Some 2km (1.4miles) away – its white pencil-shape barely visible against the grey sky – a Proton rocket rose from the ground. Nevertheless, we were both about to witness a significant moment in space history. At least I was being paid – in Yeltsin’s Russia, the chances were he hadn’t received a salary for several weeks. Neither of us looked particularly happy to be there. The speech was overwhelmed by static and the angry muttering of a technician attempting a hasty repair. The ground was covered in a light dusting of snow and a bitter wind tore across the cracked concrete, flattening the surrounding scrappy clumps of grass.Ī stream of garbled Russian crackled from a loudspeaker mounted on an army truck. Fourteen years ago, in November 1998, I stood on a low mound overlooking the bleak Kazakhstan steppe.
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