Showing posts with label Thunderbirds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Thunderbirds. Show all posts

Monday 1 April 2013

Where's my Thunderbird? Or how Gerry Anderson helped fool the Soviet Union

The death of Thunderbirds creator Gerry Anderson on Boxing Day last year marked the end of an era, at least as far as I'm concerned. Still my all-time favourite children's television programme, Thunderbirds marked the apogee of Anderson's career, a livelihood spent converting technological prognostication into high drama. Following the recent announcement that a new version of the series will be produced here in New Zealand it seemed a good time to examine a bizarre aspect of the show - along with some of its sister series - that only recently came to light. A combination of freshly declassified documents by the U.K.'s Ministry of Defence (M.O.D.) and the publication of highlights from a bundle of letters by Anderson's once-business partner Reg Hill have caused something of a minor sensation amongst the techno-SF cognoscenti.

A cursory look at even a small number of the craft that appear in the various TV shows reveals something extremely curious: most of the designs look far more Warsaw Pact than NATO. To elaborate, let's start with a survey of a few of the vehicles that helped to inspire such enormous affection in Anderson's television shows. For example:
  1. If you examine Thunderbird 3 or the Sun Probe from the same series there is an eerie similarity to various Soviet space rockets of the late 1960s, including the Soyuz and Proton series. Whilst there were some details of these vehicles available in the West at the time, the USSR's ill-fated N1 manned moon rocket remained a secret until spy reconnaissance in 1968. Yet several of Anderson's rockets of the period have rather more than a passing resemblance to the giant failure.
    Gerry Anderson rocket design
    Gerry Anderson rocket design
  2. The Mikoyan-Gurevich MiG-105 Spiral space plane, which only went as far as atmospheric flight tests, bears a remarkable likeness to the Dove shuttle seen in the Anderson scripted and produced 1969 film Journey to the far side of the Sun. Yet again, the project was unknown in the West (at least outside of security bureaus) until after its cancellation in 1978.
    Gerry Anderson spacecraft design
  3. The Spectrum Cloudbase in the series Captain Scarlet is echoed by the experimental aerial missile platform the Yakovlev VVP-6, although it seems doubtful if the latter ever got off the drawing board.
    Captain Scarlet Cloudbase
  4. There are various jetcopters and helijets making guest appearances in Thunderbirds and Captain Scarlet, with several similar in design to the Bartini Beriev VVA-14 which first flew in 1972.
    Gerry Anderson helijet design
One resemblance could be put down to chance, but this random selection shows just how uncanny Anderson's teams' designs were in matching real-life Eastern Bloc ventures. The question is how could the Soviet projects have served as the blueprint when no-one in the West knew about them? Remember: these television series were made during the 1960s, when Cold War paranoia severely restricted knowledge in both directions, especially of advanced hardware (always excepting the material that made it to the opposing side via diplomatic baggage). In addition, the Anderson shows often preceded the equivalent Russian design by several years.

Bearing this in mind, the only explanation I can find is what if the reverse was true? Could the Soviet Union have based the development of some of their aircraft, rockets and spacecraft on the fictional designs seen in Gerry Anderson programmes? As absurd as this sounds, the idea begins to make sense when considering some of the more unusual excerpts from Reg Hill's letters.

Hill, who served in the Royal Air Force during the Second World War, was both a producer and designer on most of Anderson's classic output. His years in the RAF gave Hill a certain amount of first-hand knowledge in aircraft construction and piloting, which proved extremely handy when it came to creating vehicles for the shows (along with the better known crew members Derek Meddings, Brian Johnson and Mike Trim).  Reg Hill's letters cover the period 1959 to 1976 and would seemingly be of little interest to all except the most diehard Fanderson. However, a small number refer to Hill's meetings with mysterious representatives of the British security services, to whom Hill gave the James Bond (or if you prefer, Men in Black) appellations of Messrs A through H. Although the writing is guarded, Reg Hill gives the impression that as of 1964 he was asked to supply these enigmatic men with - of all things - detailed blueprints for some of the production company's fictional craft. As to what purpose Hill thought these requests were intended, he makes no mention. No doubt as an ex-serviceman he understood the need for national security and thus placed patriotism ahead of curiosity.

As someone who's not a fan of conspiracy theories I had difficulty understanding what the references pertained to. After all, the letters could be forgeries or the results of a strange sense of humour. But then a series of M.O.D. documents dating from the same period were made available to journalists in late 2012 under the UK's Freedom of Information Act, subject to all the usual blanked-out details that encumber such material. Luckily, the missing content mostly related to names, places and times, leaving the gist of the events intact. The upshot of reading the documents is that they confirm the narrative supplied in Hill's letters: the British Government paid (token amounts, it has to be said) for copies of blueprints to vehicles that were designed to appear in children's television series. As this point I said to myself, move over X-Files!

When I found out that Reg Hill and Gerry Anderson had formed a short-lived production company in the late 1950s called Pentagon Films I wondered if the outfit's name had given the British Secret Intelligence Service the idea of deliberately leaking aero- and astronautical disinformation to the Eastern Bloc. Or alternatively, MI5/MI6 may have been aware of similarities between the ramp-launching technique of Fireball XL5 (from the 1962 series of the same name) and a never-implemented Soviet scheme for deploying ICBMs. If accepted as genuine, Hill's drawings could have served several purposes, from tying up Soviet design bureaus in analysis of fictional machines to the wasting of countless rubles in technological dead-ends.

It might seem ridiculous that the deception would work, not just once but repeatedly, only it should be remembered that senior scientists and engineers in the Soviet Union frequently attained their status from acute political rather than scientific skills. The best known example of this is Trofim Lysenko, the untrained researcher and Stalinist crony whose pseudo-scientific theories were used in crop production for decades instead of Mendelian genetics. In the field of astronautics, when the rocket and spacecraft 'Chief Designer' Sergei Korolev suddenly died in 1966 the Soviet manned lunar landing programme stalled and never recovered. Ironically, the USSR was its own worst enemy in this field, since many other capable rocket scientists had been killed in Stalinist purges.

In addition, projects were frequently rushed for political purposes: Sputnik 2, which carried the dog Laika on a pioneering if one-way trip into orbit, was designed in less than a month! It is well known that the latest Western technology often found a surreptitious route to Moscow, with Warsaw Pact design bureaus deconstructing the material in order to produce their own versions at rapid speed. A good instance of this was the Tupolev Tu-144, a poor quality reworking of the Concorde supersonic airliner that beat the latter into the air by two months but was then two years behind its Anglo-French rival in entering commercial service. Indeed, there are rumours that the Concorde manufacturers deliberately leaked inaccurate schematics in order to mislead the Tupolev team!

Bearing all this in mind, is it possible the Soviets would repeatedly fall for such seemingly obvious ploys as British (and possibly American) security services' reworked plans of vehicles designed for children's TV shows? Perhaps the speed with which the Russian teams had to work prevented them from realising they had been duped. In general, their aviation technology remained markedly inferior to the West's until the 1980s, as was shown by the shocking revelation in 1976 (thanks to a defecting pilot) that their most advanced - and record-breaking - interceptor largely relied on vacuum tube avionics. By the early 1970s Hill stopped receiving visits from the shadowy intelligence figures, so perhaps the Soviets had at last caught on to the ruse - but of course failed to advertise this in order to avoid embarrassment.

As bizarre as all this sounds, other disinformation strategies employed  in the West were if anything even more elaborate, from creating fake infra-red 'shadows' for advanced spy planes to leaking wildly inaccurate yet plausible designs for stealth aircraft that even made it as far as plastic model kits. By comparison, reworking the Anderson craft and passing them off as new NATO projects seems a relatively easy - and inexpensive - method.

It's often stated that truth is stranger than fiction. So if you consider the foregoing a plausible hypothesis you might want to ponder the real meaning behind the Thunderbirds' famous call-sign F.A.B. or its Captain Scarlet equivalent S.I.G. Personally, my money's on "Fooled All Bolsheviks" and "Soviets Is Gullible".  Or is that just plain daft?

Sunday 24 January 2010

The British boffin: an extinct species?

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the meaning of the word 'boffin' is a person engaged in scientific research, frequently of a military nature. For the minority of Britons who still recognise the expression it often conjures up a time and a place, an evocation of Britain during the third quarter of the 20th century. Despite the Cold War, that era seems to have possessed a profound interconnection between societal and technological progress, a far cry from the frequent mistrust of science apparent today. From the Second World War until the 1970's these 'back-room wizards' were a familiar element of British society, sporting slide rules, briar pipes (women don't get much of a look-in for this genre), and a fondness for acronyms. Although the period saw great improvements in many aspects of applied science, from medicine to agriculture, it is largely aeronautical and astronautical projects that seem synonymous with the age of the boffin. Another curious aspect is that despite the military leanings of many boffin-run projects, the breed does not seem to have been of a more martial aspect than any other type of scientist or engineer.

One of the last gasps of boffinicity was Project Mustard, a prototypical example of scientific and technical genius combined with political and economic naivety. In the mid-1960's the Ministry of Aviation gave the British Aircraft Corporation financial support in the design of the Multi Unit Space Transport And Recovery Device (or MUSTARD), a reusable spaceplane that pre-empted the Space Shuttle. Although the intention was to make manned spaceflight much cheaper than via expendable rockets, it seems incredible that Britain could seriously consider such a project without American support. As it was, Project Mustard got little further than the drawing board and several patents filed in 1967.

The project existed at the tail end of several decades when many aspects of science and technology had becoming increasingly integrated into popular culture. British films of the 1940's and 50's fictionalised real-life boffins such as Spitfire designer R.J. Mitchell (in the First of the Few) and the bouncing bomb inventor Barnes Wallis (of Dambusters fame), whilst furniture and fabrics utilised designs based on molecular biology and the atom. Due to American isolationism Britain managed to almost independently develop nuclear power stations and atomic bombs, along with the first commercial jet airliner (the de Havilland Comet), practical hovercraft and VTOL (Vertical Take-Off and Landing) technology, the latter being a rare post-war reversal whereby the USA bought from Britain. All this was achieved in spite of being the world's largest debtor and the sudden termination of Lend-Lease in 1945; perhaps the threat of a Soviet invasion aided productivity, but the level of British 'firsts' from the period is truly astonishing.

Unfortunately, beneath the surface there was an awful lot of hype. As early as the 1951 Festival of Britain the British economy was jokingly compared to that festival's Skylon structure, in that neither possessed a visible means of support. Throughout the 1950's and 60's financial shortfalls meant that research and development (and recalling the OED definition, in the Cold War that was frequently synonymous with the military) projects, were often obsolete prior to completion. Amongst the victims of financial problems, rapidity of technological progress, political prevarication, and even pressure from the USA (perish the thought), were the Bluestreak ballistic missile and its successors, mixed powerplant interceptors, and TSR-2, a strike aircraft that was impressive even by today's standards. The most farcical moment of all came in 1957 when Defence Minister Duncan Sandys published a white paper declaring that the future of aerial warfare lay solely in guided missiles. The Doctor Beeching-style cuts that followed led to the amalgamation or disappearance of most British aerospace companies and you would have thought, any pretension of Britain competing with the superpowers.

But the boffins weren't beaten yet. Whether it was too much boy's own science fiction (from radio's Journey into Space to comic hero Dan Dare) or even a desire to replace the rapidly disintegrating Empire with the conquest of outer space, private and public sector funding repeatedly initiated space-orientated projects that stood little chance of coming to fruition. In a joint venture with the forerunners of ESA (the European Space Agency), the Black Arrow rocket was used in 1971 for the only wholly-British satellite launch, Prospero X-3. Unfortunately this occurred three months after the project was cancelled, the irony being that the British technology involved proved more reliable than its French and German counterparts. Since then, British funding of joint space ventures has been desultory to say the least, only contributing about half of what France or Germany give to ESA.

All in all, it could be said that the day of the boffin is over. A turning point may be found in the environmental concerns over Concorde in the mid-1970's, leading to the project being recognised as an economic catastrophe. The high-technology failures represented in the disaster movies of the time are the antithesis of the glorification of machinery displayed in Thunderbirds less than a decade earlier. The seemingly Victorian notion that bigger, faster (and louder) equates to progress had been replaced by an understated, almost apologetic air surrounding research and development, even for projects of a primarily civilian nature. Not that this change of attitude initially had much effect on the military: more than half of Government R&D expenditure in the 1980's went to the Ministry of Defence, including the infamous (and cancelled) spy satellite, Project Zircon.

Two more examples from the eighties prove that any space-orientated scheme would now have to undergo prompt and rigorous economic assessment. British Aerospace's Spacelab experiment pallets for ESA were extremely successful, but let's face it; this was a relatively dull project by any standard. The antithesis was another acronym-laden project: HOTOL, the Horizontal Take-Off and Landing pilotless spaceplane, which received Government funding in the mid-eighties. Unfortunately, the potential two or more decade development schedule, combined with an estimated total cost of around £5 billion and lack of MoD interest (the revolutionary engine design being classified), led to the withdrawal of official involvement after several years.

All of the above suggests that twentieth-century Britain had a tradition of wasting vast amounts of time, energy, and occasionally public money, on paper-only projects ranging from blue-sky thinking to the genuinely hare-brained. Yet some schemes show more than an element of genius. In the 1930's, members of the British Interplanetary Society developed a manned lunar lander mission that foreshadowed many elements of Project Apollo to an astonishing degree. Whereas teams in Germany and the USA were developing liquid-fuelled rockets at the time, British law prohibited rocket-building by private citizens. Perhaps this aided the notion that projects on the drawing board were as valuable as those involving nuts and bolts; thus the image of the boffin as slightly detached from politico-economic reality was born.

A recent project that could claim identification with the boffin model was Beagle 2, a shoestring-budgeted Mars lander jointly funded by the private and public sectors and combining the talents of academics and industry under the exceedingly boffin-like Colin Pillinger. The acronym-heavy craft proved where the project's sympathies lay, ranging from a robotic arm called the PAW (Payload Adjustable Workbench) to its PLanetary Undersurface TOol, or PLUTO.

With follow-up Beagle 3 cancelled in 2004 after the disappearance and presumed destruction of its predecessor, you might think that would be the final nail in the boffin coffin (groan). But the HOTOL designers have been quietly beavering away for the last few decades and a new project has risen from the ashes of the original. Skylon, a spaceplane named after the 1951 Festival of Britain structure, received a boost last year from a £900,000 ESA contribution towards its £6m million SABRE (Synergic Air BReathing Engine) research project. Initially unmanned, the craft even has the potential of housing a cabin for up to forty passengers. With an estimated first flight around 2020 the project offers hope of a cheaper reusable spacecraft, but a combination of the current economic downturn and the history of similar projects do not bode well; estimates suggest that even the British military will face budget cuts of eleven to twenty-five percent over the next six years.

So what next for boffindom? International collaboration on the aerospace and astronautics front is obviously the only way forward for Britain, but whether the tradition of idealistic, even eccentric, inventor / designer / engineers can prevail is anyone's guess. Recent news stories mention boffins at CERN (home to the Large Hadron Collider) and even in Japan (where they have successfully bred transparent animals, no less), but for me the archetypal boffin will always be British and skyward-looking, regardless of whether they smoke a briar pipe or not.

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Saturday 19 December 2009

Warp engines offline, Captain: has science fiction become confused with science fact?

The current bickering in Copenhagen seemingly ignores a rather pertinent issue: our skills and experience in reversing climate change are almost exactly zero. Of course we can drastically cut back on fossil fuels, increase energy efficiency and possibly even slow down population growth, but there is little on the technological horizon that can profoundly alter the climate in favour of our species. Yet the implicit view seems to be that if a political solution is found then a practical solution will follow in due course.

So why is it assumed that given enough Government funding, the people in white lab coats can perform miracles of climate engineering? This attitude is symptomatic of an ever-widening gap between the scientific forefront and public perception. Many strands of contemporary science are so detached from everyday life that they inhibit straightforward public assimilation, whilst the ubiquity of electronic consumer goods may be lulling us into a false sense of security regarding our abilities. We are surrounded by 'space age' gadgets and technology from Wii to Wi-Fi that only a generation ago were strictly for James Bond. And with Virgin Galactic seemingly about to usher in a new age of space tourism, becoming an astronaut will be akin to a very expensive form of air travel, though a sub-orbital hop hardly counts as boldly going anywhere.

Another possible cause that doesn't seem to have gained much notice is the influence of science fiction films and television series. With their largely computer-generated visual effects, most Hollywood product effortlessly outshines any real life counterpart. For example, doesn't the International Space Station (ISS) resemble nothing so much as a bunch of tin cans linked by Meccano struts? Yet the ISS is about as good as ultra-expensive high-technology gets, being by far the largest man-made structure ever assembled in orbit. Given a choice between watching ISS crew videos (Thanksgiving dinner with dehydrated turkey, anyone?) and the likes of Bruce Willis saving mankind from doomsday asteroids, most people unmistakably opt for the latter.

Now that the majority of humans live in crowded conurbations far removed from our ancestral peripatetic existence, the desperation for new horizons is obvious. Yet our exploratory avatars such as the Mars rovers hardly qualify as charismatic heroes, hence the great appeal of fictional final frontiers. The complex interplay between reality and fiction is further confused by the new genre of "the science behind…" book. Frequently written by practicing scientists for the likes of Star Trek, The X-Files, Dr Who, etal, the blurring of boundaries can be exemplified by one buyer of The Physics of Star Trek who compared it to A Brief History of Time (although admittedly Stephen Hawking did write the foreword to the former).

Furthermore, the designers of such disparate items as medical monitoring equipment, flip top phones and military aircraft instrumentation have been inspired by Hollywood originals to such an extent that feedback loops now exist, with arcade simulators inspiring real hardware which in turn inspire new games. Articles discussing quantum entanglement experiments seem obliged to draw a comparison with the Star Trek matter transporter, though the transportees are as yet only photons. Theoretical physicist Miguel Alcubierre has even spent time exploring the fundamentals for a faster-than-light 'warp' drive, although it's unlikely to get beyond calculations for some little while. Blue-sky thinking is all very well, but there are plenty of more pressing issues that our finest minds could be working on...

Closer to home, it appears that a lot of the hype surrounding sustainable development is just that. Are we simply in thrall to companies hoping to make a fast buck out of fear, flogging us technologies about as useful as a chocolate teapot? A recent report suggested that the typical British home would gain only minute amounts of electricity from installing solar panels and wind turbines, although the development of spray-on solar cells may drastically improve efficiency in the next few years. But where does this leave us now? Although our species has endured sudden, severe climate changes such as the end of the last glaciation ten thousand years ago, current population density and infrastructure forbid anything as simple as packing our things and moving to higher ground. Cutting back on fossil fuel consumption is clearly necessary, but isn't it equally as important to instigate long-term research programmes in case some of the triggers are due to natural causes such as the Milankovitch cycles? If global temperature increase is inevitable, never mind potential cooling in Western Europe due to a diverted Gulf Stream, then reducing greenhouse gas emissions is merely the tip of the iceberg (sorry, couldn't resist that one).

Anyone who looks back at the grandiose pipe dreams of the 1960's can see that our technological ambitions have profoundly reduced in scope since their idealistic heyday; what we have gained in the micro-scale technologies, we have lost in the giant engineering projects envisaged by likes of Gerard O'Neill, Freeman Dyson, and Arthur C. Clarke. Yet Thunderbirds-style macho engineering is presumably the type we will need to develop if we are heading for a chain reaction of environmental change.

Restructuring an ailing climate will take more than a few decades of recycling and installation of low-voltage light bulbs - we will have to mobilise people and funds on a unique scale if we are not to prove powerless against the mighty engine of Planet Earth. To this end we need to spread the message of our own insignificance, mitigated by research into alleviating the worst-case scenarios: there can be no Hollywood-style quick-fixes to the immense forces ranged against us. No-one could argue that even short-term weather forecasting is an exact science, so discovering whatever trouble the Quantum Weather Butterfly has in store for us will keep earth scientists engaged for many years to come (and there I go again, confusing fiction with reality, doh!)