Chapter 1: "The Disgraced Chief Designer"

Original: Глава 1 «Опальный главный конструктор»

August 1990 turned out to be quite a tense month for the editorial office of the journal "Communist of the Armed Forces," an edition that troops referred to in abbreviated form as "KVS." The period of summer vacations was in full swing. And the journal came out three times a month. During that period, the editorial office was just completing a restructuring of the journal's subject matter. Only the name remained from the former journal "KVS," along with the mandatory column on political training for the personnel of the Soviet Armed Forces. The former purely party-political orientation of the journal had been replaced with a general political one, in accordance with the new trends in the state. This significantly improved the journal's subject matter. Numerous readers reported in letters that "KVS" was unrecognizable—all the materials were read with great interest. I should mention that our journal was the central publication of the Main Political Directorate of the Soviet Army and Navy (GLAVPUR). Its monthly circulation in 1990 exceeded 600 thousand copies. The collective included, during that period, 40 professional journalists with ranks ranging from colonel or captain first rank to junior captain. The collective and the entire editorial process were led by a rather talented administrator with connections in GLAVPUR and the Ministry of Defense, Major General Nikolai Alexandrovich Koshelev. He had to navigate quite literally between the leadership of the all-powerful military party-political agency and numerous subscribers while directing the restructuring of the journal's subject matter. In 1990, officers and soldiers in the Soviet army no longer subscribed to periodical publications by order, but rather chose newspapers and journals that published topical materials and journalistic investigations. But even the possibilities of the central military publication were limited by the same departmental restrictions, orders of the Minister and the head of GLAVPUR. So interesting materials for the journal, particularly during the summer vacation period, had to be literally dug out all over the military districts and fleets, throughout the main commands of the Branches of the Armed Forces.

I came to serve and work at the print organ of GLAVPUR, the weekly journal "KVS," after graduating in 1989 from the editorial department of the Military-Political Academy named after V.I. Lenin in the most junior position—scientific researcher in the department of combat training and military instruction. The military academy has since been transformed into the Military University of the Ministry of Defense of the Russian Federation. By the time our narrative begins, I had already served in the editorial office for a year.

During that period, Moscow was already churning with rallies and demonstrations. Leaders of nascent political parties stirred up crowds in prominent places. So the summer of 1990 turned out to be particularly hot for the editorial office of "KVS," and not only in terms of weather. In the last year of restructuring, our military-communist and party journal actively was reshaping its appearance and subject matter. From its pages disappeared lengthy party-political materials edited by military censors and certified through all necessary authorities that gave nothing to either the mind or the heart. In their place, the pages of weekly journal issues published polemical and analytical materials. For the first time, we printed excerpts from several issues of Felix Chuev's remarkable book "100 Conversations with Molotov." The editorial office was also actively engaged in journalistic investigations. Following one of my investigations, a colonel—commander of a large garrison in Vladimir Oblast—was removed from his post and discharged from reserve for embezzling construction timber. On a forest road in that garrison, a captain—the head of the fuel and lubricants service, who participated in his superior's commercial operations—even tried to hit me with a light UAZ vehicle. In another article, I, a major-journalist at that time, told together with a colonel—deputy head of the department of material resources and foreign economic relations of the Ministry of Defense of the USSR—about the problem of preserving precious metals in armaments and scrap metal in groups of Soviet troops in Germany, Hungary, and Czechoslovakia. Our troops were being withdrawn from there in hasty fashion. Damaged, stripped-down radio stations, radar sets, automated control systems, and a colossal quantity of other radio-electronic armaments were often sold in the West by enterprising dealers at the price of ordinary scrap iron. In the process, tons of gold, silver, and platinum went unaccounted for and disappeared without a trace. Following that article, a colonel who had candidly told me about the improprieties with precious metals was removed from his post, officers of the KGB from the USSR's State Repository received reprimands, having shown me documents of inspections on precious metals in foreign groups of Soviet troops. At the end of Gorbachev's rule and the beginning of the USSR's collapse, all manner of public military property, including dozens or perhaps hundreds of tons of precious metals from armaments and equipment, were being sold and embezzled. It is quite possible that the very leaders of GLAVPUR, who were rapidly losing influence in the Ministry of Defense and did not want to reconcile themselves with the general debauchery that had inundated the country and army, gave our journal the opportunity to write openly for the first time about the processes occurring in the Armed Forces. So we tried to speak openly and without hesitation about such problems and violations that had only recently been completely secret in our state. The updated "KVS" was popular in the troops. There were also numerous civilian subscribers.

On one of the August days in 1990, the editor of the combat training and military instruction department of our journal, Colonel Alexander Grigoryevich Nekrylov, a talented journalist and military writer with the face of a professional boxer, told me to speak with a certain complainant. This, he said, was an assignment from the editor-in-chief. A pass to the editorial office had already been arranged for him. So, he said, I should pay special attention to this man.

"His story is quite specific," Colonel Nekrylov instructed me. "Record your conversation, and if necessary, don't hesitate to pressure him and demand all the necessary documents. In short, figure it out."

By that time, I had already acquired a dictaphone of Soviet manufacture, an "Elektronika." An imported one was beyond a major's means. I tested this plain-looking and rather bulky device and began to wait for the visitor. I did not anticipate then that this meeting would provide material on which I would "dwell" for all the years to come. I would search for new fragments of information about the scientific research and problem to which the scientist who came for help to the editorial office had devoted many years of his life, and which, ultimately, drove him, still not an old man, to the grave.

At the appointed time, there was a quiet knock on the door of our small office. Then the door opened smoothly, and a man in a black suit and tie stepped into the room. He was above average height, somewhat stooped, and his hair was graying. His face did not impress with any particular beauty. There are many such on Moscow streets. In appearance—a typical teacher, engineer from a factory or scientific institute. You would pass by without noticing. At that moment, for some reason, it occurred to me that schoolchildren would have already given up their seats to our visitor in the metro. The man, unbuttoning his jacket, sat on the chair I offered him, and placed on the table a folder of embossed leather, the kind in which it is convenient to carry documents for a report to a superior. After that, he looked at me with particular intentness. As if studying what I was worth and what capabilities I had. And whether it was worth dealing with me at all, just some major.

"My surname is Kuzminsky. General Koshelev," the man continued, "told me that you engage in journalistic investigations, and perhaps my story might interest your respected military journal. And you will write the whole truth about my history without invention or speculation. Because one of the central newspapers nearly accused me of embezzling public funds."

Eighteen years have passed since that conversation. I can no longer recall what his voice or intonation was like. But for some reason, his somewhat unrestrained, free behavior in the new place stuck in my memory. And this despite the fact that he came to the journal not simply with a proposal to publish some material. He was asking for support and protection from newspaper slander. But at the same time, he was not an ordinary complainant. But already after his first words, questions arose in my mind.

"Why did one of the central newspapers turn against him?" I thought at the time and made my first note in my notebook. "What if he is indeed guilty of something and is now trying to use our journal for his own purposes. Apparently, it was not by chance that Colonel Nekrylov advised me to record the entire conversation and verify the facts. Probably, editor-in-chief General Koshelev had previously familiarized Nekrylov with Kuzminsky's history. Probably, they came to some conclusions. And Kuzminsky could have been directed to the journal by someone very influential. The General and Colonel do not want to impose their opinion on me," I assumed at the time. "The General is keeping an escape clause for himself—not to publish material about Kuzminsky. As if, they would say, the young major didn't figure out this story."

That very first notebook of the conversation with Kuzminsky was preserved. Back then, I wrote down several questions in abbreviated form. One of them was just for myself—not to interrupt the visitor and let him speak as much as possible. To tell what had accumulated in his soul. After the question, I put several question marks and exclamation marks. For me, they meant not to interrupt the visitor, to formulate leading questions more carefully. However, after Kuzminsky's first few phrases, he suddenly fell silent. From his face, it was clear that he still had not decided to tell everything candidly. Or perhaps he was simply gathering his thoughts. A stranger's soul is dark. At the same time, his glance quickly ran over me, as if scanning information about what kind of subject he had come to and what I was capable of at all. I remembered that look. An ordinary complainant could not have looked like that. Rather, the opposite—before me was a decisive and commanding person. But definitely not from the category of the aggrieved, who try with all their might to prove that someone crossed them or failed to recognize their genius.

Unexpectedly, his glance fell on my dark blue dictaphone. It is quite possible that this apparatus of unusual construction attracted the visitor's attention. At that time, such household equipment of Soviet manufacture was just appearing for sale and was still a curiosity. Catching his glance, I in turn asked whether he would have any objections to recording our conversation on tape. In doing so, I involuntarily lamented the quality of the domestic dictaphone. In three months, it had already been in warranty repair twice. The visitor took the device and looked at the manufacturer's name on the back panel.

"It's no wonder it breaks down," he said somewhat gutturally, "household products from this suburban Moscow factory are snapped up literally off the assembly line. Probably, with the rapid growth of production volumes, the product acceptance system is not working. What systems failed?" he suddenly asked.

"The first time, the sound disappeared," I answered immediately. "It was impossible to listen to the recordings. The second time, the tape drive mechanism started chewing up the tape."

"Well, that's no good at all," continued the visitor, analyzing the operation of my dictaphone. "The mechanics failed and apparently one of the microcircuits. Looks like the dictaphone was made in a hurry, possibly from substandard parts. My advice to you is to get rid of it. It will keep breaking down."

Probably, he scanned not only me at our first meeting for seriousness and what I was worth in my work, but also my dictaphone. And that's exactly how it turned out. Over the course of a year, the dictaphone broke down several more times. They refused to exchange it for a new one at the warranty shop. They advised me to send it to the factory. And so that device disappeared somewhere in the factory's depths after the 1991 events in our state. But on that day, surprisingly, my dictaphone recorded a conversation with the former chief designer of Soviet combat horizon-scanning radar stations, Franz Alexandrovich Kuzminsky. Unfortunately, that dictaphone cassette was not preserved. In journalistic work, there was never enough cassettes. Only the transcript of the conversation with Kuzminsky was preserved. On my work desk before me lie about thirty sheets of grayish paper yellowed over eighteen years. On many—notes and corrections. These old pages became a kind of time machine that transported me to a small office of our military journal, closed due to the shortsightedness of some leaders in military journalism.

And as if eighteen years had not passed, when the invincible and legendary Soviet Army collapsed in a matter of months. As if the redistribution of property in our country had not happened. And there again, in our small office in the journal "KVS," on a hard office chair, Kuzminsky was settled. Possibly, after familiarizing myself with my "wonder-technology," cups of strong tea, I involuntarily disposed the visitor favorably toward me. In the work of a journalist, the first minutes of a meeting with an unfamiliar person are especially important. The ability to incline him toward candid conversation. Not to let him answer questions yes or no. In short, the conversation with Kuzminsky proceeded in a normal working manner. I will add that for some reason, I even felt sympathy for him. At that time, during the conversation, I noted in my notebook that he conducted himself confidently, spoke in a calm, quiet voice. My brief notes helped me at least partially restore in memory the atmosphere of the meeting in the editorial office and the conversation with the disgraced chief designer. Probably because of this, the decryption of old notes comes easily to me now.

Kuzminsky drank tea and did not refuse the candies I offered him. Before that, I had hidden the plate of candy in the safe. For some reason, my editorial office colleagues believed that I had an unlimited supply of these candies. In the early 90s in the country, chocolate candies, like all other food products, were already rationed. But friends thought I had some secret connections in trade. And my constant supply of candies to go with tea was explained by my mother-in-law's irrepressible energy. Perhaps even the scarce chocolate candies showed Kuzminsky my hidden capabilities. True, at that point, he unexpectedly asked if I was related to one well-known academician—a chief designer, after whom a street in the capital is named, and even a crater on the Moon. I immediately answered that this family is known to me. But we are simply namesakes of a deserving man. After that, Kuzminsky said that friends call him simply Aleksandr Aleksandrovich in everyday life. He suggested I call him that too. So instead of the foreign name Franz, I began to call the chief designer as he proposed to me at our first meeting. Not by his passport name. Probably, the name Aleksandr, which in Greek means "conqueror," appealed to him more. Anything is possible. I was not pushing myself to be his friend. I simply, out of professional duty, became an involuntary researcher into his scientific pursuit and tragedy. Therefore, in this narrative, I will sometimes call Kuzminsky Aleksandr Aleksandrovich. That's how he himself proposed it to me.

"Before we start our long conversation, read this publication in the newspaper," Aleksandr Aleksandrovich suggested to me. "You will understand much; some questions will disappear, or others will appear. I went to that newspaper. I demanded a retraction. But no luck. The editor-in-chief wouldn't even see me. The journalist who prepared the material disappeared somewhere. And the department editor simply threw up his hands, saying the material didn't go through him, and he had no right to give any retraction."

After that, Kuzminsky opened his folder. He rummaged briefly among some papers and pulled out an issue of the very popular, multi-million circulation newspaper of the Supreme Soviet of the RSFSR, "Soviet Russia."

"So that's how the central press fired with all of its main artillery at the chief designer," I thought, opening before me on the table the now worn-out issue of the newspaper. Perhaps it was this very central newspaper and its influence that editor-in-chief of our military journal Major General Koshelev was afraid of, when through Colonel Nekrylov he told me to look more carefully into this story.

With such thoughts, I began to scan the newspaper issue, dated August 5, 1990. The editorial office gave the material a full page. The headline was noncommittal, some sort of inert—"Money for Defense." Under the material was a signature that this publication was prepared by V. Abramov. I was not acquainted with him. But the subheading "Four Monologues on the Secrets of 'Closed Science'" attracted attention to the newspaper page like a magnet. In a text box to the article, V. Abramov indicated that today's interlocutor of the popular newspaper is a Hero of Socialist Labor, general designer of the first Soviet anti-missile defense systems, corresponding member of the Academy of Sciences of the USSR, laureate of the Lenin Prize, Grigory Vasilievich Kisunko, who will frankly recount one of the branches of the Soviet military-industrial complex. Moreover, V. Abramov, clearly fueling the reader's curiosity, wrote that in the monologues of this well-known scientist is reflected his view of internal processes in the classified structures of the Soviet defense complex. In Abramov's opinion, these monologues are dramatic in content, sincere, permeated with pain for the fate of scientific research and the implementation of scientific ideas.

The material consisted of four separate monologues—conversations with readers from Grigory Vasilievich Kisunko. In the course of my journalistic investigation, I did not have the opportunity to meet with him, to learn his point of view on this material, which could well have been incorrectly edited or rewritten in the editorial office itself without the permission of this well-known scientist. Now, eighteen years later, I sincerely regret that our meeting did not take place. But now nothing can be done about it. So it will be. Time cannot be turned back. One can only try on paper to recount the truth about past events, from which time itself has shed speculation and conjecture, positive and negative heroes. Each of the monologues was apparently, by an experienced hand, strikingly titled. And this in August 1990, when the military-industrial complex and its leaders were very strong and authoritative in the state. Any material in a newspaper about them and their deeds necessarily went through censorship. And in this material, the subheadings literally cried out: "How Collective Responsibility Appears," "What is Frightening About the Zigzags of Monopolism," "Who Benefits from Disinformation," "What Will Help Break Out of the Breakthrough."

"Some material," I thought, and at that point looked at Kuzminsky.

Our visitor at that time was reading some paper from his folder. Possibly, he was at the same time observing my reaction from the corner of his eye.

"And is all of this about you?" I blurted out involuntarily.

"Well, no," Kuzminsky reacted immediately, "I haven't been honored with such attention. In this publication, my surname is not mentioned at all. Here accusations are directed at my many years of work and the activities of a multi-thousand-strong scientific-industrial collective. You'll read the entire material later. But read the highlighted passages now."

I will not quote this long-ago material verbatim. After all, it has authors. Intellectual property rights in our country are now sacred and protected by law. The well-known scientist indicated that there are many scientists and designers in our country who have glorified it, who have created a reliable military parity with the United States. But there are in the field of military science and technology such projects and deeds that led to disasters, abominations, foolishness. Thanks to secrecy, these disreputable deeds, senseless projects are hidden from the people by collective responsibility of customers from the Ministry of Defense of the USSR, developers from the military-industrial complex, controlling agencies, and specific people from the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the VPK. This helps their authors avoid responsibility. After all, many high-ranking military and civilian officials signed these talentless projects. Enormous amounts of money were being spent in vain.

"This is the preamble to the main purpose of the material," Kuzminsky clarified, "further come direct accusations against me and our multi-thousand collective."

Indeed, there followed literally stunning accusations against the creators of horizon-scanning radar stations (ZGRLS). From the logic of the authors' arguments in the first monologue, it followed that the creators of the ZGRLS, together with customers from the USSR Ministry of Defense, party officials, had praised before the Minister of Defense, the General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, and the Chairman of the Council of Ministers the project of creating these very ZGRLS. And then, when the radars could not properly detect targets, they were not accepted into service, but were put into some kind of cunning experimental operation. At the same time, Grigory Kisunko and co-author of the material V. Abramov pointed out, the idea of detecting launches of ballistic missiles from military bases on the territory of the United States with the help of a radar station radiating energy in the short-wave band is simply untenable. In confirmation of these words, the material stated that even non-professionals know that short waves are capable of multiple reflections from the Earth's surface, the ionosphere. They propagate over gigantic distances. But the signal coming to the radar station arrives deformed, cluttered with interference. The useful signal, which forms when the ZGRLS radiation of short waves irradiates the flame of a nuclear ballistic rocket in the first seconds after launch, is drowned in a mass of all kinds of interference.

And further in the material, the creators of the ZGRLS were called adventurers. They, these domestic adventurists, they said, seized upon the deliberately defective idea thrown in from abroad, did not understand the trick, and achieved the creation in the Nikolaev, Komsomolsk-on-Amur, and Chernobyl regions of three giant horizon-scanning radar stations with capital structures hundreds of meters in length and height. More than a billion Soviet rubles were expended on these cyclopean radars. For those times, simply an astronomical sum. Yet the result of this activity was supposedly more than curious. Through special channels or from the press, one learned the time of a ballistic missile launch from the territory of the United States. To the higher authorities, it was reported that the ZGRLS had detected this launch. But after some time, NASA of the United States issued an official statement that this launch had been canceled for certain reasons. But the creators of the ZGRLS and their "patrons" got away with such misinformation of the country's highest leadership. The authors were outraged, they said, how can this be, when entire military units are conducting experimental operation of the ZGRLS and need to show real results, a completely fraudulent version suddenly appears, as if the ZGRLS cannot detect single launches of American ballistic missiles, but rather will precisely determine mass launches and provide the necessary information.

There were no more frank attacks on the ZGRLS in the first and second monologues. But in the monologue "Who Benefits from Disinformation," the topic of ZGRLS appeared again. And at that point, the surname of the former deputy minister of the radio industry of the USSR, V.I. Markov, was mentioned. The authors literally accused him of ignorant stubbornness, careerism. He, having received unlimited power, they said, drew the USSR into the ZGRLS and other useless projects on which hundreds of millions of rubles were spent. Those very full-weight Soviet ones. And in conclusion to the attack on the ZGRLS in that monologue, a blow is struck at the Soviet system of obtaining academic degrees. They said, in order to avoid publicity during the defense, when opponents won't leave a stone unturned from a fake dissertation, the defense is specially classified, supposedly in the interests of maintaining state secrets. So such degreed ignoramuses then promote ZGRLS and other similar worthless projects.

Thus, for some reason, in the material "Money for Defense," only one surname was directly connected with the creation of the ZGRLS. In my notebook, I noted—V.I. Markov, and put several question marks. But at the same time, I thought that the material in the newspaper was somehow forced, full of evasions. The former deputy minister of the radio industry was declared the main adventurer of the ZGRLS. Clearly the material was designed for cheap popularity. Or perhaps it was specially ordered by someone very powerful, someone who could give the command to the central newspaper for such a publication? But who is behind all this? Could even Deputy Minister Markov alone spend billions mindlessly?

While reading the newspaper article, I did not want to show Kuzminsky that the ZGRLS was a "dark forest" for me. As a former DOSAAF and army athlete-short-waver and radio multi-eventer, an officer of radio-technical troops, I knew about the peculiarities of wave propagation in the short radio band. At the Leningrad Military-Political School of Air Defense Troops of the country, which existed at that time, we studied radar armaments of Air Defense Troops on special secret courses. Then I served for four years as deputy commander for political affairs in a separate radar company in the Northern Group of troops in Poland. Once a month I had to stand combat watch for six or more days at the command post of the radar company. It was precisely the duty officer, until the arrival of the main personnel of the company, who had to, upon announcement of combat readiness from the command post of the air defense group of troops, supervise the activation by a reduced combat crew of the necessary number of radar stations to detect targets and begin conducting radar reconnaissance of airspace. If something broke, then I had to take all measures to eliminate it. Without the appropriate knowledge and skills, officers were not allowed to stand combat watch at all. I was helped by serious basic training at the school. Only there did we thoroughly study just a few types of radar stations already accepted into service by the Air Defense Troops. Nobody at the school even mentioned ZGRLS in lectures. There was not even a hint of such radars in the classrooms where functioning receivers, transmitters, antenna-waveguide systems, and other radar equipment were deployed. There was not even a mention of such radars in the park of combat equipment with functioning locators. And then somehow one incident came back to me of its own accord. Psychologists claim that this happens with the human brain in minutes of special tension, when memory unexpectedly reproduces long-forgotten information.

On the training grounds near Krasnoe Selo, in the area of the Gorelogo railway station, which was thirty minutes by electric train from Leningrad, graduating cadets carried out training combat watch on real radar stations, anti-aircraft missile complexes, and command posts. And it was then that our favorite instructor, Lieutenant Colonel Vladimir Sergeev, told us something. The graduation was already looming clearly ahead. Before the golden quarantine, when all exams were already behind, the uniform with long-awaited lieutenant's shoulder boards was sewn and ironed, there remained some three months. During this period, when we devilishly wanted to escape to Leningrad to our young wives, we had to sweat on the training grounds, passing final exams on the command of a radar company during an air raid. In turn, we worked as the company commander, deputy political officer, map keeper, announcer, commander of several types of radar stations, and the persistent instructors even shoved us into diesel-electric stations. And then they demanded that we spend hours there and monitor the operation of the fuel and oil system, cleaning filters. Rarely could we rest on the training grounds. But there were breaks between classes. And in one of them, our instructor in radar armaments, Lieutenant Colonel Vladimir Sergeev, in the smoking room told us about the mysterious giant locator near Nikolaev. At that point, the lieutenant colonel noted that the station, during the period when he served there, was experimental. Even the Commander-in-Chief of the Air Defense Troops of the country himself, Marshal Batitsky, came to it. At the time, I remember, we also spoke about combat equipment, its advantages and disadvantages. Why does our radar equipment have weak interference protection? We even argued about whether it was possible to propagate a radar impulse over 9,000 kilometers over the ground, then receive it back undistorted, without admixtures and interference. What kind of apparatus would such a radar need to be, what power of the radiated impulse? Lieutenant Colonel Sergeev sat among us in the smoking room, smoking a cigarette, and listening to our philosophizing. For some reason, through twenty-five years I remembered in minute detail that training ground smoking room. I even remembered the inscription carved with a nail on the bench that "Petka-fool don't marry this b...". Perhaps it was precisely that smoking room and the mysterious acronym ZGRLS that made my memory, already overloaded with time and data, work at full power.

As in slow-motion film, my memory recalled that Lieutenant Colonel Sergeev unexpectedly rose from the bench, adjusted his field cap, which he wore somewhat dashingly, shifted to his left ear. I don't remember exactly what he told us then. Twenty-five years have passed since then, after all. It seems that he simply, smiling, said that one should not openly speak about state secrets. They said, the experimental locator near Nikolaev is served by an entire military unit. At the same time, he added that possibly some of us in the future would still have to serve on such RLS [radar stations]. There, they said, there is a whole political department in the staff. Apparently, Lieutenant Colonel Sergeev knew much more about that experimental RLS than he spoke about. And he was a specialist with a capital letter, probably because we respected him for that. Then there were years of service, numerous relocations to new garrisons, studies at the academy, Moscow tribulations of a homeless military family man. I heard nothing more about ZGRLS. And here before me, sitting on a chair in our editorial office, according to the newspaper material, sits the main adventurer, and the mysterious combat system ZGRLS, including the Nikolaev experimental radar, is declared an adventure.

"But why is nothing reported about you in the newspaper," I involuntarily burst out in a question to Kuzminsky, "after all, you're the chief designer, and that means you're the main culprit in the failure of this system?"

Kuzminsky looked at me, set aside a sheet of paper from his folder.

"And who told you that the ZGRLS failed," he said unexpectedly harshly, "and where, if I may say so, did it fail? After all, it is only written that way in the newspaper. Moreover, the people who signed the material didn't even mention my surname. But there is a certain peculiarity to this. The thing is, I previously worked in one organization with Kisunko. We had fairly good relations. But the fact that he spoke so about Markov, that is probably primarily because of their complicated mutual relations. Overall, this publication is gross fiction, and I cannot believe that Grigory Vasilievich could say such a thing. He, after all, knows how things actually were. But the main thing is that this article has already done its work. President Mikhail Gorbachev gave an order to the Procurator General of the USSR, the chairman of the KGB, the Minister of Defense to look into our 'adventurism' in detail. It is clear to me that now, when things are not all well in the country and the defense sector, they are looking for 'scapegoats' in order to arrange a public flogging. Like, such-and-such brought the mighty state to collapse with their adventurism."

After this, the chief designer began to recount the horizon-scanning saga in the USSR. And now, through many years, looking at the yellowed pages of the printout of our conversation, it's as if I hear his quiet, confident voice. His narrative captivated with details, detective-like plot entanglements of the creation of the most powerful radars in the world for the Soviet missile attack warning system.

Printout of the dictaphone cassette of the conversation with Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Kuzminsky in the editorial office of the journal "KVS."

"So they wrote in 'Soviet Russia,' that the decision on creating the ZGRLS system was made behind closed doors, by a group of interested voluntarists. It is known that many large-scale defense projects, whether ballistic rockets, combat ships, aviation, always sparked disputes. Sometimes not entirely correct decisions were made. Samples of armaments came out of factory shops not in the quality that was desired. But horizon-scanning location is a special case. If successful, we could have such combat systems of ultra-long-range detection that would throw electromagnetic energy, like a lasso, over all the rocket bases of the United States, located at that time at distances on the order of 9,000 kilometers. At that time, nobody in the world was even thinking about creating such powerful radar stations. Only the USSR and the USA could afford to make such locators. The task was too complex and vast in scientific intensity and costs."

The pioneer in this field was the Soviet scientist Nikolai Ivanovich Kabanov. Back in 1946, he demonstrated the fundamental possibility of detecting air targets in the short-wave band at the fantastic distance of three thousand kilometers. This was caused by the urgent necessity of creating effective protection against the most powerful combat bomber aviation of the United States, equipped with atomic bombs. At that time, there were still no ballistic missiles capable of flying across oceans and striking with nuclear warheads. Kabanov's experimental work was specially classified. Only a narrow circle of people knew about it. For some time, Kabanov tried to build a short-wave locator. But nothing came of it. At that time, there was neither modern radio-electronic production in our country, nor an experimental testing base, nor highly-skilled specialists. So Kabanov, in Russian fashion in 1949, spoke rashly to the scientific world that such a locator could not be built. The brilliant theoretical idea of the scientist became a technical puzzle.

Several years passed. Kabanov's work was a state secret. Even the relevant scientific centers did not know about it. Therefore, the idea of creating a powerful short-wave radar once again visited inquisitive minds. This time, it was taken up by the chief designer of radio relay lines, a laureate of the USSR State Prize, Ephraim Semenovich Shtyren, his like-minded colleagues, the future minister of communications Vasily Aleksandrovich Shamshin, young scientists Emir Ivanovich Shustov, Boris Samoilovich Kukis, Vladimir Andreevich Korado, and other comrades. The scientists again theoretically substantiated the possibility of creating a powerful horizon-scanning radar operating on short waves. This group of enthusiast scientists developed a scientific report titled "Arc." The name precisely reflected the daring design. In the report, it was indicated that such a ZGRLS could detect targets at thousands of kilometers over the round surface of the Earth. The military considered and approved the scientific report and in turn sent it for verification to the Academy of Sciences of the USSR. But there, a famous scientist in the field of radar, Academician Yuri Borisovich Kobzarev, put a big "cross" on the "Arc" and at the same time said that the eccentric enthusiasts had wasted time on an absolutely hopeless undertaking. Nikolai Kabanov had already proven the impossibility of horizon-scanning radar location. And here His Majesty Chance intervened.

In the late 1950s, the USSR and the USA were actively developing offensive missile-nuclear armaments. At that time, I worked in the famous Design Bureau 1, the future Almaz NPO. We spent day and night in laboratories, factory shops, and on training grounds. Under the skillful leadership of Aleksandr Andreevich Raspletin, we developed, for those times, unique anti-aircraft missile complexes S-75 and S-125. Therefore, knowing the atmosphere of that time, I can safely imagine how the leaders of the state became worried when they learned that American scientist Taylor, with his short-wave locator, had detected a ballistic missile at long range. And this meant that now the Americans could in principle continuously monitor Soviet rocket bases twenty-four hours a day. And here "Arc" by Shtyren and his group came in very handy. For the state, protection from missile-nuclear attack was a strategic task. A special session of an Academy of Sciences commission took place. Ephraim Semenovich Shtyren argued that short-wave radiation could detect aircraft and missiles at horizon-scanning distances. His opponents argued the opposite. The failed work of Kabanov, who was highly respected at the time, was cited as an example. And it is no accident that they say, truth is born in dispute. The commission members found out that Shtyren's group had put forward a completely new idea of horizon-scanning radar location, not like Kabanov's. As a result, Shtyren and his team were proposed to conduct experimental research. So began the history of the combat horizon-scanning detection system. It was accepted by specialists in scientific dispute, not behind closed doors by a group of adventurers, into which the newspaper "Soviet Russia" lumped all of us together, and especially Vladimir Ivanovich Markov.

After some time, Shtyren's group developed a working model for conducting experiments. In 1963, Shamshin and Shustov managed on this so-to-speak laboratory semi-finished product to detect the launch of a missile from Baikonur at a distance of about three thousand kilometers. Success was evident, and it had to be developed. But Shtyren was not inclined to hurry. He already understood at that time that with short-wave location at long distances, he would have to face unexplored physical processes arising from the passage of radio waves through the ionosphere, as well as those caused by various kinds of interference. He was cautious and did not want to risk. As a result, for his stubbornness, Shtyren was removed from the position of chief designer. Even his merits did not save him. After him, several more designers conducted work in this direction.

In 1964, I was appointed chief engineer at NIDAR. I studied the subject matter of all departments. I will frankly say that the complexity and global scope of the horizon-scanning topic especially attracted me. In 1968, I was appointed chief designer. I became closely engaged in horizon-scanning radar location.

The creation of a horizon-scanning locator during that period was fundamentally new work. All previous work only led up to it, but did not answer very many questions. The main characteristic here was that the ionosphere directly participated in the location process. The ionosphere was used as a conductor, allowing the energy to be delivered beyond the horizon to the area of rocket launches and to achieve their detection. Without the ionosphere, horizon-scanning radar location is impossible. But it had its caprices. At different times of day, it brings to the target, at thousands of kilometers away, signals of different wavelengths and only of a narrow frequency band. Beyond this narrow band, the ionosphere simply absorbed the energy. Therefore, the task arose to learn to select, at each particular moment, precisely such a frequency band that would allow location with minimal energy loss. But these were not all the scientific problems that nature posed before us. The second caprice of the ionosphere was that the electromagnetic wave, after its first reflection from the ionosphere, ceased to be flat, as in ordinary radar, and acquired a very complex form. Not one ray came to the target, but several at once. In the literature, there were suggestions about the "murkiness" of the ionosphere. However, in radio communications, this phenomenon did not cause such painful problems as energy losses. Therefore, we thought that this issue did not require special emphasis and would be resolved in the process of work, using various design solutions. The main thing was to overcome the first problem—the property of the ionosphere to consume electromagnetic energy. The property of diffuseness worried us less.

Around our work and its problems, two camps, so to speak, formed immediately. This again indicates that there was no backstage dealing, nobody was pushing it through without thorough discussion. The first group included the chief designer, a whole galaxy of his like-minded colleagues, co-developers, several members of management, and a large group of military comrades. We believed that the difficulties would be overcome. Our confidence was based on the positive results that had been obtained at the experimental base we had created.

And there was also a second group of comrades who believed that it would hardly be possible to overcome energy losses and conduct radar location at a range of 9,000 kilometers. So our opponents proposed a dragging solution. They said, let's not build a combat system, but only conduct experiments. When all the questions have been worked out, all the problems solved, that's when we can begin building a combat locator. Of course, such a point of view had the right to exist. But how much time would it take for experiments and who could give an answer—would we be able or not be able to detect with the necessary reliability rocket launches from the territory of the United States if we didn't build a radar? Only a real locator could give the most accurate answer to this question. All other solutions were prognostic. And nobody could say at what level of this prognosis to stop, to complete experiments, which could last for years and consume a lot of money. Gradually, the balance in the principled dispute was taken by the point of view that, based on the already achieved experimental data, on which also considerable time and resources had already been spent, one needed to create a combat system. Parallel to this, to strengthen the study of the ionosphere, to create necessary models. As results were obtained, to make the necessary corrections to the project. Such a method of work maximally shortened the timeframe for developing the ZGRLS and accepting them for combat duty. I should note that the necessity for such stations at that time was exceptional. They were the only among ground-based means which in principle could allow detecting the launches of ballistic nuclear rockets at the moment of their launch. This provided a time advantage for delivering a retaliatory strike. Our stations could become the most effective means of warning of aggression. These were the conditions under which the combat system was being developed.

After receiving a package of experimental data, which included facts of detecting launches of American "Apollos" by an experimental locator, in the spring of 1971, a design project of a combat ZGRLS system, consisting of two radars, was defended. In the commission reviewing the project was, for example, the commander of anti-missile and anti-space defense forces, Colonel General Yuri Vsevolodovich Votintsev. A military leader who had created these forces understood technical and scientific problems very well. He certainly did not need a fake project, clumsily stitched together. His forces were to operate the ZGRLS. Why would he need defective armaments?

The tactical-technical specification for the development of the entire system was approved by the Chief of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the USSR, Marshal of the Soviet Union Kulikov, and the Minister of Radio Industry of the USSR, Kalmykov. Technical specifications for each radar station were personally approved by the Commander-in-Chief of the Air Defense Forces of the country, Marshal Batitsky, and Minister Kalmykov. I should note that leaders of such rank did not simply put their signature on defense projects. But I will frankly say that the military rendered us very great support. A special military unit was created under the command of Lieutenant General Mikhail Markovich Kolomiyets. It trained cadres for the operation of the future equipment. As part of this military unit were small subdivisions that helped us conduct all experiments on the experimental training ground locator in Nikolaev, as well as on a kind of gigantic testing ground from Olga Bay on Kamchatka to Nikolaev on the Black Sea, and further to the island of Cuba in the west. A whole complex of special technical means was deployed and operated with the help of military units. Not a single step related to the progress of the development was taken without the customer. All test programs and the results of their conduct were approved by the military. Nothing and never was a surprise to them in this work, and they were very conscientious about it. The level of their specialists was very high. For instance, in the 45th Central Research Institute of the Ministry of Defense, there was a special directorate headed by Colonel General, Doctor of Technical Sciences, Professor Sharakshan Abo Sergeevich. It is impossible to even suspect a well-known military scientist, mathematician, and generally brilliant mind of unprofessionalism or fraud. This directorate independently developed the methodological basis for conducting tests, gave assessments of system characteristics, continuously itself participated in all tests and work on creating the ZGRLS. They could not be deceived.

In turn, the 4th Main Directorate of the Ministry of Defense of the USSR kept a very close eye on our work; it was responsible for the latest air defense, anti-missile, anti-space, and missile attack warning armaments. This directorate reported directly to the Minister of Defense and the Chief of the General Staff, unlike today when it reports to the Commander-in-Chief of Air Defense Forces. It was headed from 1957 to 1972 by Colonel General Georgy Filippovich Baidukov (a celebrated pilot in his past), then by Colonel Generals Evgeny Sergeevich Yurasov and Leonid Mikhailovich Leonov. These military specialists principally defended the interests of the Ministry of Defense. That is, our combat radar system was not pushed through by someone's evil or good will, or in the selfish interests of interested groups of persons or departments. This system was the next most difficult and problematic task in the entire complex of anti-missile defense and warning. Moreover, at times, it was impossible to squeeze an extra kopeck from the customer. All funds were strictly accounted for and controlled.

The site for the first object was chosen near Chernobyl. Nearby was an atomic power station with cheap energy. This ZGRLS was supposed to control American rocket bases by sending probing signals through the North Pole of the Earth. The attachment of the object to this point was also thoroughly checked and approved in various agencies. In 1975, the object was practically built. In the same year, factory tests began. All the apparatus of the locator functioned normally. However, the probability of detecting single launches turned out to be lower than what was recorded in the technical specification of the locator. Then the military proposed to determine the effectiveness of the station not by single, but by combat (mass) rocket launches. A whole series of combat raids was formulated. The 45th Central Research Institute developed a modeling technique, created an experimental-mathematical model for evaluating the characteristics of the locator. This model was calibrated using launches of our own combat missiles, the detection of which was conducted on an experimental model of the ZGRLS in Nikolaev. Then, during tests in real-world conditions, with the help of special equipment, signals were mixed in corresponding to combat launches. Our locator was checked against them. With such a proviso, the decision was made to proceed to state tests. This decision was made at the level of a commission on military-industrial issues, coordinated with the Minister of Defense. Day and night, week after week, and for that matter, month after month, our specialists were on site, reworking the station so that it could reliably detect ballistic missile launches. Tests began. The State Commission for the Chernobyl station was headed by the commander of the Air Defense Academy, Air Force Marshal Georgy Vasilievich Zimin. The entire apparatus complex was tested. Then, using the method of experimental-mathematical modeling, the detection characteristics of the ZGRLS were evaluated. And parallel to this, construction of the facility in Komsomolsk-on-Amur was underway. Tests were conducted from 1976 to 1979. The complexity and length of tests is explained by the fact that the ionosphere behaves differently at different times of day and year. And so state tests were completed. For us, it became evident that it was not yet possible to detect with high probability single launches of ballistic missiles.

Nature prevents it. At the same time, the detection characteristics for combat launches are acceptable. However, they were not recorded in the technical specification. Therefore, a project to correct the TZ [technical specification] was prepared, agreed to by both industry and the customer. This document was approved by the Chief of the General Staff. The Minister of Defense, Marshal Ustinov, was informed about this. He ordered a meeting on this issue to be held.

I remember that day in 1979 well. In the hall where the military collegium of the Ministry of Defense meets were practically all the commanders-in-chief of the Branches of the Armed Forces, representatives from the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, the Council of Ministers of the USSR, the Academy of Sciences of the USSR, the commission on military-industrial issues, and many high-ranking generals and admirals. Reports were given by the chairman of the state commission, Air Force Marshal Zimin, and me, as chief designer. Where is the backstage dealing that the newspaper writes about? At this meeting, the most diverse opinions were expressed. So, Chief of the General Staff Marshal Nikolai Vasilievich Ogarkov supported the joint proposal of the military and industry to record in the technical specification that the ZGRLS should, first of all, detect mass launches of ballistic missiles. However, Dmitry Fedorovich Ustinov said: "I did not expect, Nikolai Vasilievich, that you would show such spinelessness." I remember his words well: "Let them work, and our task is to create conditions for them to do so. It's too early to correct the TZ. Let them work more. Later we will operate the locator. They will take our comments into account and further refine it. For now, it's too early to give up and throw up our hands." Such was the formula for refining the ZGRLS that Ustinov proposed. At that meeting, a decision was made that we should move forward, we will test the Komsomolsk station, not correct the technical specifications for the stations, and in the future compel the developers to refine the system.

We left the meeting, generally satisfied, although the decision made had both positive and negative sides. On the one hand, it motivated us, and on the other, it had a negative effect on the progress of work. At that time, we decided that after the completion of tests of the Komsomolsk station, we would connect both objects to the missile attack warning system (SPRN), assess their contribution, and put them on combat alert. At the same time, industry was refining the stations.

The chairman of the state commission on testing the radar locator near Komsomolsk-on-Amur was Colonel General Yuri Vsevolodovich Votintsev. A military intellectual in the highest sense. In the most difficult situations, he always maintained composure and never uttered profanities. It was pleasant to work with him. Tests in Komsomolsk were conducted faster, in my opinion, in two years. The experience already accumulated had an effect.

The chairman of the commission for joint tests of two stations was also Yuri Vsevolodovich. The commander of the forces into which the ZGRLS were supposed to be integrated would decide whether they deserved to be a component part of the SPRN, whether the money spent on them was justified, whether to accept them into service or not. And the general did not lack principle and decisiveness.

In 1981, the tests were completed, an assessment of the system's contribution to the SPRN was given. The contribution was evaluated as significant. The document was signed by about forty people and it was approved by the Ministry of Defense. Moreover, all documents and all parameters were carefully checked. But the newspaper wrote that even this important document was approved almost by a group of conspirators.

The details of the test progress were reported to the Minister of Defense, Marshal Ustinov. Only after this appeared the decision to put the ZGRLS near Komsomolsk-on-Amur on combat alert. The military was introducing the Chernobyl ZGRLS into experimental operation. By the same decision, the industry was assigned the task, within fairly strict deadlines, of further improving the radar to a certain significant level. To introduce the obtained results at the Chernobyl facility. Only after the completion of the entire planned complex of work was a verification test of the entire system to be conducted again. And only after this was it to be accepted into service as a whole.

Such was the concept finally adopted by Marshal Ustinov. I remember well how Dmitry Fedorovich rose from his chair, came out from behind the desk, and approached a large globe. He stopped and looked at the Earth in miniature. He was silent. Then he said literally the following: "The question of accepting a combat system into service is very serious. There should be no mistakes. It must be reported to the Defense Council." That's what it was. To discuss the ZGRLS combat system at the Soviet Defense Council. Even a member of the Politburo, Minister of Defense of the USSR, Marshal of the Soviet Union Ustinov, brought the question of the ZGRLS to collective discussion. Apparently, he too feared the possible consequences of unilateral and possibly rash decisions. But some little newspaper reduced everything to group loyalism and voluntarism.

By June 1981, a draft Government Decree on approving this concept was prepared. The Soviet Defense Council met on June 22. The report was given by the Chief of the General Staff of the Armed Forces of the USSR, Marshal Nikolai Vasilievich Ogarkov. There was debate. The draft Decree was approved by members of the Defense Council. And into it, as is known, entered the first persons of the state. Each had their own staff of consultants and experts who had studied the problem from all angles. In the classified Decree, it was indicated that on June 30, 1982, the ZGRLS near Komsomolsk-on-Amur should be put on combat alert, and the main requirements for modernizing the entire horizon-scanning location combat system were also formulated.

And so we began implementing the program of refinements. Moreover, we had the potential to fulfill this assignment. I was personally confident that we could overcome the main problems, including those caused by the propagation of electromagnetic waves in a non-stationary diffuse ionosphere. There was a feeling that the solution did not lie so deep. As early as in 1980, at NIDAR, which I headed at that time, a laboratory was created. It worked closely with Moscow University and directly with the faculty headed by Andrei Nikolaevich Tikhonov. He was the author of an entire school of so-called inverse problems. So, together with Tikhonov and his colleagues, our institute laboratory conducted research on developing methods to neutralize this very diffuseness. At the height of the work, I relinquished my administrative position as director of NIDAR and became simply the chief designer. I did this consciously, specifically to maximize focus on the purely design work. But it turned out to be my tragic mistake.

Somehow, Peter Stepanovich Pleshakov, the minister of radio industry, gathered us, the leaders of sectoral enterprises, and began speaking extensively about the possible transfer of his deputy, Vladimir Ivanovich Markov. The leitmotif of this transfer was that many chief designers complained about Markov. They said he constantly imposed various unjustified organizational ideas. Markov, in his position as deputy minister, supervised our institute and knew it well. And before had even been its director. So the minister proposed that I consider his employment at NIDAR, and perhaps even yield the director's chair. In general, Vladimir Ivanovich was a good administrator and organizer. I liked this idea. During that period, I was tired of holding two positions. And at one time, we even used to be friends with Markov's family. So I myself contributed in many ways to Vladimir Ivanovich's return to our institute as director. I thought we would work together excellently, and this would help us fulfill the program of refinements for the entire combat system more quickly. I was wrong.

Already on the first day after his return, he asked me what was this confusion with orders about our appointments and terminations. He said he had seen an order indicating that Markov was being appointed and Kuzminsky was being released from his position. That is, I was being removed from the director's post. And now it turns out that Kuzminsky is released from his position at his own request, and the Minister of Radio Industry expresses his gratitude to him for good work. With characteristic force, Markov, looking me straight in the eye, asked: "Where did this order come from?" I confess that I was literally taken aback. And then, for the first time, I felt that I had made a big mistake and that I now awaited problems that might not have existed. And indeed, Markov came to the institute with a certain ideology, already formed in him, regarding the ZGRLS objects.

Rather soon it became clear to me what he was after. The ideology he proclaimed consisted in the fact that, in his opinion, from the two stations, apart from the characteristics they already provided, nothing more could be extracted. Therefore, further refinement of them is useless work. As a solution, it was necessary to make certain that the already-lightened characteristics of the combat system were further eased with yet another correction of the TZ. To eliminate altogether from the TZ the requirement for single targets. To quickly patch up the project, refine the combat system accordingly, and hand it over to the military for operation.

Moreover, he had another idea to reorient the Chernobyl station to a different task, to track targets at lesser distances. At the same time, Markov claimed that Kuzminsky had incorrectly "positioned" this object. However, here he met resistance from the chief designer of the SPRN, Vladislav Georgievich Repin, a talented scientist and exceptionally competent designer. By the way, his subsequent removal under strange motives dealt, in my view, substantial harm to the cause. It was necessary to abandon the idea of reorienting the Ukrainian ZGRLS. But it must be said that Markov was very persistent in implementing his ideas. He was the director of the institute, had all the resources and administrative levers in his hands, and used them skillfully. For me began not just a nightmare, but a nightmare in hell. It became practically impossible to work. I faced a dilemma—either join Markov and, conducting no further research, simply quickly patch up the combat system and foist it on the military. But at the same time, clearly understand that the "patched" "Arc" would be no better than before. Or stubbornly seek solutions to radically improve the system of two ZGRLS. By that time, we already had positive results from research and experiments at Moscow University and at the facility near Komsomolsk-on-Amur. They gave serious hope that it was possible to achieve substantial improvement in the combat characteristics of the locators. I could not give up all this work done with such difficulty and retreat from my principles, betray those who thought as I did. Therefore, I appealed to the Minister of Radio Industry. I indicated that an intolerable situation had been created at NIDAR in our field of specialization. Due to organizational measures by the director, I had, as chief designer, no corresponding collective for three months, which was unacceptable when carrying out the program to refine the locators. I indicated that the director systematically substituted for the chief designer, discrediting his functions. Thereby, confusion in technical leadership and an intolerable atmosphere in the collective had been created. I gave examples of how, without the chief designer and contrary to his opinion, orders were issued determining technical tasks and ways of solving them. Especially when I was on business trips. So I asked the minister to subordinate one design bureau directly to me. But here the minister could be understood. In that situation, it was hard to figure out who was right. Moreover, there were other similar problems with chief designer Aleksandr Nikolaevich Musatov in NIDAR at that time. His idea of block radars could at one time have made a true revolution in the field. But he too was seriously in conflict with Markov. Realization of Musatov's idea required enormous efforts, resources, and the timeframes were indefinite. Markov, for his part, wanted to quickly do something and get some result. Ultimately, he "twisted off Musatov's head," which was a substantial brake on the development of an entire direction in radar location.

After some time, I was subordinated to Research Department 3 and Design Group of NIDAR, but this did not change the essence of the conflict. The divergence of points of view began openly to spill over not into work, but into struggle. The director for one technical line, the chief designer for another. The subject of this struggle became, among other things, people, since they did not know which side to take. The collective split. Gradually, the leadership of the Ministry of Radio Industry and the commission on military-industrial issues became involved in our confrontation. In short, the "Kulikov battle" had begun.

Here is one example of how the director tried to remove me from the position of chief designer. The military assigned a new cipher to the modernized ZGRLS. According to the director's logic, since the cipher is new, let's appoint a new chief designer as well. An ironclad argument for getting rid of someone unwelcome. The Minister Pleshakov and the chairman of the VPK [Military-Industrial Commission] Smirnov intervened, and as a result, I was restored to my position. For a time, they were on my side. But over time, apparently, they tired of me with this story. Every time I got in and proved my rightness. But Markov also had his own, sufficiently convincing, and in some sense even attractive arguments. In the end, I was left without the support of management. Our confrontation ended with me appealing to the institute's party committee. In my appeal, I laid out the situation with maximum candor. I thought we would discuss it in a comradely, principled manner. Now I understand how naive I was. In short, my appeal contained the following:

"By Government Decree, we are assigned work on the improvement of the ZGRLS system. The work consists of two parts: modernization of the apparatus complex and improvement of the complex of special ionospheric algorithms. Regarding the first part, there is reason to hope that, although delayed relative to the established deadlines, the task will be accomplished: despite the resistance of NIDAR Director Markov, following the intervention of ministry leadership and the VPK, equipment production has been launched. As for the second part, work on improving the algorithmic complex, it is under more serious threat. And yet, it is precisely this part of the task that is the most difficult and determines the success or failure of the assigned work as a whole. Its solution presupposes the execution of a broad range of very complex work, such as study and appropriate use of the natural properties of the ionosphere, experimental-mathematical modeling, organization and conduct of special tests. The fulfillment of the indicated work can be ensured only on the basis of the Nikolaev branch of NIDAR, which possesses all the necessary complex of unique experimental means. Precisely for this it was created. However, the NIDAR director has issued a series of orders, according to which the branch is being intensively saddled with tasks not characteristic of it regarding the improvement of the apparatus complex. In practice, this means a substantial reduction of forces executing the main work on improvement of ionospheric algorithms, which will lead already not just to a delay in deadlines. It threatens the fact that on some determining tasks, simply no solutions will be found. Real prerequisites are being created for poor quality execution of the work as a whole, which will lead to undeserved discrediting of the created means, including those already handed over to the Customer. My repeated attempts to convince the director of the harmfulness of such measures and the inadmissibility of their realization have not led to the desired results. I consider it my duty to inform the party committee of the institute of this and ask it to sort out the situation."

I wrote the appeal in April 1983. No response. As if nothing had happened. And I was the chief designer, deputy director for scientific work. But then in June, suddenly an expanded meeting of the party committee was announced. Various general questions were being considered, directive documents examined. And only at the end of the meeting, after consideration of the agenda items, the secretary stood and said that a letter had been received by the party committee from comrade Kuzminsky. He said we discussed it. After him rose the chief engineer of the institute, my long-time colleague at work, lowered his eyes, and read in my direction an incredible diatribe. After the meeting, he approached me, apologized, saying, we were forced. But it did not make me feel any better at that time. In short, they declared me to have a severe reprimand. The formulation was impressive. "For unsatisfactory state of planned and executive discipline in the subdivisions directed, manifested in chronic non-fulfillment of planned work in Research Department 3 and the Design Group of NIDAR, repeated creation of conflictual situations in the collective, introducing unnecessary nervousness in the work and distracting it from the fulfillment of tasks formulated by the Decree of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union and the Council of Ministers of the USSR, personal indiscipline, expressed in systematic non-fulfillment of orders of the NIDAR director, decisions of the Scientific-Technical Council and the Council of Management."

That's where my party comrades, with whom I had worked for many years and who knew me very well, drove me. After that meeting, I understood that either I had to go to Markov with raised hands, saying, I repent, I understand, now I am from this moment until the end of time your humble servant. Here, I have in my hands the hammer and nails, and you, Vladimir Ivanovich, just give orders where to drive them. Let's patch up the stations as you wanted. Let them remain with the same characteristics. Let them be a bluff. But we'll fob them off on the military and wash our hands of it. Or there was a second path. To distance myself from this, to leave and not bind my name with such a blunder. But one had to leave in such a way as to have the ability to sort out the ZGRLS problems to the end. After these kinds of reflections and anguish, having given almost twenty of the best years of my life to NIDAR and horizon-scanning radar location, I went to the director of the Institute of Applied Geophysics. Together with him, we were members of the Kuibyshev District Party Committee. We knew each other well. He understood me. He offered me the position of senior scientific researcher and gave me the opportunity to work on my problem, which was essentially within the profile of that institute. I resigned from NIDAR on June 30, 1983.

At the Institute of Applied Geophysics, I began working seriously on the characteristics of short-wave signal propagation on polar routes, developing corresponding algorithms. It took me just eight months to analytically assess the effect of diffuseness on the detection quality of horizon-scanning locators, to understand the physics of the phenomenon, to determine ways to refine the system to substantially improve its characteristics. After that, I went from place to place, but without particular success. And this can be understood, for after all, I was already a man spat upon. Then I appealed to the assistant to Minister of Defense Dmitry Fedorovich Ustinov. He received me and listened. He immediately called the Chief of Armaments of the Armed Forces of the USSR, General of the Army Vitaly Mikhailovich Shabanov, with whom, by the way, we had known each other for a long time from our joint work at Design Bureau 1. He in turn also received me at his office, which was located beyond the Academy of Rocket Forces of Strategic Purpose named after F.E. Dzerzhinsky, next to the Russia hotel. We had a long conversation with Vitaly Mikhailovich. He agreed with my arguments and said that we needed to prepare an appropriate order from the Minister of Defense on this matter. I left. My proposals were reported to Minister of Defense Ustinov, Chairman of the VPK Smirnov, and other interested parties. Two or three months passed, nothing was heard. Then I became ill. The strain of work and the problems of recent years took their toll. As soon as my condition allowed, I called the assistant to the Minister of Defense again. He told me that a special commission on my issue had been created. Valery Vasilievich Sychyov became its chairman. Now he is chairman of the State Standard Committee. As a result, the commission produced such a resolution that could be evaluated as directed toward "doing nothing." I was never drawn into the work of the commission.

After that, I worked for another year. With my like-minded colleague Vilen Semenovich Kristal, we conducted a certain amount of modeling and obtained even better results. Then I wrote a letter to Smirnov at the VPK, asking him to receive me for a more detailed discussion on matters of improving the combat system. But Smirnov redirected my letter to Viktor Mikhailovich Karetnikov, the head of a department of the VPK. He received me, listened, and said: "You're an intelligent man, so what are you fighting about? Here lies a paper on your issue, in which it says that an authoritative commission has already investigated this matter, and your proposals were not accepted." Viktor Mikhailovich advised me not to appeal to Smirnov about this matter again.

Nevertheless, I continued working in that direction for two more years. During that time, the appropriate theory was finally formed, serious modeling was conducted, and many issues were resolved. The year 1987 arrived. During that period, Yuri Dmitrievich Maslyukov became chairman of the VPK. Well, I thought, all right, I'll write again. So I wrote letters to him, as well as to the Minister of Radio Industry Pleshakov and Commander-in-Chief of Air Defense Troops Koldunov with appropriate proposals. In them I indicated that, despite having left NIDAR, I continued to work on the subject matter they knew about. I clearly indicated what and how needed to be refined based on new cardinal solutions. Moreover, the refinements were for the most part related to the software-algorithmic complex, did not require capital expenditures, and could be accomplished in the near term.

But nobody answered me. Yes, that's understandable. For during that period, I was already a former chief designer. Non-specialists could not help me in this matter. There is the lead institute that bears responsibility for a certain type of equipment already in combat operation. And Markov sits in the institute, pushing his own line, and has put Kuzminsky in a certain light. It is highly problematic to impose ideas on him from the outside. Inevitably I would have to take some responsibility on myself.

As a result, I achieved nothing. After the Chernobyl catastrophe, the combat Ukrainian ZGRLS was covered by a radioactive cloud and was shut down. The radar near Komsomolsk-on-Amur was removed from combat alert because it had become unpromising. Such was the tragic history of the horizon-scanning location combat system.

I want to emphasize once more that the honor of the first horizon-scanning detection in our state belongs to Vasily Aleksandrovich Shamshin and Emir Ivanovich Shustov. They were the first to see a launching rocket at a distance of about three thousand kilometers. A decisive contribution to the creation of the experimental model of the horizon-scanning radar was made by Vladimir Porfirievich Vasyukov, Albert Arkadievich Baraev, Yuri Kuzmich Grishin, Yuri Kirillovich Kalinin, Ivan Mikhailovich Zamorin, Georgy Semenovich Pakhomov, and many, many other scientists and engineers of NIDAR. I cannot now list all the talented specialists who participated most actively in the development. From 1968, I became chief designer and headed all work on this subject. We achieved considerable results. But who is guilty of the fact that the domestic combat system for horizon-scanning detection of ballistic missile launches was never refined and never accepted into service? Who is guilty of the fact that a large group of scientists, designers, engineers, and workers, for extremely difficult and conscientious labor, did not receive even elementary gratitude? Probably, for this, first of all, I myself am guilty, as the chief designer. I was unable to prove my rightness in time, did not stand firm in the struggle for it. I myself am far from a perfect person. I also have had not always ideal relations with many people.

Nevertheless, very many people helped me. For example, at one time I was supported by a very wise person, the head of the Directorate of 4-GUMO, Lieutenant General Mikhail Ivanovich Nenashev. But then I did not heed one of his wise pieces of advice, and he stopped offering me assistance.

Nor did I heed the advice of Yuri Vsevolodovich Votintsev. Once, the commander of anti-missile and anti-space defense forces, a most delicate, highly respected person in the army, told me in confidence that it was time, so to speak, for you, as chief designer, to take a decisive step in the confrontation with Markov. At that time, I understood him, but considered his advice untimely. And I was wrong. Apparently, in view of his official position, Votintsev received very important information of which I was unaware.

But overall, behind everything that happened to me stands yet another very serious problem. It is a question of attitudes toward chief designers. During my time in the Ministry of Radio Industry, many chief designers were practically deprived of all authority. In a number of institutes, they did not even have the right to official correspondence. The director was master of the situation and in any circumstance could impose his views on scientific and technical problems. One director creates every condition for the chief designer's productive work, another behaves differently. He is also an honest person, also for Soviet power. But it seems to him that if he leads the chief designer by the scruff and determines what and how for him to do, where to go, then the matter will benefit from it. But a chief designer determines very much. It is he who does not sleep at night, works without regard to his health. In cosmonautics, the chief designer is king and god; the same is true in aviation. One can cite positive examples—Raspletin, Bunkin, Basistov. But a chief designer in the person of some kid—this is, first of all, a deception of military customers. In this system lurks the evil and failure of many developments. First and foremost, the military should be interested in chief designers. Therefore, it is necessary to create a system where precisely the chief designer actually stands at the head of his own development. We are gradually moving toward this. At the same NIDAR, the position of general designer was recently introduced. It is already hard for the director to argue with him. Decent, knowledgeable people have appeared. Of course, personal characteristics in science will always be present. But there must be a system that maximizes the leveling of their negative sides. It is necessary to very carefully, with legal competence, define the authority, rights, and obligations of chief and general designers. And the customer should not stand aside from their work, handing everything over to the Ministry of Radio Industry. Everyone will only benefit from this, and first and foremost, the cause."

This ended the printout of the recording of the long-ago conversation with the chief designer of the Soviet system of horizon-scanning locators. On the desk lay a pile of worn standard sheets of gray second-rate paper. We did not have the funds for better paper in our editorial office in 1990. I remembered that I had spent several days printing out the recording from the dictaphone. After all, there were other editorial assignments. I deliberately did not include my questions, remarks in the course of the conversation with Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Kuzminsky in the dictaphone printout. In my view, this way the narrative reads more vividly, or rather, the confession of the chief designer of the ZGRLS, who candidly asked me to protect his cause and the cause of a huge collective of people from newspaper slander. Our conversation with Kuzminsky lasted several hours. I was attracted by the history of the domestic combat system ZGRLS. After the conversation ended, Kuzminsky drank another cup of Ceylonese tea. He thanked me for the meeting, collected his documents in his folder, some of which had already been copied for us in the editorial office, and was about to leave. Already at the door, he stopped, turned to me, and asked if there would be a publication in the journal.

"I still need to sort out your story," I answered him candidly. "I'll call you in a couple of weeks."

On this we shook hands. And he left. Literally following hot on the heels of our conversation, I compiled a list of immediate questions that needed to be clarified and confirmed, and of people with whom I still needed to meet. About my vision of the problem and the conversation with Kuzminsky, I told the editor of the department, Colonel Aleksandr Nekrylov. He suggested not hurrying and sorting out this story in detail. So began the journalistic investigation, which lasted from August through December 1990.