McDonnell's Military Test Space Station

MTSS Figure 1: MTSS report by McDonnell Aircraft “Configuration selection”.[1] McDonnell’s Military Test Space Station (MTSS) by Hans Dolfing Monday, March 9, 2026 Between 1959 and 1962, the United States Air Force studied a space station named the Military Test Space Station (MTSS). This was part of the System Requirement (SR) study SR 17527, Task Nr 7969, and discussed in depth in an earlier article.[1] Five contractors were selected in April 1960 to study the MTSS and contracts were awarded in August of the same year. The contractors were McDonnell Aircraft Corporation (MAC), General Electric (GE), Lockheed, Martin, and General Dynamics/Astronautics (GD/A). Three categories of early capability space station configurations are discussed, specifically the one-man, two-man, and five-man stations. All deployable by 1965. Each contractor study consisted of two consecutive phases of about six months each. The “early capability” phase I was concluded by April 1961 and considered space stations which could be deployed by 1965. Phase II studied the “advanced permanent” or “post 1965” stations and was completed by January 1962.[1,3-7,20] While most contractor reports of the SR studies remain classified, one MTSS technical report by McDonnell Aircraft was recently declassified and sheds new light on the McDonnell designs and MTSS concepts.[2] The newly released report shown in Figure 1 has 132 pages and is dated February 1, 1961, with a revision in February 15,1961. Henceforth, this is simply referred to as “the report.” Although the title is slightly different, one of the earlier references and the new report are most likely identical.[1,2,5.i] The new report explains that the full phase I McDonnell MTSS report consisted of three reports and this newly released report is part one. Part two and three are not released yet but were titled “Preliminary design of early space stations” and “Technical design considerations,” which matches well with the known references.[5] As the first NASA human spaceflight program, project Mercury started in October 1958 despite US Air Force objections. McDonnell Aircraft produced the Mercury capsules. On May 5, 1961, Alan Shepard flew into space on a suborbital flight with the “Freedom 7” Mercury capsule. The first Mercury orbital flight was by John Glenn on February 20, 1962 with “Friendship 7”. In total, six astronauts flew on Mercury and the project continued until 1963.[22-25] After the establishment of NASA in 1958, the USAF continued its own military space studies but was effectively banned from competing with NASA. However, the USAF pursued military space projects such as the MTSS and the Boeing X-20 Dyna-Soar. The Dyna-Soar was a military spaceplane sufficiently different from Mercury and studied between 1957 and 1963.[14-17] The report contains five sections plus an appendix, which lists the MTSS experiments. These experiments were discussed at length in the earlier MTSS article.[1,19] As the title of the new report indicates in Figure 1, this report is about space station configurations for the MTSS. Three categories of early capability space station configurations are discussed, specifically the one-man, two-man, and five-man stations. All deployable by 1965. The report discusses boosters, launch, and supply schedules, and concludes with a summary and a recommended program plan for development.[2] The periods of before and after 1965 are also relevant with respect to available boosters to launch manned stations into space. The Atlas-Agena B and the Centaur were the only boost vehicles projected to be available before 1965 while the more capable Saturn C-1 was scheduled for 1965 and later. While the Atlas-Agena B could barely lift the one-man MTSS, it was seen as important to get the USAF space development started and test rendezvous and docking in space before more advanced stations were developed. The McDonnell one-man MTSS was proposed as a combination of re-entry and cylindrical laboratory module with enough supplies to support one astronaut in a “shirt sleeve” environment for 14 days in zero gravity. Figure 2 illustrates the station, which was 6 feet (1.8 meters) wide and carried all experiments and equipment. It was to be launched in a manned configuration only. MTSS Figure 2: Cross-section McDonnell one-man MTSS. [2] MTSS Figure 3: Astronaut transfer, rendezvous and docking with the one-man MTSS. [2] Electrical power was provided via fuel cells. Transfer between Mercury capsule and laboratory was via an external, inflatable, pressurized tunnel as shown in Figure 3. The illustrations with Mercury, laboratory, and an inflatable tunnel to connect the modules are identical in the military MTSS and civilian “One Man Space Station” concept. Figure 2 and 3 visualize the one-man MTSS. Note that this configuration was also shown in Figure 5 in the earlier MTSS article when only a blurred image of unknown origin was available.[1] The new report confirms that this was a McDonnell, pre-1965, one-man space station plus science laboratory.[2] The MTSS science laboratory could be docked back-to-back to make a two-man station connected via a pressurized gateway. The back-to-back MTSS docking was designed to test and optimize rendezvous and docking maneuvers, which were untested in 1960. In Figure 3, the device connecting the capsule with science laboratory is a fairing plus inflatable tunnel. The tunnel was planned to be pressurized such that astronauts could move between capsule and science lab, and the shirtsleeve environment was maintained in both sections. The concept of inflatable components and space station was discussed extensively at the time as the compacted components would have been easier to launch.[8-11] On August 24, 1960, McDonnell Aircraft proposed to the Space Task Group (STG) at NASA’s Langley Research Center a concept for a one-man, civilian space station. Note that the new MTSS report was published in February 1961 but submitted initially in August 1960.[2] MTSS Figure 4: McDonnell civilian one-man space station based on Mercury. [11] The illustrations with Mercury, laboratory, and an inflatable tunnel to connect the modules are identical in the military MTSS and civilian “One Man Space Station” concept. For example, Figure 4 is an illustration from the civilian, one-man space station proposal with an inflatable tunnel to connect the Mercury capsule with the laboratory module in the back. The tunnel is identical to the MTSS proposal in Figure 3.[2,10,11] Therefore, the new report answers a question previously asked by historical researchers and confirms that the civilian proposal by McDonnell had a very large overlap with a hidden-at-the-time USAF military concept, the MTSS. Secondly, McDonnell discussed a larger MTSS configuration in the report for a two-man space station. NASA’s Space Task Group started work on the Mercury spacecraft in 1958. In 1959, proposals were made to expand the capsule to include an additional astronaut. The available boosters were incapable of lifting the expanded capsule and it was not pursued at the time. However, two years later, NASA asked Mercury contractor McDonnell to consider designing a two-man Mercury spacecraft, which by the middle of 1961 had acquired the name “Mercury Mark II” instead of “Advanced Mercury”. Going into the new year 1962 this became Gemini. It is not known in detail everything that McDonnell studied between the MTSS in 1960 and the “Advanced Mercury,” but it is likely that some of the two-man MTSS work overlapped with various Mercury design iterations.[14-16] For example, the access tunnel from the Gemini capsule to the laboratory was a hatch through the heat shield into the laboratory instead of an external construct. [21] This is very similar to the back-to-back laboratory-to-laboratory access for the two-module MTSS in Figure 3. Instead of a modified Mercury capsule on an Atlas-Agena B booster, McDonnell envisioned the two-man MTSS as a half-cone re-entry system shaped not unlike an arrowhead. Figures 5 and 6 show this in context. Just like the one-man station, two could be combined to make a four-man station. Unlike the one-man station with its six-foot width, the two-man MTSS was a bit wider at ten feet (three meters). There is no further information on the half-cone re-entry vehicle, but it should be noted though that this two-man configuration was also the left part of Figure 3 in the earlier MTSS article.[1] MTSS Figure 5: Cross section two-man McDonnell MTSS concept. [2] MTSS Figure 6: Astronaut transfer, rendezvous and docking with the two-man MTSS. [2] It could be argued that the design in Figure 5—the cross section of a two-man station composed of re-entry capsule plus laboratory module—is visually very similar to the Mercury Mark II plus laboratory module.[15] The only difference was whether the re-entry module was a ballistic capsule or a maneuvering half-cone. In practical terms, to have enough payload for experiments and supplies, this two-man configuration required the more powerful Atlas-Centaur booster. An intriguing variation on this two-man MTSS was where the two-man station was launched into space unmanned, followed immediately by crew and supply on a second flight. The second flight was projected to be a cargo vehicle which consisted of a half-cone re-entry vehicle and a cargo module. That would allow a station as shown in Figure 7, a ten-foot-wide cylindrical station where power would be generated via the solar dynamic power “Sunflower” system instead of fuel cells.[1,12] MTSS Figure 7: Two-man MTSS concept with unfolded “Sunflower” power system. [1,2] The maneuverable, half-cone re-entry vehicle seemed to reflect very much the thinking of the USAF at the time. In the contemporary study SR-79814 “Evaluation of Space Logistics and Rescue (SLOMAR)”, conducted between July 1960 and June 1961, McDonnell was not a contractor. However, all the five SLOMAR contractors came up with re-entry vehicles like the McDonnell half-cone and winged vehicles with some cross range.[13] Finally, the winged re-entry thinking seemed to have influenced McDonnell’s five-man MTSS concept as well.[2] Dyna-Soar re-entry configurations were discussed with many companies in early 1960.[17,18] McDonnell attended but only with a Mercury design for re-entry. Figures 8 and 9 show the five-man re-entry configuration in this new MTSS report, which is remarkably similar to the Bell and Boeing Dyna-Soar X-20 proposals from January 1960.[17] MTSS Figure 8: Cross section five-man McDonnell MTSS concept. [2] MTSS Figure 9: Five-man crew transport in docking with MTSS. [2] More research is needed to find out why a winged re-entry vehicle was chosen in this McDonnell MTSS concept instead of an enlarged ballistic Mercury capsule. It could be as simple as “all other USAF studies preferred them” or “re-entry cross range trumps simplicity.” The report notes that only the five-man MTSS could achieve close to 100% of the planned MTSS experiments. Figure 8 shows the McDonnell proposed five-man crew transport and re-entry system. The crew layout was 1-2-2 for one pilot plus four passengers.[2] The tapering docking adaptor was to connect to the MTSS. As Figure 9 demonstrates, the docking of this crew transporter would be to the back of an earlier launched cargo vehicle plus laboratory module. The cargo vehicle was envisioned as a modified Mercury capsule to minimize development costs. Figure 10 goes into detail what would happen after the initial connection between a crew and cargo module. In the top row, it shows the crew vehicle to be moved to a side berthing port, then a Sunflower erected to supply energy, followed by the arrival of a new cargo vehicle, which is then moved to a secondary side berthing. Quite a busy station for one year of experiments.[2] MTSS Figure 10: Five-man crew and cargo orbital movements during supply cycle. [2] Two types of vehicles, cargo and crew, might be perceived as a liability with its extra costs, but the McDonnell designers actually preferred it for redundancy reasons. The report notes that only the five-man MTSS could achieve close to 100% of the planned MTSS experiments. The smaller, one-man station could probably only do about 25% of the experiments during a 14-day mission. After all, you do need a crew to operate experiments and a larger space station to store more voluminous experiments. The relation between crew size, supply schedules, and amount of experiments is discussed at length in the report.[2] Figure 11 summarizes the MTSS configurations in the report. It also clarifies the boosters to launch them. The recommended development schedule was to start with the one-man station for 14 days, launching on an Atlas Agena B in September 1963, using it as testbed for experiments plus rendezvous and docking. The five-man station would follow later based on at least two Saturn C-1 launches in September 1965 and would allow all MTSS experiments. MTSS Figure 11: Summary of McDonnell MTSS configurations 1961. [2] The report provides insight into some of the USAF research being performed in support of the fledgling military man-in-space program. Contemporary with the Mercury program, the US Air Force continued to be interested in flying astronauts in space The report confirms that the SR-17527 MTSS study by McDonnell was a combination of short- and long-term planning with a pretty ambitious scope. The large overlap between civilian and military space station concepts in the early 1960s was clarified and contributed new insights in configurations and phasing. The military interest continued even after the cancellation of the Dyna-Soar program in late 1963, but more investigations in military space stations eventually led to the Manned Orbiting Laboratory (MOL) program.[14] References Dolfing, H., “The Military Test Space Station (MTSS)”, August 2024. “MTSS Study Part I Configuration Selection”, McDonnell Aircraft, Report No. 7962, WADD-TR-60-881 (I), NASA NTRS 20150016131, 1 February 1961, revised 15 February 1961, 132 pages. General Dynamics/Astronautics (GD/A), San Diego, Calif., Contr. AF 33(600)-42457, Rept. no. AE 61-0570, ASD TR 61-208, Dated: 15 Jul 1961 SR-17527, “MILITARY TEST SPACE STATION. VOLUME I. SUMMARY (U)”, AD 328 351L, AE61-0570-Vol-1, vol. 1, 75 pages. SR-17527, “MILITARY TEST SPACE STATION. VOLUME II, PART I, PRE-1965 SPACE STATION (u)”, AD 328 352L, AE61-0570-Vol-2-Pt-1, vol. 2, part 1, 166 pages. SR-17527, “MILITARY TEST SPACE STATION. VOLUME II, PART I, PRE-1965 SPACE STATION (U)”, AD 328 353L, AE61-0570-Vol-2-Pt-2, vol. 2, part 2. SR-17527, “MILITARY TEST SPACE STATION. VOLUME III. ADVANCED SPACE STATIONS (U)”, AD 328 354L, AE61-0570-Vol-3, vol. 3, illus. tbl. refs. Lockheed Aircraft Corp., Sunnyvale, Calif. by S. B. Kramer, Contr. AF 33(600)-41944, ASD TR 61-21, Dated: 1 Jul 1961 SR-17527, “PRE-1965 “, Rept. no. LMSD-895028, Dated: 1 Feb 1961 SR-17527, “POST-1965 VEHICLE MILITARY TEST SPACE STATION (U)”, 1 July 1961, AD 328 338L, Rept. no. LMSD-895091, vol. 1, illus., tbl., 37 refs. McDonnell Aircraft Corp. (MAC), St. Louis, AF 33(600)-41945, ASD TR 61-212, SR-17527, “Military Test Space Station Study”, MAC Report No. 7962, 15 February 1961. SR-17527, “MTSS Final Report”, Volume I, MAC Report No. 8277, 15 July 1961. SR-17527, “MTSS FINAL REPORT. VOL. II. Preliminary design of early space stations, report 8277-V2, AD0328342, 381 pages, July 1961, SR-17527, “MTSS FINAL REPORT. VOL. III. TECHNICAL DESIGN CONSIDERATIONS.”, ADC 960474, MDC-7962-PT-3, 692 pages, February 1961. Martin Co., Denver, Colo., by R. Hale, Contr. AF 33(600)-42456, Rept. no. M-0361-61-87, ASD TR 61-211, ASD CR 61-14, Dated: Jul 1961. SR-17527, “MTSS PHASE II (GAMMA) VEHICLE DESIGN. VOLUME I, (u)”, AD 328 358L, vol. 1, illus., tbl. SR-17527, “MTSS TEST MISSIONS. VOLUME II, (u)”, AD 328 359L, vol. 2, 178 pp., illus., tbl. SR-17527, “GENERAL HUMAN FACTORS CONSIDERATIONS. VOLUME III”, AD 273 005L, AD0273005, WAL-TR320 4 4 1, vol. 3, January 1st, 1962. General Electric Co, Philadelphia, PA, Missile and Space Div., AF 33(600)-41943, 65-16 FLD.22A “MILITARY TEST SPACE STATION FINAL REPORT. VOLUME II TECHNICAL DESIGN AND IMPLEMENTATION PLAN (BOOK 2)”, Vol 2. BK2., AD-362 668L, AD0362668, DIN-2351-16-5-Vol. 2-Bk 2 “MILITARY TEST SPACE STATION FINAL REPORT. VOLUME III APPENDICES”, Vol 3., AD-362 669L, AD0362669, DIN-2351-16-5-Vol. 3. Carter, J.W., Bogema, B.L., “Inflatable Manned Orbital Vehicles”, in “Proceedings of the Manned Space Stations Symposium”, pp. 188-196, April 20-22, 1960. Berglund, R., “Self erecting manned space laboratory” in “Proceedings of the National Meeting on Manned Space Flight”, NASA NTRS 19620004479, 19620004468, pp 144-149, St. Louis, Apr. 20 - May 2, 1962. Portree, D., “One-Man Space Station (1960)”, Wired, 28 Sep 2014. “One-Man Space Station”, NASA NTRS 19650081309, McDonnell Aircraft, 24 August 1960. “Sunflower power conversion system” quarterly report, mar. - may 1963 (Sunflower 3 kW mercury Rankine power conversion system), NASA NTRS 19650010819. https://ntrs.nasa.gov/ search?q=sunflower RG 255.4.1, NACA Ames Aeronautical Laboratory and NASA Ames Research Center, Series 24, Box 3, Central Files - research correspondence, 1943-1965, “Presentation on MTSS SR 17527 by Col. Lowell B. Smith”, “Presentation on SLOMAR SR-79814 by Maj. Jack W. Hunter”, 10 Dec 1963, 19 pages, National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), Pacific Region (San Francisco), San Bruno, California. “The DORIAN files revealed : A compendium of the NRO’s Manned Orbiting Laboratory documents”, edited by James D. Outzen, Ph.D., incl. Carl Berger’s - “A History of the Manned Orbiting Laboratory Program Office” Aug. 2015 “From Mercury Mark II to Project Gemini” Day, D., “A darker shade of blue: The unknown Air Force manned space program”, September 12, 2022. Milton, J. F., “Review of Dyna-Soar reentry-vehicle-configuration studies”, Boeing Co. Seattle, WA, NASA NTRS 19720063133, January 1, 1960. “Joint Conference on Lifting Manned Hypervelocity and Reentry Vehicles.”, “Part 2: A compilation of the Papers Presented”, NASA Langley Research Center, N72-71002, April 1960. “MTSS experiments”, RG 255, NACA Langley Memorial Aeronautical Laboratory and NASA Langley Research Center Records, A200-4 Manned Space Stations, Series II: Subject Correspondence Files, 1918-1978, Box 421, 422, Sep. 1963 - Nov. 1964, National Archives and Records Administration (NARA), Philadelphia. Col. Lowell B. Smith, USAF, Space System Office, WADD, ARDC, “The Military Test Space Station”, page 18-19, Aero/Space Engineering (Manned Space Station Issue), May 1960. “Modular space station evolving from Gemini, Volume I Technical Proposal”, McDonnell Aircraft (MAC) Report No. 9272, NASA NTRS 19660090229, 238 pages, 15 December 1962. Grimwood, J.M., “Project Mercury - A Chronology”, NASA SP-4001, N63-21848, NASA NTRS 19630011968, 255 pages, 1963. Grimwood, J.M., Hacker, B., Vorzimmer, P., “Project Gemini Technology and Operations, A Chronology”, NASA SP-4002, N69-36501, 326 pages. Swenson, L.S., et al, “This New Ocean. A History of Project Mercury”, NASA NTRS 19670005605, NASA SP-4201, N67-14934, 698 pages, 1966. “Project Mercury” Hans Dolfing is an independent computer scientist with a passion for spaceflight, software, and history and can be contacted at beta_albireo@protonmail.com.

Reforging Vulcan

Vulcan A ULA Vulcan Centaur lifts off February 12 on the USSF-87 mission. The launch was a success but one of the rocket’s four solid boosters suffered a “significant performance anomaly” in flight. (credit: United Launch Alliance) Reforging Vulcan by Jeff Foust Monday, March 9, 2026 The Ariane 6 and Vulcan Centaur have remarkably intertwined launch records. On August 12, an Ariane 6 lifted off from French Guiana less than 20 minutes before a Vulcan lifted off from Cape Canaveral. The launches were the third for each vehicle, each of which had suffered years of development delays before making their first launches in 2024. “We’ve had a couple of anomalies that we've worked through,” Elbon said before the launch. “Those are behind us now, and so the Vulcan rocket is ready to go.” Exactly six months later, on February 12, their trajectories crossed again. This time the Vulcan launched from the Cape about seven and a half hours before the Ariane 6 lifted off from French Guiana. This was the fourth Vulcan launch and the first since August, but the sixth for the Ariane 6, which also launched missions in November and December. In a call with reporters in January, Arianespace CEO David Cavaillolès said the company expected to perform seven to eight Ariane 6 launches in 2026, roughly double the four completed in 2025, working towards a peak launch rate of nine to ten missions a year by 2027. “This is incredibly ambitious, and it will be incredibly difficult,” he said. “What we achieved last year gives us quite a lot of confidence.” United Launch Alliance executives were similarly confident in a briefing two days before the Vulcan launch. They said they expected to perform 18 to 22 launches in 2026: two to four of the Atlas 5 and 16 to 18 of Vulcan. However, the company made similar projections for 2025, announcing in 2024 it expected to perform 20 launches in 2025. That was scaled back to a dozen launches by March and nine by August. It ended the year with just six launches, five of the Atlas 5 and that sole Vulcan launch in August. This year, though, would be different. “We’ve had a couple of anomalies that we've worked through,” John Elbon, acting CEO of ULA, said at the briefing. “Those are behind us now, and so the Vulcan rocket is ready to go.” That was a reference primarily to the second Vulcan launch in October 2024, known as Cert-2. About half a minute after liftoff, the nozzle of one of the solid rocket boosters came off, reducing thrust from that booster. An investigation found that a manufacturing defect in one of the internal parts of the nozzle caused it to come off. ULA, working with booster manufacturer Northrop Grumman, made “appropriate corrective actions” to the booster, successfully demonstrated during a static-fire test last February at a Northrop site in Utah. Elbon added the other issue involved design changes to the rocket’s payload fairing. “Those have been completed and actually incorporated in missions that flew near the end of last year,” he said. “What we need to do is execute our launch activities at the Cape and at Vandenberg,” he concluded. “It's very achievable for us to get up to the rate that we need to get up to through this year.” Two days later, it became clear that ULA would not be able to get up to that launch rate executives projected in the briefing. The Vulcan lifted off normally but about 65 seconds after liftoff, shortly after passing through max-Q or maximum dynamic pressure, there was a sudden shower of sparks—debris of some kind, presumably—that appeared to come from one of the solid rocket boosters. The booster intermittently emitted fainter flecks of material until it burned out as scheduled nearly 40 seconds later. The incident did not appear to affect the rocket’s flight. “So far in the ascent phase of this mission, everything has been nominal,” one of the commentators on ULA’s launch webcast said a couple minutes later. “We will conduct a thorough investigation, identify root cause, and implement any corrective action necessary before the next Vulcan mission,” Wentz said. “We had an observation early during flight on one of the four solid rocket motors, the team is currently reviewing the data,” the company said in a social media post about an hour after liftoff. ULA also initially termed the loss of the nozzle on the Cert-2 launch as an “observation.” Several hours later, after the Centaur upper stage successfully deployed its Space Force payload into geostationary orbit, the company acknowledged the seriousness of that observation. “Early during flight, the team observed a significant performance anomaly on one of the four solid rocket motors,” Gary Wentz, vice president of Atlas and Vulcan program at ULA, said in a statement. “We will conduct a thorough investigation, identify root cause, and implement any corrective action necessary before the next Vulcan mission.” The company has not provided any updates since the launch into that investigation, including any commonality with the incident on Cert-2. The Space Force said separately in late February it would not launch national security payloads on Vulcan until the investigation was complete and the cause of the anomaly corrected. Neither ULA nor the Space Force have offered an estimate for how long the investigation will take. Ten months elapsed between Cert-2 and the next Vulcan launch, that August 2025 mission. Vulcan A shower of debris is seen in the plme of the Vulcan shortly after passing max-Q on its February 12 launch, linked to an issue with one of the four solid boosters. (credit: ULA webcast) Leadership changes The latest issue with Vulcan comes amid the first change in leadership at United Launch Alliance in more than a decade. On December 22, ULA announced that its president and CEO, Tory Bruno, had resigned from the company for another, unnamed opportunity. The announcement took the industry by surprise, and perhaps even ULA itself: earlier that day the company had published the latest episode of its podcast “The Burn Sequence” hosted by Bruno; the episode gave no indication that Bruno planned to leave the company he had led since 2014. Four days later, Blue Origin announced it hired Bruno as its new president of national security, leading a new National Security Group at the company. “We share a deep belief in supporting our nation with the best technology we can build,” Dave Limp, CEO of Blue Origin, said about hiring Bruno. “Tory brings unmatched experience, and I’m confident he’ll accelerate our ability to deliver on that mission.” Bruno said at the time of the announcement that he felt he had accomplished all his goals at ULA and was looking for new opportunities. “I came to ULA to save it from closing back in 2017, field Vulcan, and put it on a solid path. Did that. My duty was complete,” he wrote in one social media post. “There is a new set of national security capabilities that need to be created ASAP. Blue is the best place for me to serve that mission.” Since joining Blue Origin, Bruno has kept a relatively low profile, but did participate in a webinar last month by the National Space Society that discussed his time at ULA and his decision to move to Blue Origin. He recalled he was “very happy” in a prior job at Lockheed Martin managing its missile work when he was asked to take over ULA. “I’ll be honest, I was a little reluctant at first,” he said of the ULA opportunity. “ULA has Vulcan in service,” Bruno said. “That meant I could go back and do these other things I’ve been worrying about almost the entire time I was there: the missile defense problem and dynamic space operations.” He said he took a “good hard look” at ULA and concluded the company, a Boeing-Lockheed joint venture, was in jeopardy. “They were not prepared for the environment that had just changed around them,” such as the rise of SpaceX and prohibitions on purchases of RD-180 rocket engines from Russia used by the Atlas 5. “I decided that I could help, and there probably weren’t a lot of people who could or would be willing to take that on, so I felt obligated to do it,” he concluded. ULA’s staff, he said, were in “a state of denial” when he joined about the state of the company. With the loss of access to the RD-180 and another vehicle, the Delta 4, “not in any way competitive,” he said the company was in danger of closing. “What that meant was that ULA would close at the end of 2017,” he said. He described efforts to simplify the company’s product structure as well as its corporate structure, the latter involving laying off half its executives and, later, 30% of the company’s overall workforce. He also pushed the company to develop a new launch vehicle, which would become Vulcan and finally make its debut in 2024. That, he said, gave him the freedom to think about a future beyond the company. “ULA has Vulcan in service,” he said. “There’s a great and robust technology improvement roadmap in front of them.” “That meant I could go back and do these other things I’ve been worrying about almost the entire time I was there: the missile defense problem and dynamic space operations,” he said. Joining Blue Origin, he said, allows him to tackle those “urgent” issues, such as through the company’s Blue Ring spacecraft under development. “For a long time, I’ve been very concerned about that particular mission and wanted to do something about it,” he said. “This is one of the reasons why I came to Blue Origin once I felt I was free to take a different path.” With Bruno’s sudden departure, ULA turned to Elbon, its chief operating officer for the last eight years, to take over as acting CEO. But ULA had announced earlier in December that Elbon was retiring, and had named Mark Peller, who had been senior vice president for Vulcan and advanced programs, as the new COO. “I was actually planning on retiring in April. Mark and I had worked a transition, and we were on track,” Elbon said at the briefing. The ULA board, he said, asked him to stay on as acting CEO while they look for a permanent successor. “I agreed that I would do that as they go through the selection process for a new CEO and some period of transition, and then I plan to continue on with retiring,” he said. The company hasn’t given any indication of how long that selection process will take. A top priority for that next CEO will be improving the relationship with the Space Force, which had become strained even before this latest anomaly. In written testimony for a hearing by the House Armed Services Committee last May, Maj. Gen. Stephen Purdy, at the time the acting assistant secretary of the air force for space acquisition, said ULA had performed “unsatisfactorily” in the last year. “Major issues with the Vulcan have overshadowed its successful certification resulting in delays to the launch of four national security missions,” he wrote. “Despite the retirement of highly successful Atlas and Delta launch vehicles, the transition to Vulcan has been slow and continues to impact the completion of Space Force mission objectives.” He added that ULA had “lost launch opportunities” because of those issues. In three cases, the Space Force has moved launches of GPS satellites originally assigned to Vulcan to SpaceX’s Falcon 9 to avoid further delays. In those cases, the Space Force swapped later launches assigned to SpaceX to ULA to allow the GPS satellites to fly earlier on Falcon 9. Asked about ULA’s relationship with the Space Force, Elbon, who noted that as COO was focused “down and in” at the company, said he was not familiar with the specific criticism by Purdy of ULA. “I'll just say our relationship with the Pentagon, the Space Force, our other government customers, I think, is strong,” he said, acknowledging the issues the company had to work through with Vulcan. “I think they understood what we were doing to address them, and we have, and so now it's getting down to the business of launching.” Elbon said then that ULA was “on a good trajectory to have a successful year launching the manifest that we've laid out in our partnership with the Space Force,” but the anomaly on the launch two days later has put that planned manifest in question. “Despite the retirement of highly successful Atlas and Delta launch vehicles, the transition to Vulcan has been slow and continues to impact the completion of Space Force mission objectives,” stated Purdy. Whoever takes over as CEO will not face the existential threat that Bruno said he saw at ULA when he took over in 2014. Elbon noted the company has a backlog of more than 80 missions, including the Space Force as well as Amazon, which has dozens of Vulcan launches booked for its Amazon Leo broadband constellation. ULA also has a “strong commitment from our board, focused on moving us forward into the future,” he added. There was no discussion on the call about rumors persisting for years that Boeing and Lockheed Martin were interested in selling ULA, with interested buyers ranging from private equity firms to Blue Origin. Elbon deflected a question about whether ULA might expand beyond launch. “Both Boeing and Lockheed are very supportive of ULA. They're excited about the future,” he said. “There’s a lot of growth in space, and so over the next period of time, we'll be sorting out the specific path forward and what that means.” Those plans, though, depends on ULA building back the confidence of its biggest customers, particularly the Space Force, and finding a niche in a launch market dominated by SpaceX. Jeff Foust (jeff@thespacereview.com) is the editor and publisher of The Space Review, and a senior staff writer with SpaceNews. He also operates the Spacetoday.net web site. Views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author alone.

WB-57 Gets Grounded By NASA

WB-57 One of NASA’s three WB-57 high-altitude research aircraft made a gears-up landing in late January. The aircraft were developed during the Cold War to perform intelligence missions. (credit: KHOU) Big wing bird: NASA’s WB-57 gets grounded by Dwayne A. Day Monday, March 9, 2026 On January 27, 2026, NASA 927, a big-winged WB-57F with an elegant white and blue paint scheme, performed a gear-up landing at Ellington Field Joint Reserve Base, trailing sparks and smoke as it slid down the runway, making a horrible sound until it slid to a stop. The WB-57F is not the easiest aircraft to land, because its wings generate so much lift that it wants to be in the air, not on the ground, but fortunately both crew members onboard survived with no injuries. The aircraft, N927NA, sustained significant damage and remains grounded. NASA operates three WB-57Fs, high-altitude scientific research aircraft that have long had many connections to the agency’s space programs. The planes are the legacy of a mysterious Cold War era program that in some ways owed its existence to the U-2 spyplane. WB-57 The Martin RB-57F was developed in the early 1960s due to a requirement for a high-altitude intelligence aircraft with greater payload than the U-2. Twenty-one RB-57Fs were remanufactured from existing B-57B aircraft. By 1972, three aircraft had been transferred to NASA and the remaining aircraft were retired to long-term storage. (credit: USAF) The Canberra In the late 1940s, the English Electric Corporation developed the jet-powered Canberra medium bomber. The Canberra proved to be a highly successful aircraft for the company, which produced dozens of variants and exported them to multiple countries, with some continuing in operation into the 2000s. English Electric manufactured 900 Canberras, with another 49 license-built in Australia. In 1950, the Martin Aircraft Corporation in the United States licensed the Canberra to produce a version for the US Air Force designated the B-57. Martin made several modifications to its early models, notably changing the awkward cockpit and the bomb bay, and eventually built 400 of them. The planes are the legacy of a mysterious Cold War era program that in some ways owed its existence to the U-2 spyplane. Throughout the 1950s and into the 1960s, Martin introduced numerous updated versions of the B-57. The B-57B, C, and E models all saw service in Vietnam. Another aircraft, the enigmatic B-57G, with an unusual sensor mounted under its nose and the designation Tropic Light III, also flew in Vietnam during Operation Shed Light, and remained mysterious for years after the war. The sensor equipment consisted of low light level and infrared detection equipment for night bombing missions. In 1954, the Air Force was developing the twin-engine X-16 high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft when the CIA was authorized to develop the U-2. The X-16 was canceled, and the CIA performed high-altitude reconnaissance missions for the remainder of the decade. The Air Force still sought its own high altitude reconnaissance aircraft and contracted Martin to develop a large-wing version of the B-57. The RB-57D (“R” for “Reconnaissance”) was able to fly higher than most existing aircraft, but not as high as the U-2. Only 20 were produced, and they were used for high-altitude photo-reconnaissance, high-altitude signals interception, and radar mapping. Some of them were employed by the US Air Force with Taiwanese pilots to conduct reconnaissance missions over mainland China, where one aircraft was shot down in 1959. RB-57Ds operated from 1956 until 1964, when they were retired due to fatigue problems with their large wings. The Air Force began flying its own U-2s by 1957, but the U-2 was a flimsy aircraft that could not do all the high-altitude missions the Air Force needed to do. WB-57 Cutaway of the RB-57F in Air Force service. (credit: Aerophile magazine) In 1963, due to a requirement for higher-altitude reconnaissance missions, the Air Force contracted Martin to produce a version with an even larger wing, this time designated the RB-57F. The aircraft was capable of sustained flight up to 80,000 feet (24,400 meters), although with a payload it generally operated at around 50,000 feet (15,200 meters). Twenty-one RB-57Fs were produced, remanufactured from B-57Bs. Because they were so heavily modified, the Air Force gave them entirely new serial numbers. The aircraft was capable of carrying signals intelligence sensors and cameras. A primary requirement was the ability to fly high-altitude air sampling missions, carrying equipment that contained filters that trapped radioactive particles blown high into the atmosphere during nuclear weapons tests. The aircraft were operated by the US Air Force’s 9th Weather Reconnaissance Wing, Air Weather Service, Military Air Transport Service (MATS), headquartered at McClellan Air Force Base, California, with four squadrons deployed to California, Japan, Australia, and New Mexico. Aircraft designated Rivet Slice were used for reconnaissance missions, and two-word code names starting with “Rivet” were used to designate specific modifications. WB-57 Twenty-one RB-57F aircraft were built and four flew for NASA. This list was compiled by aviation historian Jay Miller in 1980 for the now-defunct Aerophile magazine. (larger version) (credit: Aerophile magazine) The RB-57Fs flew many different missions with names like Cold Car, Cold Cone, Sold Sand, Cross Check, Paddlewheel, Rough Rider, Slurry, Spinnaker Bravo and Storm Fury. Some of these were in support of civilian missions, including NASA’s Apollo spacecraft recoveries as well as NOAA cyclone monitoring operations. In 1968, the Air Force redesignated the aircraft as WB-57F. WB-57 From 1982 to 2012 NASA operated two WB-57s. A third aircraft was taken out of long-term storage and returned to flight due to increased demand. The aircraft have had many different paint schemes over the years. (credit: NASA) NASA’s WB-57Fs Starting in the late 1950s, NASA’s predecessor NACA operated an RB-57B with the standard wing for flight testing purposes. The plane then became a NASA aircraft when the agency was formed in 1958. The Air Force serial number was 52-1576 (indicating the aircraft was originally ordered in 1952) and initially designated NASA 237 when it was transferred to the agency. It was also designated N637N, N516NA, and finally NASA 809. The aircraft was used for flight testing and as an atmospheric research aircraft. In the late 1950s it was used to test hydrogen fuel at high altitude with a special wing modification. In the mid-1970s it was used to validate the Viking Mars lander parachutes. It was also used for turbulence tests in the mid-1970s and again a decade later. It was retired in 1987 and put on display at Edwards Air Force Base. In 1968, the Air Force loaned NASA a WB-57F to support the agency’s Earth Resources Satellite Program. This mission consisted of carrying sensors to high altitude to correlate their data with data collected by a satellite. A modified WB-57F given the NASA tail number 925 and known as the Earth Survey Aircraft flew missions in 1968 and 1969. During the 2000s, NASA was apparently considering retiring at least one of the WB-57Fs due to lack of users. However, several factors intervened to increase the demand for the aircrafts’ capabilities. Because the aircraft was on loan to NASA, the Air Force required that no permanent modifications be made, and its sensor package had to be easily removed so that the aircraft could be returned to its national security mission. General Dynamics developed aerodynamically faired plug-in pallets that could carry both NASA and Air Force equipment. The pallets were mounted in the bomb bay and connected to existing cooling and electrical outlets. The back seat was fitted with removable operating consoles. In 1972, the Air Force decommissioned its weather reconnaissance squadron and its fleet of WB-57Fs. The Air Force sent most of them to the 309th Aerospace Maintenance and Regeneration Group (AMARG) at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Arizona. It is better known as “the boneyard,” a sprawling facility covered with hundreds of aircraft, most used for spare parts until they are scrapped, but some eventually returned to American or foreign service. It also permanently transferred the airplane on loan to NASA as well as two additional WB-57Fs, where they were part of the NASA High Altitude Research Project. The two new aircraft were given tail numbers NASA 926 and NASA 928. WB-57 The WB-57s were used to observe both the 2017 and 2024 eclipses. Here one of the aircraft is seen modified for observing the 2017 eclipse. (credit: NASA) NASA 925 was retired in 1982, leaving the agency with two operational aircraft for the next several decades. Throughout the 1980s, 1990s, and into the 2000s, NASA’s two WB-57s performed various Earth science missions. NASA operated a fleet of Earth sciences aircraft throughout this time. The fleet included two ER-2 aircraft—essentially later versions of the U-2 developed in the mid-1950s—a DC-8, which proved to be a major Earth science workhorse, and multiple other aircraft, including a P-3 Orion and several Gulfstream variants. The planes carried science sensors for atmospheric as well as ground observations. Collectively, this fleet of aircraft is part of NASA’s Airborne Science Program. This diverse and capable Earth science aircraft fleet was, and remains, unmatched, and NASA is an attractive international partner in airborne science because of its range of capabilities. WB-57 NASA operates an extensive fleet of aircraft for research purposes. These are scientific aircraft, not flight test aircraft. NASA's extensive capabilities make it an attractive international partner. (credit: NASA) NASA sources about the planes’ maximum altitude are inconsistent, but it appears that the WB-57Fs can fly up to 63,000 feet (19,200 meters), but with most payloads they fly lower than this. They can carry a 2,700-kilogram sensor pallet in the former bomb bay underneath the center fuselage. The pallet can carry various cameras and other instruments. They have multiple payload location options besides the pallet bay, including the nose, wing pods, wing hatches, aft fuselage, and tail cone. For some research projects, multiple instruments are carried at many payload locations, missions only include a few or only one instrument. WB-57 The WB-57 is a versatile aircraft capable of mounting many instruments in multiple locations. This illustration shows one configuration for a research mission. (credit: NASA) Although NASA’s ER-2s can fly higher than the WB-57Fs, up to 70,000 feet (21,300 meters), the WB-57Fs can carry a bigger payload. NASA even flew an Earth sciences campaign over Central America that involved multiple aircraft simultaneously flying the same path at different altitudes: an aircraft at lower altitude, the DC-8 at medium altitude, a WB-57 above it at approximately 50,000 feet, and a ER-2 above them all at 70,000 feet. Scientists could take readings at multiple altitudes, measuring a vertical slice of the atmosphere. The aircraft have flown many unique missions over the decades. WB-57 WB-57s have been used to track spacecraft reentries, such as the returning sample canister from the OSIRIS-REx spacecraft. (credit: NASA) In 2005, a NASA WB-57 flew four missions out of Mildenhall in the United Kingdom as part of the Cosmic Dust Collector (CDC) mission. The aircraft was equipped with two small metallic rectangular boxes carried under each wing that collected interplanetary dust particles on an adhesive strip. WB-57 In the early 2000s, the WB-57s were not heavily utilized. Several new missions, including the need to track space shuttle launches using a nose-mounted camera seen here, increased demand for them. (credit: NASA) The 21st century and a new lease on life During the 2000s, NASA was apparently considering retiring at least one of the WB-57Fs due to lack of users. However, several factors intervened to increase the demand for the aircrafts’ capabilities. The Columbia accident in early 2003 highlighted NASA’s need for better tracking of space shuttle launches. The aircraft were equipped with a special high-definition tracking camera and other sensors in a specially adapted gimbal-mounted ball turret mounted in the nose. This was known as the WB-57F Ascent Video Experiment (WAVE). The turret was used throughout the remainder of the shuttle program and continues to be used for monitoring various launch and some reentry events. For example, it has been used to monitor Starship launches from Texas, and also monitored the Artemis 1 launch in 2022. It is not unusual for a WB-57 to land at Kennedy Space Center during a launch monitoring period. WB-57 WB-57 When WB-57s are assigned to track rocket launches from Florida, they occasionally land at Kennedy Space Center. (credit: adsbexchange.com) The 2001 US invasion of Afghanistan also led to a new demand for the aircraft. One problem experienced by US forces deployed into valleys was the inability to transmit or receive communications because they could be out of view of a satellite. Starting in 2006, NASA WB-57s were deployed to Afghanistan carrying BACN (Battlefield Airborne Communications Node) payloads, which acted as communications relays. Both aircraft were separately deployed to Afghanistan. During these deployments, their NASA logos were removed and they were probably operated by military pilots. There was little information released about these operations. Later, the Department of Defense acknowledged that the WB-57s were sometimes used as technology testbeds so that military aircraft were free to be deployed operationally. WB-57 For many years it was common to put mission stickers on the side of the aircraft. The planes have had several different paint schemes over the decades. (Note the aircraft designation is misspelled in this 2006 photograph.) (credit: Dwayne Day) The NASA aircraft also performed geophysical and remote sensing surveys in 2007 as part of the US aid to the Afghan reconstruction effort. During 28 missions, the WB-57 collected data that was used for resource assessment purposes. From November 2010 to August 2011, a WB-57 was deployed to Afghanistan with the High-Altitude Lidar Operational Experiment (HALOE) payload. These missions ended in the early 2010s as the DoD acquired its own assets for performing them. Two WB-57s were used to observe the August 2017 and the April 2024 solar eclipses. WB-57 WB-57s have been used to track spacecraft reentries, such as the returning sample canister from the OSIRIS-REx spacecraft. (credit: NASA) Operating an old aircraft presents many challenges. One of them was that the agency began running out of tires and no new tires were being made. Fortunately, the F-15 had the same size tire, but the WB-57 landing gear had to be modified to accommodate it. The aircraft cockpits are a mix of old “steam gauges” and modern electronics like navigation systems. WB-57 WB-57 The aircraft are kept at a hangar facility only a short distance north of Johnson Space Center. Here the two aircraft in service in 2006 are seen being prepared for flight. (credit: Dwayne Day) The increased demand for the NASA aircraft in the 21st century resulted in an unusual development. In May 2011, WB-57F 63-13295, which had been retired in June 1972 and placed in long-term storage at AMARG at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base in Arizona, was removed from storage and trucked to Colorado. At Centennial Airport, Sierra Nevada Corporation refurbished the aircraft to flying condition. On August 9, 2013, it was flown to Ellington Air Force Base north of Johnson Space Center in Texas and turned over to NASA. It was re-designated as NASA 927. The aircraft had spent 41 years in storage, the longest that a military aircraft had been stored before returning to service. It was this aircraft—the newest in NASA’s fleet—that suffered the mishap in January. WB-57 The WB-57 cockpit is a mix of 1960s and modern instruments. Keeping such old aircraft maintained is not easy. (credit: NASA) NASA frequently does not include the “F” in the aircraft designation. As the only operational Canberras in the world, it is not necessary. Whether NASA 927 is repaired and reenters service will depend upon the extent of the damage, the cost of repairing it, and the projected need for the aircraft. There are several WB-57F airframes still in storage at Davis-Monthan Air Force Base to support future NASA WB-57 requirements. The big-winged bird may still rejoin its flock. WB-57 Artwork produced for the 2024 eclipse, which used specialty instruments deployed on two WB-57s. (credit: NASA) NASA WB-57F aircraft: N925NA (NASA 925), AF s/n 63-13501 (Rivet Slice 3 and Rivet Rap), retired September 15, 1982. N926NA (NASA 926), AF s/n 63-13503 (Rivet Slice 2). N927NA (NASA 927), AF s/n 63-13295 (Rivet Chip 8). N928NA (NASA 928), AF s/n 63-13298 (Rivet Chip 11). Further reading: Paul Bradley, Martin B-57 and English Electric Canberra, Volume 2, Phoenix Scale Publications, 2023. Aeroplane Illustrated: Canberra – Britain’s First Jet Bomber. Andrew Brookes, RAF Canberra Units of the Cold War, Combat Aircraft 105, Osprey, 2014. T.E. Bell, B-57 Canberra Units of the Vietnam War, Combat Aircraft 85, Osprey, 2011. Guy Warner, The Last Canberra – PR9XH131, December 2010. Glenn Sands and Gary Madgwick, On Target, Profile 11, Canberra Part 2, The Aviation Workshop, 2005. Kev Darling, Martin B-57 Canberra, Warpaint Series No. 45, Guideline Publications, 2004. Robert C. Mikesh, “B-57 Canberra in Vietnam,” Wings of Fame, Volume 19, 2000, pp. 14-31. Robert C. Mikesh, Martin B-57 Canberra: The Complete Record, Schiffer Military History, 1997. Roland Beamont and Arthur Reed, English Electric Canberra, Ian Allan Ltd., 1984. Jay Miller, “Martin/General Dynamics RB-57F,” Aerophile, Volume 2, Number 3, April 1980, pp, 11-43. Dwayne Day has a list of his top ten favorite aircraft that currently includes 19 aircraft, one of which is the WB-57. He can be reached at zirconic1@cox.net.

Robert Goddard And The Dawn Of The Rocket Age

Goddard Robert Goddard poses with liquid-fueled rocket before its historic launch on March 16, 1926. (credit: Esther Goddard, Courtesy of Clark University) Robert Goddard and the dawn of the rocket age by Bruce McCandless III and Emily Carney Monday, March 9, 2026 His full name was Robert Hutchings Goddard. Born on October 5, 1882, in Worcester, Massachusetts, the father of American rocketry was a frail child, often ill, fussed over by an adoring grandmother. He showed an early fondness for building gadgets, and he seems to have been interested in just about everything. He set off firecrackers and Roman candles, performed rudimentary experiments with electricity, and organized a team of neighborhood youths to dig a tunnel to China, which was apparently never completed. Goddard may not have been the first person on the planet to see rockets as something other than dangerous toys or obsolete weapons, but he was apparently the first to start the greasy, tedious, occasionally dangerous work of constructing what he saw as the vehicle of the future. According to biographer David Clary, young Goddard loved books and read Verne’s From the Earth to the Moon and H. G. Wells’s Martian apocalyptic invasion thriller The War of the Worlds many times. He had an epiphany in 1899 when he climbed to the top of a cherry tree and became fascinated by the arc and expanse of the emptiness overhead. Other people have seen visions in the sky. The emperor Constantine reportedly saw a fiery cross in the heavens before an important battle in 312 CE. His forces won the battle, and Constantine converted to Christianity as a result. But for Goddard, the vision wasn’t in the sky. It was the sky. He began to wonder if human beings could travel beyond this azure barrier into the deep fantastic blue and possibly to other planets—specifically Mars, which many Americans believed at the time might be inhabited. “I was a different boy when I descended the tree from when I ascended,” Goddard later wrote. “Existence at last seemed very purposive.” Purposive indeed. Young Goddard never ceased thinking about the possibility of space travel. He eventually became convinced that the way into the cosmos was through rockets. He spent most of his adult life—an industrious, practical, and occasionally paranoid life—building the metal beasts. As a young man, he earned a Ph.D. in physics from Clark University, did research work at Princeton, and in 1914 returned to Worcester to join the faculty at Clark. In addition to his intellectual accomplishments, he was also a tinkerer, unafraid of a skinned knuckle or two, comfortable though not particularly skillful with a blowtorch and a crescent wrench. This practicality helped. Robert Goddard may not have been the first person on the planet to see rockets as something other than dangerous toys or obsolete weapons, but he was apparently the first to start the greasy, tedious, occasionally dangerous work of constructing what he saw as the vehicle of the future. He built numerous rocket prototypes to test his ideas. Most of these early rockets died inglorious deaths. They blew up. They fell down. They smashed themselves into the earth. Nevertheless, Goddard persisted. We remember him not because he dreamed but because he built. And rebuilt. And rebuilt again. His rockets gradually got bigger, flew higher, and traveled more or less where they were pointed. He was also careful to patent his work, which gives us a handy paper trail of his accomplishments. It’s a long trail, as he eventually earned 214 patents, some of which were awarded posthumously. On October 1, 1913, for example, Goddard filed a patent application for the “multistage rocket.” In an enterprise where every pound counts, it’s a key innovation that has helped to make orbital spaceflight the more or less commonplace proposition it is today. On May 15, 1914, Goddard filed a patent application for a high-altitude rocket powered by a liquid—as opposed to solid, like gunpowder—using gasoline as a fuel and liquid nitrous oxide as the oxidant. This was another important development. Liquefying fuel and oxidants make them compact, and therefore easier, cheaper, and lighter for a rocket to carry—not because the substances are lighter, but because the tanks holding them can be smaller. Consumption of liquid fuel and its oxidant is also controllable. It can be increased or decreased, and even stopped, whereas combustion of a solid fuel like gunpowder is an all-or-nothing proposition; once the process starts, it continues until the fuel is depleted. Liquid propellants have therefore been the primary drivers of rockets from Goddard’s time to the present. Project Mercury’s Redstone rocket burned ethanol mixed with water. Apollo’s Saturn V consumed highly refined kerosene and liquid hydrogen. The SpaceX Starship burns a whole lot of liquid methane. Any player on the Sox could have thrown a baseball just as far, and considerably higher, than Goddard’s rocket. Most could probably have thrown Goddard’s rocket just as far. Based on the success of his early work, in January of 1917 Goddard received a grant of $5,000 over five years from the Smithsonian Institution to fund his research. It was a substantial sum, and it allowed him to upgrade his hardware and propellant options. He worked alone when he could, since few people understood his ideas and even fewer agreed with them. Rocketry wasn’t considered a legitimate academic pursuit in those days. It was more like a bad habit, akin to setting grass fires or playing the banjo. Nevertheless, the Smithsonian published Goddard’s thoughts in a 1919 monograph called A Method of Reaching Extreme Altitudes. The work, which contained notes on Goddard’s experiments with rocket engines and nozzle technology, was eagerly read by rocket enthusiasts abroad, including two Germans named Herman Oberth and Wernher von Braun. The publication was less well received at home. The New York Times got wind of Goddard’s proposal to send a rocket to the Moon and ridiculed the professor in print. Summoning that peculiar blend of smugness and scientific error available only to newspaper editors, the Times announced that Goddard’s plan was foolish because a rocket in space wouldn’t have any atmosphere for its exhaust to push against. Nothing to push against, dammit! It was an embarrassing error on Goddard’s part, the newspaper said, indicating that the good doctor lacked basic information like that “ladled out daily in high schools.” Nevertheless, on March 16, 1926, after years of trial, error, and a fair amount of exasperated headshaking from friends and colleagues, Goddard was able to launch a liquid-fueled rocket some 41 feet (12.5 meters) into the air. A famous photograph sets the scene. Goddard is standing in a snowy farmyard in Auburn, Massachusetts, next to what looks like playground equipment—a primitive jungle gym, perhaps. The reclusive tinkerer with the bottle-brush mustache has no conception of what a “global positioning system” might be. It hasn’t even been imagined yet. He can’t watch televised images from across the Atlantic Ocean in real time. He has no idea that huge oceans lie beneath the ice of Jupiter’s moon, Europa. Nevertheless, he’s proud of his, er, jungle gym. This is because the metal-tubed contraption is actually a liquid-fueled rocket, the first of its kind, and he’s prepared to ignite the more-or-less controlled explosion that will launch it. The sky is gun-barrel gray. Someone’s goat has gotten loose in the field across the creek, but no matter. The rocket is ignited, burns, shrieks skyward, and the world begins to change. For better. For worse. And forever. Powered by a mixture of gasoline and liquid oxygen, the flight lasted 2.5 seconds and ended in a cabbage field 184 feet (56 meters) away from the launch site. By modern standards, it was a modest trajectory. The nearby Boston Red Sox baseball club fielded a sorry collection of misfits that season, a squad that included ham-and-eggers like Dud Lee, Boob Fowler, and Baby Doll Jackson. It was an organization still reeling from the colossal stupidity of selling a pug-nosed pitcher named Babe Ruth to the New York Yankees for a few bucks and a hot dog. Still, any player on the Sox could have thrown a baseball just as far, and considerably higher, than Goddard’s rocket. Most could probably have thrown Goddard’s rocket just as far. But the point was confirmation. Goddard had proven that a liquid-fueled rocket could work. The launch site is now a national historic landmark. In July 1969, as Apollo 11 neared the moon, the New York Times issued a formal retraction of its unkind words about Professor Goddard’s work. Apparently, rockets could fly in space. Who knew? The newspaper regretted the error. Goddard contracted tuberculosis as a young man. Though he survived the ordeal, he bore traces of the disease for the rest of his life. Tall, bald, and stoop-shouldered, with a reedy voice and a gentle sense of humor, he was the prototypical absent-minded professor, beloved by family, friends, and many of his colleagues. The rest of the nation wasn’t quite sure what to think of him and his “moon rockets,” as the popular press delighted in calling Goddard’s temperamental metal canisters. Some revered him. The famous aviator Charles Lindbergh, for example, became a lifelong supporter. Others dismissed Goddard’s work as fanciful nonsense. “Oh yes,” Ray Bradbury wrote of his own childhood in the 1920s, “later on we were to remember that there were a few wild men like Professor Goddard stirring about. But no one gave him any mind. He was a blathering idiot, a fool, a nothing.” He was a peculiarly American figure, a constructive contrarian who, like Thomas Edison and the Wright brothers, believed he could rewrite the laws of possibility with the help of the right collection of rivets and wires and a suitable energy source. The “no one” here is hyperbole. In fact, Goddard was fussed over all his life by women who loved him—most prominently, his wife Esther. Perhaps as a result, he was self-directed and convinced of his own correctness. On the other hand, he was also a little more satisfied with his own ideas and ways of doing things than was completely productive. He could be stubborn and unsystematic, working on a second set of problems before he’d solved the first. In his later years, experimenting in New Mexico with the aid of funding from the Daniel and Florence Guggenheim Foundation, Goddard became increasingly secretive, worried that his ideas were being pirated by nosy militarists in Germany and admiring young amateurs at home. He was not particularly helpful to either group—to his credit in the first instance but hardly praiseworthy in the second. Certainly he could be difficult, self-centered, occasionally distrustful. In these regards he was a peculiarly American figure, a constructive contrarian who, like Thomas Edison and the Wright brothers, believed he could rewrite the laws of possibility with the help of the right collection of rivets and wires and a suitable energy source. His insistence on following his own path eventually resulted in his work being eclipsed by younger engineers, with larger specialized teams and stronger financial backing. Yet Goddard was the first to fly a liquid-fueled rocket, to build a multistage launch vehicle, to incorporate gyroscopes for stability in flight, and to add a nozzle to his combustion chambers to increase thrust. He was a tireless innovator, and in 1960, the US government paid over to his widow and the Guggenheim Foundation a settlement of $1 million for infringement on Goddard’s patents in the nation’s development of military and civilian rocketry in the years after the Second World War. Newspapers that once might have referred to “moon-mad Goddard” now declared that the feds were paying off a debt related to “one of the costliest blunders in American history—disregarding concrete, patented plans to start building rockets… before the start of World War I.” Goddard saw what few others could, and in pursuing his visions he pioneered a new science and invented a field of engineering. He was a spark that others used to kindle a fire. Remembering the night they met, Lindbergh put it beautifully: “Sitting in his home in Worcester, Massachusetts, in 1929, I listened to Robert Goddard outline his ideas for the future development of rockets—what might be practically expected, what might be eventually achieved. Thirty years later, watching a giant rocket rise above the Air Force test base at Cape Canaveral, I wondered whether he was dreaming then or I was dreaming now.” A hundred years and thousands of rocket launches later, we’re all still dreaming. We can thank Robert Goddard for starting a little earlier than the rest of us. Bruce McCandless III and Emily Carney are the authors of Star Bound: A Beginner’s Guide to the American Space Program, from Goddard’s Rockets to Goldilocks Planets and Everything in Between (University of Nebraska Press, 2025).

Book Review: Why Space?

book cover Review: Why Space? by Jeff Foust Monday, March 9, 2026 Why Space?: The Purpose of People by Rick Tumlinson Manuscripts LLC, 2025 paperback, 288pp. ISBN 979-8-88926-421-7 $19.99 If you’ve been at any space advocacy event of some kind in the last 30 years or so, you have probably seen a talk by Rick Tumlinson. One of the co-founders of the Space Frontier Foundation, Tumlinson has long been one of the most passionate advocates for what became known as NewSpace, the more commercial, entrepreneurial approach to space that contrasted with, and often clashed with, traditional aerospace contractors and government programs. He would often start his talks with a simple declaration: “Welcome to the revolution.” Space advocacy has shifted over the last few decades, from trying to convince people that there were more commercial approaches to space to trying to convince people that the growth of commercial space, led by billionaire-backed companies, is not a bad thing. Years ago, that statement was aspirational, at best; today, it’s closer to reality. SpaceX performed as many orbital launches in 2025 as the rest of the world combined, while its Starlink constellation now approaches 10,000 satellites, an order of magnitude more than the total number of operational satellites in orbit when SpaceX started launching that constellation. More companies developing various other space capabilities focused on government and commercial customers: last Thursday, for example, Sierra Space announced it raised $550 million for satellite production at the same time Vast announced a $500 million round to help advance its commercial space stations. Even the administrator of NASA is someone who funded and commanded two private astronaut missions. So, what do you do with that revolution? That is the underlying theme of Why Space?, Tumlinson’s new book. As the title suggests, it explains why he believes space is important for humanity’s future, but for reasons far beyond traditional explanations. Why Space? is a bit difficult to categorize: is has elements of a traditional book examining space markets and the potential for startups to establish new ones. However, it also has aspects of a memoir, as Tumlinson discusses his life and the long, twisting path that he took in the space field. It even approaches the realm of self-help, as he urges the reader to find their purpose in life. In the book, he espouses what he calls the “Principles of Purpose” for humanity: to protect and expand the domain of life, to honor and evolve humanity, and to explore and experience everything in the universe. Achieving these requires humanity to go into space, he argues, taking advantage of the growing commercial capabilities to do so. It is interesting to contrast the arguments made in this book with those in another recent book, Becoming Martian (see “Review: Becoming Martian”, The Space Review, March 2, 2026). In that book, Scott Solomon argues that it may be possible for humans to live beyond Earth but that that “we must learn how to get along with one another” first. Tumlinson, by contrast, sees that not as a prerequisite for permanent space settlements but an outcome of them, since the harsh conditions will require humans to learn to get along with one another to survive. “Going up is how we grow up,” he concludes. Space advocacy has shifted over the last few decades, from trying to convince people that there were more commercial approaches to space to trying to convince people that the growth of commercial space, led by billionaire-backed companies, is not a bad thing. A section of the book is devoted to that backlash to people like Elon Musk and Jeff Bezos, with Tumlinson arguing that “whether you see them as heroes or villains, in this one area, they are on the side of progress.” He concludes the book by stating he is more energized than ever about what the future may hold for humanity in space, with no plans to retire, seeing opportunities “to help shape the incredible future that is rushing towards us at light speed.” Jeff Foust (jeff@thespacereview.com) is the editor and publisher of The Space Review, and a senior staff writer with SpaceNews. He also operates the Spacetoday.net web site. Views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author alone.

Accelerating Artemis

Artemis NASA administrator Jared Isaacman (left) visits the Artemis 2 stack at Launch Complex 39B after the latest problems with the rocket led the agency to roll it back to the Vehicle Assembly Building for repairs. (credit: NASA/John Kraus) Accelerating Artemis by Jeff Foust Monday, March 2, 2026 When NASA rolled out the Space Launch System rocket and Orion spacecraft to Launch Complex 39B in mid-January, officials were optimistic the rocket could launch in a window in early February (see “Inching towards launch”, The Space Review, January 26, 2026.) Those hopes were dashed when a wet dress rehearsal was cut short because of hydrogen leaks similar to those seen during preparations for Artemis 1 in 2022. Workers replaced seals in lines feeding liquid hydrogen into the SLS core stage and tried again, this time with no significant leaks. At a February 20 press conference, NASA managers said they were now looking to launch as soon as March 6, the opening of the next launch period that runs through March 11. “It’s out there at the pad. It’s going to be there at the pad until we go fly,” said John Honeycutt, chair of the Artemis 2 mission management team, at that briefing. “Launching a rocket as important and as complex as SLS every three years is not a path to success,” Isaacman said. Just 24 hours after that briefing, though, NASA reversed course. Overnight, helium flow in the rocket’s upper stage, the Interim Cryogenic Propulsion Stage (ICPS), stopped. Engineers weren’t sure why, although the problem looked similar to one seen during Artemis 1. The only way to fix it would be to roll back to the Vehicle Assembly Building, ruling out a March launch. The problems, and their similarities to issues seen more than three years ago with Artemis 1, have clearly frustrated NASA administrator Jared Isaacman. “A lot of similarities between the two,” he said at a briefing Friday after recounting the issues shared by Artemis 1 and 2. “Why is that essentially the case? A three-plus-year launch cadence,” he said. “Launching a rocket as important and as complex as SLS every three years is not a path to success.” Even before the latest problems with Artemis 2, he had decided to revamp the overall Artemis architecture—at least as much as he could given the constraints of engineering, resources, and policy. The result is the biggest change to NASA’s plans to return humans to the Moon since the early days of Artemis, back when Artemis 2 was still known as EM-2. That involved changes to the SLS. “We’ve got issues with low flight rate, and I would say a great way to exacerbate that problem further is to start making changes to vehicle configuration,” he said. “SLS is a very impressive vehicle. We don’t want to turn every one of them into a work of art.” He announced that NASA would stick with what he called a “near Block 1” configuration for the SLS for the foreseeable future. The first three SLS launches are using the Block 1 with the ICPS for the upper stage, but starting with Artemis 4 NASA had planned to switch to the Block 1B version, replacing the ICPS with the more powerful Exploration Upper Stage (EUS). Later, NASA planned a shift to the Block 2 with new solid rocket boosters. “The idea is that we want to reduce complexity to the greatest extent possible. We want to accelerate manufacturing, pull in the hardware, and increase launch rate, which obviously has a direct safety consideration to it as well,” he said. The goal, he said, was to reduce the time between launches from the current cadence of more than three years to a year or less; he later gave a goal of an Artemis launch every ten months. “A wide objective gap between missions is also not a pathway to success,” Isaacman said. “We didn’t go right to Apollo 11.” That would start with Artemis 3, which will launch in 2027. But rather than go to the Moon for the first crewed landing, Orion will remain in low Earth orbit. There, it will rendezvous and potentially dock with lunar landers launched by Blue Origin and/or SpaceX. It would also be an opportunity to test the lunar spacesuits being developed by Axiom Space. Part of that change is pragmatic: if NASA wanted to launch Artemis 3 in 2027, there was no chance that either lunar lander would be a ready for a crewed landing that year. The change, though, also addresses criticism that there was too big of a leap from Artemis 2 to Artemis 3 in terms of the number of new events, a concern raised by the Aerospace Safety Advisory Panel, among others. Turning Artemis 3 into something like Apollo 9—a test of the Lunar Module in Earth orbit—responds to those complaints. “A wide objective gap between missions is also not a pathway to success,” Isaacman said. “We didn’t go right to Apollo 11.” If the revised Artemis 3 launched on schedule and was successful, he said, NASA could attempt a lunar landing on Artemis 4 in early 2028. He suggested Artemis 5 could follow with another lunar landing attempt before the end of 2028. Artemis An infographic released by NASA Friday showing the revised plans for upcoming Artemis misisons. (credit: NASA) Unanswered questions In about seven minutes of comments at the start of the briefing, Isaacman shook up Artemis plans. But for the rest of the hour, he and other agency officials offered few additional details about the changes. There was, first and foremost, the question of what a “near Block 1” SLS would be. The ICPS used on the Block 1 SLS is based on the second stage of the Delta 4. That rocket, though, has been out of production for years, and there are no more upper stages available that could be repurposed into additional ICPS vehicles. NASA declined to say what will replace the ICPS on those future vehicles, or how it would even select it. “We’re not going to talk about contractual issues,” Amit Kshatriya, NASA associate administrator, said at the briefing. “We have the full support of our industry partners to make sure we standardize the configuration and do the right thing.” The most likely option is using a version of the Centaur upper stage in place of the ICPS. It has the advantage of already being in production, using a version of the RL10 engine that also powers of the ICPS. It has also been approved for use on crewed missions, launching Boeing’s Starliner on an Atlas 5. However, there would be significant engineering work to replace the ICPS with a Centaur, from interfaces to loads analyses, all of which would need to be done within two years to be ready for an early 2028 Artemis 4 launch with astronauts on board. Eliminating the Block 1B of SLS also has implications for the Gateway orbiting the Moon. While the first two modules—the Power and Propulsion Element and the HALO habitat module—will launch together on a Falcon Heavy, future modules from international partners were intended to launch on Block 1B SLS launches, taking advantage of its additional payload capacity. Orion would then transport the modules to the near-rectilinear halo orbit around the Moon, docking them to the rest of the Gateway. NASA declined to say what will replace the ICPS on those future vehicles, or how it would even select it. Asked about the Gateway at the briefing, Isaacman offered only a lukewarm endorsement of it. “By focusing a lot of time, energy and resources across lots of grand endeavors is why you end up in a situation where you’re launching incredibly important but complex vehicle every three-plus years,” he said. “I say that not to make a statement towards Gateway because we are doing this to get back to the Moon and have the capability to stay, certainly to build a moonbase.” One solution, of course, would be to launch future Gateway modules on vehicles like Falcon Heavy or New Glenn. But, notably, an infographic released by NASA Friday illustrating its plans for future Artemis missions did not feature the Gateway even while including a notional lunar base. (If NASA wants to convert the Gateway into a lunar base, there are not just technical challenges in adapting modules for use on the lunar surface but also the fact that $2.6 billion provided in last year’s budget reconciliation bill for the Gateway specifically defines the Gateway as an “outpost in orbit around the Moon.”) Then there are the landers that Orion would dock with on Artemis 3 in low Earth orbit. In that infographic, the landers look just like the designs for Starship and Blue Moon Mark 2 previously released by SpaceX and Blue Origin, respectively, for the Human Landing System (HLS) program. But it is unclear what exactly will be available from either company in a low Earth orbit test in about a year or so. Last fall, after NASA’s acting administrator at the time, Sean Duffy, said he would reopen the competition for the Artemis 3 lander because of delays by SpaceX, both Blue Origin and SpaceX submitted “acceleration plans” they said would speed up the availability of a lander for that mission (see “The (possibly) great lunar lander race”, The Space Review, November 3, 2025.) Neither company has released details of those plans, though, nor has NASA. Isaacman also dodged a question about those plans at Friday’s briefing. “Both HLS providers have offered solutions to accelerate their plans without compromising on the grander objective, which is we need to build out an enduring presence so that, when we return to the Moon, we have the capability to stay,” he said. If NASA is serious about flying Artemis 3 in about a year’s time, the agency will need to soon select a crew for it. The four-person Artemis 2 crew was announced in April 2023 for a mission then planned for late 2024 (see “First four,” The Space Review, April 10, 2023.) While they trained only on Orion, the Artemis 3 crew may need to cross-train on one or both of the lunar landers as well, adding to their workload. “We’re not here to do mission design. We’re not here to talk about that,” Kshatriya said in response to a question about naming the Artemis 3 crew. One thing NASA leadership was willing to discuss was the support they had for the new plan from both industry and Congress. “We try to maintain a ‘no surprises’ policy here at NASA,” Isaacman said. “We’ve spoken to industry: can you meet the demand? The answer is yes.” “We just didn’t decide to do this today without making sure we assessed the inventory of the hardware that we have available,” Kshatriya said, discussing progress on production of future SLS and Orion vehicles. If NASA is serious about flying Artemis 3 in about a year’s time, the agency will need to soon select a crew for it. Industry executives expressed their support for the new plan. “As NASA lays out an accelerated launch schedule, our workforce and supply chain are prepared to meet the increased production needs,” said Steve Parker, head of Boeing’s Defense, Space and Security business unit, in the NASA statement announcing the changes to the Artemis architecture. “We’re excited about Administrator Isaacman’s bold decision to increase the Artemis launch cadence,” Robert Lightfoot, president of Lockheed Martin Space, said in a separate statement. “Flight-proven systems like Orion will be essential to the future of Artemis, and we are fully committed to meeting the delivery timelines for these historic missions.” Isaacman took pains not to blame those companies for the delays in Artemis missions. “This is largely about NASA,” he said. “When we talk about why we struggle, our shortcomings, I look internally first: what could we have done differently?” “Today, this is a NASA story,” he added. “I’m not saying we don’t come back in a year and say we have to make adjustments with a vendor.” Isaacman said NASA had also discussed the plans with key members of Congress. “They all understand this is the path forward,” he said. “I don’t think I heard a single objection on these subjects. Everyone understands what’s at stake here.” However, some members have questions about the plan. “I support NASA’s goal of increasing the Artemis launch cadence,” said Rep. Brian Babin (R-TX), chairman of the House Science Committee, in a statement Friday. “That said, I have questions about how NASA will remain compliant with long-standing requirements to reduce complexity, strengthen mission assurance, and address recurring findings from the Aerospace Safety Advisory Panel and prior blue-ribbon commission findings.” Notably, NASA’s new plans will need to be reconciled with NASA authorization legislation that Babin’s committee recently approved unanimously, as well as a separate Senate bill that the Senate Commerce Committee will mark up on Wednesday. “Everyone agrees this is the only way forward,” Isaacman said, suggesting that without the changes, Artemis 3 might not fly until 2029. But NASA still has a lot of work to explain how, instead of flying just one Artemis mission through 2028, it will be able to successfully complete four. Jeff Foust (jeff@thespacereview.com) is the editor and publisher of The Space Review, and a senior staff writer with SpaceNews. He also operates the Spacetoday.net web site. Views and opinions expressed in this article are those of the author alone.

The Ghost In Orbit

GSSAP GHOST-R is a successor to the GSSAP program of GEO surveillance satellites, this time with a greater commercial role. (credit: US Space Force) The ghost in the orbit: how hybrid surveillance reshapes risks by Zohaib Altaf Monday, March 2, 2026 On February 5, 2026, the formal expiration of the New START Treaty removed the final terrestrial guardrail of nuclear transparency between the United States and the Russian Federation, leaving global security in a state of strategic blindness. This treaty, which for 14 years limited deployed strategic nuclear warheads and allowed for rigorous on-site inspections, lapsed without a follow-on agreement. While diplomatic proposals for extensions surfaced in late 2025, they lacked the critical verification measures that historically defined the treaty’s success. By asking commercial actors to operate these systems during their initial prototype phase, the Pentagon is effectively outsourcing the “first response” in space domain awareness. The resulting vacuum of oversight has coincided with the Defense Innovation Unit’s (DIU) solicitation on February 18 for the “Geosynchronous High-Resolution Optical Space-Based Tactical Reconnaissance” program, widely known as GHOST-R. This move officially transitions the Pentagon toward a hybrid space architecture by leveraging commercial speed and private capital to monitor the high ground of space. While this shift addresses critical “capability gaps” in space-to-space imagery, it simultaneously creates an unprecedented governance crisis. The integration of maneuverable, commercially built assets into the military’s strategic deterrent framework risks turning routine orbital inspections into triggers for profound nuclear misperception at a time when traditional diplomatic channels are increasingly frayed. The details of the GHOST-R initiative represent a radical departure from traditional military procurement, moving away from decade-long, government-only projects toward a model where private vendors field and operate spacecraft before transferring them to government control within 36 months. According to the recent solicitation, this “buy-to-own” strategy aims to put high-resolution electro-optical sensors in geosynchronous orbit (GEO) within a 24-month window. The stated goal is to maintain custody of both friendly and adversarial spacecraft in a region roughly 36,000 kilometers above Earth, a strategically vital area that houses the world’s most sensitive missile warning, communications, and intelligence networks. However, by asking commercial actors to operate these systems during their initial prototype phase, the Pentagon is effectively outsourcing the “first response” in space domain awareness. This introduces a layer of ambiguity that the current international legal framework, largely built on the distinction between civilian and military actors, is ill-equipped to handle. This development is a direct response to an escalating “capability gap” where adversaries are increasingly capable of threatening the very systems the United States relies on for strategic deterrence and decision-making. China’s military-civil fusion strategy has already demonstrated similar agility through its Shijian series, particularly the SJ-21 and SJ-25. These satellites have proven that the ability to “inspect” another nation’s asset, using robotic arms or proximity maneuvers, is often indistinguishable from the ability to disable it. When a GHOST-R satellite or its Chinese counterpart performs close-range “characterization” of a nuclear early-warning platform, the lack of transparency surrounding the operator’s immediate intent becomes a major strategic liability. In a world without the verification protocols once provided by New START, a commercial maneuver near a nuclear command-and-control node could be misinterpreted as a prelude to a strike, creating a hair-trigger environment where a technical error or a pilot’s misjudgment becomes an existential threat. The risk of such an escalation is compounded by a streamlined contracting approach known as a “Commercial Solutions Opening.” This method prioritizes speed and prototype agility over the deep-rooted strategic communication and “hardening” traditionally associated with nuclear-relevant systems. While high-resolution space-to-space imagery is undeniably necessary for informed decision-making in a contested environment, the transition from a commercially-owned model to a government-operated one creates a multi-year period of high-stakes uncertainty. If a private operator, acting under a prototype agreement, makes a maneuver that an adversary’s automated defense system flags as hostile, the response will likely focus on the nation of origin rather than the corporation. This militarization of the commercial orbital ecosystem effectively weaves private industry into the strategic network, demanding a fundamental shift in how we view the status and protection of civilian infrastructure in the high-stress environment of 2026. The goal of space governance in this hybrid age should not be to stop technological competition, but to ensure that it remains predictable and transparent. As the Space Force simultaneously moves forward with its “RG-XX” next-generation effort for a more distributed GEO surveillance architecture, the need for a coherent governance framework becomes even more urgent. The global community is witnessing the construction of a high-speed surveillance network on a foundation that is diplomatically and technically fragile. The danger is that the rapid pursuit of a technological edge is outpacing the ability to communicate intent. If every commercial satellite in GEO is a potential “Ghost” capable of spying on or interfering with national security assets, then every commercial satellite becomes a legitimate target in the eyes of a nervous adversary. This could lead to a scenario where a rogue software update or a simple piloting error by a commercial operator, who may lack the rigorous de-escalation training of a military officer, becomes the catalyst for a major strategic crisis that spills back down to Earth. To preserve the stability of the geostationary belt, the governance of space must move away from unilateral concepts and toward a multilateral consensus on “responsible behaviors.” This begins with the establishment of mandatory proximity notification protocols, an orbital equivalent to aviation’s NOTAMs (Notice to Air Missions). Under such a system, any maneuver within a set distance of a sensitive national security asset would be transparently communicated to a neutral international clearinghouse. Furthermore, there must be a revitalization of the push for legally binding instruments to ensure that “inspection” capabilities remain predictable and do not evolve into a catalyst for unintended escalation. These measures are not about claiming sovereignty in space, which is prohibited by the Outer Space Treaty, but about ensuring that the rapid commercialization of the military sphere does not accidentally dismantle the very deterrence it is meant to protect. Ultimately, GEO is a limited, precious resource that serves as the “silent watch” keeping the global peace. It is the vantage point from which the world monitors for the heat signatures of missile launches and maintains the command links for global security. As the terrestrial guardrails of nuclear treaties like New START fade, the international community cannot afford to turn these orbits into a “dark alley” of suspicion where every neighbor is a potential threat. The goal of space governance in this hybrid age should not be to stop technological competition, but to ensure that it remains predictable and transparent. Without a shared, transparent map of the heavens and a commitment to multilateral “rules of the eoad,” the decision to escalate a global conflict could be dangerously outsourced to a commercial software update or a corporate contract. Ensuring predictability in the age of GHOST-R is the only way to ensure that the pursuit of orbital awareness does not lead toward a conflict from which there is no return. Zohaib Altaf is Associate Director at the Centre for International Strategic Studies Azad Jammu and Kashmir (CISS AJK), Pakistan. His work focuses on nuclear strategy, deterrence stability, and emerging military technologies. He has written for the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, the Stimson Center, The Diplomat, and the South China Morning Post. He is also an alumnus of the Near East South Asia Center for Strategic Studies (NESA), National Defense University, Washington, DC.