Artemis Eclipses

Artemis 2 launch Artemis 2 lifts off from the Kennedy Space Center April 1. (credit: NASA/Bill Ingalls) Artemis eclipses by Jeff Foust Monday, April 6, 2026 At the final pre-launch briefing for the Artemis 2 mission March 31, a reporter asked NASA senior test director Jeff Spaulding if he was aware of any planned pranks for launch day. The launch, after all, was scheduled for April 1—April Fool’s Day—and astronauts have a long track record of practical jokes. Spaulding played it straight. “I am not aware of any pranks that anyone intends to pull on the flight crew or the launch team itself. I’ll just leave it at that,” he said. “We definitely have to fix some of the plumbing,” Isaacman told the crew. Perhaps the prank on everyone was that, on April 1, there were none of the problems that had come to be associated with the program. After multiple hydrogen leaks on Artemis 1 and a wet dress rehearsal for Artemis 2 in early Fwbruary, the tanks on the Space Launch System were filled without any sign of leaks. The countdown proceeded smoothly, with only a few minor hiccups. The weather cooperated, with a sea breeze pushing clouds inland. So, at 6:35 pm EDT, just 11 minutes into a two-hour window on the first of six days in the early April opportunity, the engines of the SLS ignited and the vehicle lifted off from Launch Complex 39B. Eight minutes later, the Interim Cryogenic Propulsion Stage and Orion spacecraft separated from the core stage, performing a series of burns to enter a highly elliptical Earth orbit. A day later, Orion ignited its main engine for a translunar injection burn, putting it on a path to go around the moon on a free-return trajectory. For the first time in 1972, human eyes got to see the Earth recede in the window as the Moon began to grow. More than five days into the mission, Artemis 2 has largely been free of major problems. “Our subsystems continue to perform very well. Everything is nominal and as expected,” Howard Hu, NASA’s Orion program manager, said at one briefing. The one trouble spot so far has been the spacecraft’s toilet. That is not entirely surprising: both the Space Shuttle’s toilet and those on the International Space Station have had problems over the years. In this case, there were issues setting up the toilet and, later, with ice blocking a wastewater vent line. “It’s a complex engineering issue when you expose a liquid to vacuum. It’s a pretty chaotic environment, and there’s a lot of theory and textbook work done when you assume it’s pure water being exposed to a vacuum,” said Rick Henfling, an Artemis 2 flight director, at a briefing Sunday. “But when you introduce the variable of it being wastewater, there’s other complex phenomena that we don’t quite yet understand that are factoring into that vent line.” In other words, there’s rocket science, and then there’s plumbing science. “We definitely have to fix some of the plumbing,” said NASA administrator Jared Isaacman when talking with the crew late Monday evening. Artemis 2 Koch Artemis 2 astronaut Christina Koch looks at Earth through a window on the Orion spacecraft. (credit: NASA) A glitchy toilet, though, was a small price to pay for a mission that has otherwise gone smoothly. On Monday, the astronauts flew around the Moon, spending several hours observing and photographing the lunar surface, including an eclipse as the Moon blocked the Sun for nearly an hour (see “The science of Artemis 2”, The Space Review, March 23, 2026.) The astronauts excitedly relayed their observations verbally to the ground—the photos would come later—and coordinated with the scientists in a science evaluation room (SER) near Mission Control, who appeared to be just as excited. “You really felt like you weren’t in a capsule. You’d been transported to the far side of the Moon, and it really just bent your mind,” Hansen said. For example, during the eclipse, Artemis 2 commander Reid Wiseman reported that he and Jeremy Hansen had seen several impact flashes caused by tiny meteoroids hitting the lunar surface. “Amazing news,” responded Kelsey Young, science team lead in Mission Control. “I literally just looked over at the SER and they were jumping up and down.” After the flyby, President Trump spoke with the crew, praising them. “You’ve really inspired the entire world, really. Everybody’s watching. They find it incredible,” he said. “Your mission paves the way for America’s return to the lunar surface, very soon.” (The session was perhaps most noteworthy for a period of silence that lasted about a minute, leading the astronauts to think the link had been interrupted; it was, rather, an awkward lull in the conversation.) Isaacman separately chatted with the crew after the flyby. “You had this sphere out in front of you, of the Moon,” Hansen told him of observing the Moon. “You really felt like you weren’t in a capsule. You’d been transported to the far side of the Moon, and it really just bent your mind. It was an extraordinary human experience.” Christina Koch recalled trying to photograph the eclipse. “When we viewed that eclipse, that was the one time we all said we literally cannot capture this with a camera,” she said. “Having to set the low light features for Earthshine on the Moon while it's an eclipse? That was a new one.” Artemis 2 eclipse An eclipse of the Sun by the Moon seen from Artemis 2 during its April 6 flyby. (credit: NASA) Budgetary eclipse The Artemis 2 mission has, so far, been a major success for NASA. Coming just days after the agency rolled out a revised exploration plan (see “Igniting a new vision for NASA”, The Space Review, March 30, 2026), Artemis 2 provides momentum for those new efforts. Of course, NASA had more than three years since Artemis 1 to prepare for Artemis 2, a mission whose launch slipped from late 2024 primarily because of issues with the Orion spacecraft, like its heat shield. A successful completion of Artemis 2 does not guarantee that NASA will be able to pull off the plans it has laid out, including an accelerated flight rate, but is a critical prerequisite. It also builds up public interest in those future missions when astronauts will not just get a passing glance of the Moon but instead walk on it. “I think we swung for the fence and launched on our first try after learning a lot earlier this year, but I think it set the stage for us to go out and continue to swing for the fence,” Victor Glover said Monday night. “I have huge expectations for what's coming next.” And yet the agency—or, more accurately, the administration—has managed to make that task much more difficult. On Friday, the White House released its fiscal year 2027 budget proposal, followed hours later by NASA’s own detailed budget request. “I think we swung for the fence and launched on our first try after learning a lot earlier this year, but I think it set the stage for us to go out and continue to swing for the fence,” saod Glover. It was not a good Friday for much of agency. In a rerun of the 2026 budget proposal, the administration sought $18.8 billion for NASA, a 23% cut from what Congress appropriated for 2026. The budget proposal would cut science funding by 47%, the same percentage as the 2026 proposal, while also cutting ISS operations and space technology. Exploration, by contrast, escaped the brunt of the cuts. The budget proposed an increase of nearly 10% for exploration, to $8.5 billion, along with funding set aside in last year’s budget reconciliation bill. That would fully fund the various elements of Artemis and includes $175 million for new robotic missions to help establish a lunar base. The proposed cuts were not a surprise to some. “I would probably follow the betting and say that ’27 is going to look like ’26,” Jamie Wise, a staff member of the House Appropriations Committee’s commerce, justice and science subcommittee, said at the Goddard Space Science Symposium last month. That did not make them any easier to accept. “As NASA astronauts are literally on their way to the Moon, showcasing the tremendous power of American innovation that the President claims to support, the administration is actively trying to sabotage their mission and the dedicated team at NASA,” said Rep. George Whitesides (D-CA), a former NASA chief of staff, in a statement about the budget. “This proposal needlessly resurrects an existential threat to US leadership in space science and exploration,” The Planetary Society said in its statement about the budget, calling the Office of Management and Budget “out of step with this broad, bipartisan consensus” of support for NASA. Artemis 2 Earthset The Earth setting behind the Moon as seen from Artemis 2 on April 6. (credit: NASA) NASA itself initially did little to support, or even promote, the budget. While in past years there had been speeches and briefings about the budget proposal, NASA did not even issue a statement about this budget proposal. Even the detailed budget document, known as a congressional justification, was a slimmed-down version of those from even a couple years ago. Missions proposed for cancellation, for example, are simply not mentioned at all in the document. Isaacman was forced to defend it two days later when he appeared on a pair of Sunday talk shows, primarily to discuss the Artemis 2 mission. “I certainly support President Trump and his 2027 budget request,” he said on CBS News’ “Face the Nation” program. He focused on the funding for exploration in the budget proposal and last year’s budget reconciliation bill. “These resources are the only reason we can accelerate production to get to the moon, to add a mission in ’27, which is Artemis 3, to build the moon base and do all the other things,” he said. “The advice I give people is never get too caught up in what’s in the budget proposal,” Wise said. “It is just the beginning of the process.” He made similar comments on CNN’s “State of the Union” program. “NASA doesn’t have a topline problem. We just need to focus on executing and delivering world-changing outcomes,” he said of the budget, whose topline was 23% below what the agency received in 2026. The 2027 proposal may face the same fate as the 2026 one, where congressional appropriators largely undid the proposed cuts, keeping NASA at close to its 2025 levels. Some called on the House and Senate appropriations committees to simply ignore the request as they craft their spending bills in the coming months. “The advice I give people is never get too caught up in what’s in the budget proposal,” Wise said. “It is just the beginning of the process.” However, it detracts from what should be an unqualified win for NASA: the first human spaceflight beyond Earth orbit since 1972. Instead of simply building on that success, the agency will have to defend it in a budget that skews towards exploration at the expense of science, ISS, and space technology. What is NASA willing to sacrifice to race back to the Moon? 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.

POPPY And The Dawn Of Satellite Ocean Surveillance

Moskva The Moskva's Top Sail radar was new and unique to that ship when it conducted sea trials in the Black Sea in 1967, making it possible for American signals analysts to connect the radar emissions to a specific vessel. This demonstrated that it was possible to track ships at sea from space. (credit: US Navy, modified by Benjamin Claremont) Pinning the tail on the Moskva: POPPY and the dawn of satellite ocean surveillance by Dwayne A. Day Monday, April 6, 2026 In 1963, American reconnaissance satellites overflew a shipyard in Mykolayev, Ukraine, on the Black Sea, and photographed evidence of a new large vessel under construction. But it was not until 1965 that satellite photographs revealed it to be “an unusual ship,” in the words of a CIA report. Later that year, it became clear that it “was a helicopter platform, with either an ASW or amphibious assault mission.” It was launched in 1967 and began sea trial inside Soviet waters. This was a time when the Soviet Union was beginning to send its fleet further out to sea, challenging the US Navy, and any new large warship was of great interest to the Navy admirals. As the satellites became more sophisticated and their operators more skilled, they were soon detecting signals that were from moving targets as well as stationary ones. The NRL, also being a part of the Navy, was naturally interested in ships. The ship bore a resemblance to the French helicopter carrier Jeanne d’Arc, with missiles mounted forward, a large, tall superstructure amidships, and a large rear flight deck for carrying multiple helicopters. Over time, intelligence analysts learned that the ship was named the Moskva, and concluded that it was most likely intended to launch helicopters to hunt American submarines, and was ill-suited to serve as an amphibious assault ship. American satellites spotted the helicopters that were assigned for the ship (by noting where they were based) and identified them as sub-hunters. The Moskva lacked the ability to carry many helicopters or ground assault troops, and the ship’s elevators were too small for rapid flight operations. American analysts also suspected that Moskva’s large superstructure created bad turbulence over the rear flight deck, limiting helicopter operations. The 1966–67 edition of “Jane’s Fighting Ships” accurately noted that the Soviet Union had built a helicopter carrier, although this was misreported in the general press as an “aircraft carrier.” As Moskva was tooling around the Black Sea, satellites photographed a second ship under construction. Moskva A page from a comic book produced by the National Reconnaissance Office depicting a POPPY satellite surveilling the oceans. (credit: NRO) Collecting whispers from above The United States had multiple intelligence satellites peering down on the Soviet Union. In addition to the photographic satellites, the secret National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), which managed the United States’ fleet of intelligence satellites, also had signals intelligence satellites that listened for the emissions from various types of radars on the ground. Some of the satellites were designed, built, and operated by the Naval Research Laboratory (NRL) for the NRO. NRL’s satellites were known as POPPY. POPPY satellites could intercept radar signals coming from the ground and immediately beam that information to a ground station within view of the satellite. As the satellites became more sophisticated and their operators more skilled, they were soon detecting signals that were from moving targets as well as stationary ones. The NRL, also being a part of the Navy, was naturally interested in ships. Reid Mayo was the head of the specific part of the NRL that developed the POPPY satellites. In 1981 he gave a lengthy interview about the NRL’s work on developing signals intelligence. That interview was classified top secret and only declassified in March 2026. It provides a wealth of information on the early development of signals intelligence satellites, and space-based ocean surveillance, and the key role the Moskva played in initiating that intelligence mission. By spring 1968 about 30 to 50 ships at sea had been located by POPPY, Mayo recounted in 1981. “Some of them were known, and some of them were highly suspect,” Mayo said. “The ones that were most important were those that they [signals analysts] could not put any signature to.” Moskva The Soviet Union built two Moskva-class helicopter carriers in the 1960s to hunt American Polaris ballistic missile submarines. They had a distinctive design with a large helicopter deck aft. (credit: US Navy) Moskva sets sail The signals analysts at NRL were very attuned to the new data they were gathering. “Once they saw a ship leave Sevastopol and go out into the Black Sea, tour around for 4-5 days, then come back into Sevastopol, and be at dockside for three weeks and go out again,” Mayo said. “Finally, this unique emitter headed for the Bosporus, went past Istanbul, and out into the Mediterranean. All the cameras and eyeballs we could convene on that occasion were watching, and what we saw was the new helicopter carrier Moskva on its first tour outside the inland waters of the Soviet Union. We then recognized that we had observed its TOP SAIL radar signal for four or five months. We saw it in September, again in December in the Black Sea, then, finally, in the spring, it went out into the Mediterranean.” Moorer blew up at them. “What Navy do you work for?!” he yelled. “He really was rather irate about it,” Mayo recalled. This was, to put it mildly, a big deal. Moskva was designed to hunt American Polaris ballistic missile submarines in the Mediterranean. But more importantly, the wizards at the NRL had finally identified a specific ship based on its radar emissions. “We were able to pin the tail on the donkey,” Mayo recalled. “We were able to say this ELINT signature is that emitter on that ship.” “It was a new family of emitters, it had never been deployed before,” Mayo explained. “Some months later, the same radar was put on another helicopter carrier, and a year later on a cruiser. Each time, those signals were detected in Soviet waters, deep inside their interior, before the ships came out where you could really be sure of what they were.” Moskva A US reconnaissance satellite of a Black Sea port in 1977 shows one of the two Moskva-class ships at dockside. (credit: Harry Stranger) The dawn of ocean surveillance In April 1968, Admiral Thomas Moorer, the Chief of Naval Operations—the most senior officer in the US Navy—was going to have lunch with a top intelligence advisor to discuss signals intelligence. Moorer’s staff believed that he should receive a briefing about the POPPY satellite program. Three top officials from the NRL—Harold Lorenzen, Captain Weldon, and Reid Mayo—went to brief Admiral Moorer. They took some large briefing charts and a notebook filled with information on POPPY. They did not know what kind of meeting they were going to have with the CNO. Due to an interruption, Moorer asked for a quicker, less-formal briefing. Rather than the briefing charts, they started thumbing through a three-holed notebook they had brought, telling him how the POPPY satellites had tracked the Moskva for three or four months before it came through the Bosporus, showing him the ship’s track in the Black Sea. Moorer blew up at them. “What Navy do you work for?!” he yelled. “He really was rather irate about it,” Mayo recalled. “Well, yours, sir, why do you ask?” Moorer said that Lyndon Johnson had been pressuring him about foreign ships at sea and wanted to know where they were heading. Were they heading for Cuba? Could they be carrying missiles to Cuba? “Admiral Moorer said he did not have enough aviation fuel and aviator eyeballs to position them in all the areas where they might have been, and he just could not find them,” Mayo recalled. Moorer then said, “And you mean, we have a capability here of locating a ship in hours?” He could use that information to get a P-2 Orion patrol plane over a ship and answer the president’s question. “He wanted to know why he had not heard of this capability before. In fact, he wanted to have a briefing on our results, and as we began to exploit this, he wanted a briefing every week!” Mayo exclaimed. “So that’s how ocean surveillance began,” Mayo concluded. Moskva Declassified 1973 CIA comparison of several aircraft carriers as well as the unique Soviet ships such as the Moskva. (credit: Harry Stranger) Mayo thought that Moorer might have been vaguely aware of POPPY’s capabilities. “He might have known there was a Navy program doing national work for the NRO, but he didn’t have the realization that it could locate ships.” The NRL began trying to detect moving emitters with much more urgency. “Ships were the majority of them,” Mayo explained. “Oh, we located a few aircraft, too. We even tried to optimize the location by varying altitude on one aircraft intercept, and we could show that it was some 3,000 or 4,000 feet in the air. It was a rough optimization.” Moskva Moskva The Soviet Union built two Moskva-class helicopter carriers. They rolled badly in heavy seas. (credit: airbase.ru) They also detected a submarine. Although the details remain classified, this was a major deal. Soviet ballistic missile submarines had to get relatively close to American shores to launch their missiles. When they stuck an antenna out of the water to report back to base, a satellite could intercept the signal and report the location and direction of movement. That could be used to send submarine-hunting aircraft, or other submarines, to find the Soviet vessel. Eventually, space-based ocean surveillance became a major development effort for the NRL and the National Reconnaissance Office, leading to POPPY’s follow-on program, named PARCAE. But the details and the breadth of this work is only now becoming known. As for the Moskva and its sister ship, Leningrad, they were probably less menacing to the US Navy’s submarines than the Soviets intended. The ships handled badly in rough weather, due primarily to their wide beam compared to their relatively short length. They rolled sickeningly in heavy swells, limiting their helicopter operations and undoubtedly making their sailors miserable. The Soviet Union only built two before focusing on other designs. The NRL sought to track them too. Dwayne Day can be reached at zirconic1@cox.net.

After 30 Years Mars 96 Has Not Been Found

Mars 96 Concept illustration of Mars-96 penetrators descending toward the Martian surface. (credit: NPO Lavochkin / Russian Academy of Sciences, via NASA SP-4515) Thirty years later, Mars 96 has not been found Unprecedented scientific collaboration, catastrophic failure, and an uncertain final resting place by Dante Sanaei Monday, April 6, 2026 On the night of November 16, 1996, a strange light moved slowly across the skies of Chile. Observers in remote mountain regions described a brilliant object traveling horizontally along the horizon, far brighter than any star and leaving behind a luminous trail that lingered in the thin air. Unlike a meteor’s sudden flash, this phenomenon endured. For nearly a minute it crossed the darkness, shedding faint fragments that glowed briefly before fading from view. In the Andes, a landscape defined by silence and vast distances, the event felt both unmistakably real and deeply uncertain—something that did not belong in the usually peaceful night sky. In the new political landscape of the early 1990s, some began to imagine a different future, one in which the next great attempt to reach Mars might be undertaken not in rivalry, but together. Maybe old foes could become friends. Among those who witnessed the passage was John VanderBrink, an electronics specialist at the European Southern Observatory near La Serena, who was camping in the mountains of southern Chile at the time. He later recalled that he “had no illusions that it was anything other than a piece of space debris.” That same night, thousands of miles away, scientists and engineers in Moscow were confronting a different burning realization. A spacecraft they had launched only hours earlier, bound for Mars, was missing. This is the story of Mars 96. A new era of interplanetary collaboration Nearly five years earlier, the Soviet Union had dissolved, ending the decades-long Cold War that had defined the first half-century of the Space Age. From Sputnik’s sudden shock in 1957 to Neil Armstrong’s steps onto the lunar surface in 1969, exploration beyond Earth had grown up in an environment of Soviet-American rivalry. With the emergence of the Russian Federation, an uncertain question emerged: what would become of the space race that had shaped modern planetary exploration? Mars in particular had long represented unreachable opportunity. For decades, American and Soviet spacecraft attempted flybys, orbit insertions, and landings with uneven success. The Soviet Mars-3 probe achieved the first soft landing on the planet in 1971, though contact was lost after just 20 seconds. NASA’s Mariner and Viking missions later secured sustained orbital observations and the first long-lived surface operations. Between 1960 and 1988, the two nations launched more than two dozen missions toward Mars. In the new political landscape of the early 1990s, some began to imagine a different future, one in which the next great attempt to reach Mars might be undertaken not in rivalry, but together. Maybe old foes could become friends. Very quickly this hoped-for collaboration began to take institutional form. Bilateral agreements signed in 1992 opened the way for joint US-Russian human spaceflight, and in 1993 Russia was invited into the redesigned station program that would eventually become the International Space Station. The following year, Shuttle-Mir began in earnest, pairing American astronauts with Russian cosmonauts and turning the aging Mir station into a laboratory for post-Cold War partnership. Mars 96 was born in that atmosphere of cautious optimism. The mission was Russian-led but unmistakably multinational in character: its scientific payload drew on contributions from Germany, France, Italy, Poland, Spain, Belgium, Finland, Austria, and the United States. NASA’s Jet Propulsion Lab would excitedly describe their contribution of two science payloads as “part of the expanding U.S.-Russian cooperation effort in space exploration.” Mars 96 was not merely another probe bound for a distant planet, but a statement about what the post-Cold War space age might become: an era of interplanetary collaboration. Built for another world The Russians had built a highly ambitious mission. Mars 96 contained two surface landers, two surface penetrators, and an orbiter. At more than 6,500 kilograms, the payload was the largest interplanetary spacecraft humans had ever launched. The Proton-K rocket would carry more than 40 science instruments to the Red Planet. Their purpose was to study the atmosphere, the surface, the climate, the magnetic field, and search for water and potential life: just about everything there is to do on Mars. The spacecraft represented not just a return for Russia, but one of the most complex planetary expeditions ever attempted. Mars 96 was to explore the planet simultaneously from above, on the surface, and beneath it. The three-axis-stabilized orbiter was intended to operate for approximately two Earth years in a highly elliptical, near-polar orbit, gradually mapping nearly the entire surface of Mars. Two small autonomous stations (Malaya avtonomnaya stantsiya) were to be released ahead of orbital insertion, descending to the surface cushioned by inflatable shells that would split open after touchdown. Once deployed, their instruments would photograph the surrounding terrain and analyze local soil and atmospheric conditions. A similar airbag-assisted landing concept would gain public recognition just a year later with NASA’s Mars Pathfinder mission. Mars 96 Engineering model of one of two Mars 96 surface landers on display at the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy Center. (credit: Sanjay Acharya / CC BY-SA) Even more unusual were the mission’s two hardened penetrators: long, cylindrical probes intended to strike the ground at high velocity and bury themselves several meters below the surface. From this protected position they would measure seismic activity and subsurface heat flow, forming part of a distributed scientific network that could continue transmitting data for up to a year. If successful, Mars 96 would have produced one of the most comprehensive datasets on the planet since the Viking era. In mid-November 1996, after years of design, delay, and renewed international coordination, final launch preparations were underway at the Baikonur Cosmodrome. Engineers, mission operators, and visiting scientists gathered as the fully assembled vehicle stood poised for departure. The next stop was Mars. The long fall back home Shortly after midnight on November 16, 1996, the engines ignited and Mars 96 began its ascent into space. The spacecraft first entered a temporary parking orbit roughly 160 kilometers above Earth, completing its initial critical burn about 20 minutes after liftoff. As it crossed the Pacific within range of both Russian and American tracking stations, controllers prepared for the next stage of the carefully choreographed escape sequence. A second firing of the upper stage was meant to accelerate the probe toward interplanetary velocity, after which it would separate and ignite its own engine to complete the departure for Mars. If successful, Mars 96 would have produced one of the most comprehensive datasets on the planet since the Viking era. At this point, something went seriously wrong. The upper stage either failed to ignite properly or shut down almost immediately, leaving the spacecraft trapped in Earth orbit. Yet the onboard autopilot continued executing its programmed sequence, separating from the stage and firing its own engine as if the mission were proceeding normally. Solar panels unfolded, telemetry was transmitted, and for a brief moment engineers at the main Russian tracking center in Crimea believed that Mars 96 was successfully on its way to another planet. Only when orbital data began to arrive did the realization set in: the spacecraft had never escaped Earth’s gravity. It would soon be returning home—quite rapidly, in fact. Early assessments by US Space Command suggested that the spacecraft, carrying small quantities of plutonium heater material, might reenter over remote regions of Australia. Concern quickly reached the highest levels of government. President Bill Clinton held a telephone conversation with Australian Prime Minister John Howard to offer full American support for any search and recovery operation that might become necessary. As additional tracking data arrived the projected impact zone shifted repeatedly. By Sunday evening in Washington, analysts concluded that the debris had most likely burned up west of Chile near Easter Island, ending the immediate concern. But this would not be the end of the story. In the weeks that followed, reentry tracking data, notoriously difficult to predict with precision, underwent further analysis. US Space Command gradually refined its estimates, suggesting that debris from Mars 96 may have fallen within a broad elliptical corridor stretching across the eastern Pacific and into parts of northern Chile and Bolivia. White House spokesman David Johnson later told reporters that this updated information had been shared with regional governments “as soon as we concluded that there was a possibility of something falling there.” The uncertainty persisted. The following March, US Space Command acknowledged that it was aware of eyewitness reports from Chile. “We were aware of a number of eyewitness accounts of the re-entry event via the media several weeks after the re-entry occurred,” wrote Major Stephen Boylan, Chief of the Media Division at the command’s headquarters in Colorado Springs. “Upon further analysis, we believe it is reasonable that the impact was in fact on land.” A search was never performed. Nobody went looking for Mars 96. Designed to survive impact No matter the eventual landing site, Mars 96 certainly did not reenter Earth’s atmosphere in the elegant manner they had been designed for at Mars. Interestingly enough, it remains within the realm of possibility that the mission’s two surface penetrators survived. Built to strike the rocky Martian surface at roughly 70 to 80 meters per second and continue operating underground, they were constructed with thick, compact casings intended to endure violent impact. The chaotic aerodynamic forces of atmospheric breakup may well have destroyed them before reaching the ground, but it is equally conceivable that one or both endured the descent and came to rest largely in one piece. It remains within the realm of possibility that the mission’s two surface penetrators survived. Another possible surprise for the Andes involves the spacecraft’s 18 radioisotope heater units (RHUs). The small plutonium-238 powered radioisotope heater units were specifically engineered to survive catastrophic events, such as launch accidents or an atmospheric reentry over South America. Similar incidents had occurred before. In 1978, fragments of the Soviet nuclear-powered satellite Cosmos-954 were scattered across remote regions of northern Canada after an uncontrolled descent. There is a strange irony in the possibility that hardware built to endure the violence of arrival at Mars may instead have proven its worth in an accidental descent back to Earth. The wrong planet There is something quietly absurd about the fate of Mars 96. A spacecraft engineered to be tracked from hundreds of millions of kilometers away may instead have vanished somewhere on Eart, a world mapped in exquisite detail by satellites, aircraft, and increasingly by ordinary people carrying cameras in their pockets Three decades later, its final resting place remains unknown. It is possible that fragments were scattered across the Pacific, broken apart by the violence of reentry. It is also possible that more durable components survived largely intact, coming to rest in remote terrain rarely visited by humans. Somewhere in a dry valley, across the windswept Altiplano, or among the salt flats and volcanic slopes of the high Andes, hardware built for another planet may still lie quietly under open sky. Above such places, Mars appears no closer than it did on the night the spacecraft fell back to Earth. Today, it does seem that the Russian Mars exploration program ended on a sour note. To date, Russia has not successfully sent an independent Mars mission to the Red Planet. Elements of Mars 96’s scientific legacy endured. Many of the instrument science teams would contribute to future successful spacecraft such as the Mars Express orbiter launched in 2003. The lander’s Alpha Proton X-ray Spectrometer, developed by the University of Chicago, would reach Mars just months later aboard NASA’s Mars Pathfinder mission, where a closely related unit began returning chemical readings from the surface of another world. One instrument was fulfilling its purpose on Mars, quietly carrying forward the work its lost sibling would never perform. There is a Russian proverb: “One beaten person is worth two unbeaten ones.” Still waiting Thirty years have passed with no definite conclusion. One day, a hiker, miner, or researcher may come upon an object that does not belong: compact, metallic, and unmistakably built for another world. Or maybe not. Somewhere on the wrong planet, Mars 96 may still be waiting. Mars 96 was, above all, a mission of extraordinary collaboration and ambition. Conceived in Russia but carrying instruments and scientific hopes from across Europe and the United States, it reflected a brief moment when planetary exploration felt shared rather than divided. Its failure was swift and largely unceremonious, and in the decades since, it has survived mostly in technical literature and the fading recollections of those who helped build and launch it. Its ultimate resting place remains genuinely uncertain. Whether its surviving fragments lie somewhere in the remote Andes, deep beneath ocean waters, or lost in ways that will never be known, nobody will ever go looking for it. What endures is the idea it once carried: that ambitious cooperation can be set into motion even in fragile circumstances. Like the spacecraft itself, collaboration was launched but never quite arrived. Somewhere on the wrong planet, Mars 96 may still be waiting. Sources Siddiqi, A. A., Beyond Earth: A Chronicle of Deep Space Exploration, 1958–2016, NASA History Division, 2018. Oberg, J., “The Probe That Fell to Earth,” New Scientist, 1999. Clinton, W. J., “The President’s News Conference,” Weekly Compilation of Presidential Documents, 25 November 1996. United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs, Report on the Re-entry of the Russian Mars-96 Spacecraft. Perminov, V. G., The Difficult Road to Mars: A Brief History of Mars Exploration in the Soviet Union, NASA SP-4515, 1999. NASA Office of Inspector General, NASA’s International Partnerships, 2016. NASA, “Space Station 20th: Launch of Mir 18 Crew,” 2020. NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory, Mars-96 Press Kit. NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory, “U.S. Soil Experiment Ready to Launch Aboard Russia’s Mars-96.” NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory, “NASA Mars Orbiter Images May Show 1971 Soviet Lander.” Malin Space Science Systems, “Mars 96 Penetrators.” Rieder, R., Wänke, H., and Economou, T., “An Alpha Proton X-Ray Spectrometer for Mars-96 and Mars Pathfinder,” Bulletin of the American Astronomical Society, 1996. Dante Sanaei is an aerospace engineer at the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory.

Australia: Ownership Without Oversight: Australia's On Orbit Supervision Gap

HEO satellite An image of a Chinese satellite taken by Continuum-1, a satellite now owned and operated by Australian company HEO. (credit: HEO) Ownership without oversight: Australia’s on-orbit supervision gap by Jeremy Kruckel Monday, April 6, 2026 When HEO acquired full title and operational control of an in orbit satellite from Satellogic in late 2025, Australia gained its first dedicated asset under Australian ownership. The satellite, renamed Continuum-1, was launched years earlier by the United States on a SpaceX Falcon 9 from Cape Canaveral. Australia played no role in its launch and is not a launching state under the Liability Convention. The more serious risk lies ahead, when Australia becomes a launching state and the roles reverse. Under Article VI of the Outer Space Treaty, Australia bears international responsibility for all national activities in space, including those of its private entities, and the obligation to authorize and continually supervise them. Australian law does not currently provide the means to do so, leaving the nation internationally responsible for an activity it has no legal power to supervise. This article examines that gap and proposes a three-layer framework—mutual recognition with trusted partners, performance bonds for higher risk cases, and accountability for Australian sellers—to close it. Australia’s existing regulatory gap The Space Launches and Returns Act 2018 licenses launches from Australian territory, launches by Australian nationals from foreign territory, and returns to Australia. It does not license the ongoing operation of satellites that Australian entities acquire second-hand from foreign sellers, even where the original operator continues to provide support services under contract. HEO now operates Continuum-1, directing the satellite’s mission priorities, imaging modes, and maneuvers. In February 2026, HEO conducted rendezvous and proximity operations using Continuum-1, further demonstrating the need for oversight. Article VI of the Outer Space Treaty requires Australia to authorize and continually supervise all national space activities. The Australian Space Agency therefore has an obligation to monitor what HEO does with Continuum-1. Yet under current law the agency has no standing to request information about those maneuvers, the satellite’s disposal plan, or any operational decisions that could affect safety or create debris. There is no license through which conditions could be imposed, no reporting requirement to enforce, and no legal authority to intervene if concerns arise. Any information the agency might receive would be entirely voluntary. This is the lesser of two evils. Australia is not exposed to direct liability for damage from Continuum-1 because the United States remains the launching state under the Liability Convention. Australia is in a position where it can avoid paying compensation while still failing its treaty obligation to supervise. The more serious risk lies ahead, when Australia becomes a launching state and the roles reverse. Sovereign responsibility without sovereign control The term sovereign is often used loosely in space discussions, but it carries a precise meaning in Australian defense policy. A 2023 ministerial statement on sovereignty defined it as “the capacity of a people, through their government, to determine their own circumstances and to act of their own accord, free from any coercive influence.” Sovereign capability in the defense sense means the ability to act independently without requiring another state’s permission. In the regulatory context, sovereign control means the state having legal authority over its nationals’ activities. The two are linked: without the latter, the former rests on a hollow foundation. For Australia, the primary sovereign interest is in being free from the coercive consequences of others’ actions and, more specifically, not being forced to pay for damage caused by assets it cannot control. The framework proposed here is therefore not an assertion of domination over foreign operators, but a means of managing the risk that Australia will otherwise be held liable for outcomes it cannot influence. This structural mismatch between treaty assumptions and commercial practice makes the gap in Australian law not a mere oversight but a symptom of a broader governance challenge. Ownership of a satellite by an Australian company does not, by itself, confer sovereign capability. From the perspective of Australia’s international obligations, such a company is primarily a source of liability. True sovereign control exists only when the state has the legal authority to ensure private activities align with treaty commitments and do not generate risks for which Australia must answer internationally. The distinction matters because it clarifies what the gap actually is: Australia lacks sovereign control over activities for which it bears sovereign responsibility. When the problem reverses The more significant risk lies ahead. Australia will soon launch its own satellites and become a launching state under the Liability Convention. Once a state becomes a launching state, it retains that status perpetually. There is no mechanism to transfer that designation to another state without a formal government-to-government agreement. If Australia later sells one of its satellites to a foreign operator, as HEO just bought from Satellogic, the roles reverse. Australia would retain permanent liability for a satellite it no longer owns, no longer controls, and has no legal power to supervise. The foreign operator could maneuver recklessly, refuse to deorbit, or cause a debris event, and Australia could face liability claims. More importantly, Australia would fail its treaty obligation to supervise a national activity, regardless of whether a claim is ever filed. Australian law provides no mechanism to require that operator to follow basic safety protocols or even to inform Australia of its activities. The global satellite market already includes on-orbit transfers, and as commercial space activity expands, the number of actors and cross-border transactions will only grow. A satellite launched by Australia could be sold to a private operator in another country, and that operator might later sell it again to a third party. At each step, Australia’s liability as the launching state remains, but its legal authority to supervise the asset disappears. Other nations will face similar gaps as established spacefaring countries partner with emerging ones and as private assets change hands across jurisdictions. Australia is not alone in confronting this oversight. Every state that becomes a launching state will eventually face it. The Outer Space Treaty was drafted in an era when only governments launched satellites and commercial space activity was minimal. Article VI’s assumption that a state could authorize and continually supervise “national activities” through a single point of control is strained by today’s reality of cross-border transfers and long lived assets. Launch licenses cover the moment of departure from Earth, but there is no equivalent license for the life of a satellite, especially after it has been sold to a foreign operator. This structural mismatch between treaty assumptions and commercial practice makes the gap in Australian law not a mere oversight but a symptom of a broader governance challenge. Moreover, the complexity does not stop with simple sales. Satellites will be serviced in orbit, extending their operational lives beyond original expectations. A propulsion unit built by one country might be attached to a satellite registered by another, creating hybrid objects with no clear allocation of liability. States themselves can change: a country that launched a satellite may dissolve or split, leaving questions about who inherits the responsibility. These scenarios are not decades away; on-orbit servicing is already being demonstrated, and geopolitical changes are a perennial reality. A framework that can handle the straightforward case of a sale must also be designed to absorb these more complex situations without requiring a new treaty every time. The three-layer approach proposed here, one of mutual recognition, performance bonds, and seller accountability, is intentionally flexible, creating a foundation that can adapt as the nature of on orbit transfers evolves. Australia is well placed to develop a framework because it sits at the intersection of allied and non-allied space actors and has no legacy regulatory baggage to unwind. A clean slate, combined with the need to solve the problem, makes Australia a natural laboratory for a model others can adapt. A scalable three-layer framework Any framework for supervising satellite transfers must answer a practical question: what happens if an operator ignores the rules? The answer cannot rely solely on international diplomacy or hope that operators will act responsibly out of goodwill. But it also cannot assume that every operator is a potential rogue requiring maximum oversight. The approach proposed here uses three layers of enforcement, each designed for a different category of operator and a different level of risk. Together they form a system that is neither barrier nor bluff. Any framework for supervising satellite transfers must answer a practical question: what happens if an operator ignores the rules? This would require a modest amendment to the Space Launches and Returns Act 2018 to introduce a new on-orbit transfer authorization that any Australian entity must obtain before acquiring or disposing of title or operational control of a satellite. The authorization would give the agency standing to impose conditions and would trigger the appropriate layer of oversight. Layer 1: Mutual recognition with trusted partners The first layer applies to operators based in jurisdictions with space licensing regimes that Australia recognizes as equivalent to its own. For these operators, the requirement would be satisfied through information sharing and notification rather than a full Australian license. The operator continues to be supervised by its home regulator, and Australia receives regular updates on the satellite’s status, maneuver plans, and disposal timeline. Where the home regulator’s oversight is genuine, this layer imposes no additional cost or administrative burden. It treats allied and trusted spacefaring nations as partners rather than subjects of regulation. Equivalence would be determined by objective criteria, not simply geopolitical alignment. Australia would consider whether the foreign regulator has clear legal authority to license space activities, effective enforcement powers, transparent procedures, and a demonstrated record of ensuring compliance with safety and debris mitigation standards. Regimes that meet these criteria could be recognized through bilateral agreements and those that do not would default to Layer 2. This approach ensures that the first layer is available to any operator whose home regulator meets a high but verifiable standard, regardless of whether that state is a traditional ally. It also provides a pathway for emerging space nations to qualify as their regulatory capabilities mature. The limit of this layer is that it only functions where trust is warranted and where the foreign regulator has both the authority and the resources to enforce its rules. Australia would need to negotiate these arrangements bilaterally and review them periodically to ensure they remain effective. Pending such agreements, operators from those jurisdictions would default to Layer 2 until mutual recognition is established. This transitional default is a necessary tool to maintain Australia’s control while recognition agreements are being built, and it is not intended as a permanent barrier. Layer 2: Performance bonds for higher risk cases The second layer applies when the operator’s home jurisdiction does not have an equivalent regime, or when Australia has not yet established a recognition agreement with that jurisdiction. In these cases, the operator would be required to lodge a performance bond with the Australian government before the transfer proceeds, as a condition of the transfer authorization. The bond would be held in escrow for the life of the satellite plus a defined period after disposal, and its amount would be determined by a risk assessment considering factors such as the operator’s track record, the satellite’s orbital regime, and the stability of the operator’s home jurisdiction. The transfer authorization would also impose standard conditions on post-transfer operations covering maneuvers, disposal, and debris mitigation that the foreign operator must accept as a condition of the deal. If the operator breaches those conditions or causes damage for which Australia must pay compensation, the bond is forfeited to cover costs. If the satellite is disposed of safely and no claims arise, the bond is returned with interest. This layer gives Australia financial security upfront and removes the need to pursue a foreign entity across borders. The operator retains the freedom to proceed, and the bond amount simply reflects the risk Australia is being asked to assume. A performance bond imposes a cost, and that cost will be higher for operators that present higher risk. This is a mechanism by which Australia ensures that accepting perpetual liability for a foreign-controlled asset is accompanied by financial security. If the bond prices some operators out of the market, those are precisely the operators for whom Australia should not be assuming liability in the first place. The framework is not designed to maximize transfers, but rather to ensure that when transfers occur, Australia is protected. Industry concerns about liquidity can be addressed by allowing operators to satisfy the bond requirement through insurance products such as surety bonds, ensuring cash is not left idle unnecessarily. Risk assessment for foreign operators inevitably involves information asymmetries. Australia may have limited visibility into an operator’s practices or the effectiveness of its home regulator. The framework would draw on established methods used by export credit agencies and financial regulators, supplemented by information from the operator’s jurisdiction where available. Where information is insufficient, the bond would be set conservatively to reflect uncertainty. To avoid imposing a prohibitive barrier on operators with limited track records but genuine intent, a phased approach could be adopted such as an initial lower bond that increases if the operator demonstrates poor performance, or a bond that decreases over time as the operator builds a compliance history. Such flexibility would balance risk management with the need to allow legitimate operators from all regions to participate in the on orbit market. The criteria used in risk assessment, including the stability of the operator’s home jurisdiction, should be reviewed periodically to ensure they do not systematically disadvantage operators based on factors unrelated to operational safety. A transparent review process would help maintain the framework’s credibility and ensure that its application remains proportionate to actual risk. Layer 3: Accountability for Australian sellers The third layer operates alongside the first two and applies to Australian entities involved in the transfer. An Australian company selling a satellite to a foreign operator remains subject to Australian corporate law and the jurisdiction of Australian regulators. If that company fails to ensure the transfer complies with the framework, or if it provides false information in the risk assessment, the existing tools of fines, license suspension, and director liability come into play. These consequences depend on the company valuing its Australian registration, its access to the Australian market, and its directors’ freedom from personal liability. This is the only real leverage Australia retains once the hardware is in a foreign jurisdiction, and for a reputable Australian company it is sufficient. It ensures that the Australian seller, who is best positioned to verify the operator and structure the transfer, has a strong incentive to get it right. Any framework for supervising satellite transfers must answer a practical question: what happens if an operator ignores the rules? To prevent a seller from dissolving or restructuring after the sale to avoid ongoing accountability, the transfer authorization could require the seller to maintain a legal presence in Australia or provide a parent company guarantee for the life of the satellite. This would ensure that the entity that profited from the transfer remains available to answer for any compliance failures, closing a potential loophole without imposing undue burden on legitimate operators. Should the seller dissolve after the transfer, the individuals who made the decision, its directors, remain personally liable for any breaches committed while the company was under Australian jurisdiction, ensuring that accountability follows the people responsible, not just the corporate shell. To prevent circumvention through foreign intermediaries, the transfer authorization would apply whenever an Australian entity has effective control over the satellite or the transaction, regardless of the formal corporate structure used. This ensures that structuring a sale through a foreign subsidiary cannot defeat the purpose of the framework. An Australian company considering a sale might ask whether it could simply reincorporate overseas to avoid Australian oversight. It would gain nothing. Australia’s liability as the launching state is not tied to the company’s domicile. It attaches to the satellite itself and follows from Australia’s role in its launch. No change in corporate registration can unwind that. The only way for Australia to escape liability is to find another state willing to assume it through a formal government-to-government agreement. No private company can arrange that. Any regulatory framework creates some friction. The question is whether the friction is justified by the risk it mitigates. For a perpetual liability, a mechanism that ensures some financial security is proportionate. Closing the gap before the first test arrives These three layers are not mutually exclusive, as an operator from a non-recognized jurisdiction could be required to lodge a bond, and the Australian seller of that satellite would also be subject to the third layer’s accountability. A transfer to an operator in a recognized jurisdiction would use only the first and third layers, with no bond required. The system scales with the operator and the risk, rather than applying a uniform rule that fits no one well. It gives the Australian Space Agency flexibility while maintaining clear standards. And it ensures that for every transfer, there is a mechanism, financial or regulatory, that gives Australia some form of recourse if things go wrong. The HEO transaction is not a crisis, but it is a warning. Australian companies now acquire foreign assets in orbit, and soon Australian-launched satellites will be sold abroad. The law must be prepared for a future where satellites are not merely bought and sold but also serviced, refueled, and repurposed beyond their original design life. Closing the gap now creates the foundation on which answers to those harder questions can be built. Jeremy Kruckel is an independent space policy analyst based in Australia.

Book Review: "Return To Launch

book cover Review: Return to Launch by Jeff Foust Monday, April 6, 2026 Return to Launch: Florida and America’s Space Industry by Stephen C. Smith University of Florida Press, 2026 hardcover, 348 pp., illus. ISBN 978-1-68340-656-3 US$38 During a press conference last Monday in the windowless briefing room at the Kennedy Space Center Press Site, the discussions about preparations for the Artemis 2 launch were interrupted by a rumble. The first thing that came to mind was thunder—it’s Florida, after all—but there were no storms in the vicinity. The rumbled continued far longer than one expected for any storm. A reporter calling into the briefing, unaware of the commotion, continued to ask his question while those in the room smiled, aware of what was going on. “This is why it’s great to be in America,” said Amit Kshatriya, NASA associate administrator. “Your question got walked on because there’s another launch going on right now.” It was a Falcon 9 launch several kilometers away at Space Launch Complex 40. It is now the private sector that is driving the activity at Cape Canaveral, one that insulates the region and its economy from the vagaries of policies and appropriations. Launches are increasingly commonplace on Florida’s Space Coast, with more than 100 orbital launches in 2025 (see “The dominance of Cape Canaveral and Vandenberg”, The Space Review, February 9, 2026.) It’s a far cry from 15 years ago, when the retirement of the Space Shuttle brought with it an economic downturn, the latest boom-and-bust cycle the region has seen. Such boom-and-bust cycles predate the Space Age in Florida’s Brevard County, Stephen Smith notes in the new book Return to Launch. In 1940, the US Navy opened a naval air station on the coast, bringing in thousands of servicemen, only for the base to close a couple years after the war. The race to the Moon in the 1960s resulted in a much bigger boom followed by bust as Apollo wound down, with the shuttle creating another cycle. Smith argues in the book that this latest boom is different, with the federal government—the military and NASA—no longer the driver. It is now the private sector, notably SpaceX, that is driving the activity at Cape Canaveral, one that insulates the region and its economy from the vagaries of policies and appropriations. The book charts that transition, which is decades in the making. In the 1980s, local and state officials attempted to develop a commercial space industry through commercial launch sites. For years, those efforts struggled, in part because of what Smith describes as “pettiness and parochialism” among people and agencies, which he covers in great detail in the books’ early chapters. However, similar efforts in other states also struggled to attract commercial space business, from the limited launches at Virginia’s Mid-Atlantic Regional Spaceport to New Mexico’s $200 million gamble on Spaceport America and Virgin Galactic. So, Florida’s struggles may not be that surprising. What changed Florida’s fortunes, he argues, is the arrival of SpaceX and Elon Musk. The Space Coast has seen many launch companies and concepts come and go, but SpaceX persevered and started launching from SLC-40 in 2010. That came at the same time as the Obama Administration proposed a shift in space policy, cancelling the Constellation program just as the shuttle was ending and proposing a more commercial approach. While local and state officials spent decades trying to enable that change, the book suggests that the success is linked more to federal policies and private efforts. Smith puts a particular emphasis on the Obama policies: several chapters cover the 2008 presidential race, the Obama Administration’s proposals, and the “grand compromise” with Congress that enabled commercial crew alongside SLS and Orion. While SpaceX certainly benefited from that policy, its inflection point arguably came earlier with winning a commercial cargo award in the final months of the Bush Administration. That contract gave SpaceX stability in a financially perilous time. Without commercial crew, SpaceX may have still grown, perhaps at a slower pace; without commercial cargo, the company could have failed. Regardless, Florida has made the best of the rise of SpaceX, and with it a growing commercial space industry. That has, Smith argues, broken the boom-and-bust cycles of government funding that the region had relied on since the mid-20th century. While local and state officials spent decades trying to enable that, the book suggests that the success is linked more to federal policies and private efforts. What is clear is that the Space Coast today has transformed in the last 15 years. SpaceX is constructing a towering “Gigabay” building for Starship at KSC, vying with the iconic Vehicle Assembly Building. Just outside the gates, Blue Origin’s sprawling campus continues to grow for work on New Glenn and lunar landers, across the street from where the US subsidiary of Airbus builds satellites. They’re located on Space Commerce Way, an aspirational name when it was built nearly 25 years ago as a two-lane road. It’s now a four-lane divided highway with a new, and suitable, route number: State Road 321. 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.

Soviet 1969 Moon Landing

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=awRIBq0kQPI

Artemis II On The Way To The Moon

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RNO8XoqTYvg