Nine years of the road traveled. Hurrah! I’m at the summit.
Good mood, beautiful weather. Our doctor Zhenya woke us at ten to nine local time. The doctors came in, calm, homey, checked us over in 10 minutes — everything normal. Tolya popped in and asked: “How are things?” I answered: “Good. And you?” “Good too.” “Well, excellent then.” Everything went fine for Tolya. My pulse was 66, blood pressure 100 over 75, temperature 36.2. No anxiety, but there’s a feeling of the specialness of this day. I run off to morning exercises. Came back from exercises, mood is good, sunbathed by the pool.
After the morning medical exam, all barriers are behind us. The road to space is open — onward! Completely calm, even strangely so.
When we were leaving the site, the backup crew, the guys working on the French program, and Leonov all came to our room. Everyone sat down, and I asked our doctor to bring bread, salt, and water, following our family tradition. We slapped our knees and with the words “mount up!” we stood, signed the door of the room as is the custom, and went to the bus.
LETTER HOME BEFORE LAUNCH
My dear ones, my family! I’m leaving for the flight. Nine years of enormous human hardship and labor are behind me. I’m glad, calm, in good spirits. I’m confident I will handle this great challenge of my life.
You are with me always. Thank you for being so wonderful. This is my family. I embrace you, kiss dear mama, give my sister a kiss, and Valera, and Yulechka. Big greetings to my comrades, my friends.
Your Valentin,
May 13, 1982
OATH GIVEN TO MYSELF BEFORE THE FLIGHT
Valya, remember:
In any difficult situations that arise on board, be guided by reason, not emotion.
Don’t rush in actions or words.
If Tolya is wrong, find the strength in yourself to be the first to extend your hand; if you yourself are wrong, find the strength to be the first to admit it.
Remember, your crewmate has earned respect through his labor and his life. He has a good family, friends, people who believe in him.
In any situation, restrain yourself. Don’t allow sharp words or actions.
The success of the flight depends on both of us, and only by the work of the two will they judge us — as cosmonauts and as people.
I believe you are a reasonable, strong-willed person and that you can carry out this flight with dignity — the flight you have worked toward for so long.
After putting on our spacesuits, we spoke with the state commission. One of the commission members asks me: “Where’s your old spacesuit?” But I can barely hear through the headset and answer him: “I’ve already forgotten where it is.” “You’re being cagey,” he says with a smile. After the briefing ended, we walked to the bus, which was standing at the gates of the Assembly and Testing Building (MIK). We walk across the concrete, just like during my first flight. Only back then it was freezing, and the bus was inside the MIK, whereas now we walked through the empty building. We stepped out through the gates, and there stood a large group of people. We approached the chairman of the state commission; next to him, markings on the concrete — “spacecraft commander” and “flight engineer.” Tolya made the report. No handshakes or embraces — straight into the bus. The epidemiological protocols are enforced strictly, and rightly so when you’re going to fly for half a year. We got on the bus and headed for the launch pad. Leonov and the backup crew rode with us. I was the first to step out of the bus, but a fueling train was passing nearby, and they told me: “Don’t go any further, get back on the bus.” I was about to go back, but then I remembered the superstition.
We walked to the rocket, to the elevator. The weather was beautiful. Those seeing us off wished us “good luck” — we told them to go to hell, as tradition demands. We got into the elevator and started going up. As we passed each platform, the duty officers and industry specialists standing there waved to us. The elevator stopped; the lead spacecraft designer was already waiting for us. Through the tunnel we walked to the hatch of the orbital module. I went straight into the descent module, then Tolya. The hatch was closed. Two-hour readiness was announced. No anxiety. The spacecraft atop the rocket trembles like a horse under its rider — you feel it through your elbows on the seat liner and through your back. Five minutes before liftoff they put on music. My soul is calm, no emotions at all.
The separation contact time was adjusted from 13:06:47 to 13:06:53, and here, literally three minutes before launch, I’m writing my diary. Vitalik is on a hiking trip right now with his classmates. I’m thinking about my family, and they’re thinking about me. Ignition came, the engines roared — somewhere below, a wall of sound from the rocket’s working engines. We swayed right, left, as if losing our balance, then pulled slightly away from the launch table. We could feel through the seat that there was no longer any support — we hung suspended for 2 to 3 seconds. And then, as if breaking free from chains, the machine went, and we shouted: “Let’s go!” First stage separation was fairly gentle — just a bang, with about two g’s of acceleration. Second and especially third stage separations were more noticeable.
NOTE: KOVALYONOK’S WISH
Valentin, a hundred times over — happy journey, good luck, good luck, good luck. Remember, there will be many of us with you, but on board you’ll be just the two of you. Take care of each other. Good luck, see you soon.
Kovalyonok. May 10, 1982
WIFE’S LETTER ON LAUNCH DAY:
May 13, 1982
Valechik, my darling! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!
At last your dream has come true — you’re in space!
I congratulate you, my darling, and Tolya. I’m so proud of you, that you are so strong, courageous, and wonderful.
Truly, so many years of such intense labor, enormous superhuman effort — and here is victory!
Your victory, papul, joyful, with tears in the eyes, a real hard-won victory.
When I was sitting in Mission Control, watching the two-hour readiness countdown — it was so hard. My heart was nearly leaping out of my chest. I sat there, curled up in a ball, tears streaming the whole time. I kept thinking, just don’t break down crying in front of everyone. I look at you and don’t recognize you — you were so tense, just a mask on your face, but your voice was steady, beautiful. I even bit my own hand until it bled to hold myself together. My darling, how I worried for you and for Tolya. And then comes the moment everyone is waiting for. The room is on edge, I can’t see or hear anyone (Galya is next to me, encouraging me) — 30 minutes, 20 minutes, 10 minutes, 2 minutes, and then — launch! And when I heard your dear voice: “Everything is fine, g-forces insignificant, feeling good” — everything just lifted from my heart, it felt good and joyful, only a terrible headache in the back of my head. Everyone I knew at Mission Control congratulated me (Yeliseyev, Blatov, Grechko, Kubasov, Popov, Sevostyanov, and many others). I called home to mama, told her everything was fine, and sobbed into the phone from joy and happiness, and she cried with me. Galya and I got in the car and drove home. We’re approaching Bezbozhny, it was 4:30 PM, the radio is on — and there’s the TASS bulletin. The announcer reports that you’ve been launched. We walk in, kiss mama, and exactly 10 minutes later Yevgeny Fyodorovich bursts in with a bouquet of tulips, Vitaly Ivanovich with flowers, the phones are ringing and ringing — the first call from Grozny — and so on.
Tomorrow, May 14th, is such a critical day — docking. Strength and health to you, so that everything goes well tomorrow. We are with you always, your family. We kiss you many, many times!