud is jettisoned after launch—and I fell asleep.

A radio voice in my headset. Academician Mishin: Cedar, this is Dawn-1. (The same call signs I had on East-1. The ground stations are always Dawn-1, Dawn-2, etc. And every cosmonaut has a code name. The others chose obvious ones—Falcon, Hawk, Eagle, Golden Eagle. But I am Cedar.)

Dawn-1, this is Cedar. I am feeling good. It is at least more comfortable this time; I’m in cloth coveralls, rather than the pressure suit. I am…well-rested. What is our status?

Cedar, it seems to be a faulty sensor. You are on fifteen-minute readiness.

Very good, Dawn-1.

The mission has been prepared in utmost secrecy.

Yes, I went through the normal rituals—the trip to Red Square, to Lenin’s Tomb and the Kremlin Wall—but in the predawn hours, so as not to be seen. Then back here to spend the night in the little white cottage with the metal frame bed and the bare wooden floor. The same place I slept six years and six months ago. The last night before everyone in the world knew my name. The last normal night of my life.

This time it was decided that there would be no whispers or rumors. No helpful hints to journalists that they should be prepared for a major announcement. There was an unmanned circumlunar test of the 7K-L1/Proton combo six weeks ago, but as far as the outside world is concerned, this is just another test. A ship with a mannequin stuffed with radiation sensors broadcasting taped messages. Another Ivan Ivanovich. The decision was made in a late-night meeting of the State Commission after prodding from on high; it was followed up with decrees stamped: DO NOT DISPLAY. DISSEMINATION PER LIST. And the lists have been short.

The announcement will come via television when I am coming around the moon. And of course then it will be too late for anyone to do anything about it. They will broadcast my face from the capsule and live pictures of the moon from my ship and everyone will know that I was first, that a Soviet man was first. And Yuri Levitan will read it out on the radio. And the people will cheer, again.

(Surely that’s the best way to do it. Why announce it ahead of time? At best, everything goes as planned, and where’s the excitement in that? Or perhaps there is a little bit of drama, some unexpected deviation from the plan. And while that gets people interested, it also makes the planners look foolish. But to announce that it is done, that the planners worked in secrecy and executed everything perfectly and now, right now, there is a real man, a Soviet citizen, rounding the moon…surely that’s the best way to do it.)

Cedar, give us a reading on your environmental systems. Mishin says. He is on the radio supervising everything, just as Korolev was on that famous morning. With Korolev—Sergei Pavlovich—I had a natural affinity. I was the son he wanted. He was the father I could look up to. Mishin and I have no such relationship. I am the wayward son; he’s the father who worries he isn’t getting enough respect. But it is sometimes convenient to copy the shape of past things, even when the feeling is wrong.

I scan the gauges. Cabin pressure—one atmosphere. Humidity—60. Temperature—20 degrees.

Very good. Ten-minute readiness.

There were plans to launch the Union instead, in April—to send it on its maiden voyage with Komarov at the helm. Then we would have launched another, so they could rendezvous in space in advance of the May Day celebrations. Certainly we’ve gotten used to being first—the first satellite, the first man in space, the first woman, the first man to walk in space, and so on. And this would have been the first physical docking of two manned spacecraft. A union of Unions! What’s more, we would have had a transfer between the two ships, to send two men back in a different craft than they’d launched in.

But White Tass has been full of black news. The American Gemini program has been a tremendous success. And despite recent setbacks, they’re still on track to go to the moon with Apollo. Such brashness—to say such things in public, then follow through! It’s like playing against a basketball team that diagrams their plays on a chalkboard for all to see, but is so powerful that one ends up falling behind regardless. The only tactic against such an adversary is cunning and guile. You can’t try to imitate them—that’s the surest path to defeat. Plus, there were glitches with the Union that could not be resolved in time. So Komarov’s mission was cancelled.

It was by no means certain we’d be able to do something better. Sergei Pavlovich’s death last year was a great blow. But Mishin is a competent engineer. Whatever his failings as a leader, we are here, and it is time to do this. Plus, we’re not using Korolev’s boosters this time around. Before Khrushchev’s fall, Chelomey had secured the necessary decrees to develop the Proton rocket strapped to my back, and to initiate development work on a circumlunar flight.

So we have been laying the groundwork for this for some time. And when news came of the Apollo fire—well, certainly it was sad, and humbling. There is a level I hope beyond politics or ideology where we all can mourn such things. For us at Star City—once Kilometer 41, once the Green City—it was particularly sobering. This was, after all, the first loss of life in a spacecraft—a clear reminder that death haunts this business, that someday we will lose someone during an actual spaceflight. But after the initial pang of emotion, there always comes the calculated thought. And that was: we have some breathing room. They’ve stumbled, and we can pull back ahead.

And so, the decision: to launch the circumlunar flight in October 1967, to coincide with both the 10th anniversary of our first satellite and the 50th anniversary of the October Revolution. A triumph that will call to mind past triumphs, while also surpassing them.

Five-minute readiness, Cedar.

Understood. I am feeling well.

Switches and gauges. Knobs and buttons. The little globe under glass. Everything looks fine. Underneath I feel uncertainty. We have prepared in haste. But everything looks the way it is supposed to.

One minute readiness, Cedar.

This is what I want to hear. I smile, though I don’t know if the camera can see it. I am ready.

I have been waiting for this day for two thirds of a decade. Waiting for this moment. There is no countdown for our launches. The final seconds are falling away without a sound.

Then, from Mishin: Feed one. Starting telemetry. Graph paper rolling underneath pens drawing peaks and valleys. Key in launch position. Vent. The launch commands are enabled. The moon ship is ready. Feed two. Backup telemetry.

And at last: Launch.

Beneath me pumps are opening. The rocket is waking up. Nitrogen tetroxide and heptyl igniting on contact. Toxic dragon chemicals. Brownish-yellow clouds I cannot see. And fire.

A rumble rises through my back, and the hairs on my arm go to gooseflesh, and the rocket starts its shuddering rise, and over the noise I hear the radio voice: Liftoff. And I’m being pressed down into the launch couch, but I find myself shouting: Here we go again!

The rocket pushes relentlessly. Soon my chest is tight. But I am mindful of the controllers and I want to reassure them. I am fine, I am in excellent spirits, the rocket is working perfectly. I feel like I’m repeating myself from last time. But it is just as well. Radio dialogue is boring. We speak in short sentences and convey only the necessary information. Maybe a few banalities. We can talk at length later. At any rate I’m too excited to be profound.

There is a jolt as the second stage ignites. Then the pyrotechnic bolts fire and the first stage falls away. My eyes scan the mission clock. Just over two minutes have elapsed. I’ve been worried about Chelomey’s rocket, but it is doing everything it’s supposed to do. And Glushko’s engines are working perfectly. Staging complete, I call out.

It may disappoint you to learn that nobody really flies a rocket into orbit. The gyroscopes and fuel pumps and ignition timers are calibrated to do nearly