Cold Open

It’s October 14th, 1947, 15,000 feet above the Mojave Desert.

24-year-old Air Force Captain Chuck Yeager sits on a metal box inside a B-29 bomber, ignoring the safety belt requirement. A bump of turbulence sends pain shooting through his torso. Two nights ago, he broke a few ribs while horseback riding. And if his superiors had discovered the injury, he would have been grounded. But Yeager was not about to miss this opportunity. He’s going to attempt the fastest flight in human history.

In the B-29’s bomb bay is a small orange rocket plane, the Bell X-1. For months, Yeager and a team of engineers have pushed this experimental aircraft closer and closer to supersonic flight. And today, they will attempt to break through the invisible threshold marking the speed of sound. Many believe it's impossible. Planes have fallen apart, and pilots have been killed just approaching such speed. But Yeager is determined that today is going to be different.

At 20,000 feet, the B-29 levels off, and Yeager makes his way to the bomb bay. He climbs down a small steel ladder. And below him, the X-1 dangles from its heavy shackle in the freezing wind. Getting into the tiny cockpit on a good day is exhausting, but with broken ribs, every move is torturous. Yeager grips the doorframe with his left hand and swings himself feet-first toward the narrow opening. For one terrifying moment, he's suspended between the ladder and the plane with nothing but sky beneath him.

But making it inside, Yeager settles in as the B-29 dives, accelerating to reach launch speed. Then comes the countdown over the radio. Three. Two. One.

For a moment, the X-1 is in free fall.

And Yeager feels the weightlessness in his stomach. Then he ignites the rockets. The acceleration slams him back into his seat. His eyes flick to the Mach meter, which measures the plane’s speed as a percentage of sound. At point nine two, the plane begins to shake. By point nine six, Yeager worries it will tear apart. But then, as he passes point nine seven, the needle swings wildly off the scale. The gauge is only built to go to Mach 1. And Yeager has done it. He’s flying faster than any human has before.

On the ground below, observers hear a sound like distant thunder—the first human-generated sonic boom. Chuck Yeager has just exceeded the speed of sound. He's proven that supersonic flight is possible. And in doing so, he's planted a seed—if a rocket plane can break the sound barrier, perhaps one day, so too, can a passenger jet. This possibility will spark a global race involving engineers, pilots, politicians, and spies. And eventually, a new era of supersonic travel will begin when commercial Concorde flights take off from London and Paris on January 21st, 1976.

Introduction

From Noiser and Airship, I’m Lindsay Graham, and this is History Daily.

History is made every day. On this podcast—every day—we tell the true stories of the people and events that shaped our world.

Today is January 21st, 1976: Concorde Takes Flight.

Act One: The British and French Team Up

It's November 29th in 1962, in London, England, fifteen years after Chuck Yeager broke the sound barrier.

British Aviation Minister Julian Amery takes his seat among the gilded walls and crystal chandeliers of Lancaster House, a lavish mansion owned by the British government. Its opulence is meant to impress foreign dignitaries, but everyone here today is only focused on one thing.

On the polished table at the front of the room sits a model of the future—a needle-nosed aircraft with swept-back delta wings. Amery hopes it will lead the United Kingdom into a new era of supersonic global travel.

But the British won’t be building it alone. Amery is here to sign a treaty with the French, committing both governments to develop the new jet together. It’s the only way either nation can afford the project.

Estimates already suggest it will cost hundreds of millions of pounds. The British Treasury is nervous. And some Members of Parliament are already openly skeptical.

But Amery is convinced that if Britain doesn't act now, it risks missing out on what could be an enormous new market in aviation. The Soviets publicly announced their own supersonic plane in January. And the Americans are known to be developing an aircraft with Boeing. This partnership with France will allow Britain to compete with the superpowers.

The French Ambassador to the United Kingdom steps into the room and takes his seat beside Amery. Each man has a copy of the treaty in front of him. This document is the result of months of negotiation. Its pages bind the two countries together—they will be sharing the costs, the risks, and, hopefully, the glory.

But one provision in the treaty matters more than all the others to Amery. It means neither government can unilaterally withdraw from the project without paying crippling financial penalties. This clause is Britain's insurance policy, and Amery has negotiated hard for it. It will ensure the French cannot abandon development halfway through and strand Britain with a half-built supersonic jet and mountains of debt.

Cameras flash as Amery picks up his pen and signs his name on behalf of the British government. The French representatives do the same, and the deal is done.

Development soon begins on what becomes known as Concorde. But the optimism and excitement of the ceremony at Lancaster House soon fades.

The technology of supersonic flight proves more complex than expected. There are delays and disputes as designs for the plane’s powerful engines and super-strong fuselage are repeatedly revised and refined. The already high costs begin to spiral even further. And the project seems increasingly doomed. All it’s waiting for is someone to pull the plug.

But in 1964, Britain elects a new Labor government. Promising fiscal responsibility, the incoming administration launches a review of all major expenditures. Concorde is quickly identified as a cost the country can do without. So, Julian Amery’s replacement as Aviation Minister is dispatched to Paris to negotiate an end to the project.

Roy Jenkins sits down across from his French counterpart and pleads Britain’s case. He says the government can’t afford to spend hundreds of millions of pounds on a new plane that may never get off the ground. Jenkins hopes that France can see the wisdom in pausing the project or renegotiating the terms of the deal, and that they can find a compromise that will serve both nations' interests.

But the French minister’s response is ice-cold. He reminds Jenkins that the original treaty signed by his predecessor is still binding. Neither government may withdraw without the other's consent. And France has no intention of letting its partner go. The insurance policy Britain insisted on has now chained them to the Concorde project.

This meeting in Paris lasts just 35 minutes. Afterward, a chastened Jenkins hurries back to London with the bad news. Two days later, he stands before the House of Commons and announces that Britain will honor its treaty obligations to the French. He’s careful to make the outcome sound like a principled choice. He speaks of ongoing review, of partnership and responsibility. But within the government, the reality is clear—Britain is trapped.

So, despite its cost and the doubts of leading politicians, the Concorde project will continue its haphazard journey into the sky. But soon another threat will emerge. Far away, on the other side of the Iron Curtain, another advanced passenger plane is under development. And the Soviets will stop at nothing to beat France and Britain in this supersonic race and be the first to take passengers beyond the sound barrier.

Act Two: The Russian Threat

It's February 1st, 1965, in Paris, France, just two weeks after Britain's failed attempt to escape the Concorde treaty.

Sergei Pavlov sits at a corner table in a modest restaurant, waiting for his contact to arrive. Sergei is the head of the Paris office of the Soviet airline Aeroflot, and he hopes his meeting today will look like a routine one, although it is anything but.

Sergei is far more than an airline executive. He's spent months cultivating a network of Communist sympathizers and paid informants at the Concorde factory in Toulouse. His operation has been a remarkable successful. Moscow now has critical engineering details of the Concord that will save Soviet designers years of trial and error.

Sergei glances up as his contact strides in. The man slides into the seat across from him. They order drinks and talk quietly of other things while under the table, a folder changes hands. Inside it are the latest blueprints, fresh from the Concorde development facility.

But something feels wrong.

Sergei’s eyes drift to a couple two tables away. A man and a woman, engaged in what appears to be intimate conversation. But they've been here since he arrived. The woman laughs at something the man says, but her companion's gaze keeps returning—just for a fraction of a second—to Sergei’s table.

Sergei feels a cold weight settle in his chest. He knows that look. He's used it himself.

So he decides he needs to leave. Quickly tucking the folder into his briefcase, he makes his excuses and stands. Sergei then walks fast, resisting the urge to run. His mind races through escape plans. Because whatever happens, he cannot be caught with the briefcase.

As he sweeps through the door, he chances a glance behind him. The couple in the restaurant hasn’t moved, and for a moment, Sergei thinks perhaps he was mistaken.

But then hands grip his arms. French counterintelligence agents have appeared out of nowhere to place Sergei under arrest.

They open the briefcase immediately. Inside, they find blueprints for Concorde's landing gear and its revolutionary anti-lock brakes. These documents alone represent millions of pounds of investment and thousands of engineering hours. But they’re just the tip of the iceberg. When Sergei’s apartment is searched later, piles and piles of documents are discovered—not just material relating to Concorde, but intelligence on dozens of other Western aviation projects as well.

Sergei Pavlov is rapidly deported, but his network continues without him. Other operatives pass more information to Moscow. And this industrial espionage helps the Soviets leapfrog the French and British, and on December 31st, 1968, their supersonic plane, the Tu-144, roars into the Moscow sky.

Concorde’s maiden flight comes a few months later. There’s disappointment on both sides of the English Channel that they were beaten to this stage by their Communist rivals. But what many people don’t yet realize is that the Soviets have made a dangerous gamble. In their rush to beat Concorde into the sky, they’ve prioritized speed over safety. The Soviet aircraft is riddled with hidden design flaws—but these will soon be exposed in the most dramatic way imaginable.

In early June 1973, the Soviets take their new plane to the Paris Air Show. They’re eager to show the world what it can do, and a crowd of 250,000 spectators pack viewing areas to watch.

Behind the controls of the Tu-144 is test pilot Mikhail Kozlov. He’s an experienced professional pilot. And he knows better than anyone the limitations of the aircraft. Compared to Concorde's decade of development and testing, the Tu-144 has been rushed into existence to prove Soviet supremacy. And now the pressure is on Kozlov to keep up that impression.

Pushing the throttle forward, Kozlov sets the Tu-144 roaring down the runway. Then he sets all four engines to full afterburner. The aircraft climbs steeply. But as Kozlov ascends, something flashes in his peripheral vision. It’s a French Mirage fighter jet, clearly deployed to photograph the Tu-144 in flight. But no one told Kozlov it would be there. It’s a clear violation of regulations. But Kozlov soon has other problems to worry about.

Below 2,000 feet, his Tu-144 stalls. The nose pitches over sharply, and the plane enters a steep dive. Kozlov fights for control. But the aircraft is traveling at 350 knots. The forces are too much. And at 400 feet above the ground, the left wing tears away. And then the rest of the aircraft disintegrates in midair, tumbling through the sky in flames.

All six crew on board are killed, as are eight people on the ground.

The cause of the crash will never be formally identified. But behind closed doors, France and the Soviet Union reach an understanding to avoid embarrassment on all sides—the Soviets won't mention the unauthorized Mirage surveillance jet if the French don't publicly criticize the Tu-144's many design flaws.

The Soviet supersonic jet will never enter regular commercial service. But its rival Concorde will. After years of painstaking development, the Anglo-French plane will take its first paying passengers, and a new age of supersonic travel will finally begin.

Act Three: Concorde Takes Flight

It’s January 21st, 1976, at London Heathrow Airport, two and a half years after the crash of the Soviet Tu-144.

Captain Norman Todd sits in the cockpit of a British Airways Concorde, running through the pre-flight checks. His hands move across the instrument panels. Today, he double, then triple-checks the readings.

It’s been fourteen years since the treaty between Britain and France was signed. In that time, their rivals have fallen away one by one. The American program failed to get off the drawing board before it was canceled. The Soviet plane never recovered from the crash at the Paris Air Show. So now, all hopes for supersonic commercial air travel rest on Concorde. And today, the plane will carry its first paying passengers.

There will be two flights—one from London and one from Paris. The idea is that they will take off at exactly the same time, so that neither Britain nor France can be said to have been first. After fourteen years of partnership, they will share this triumph equally.

But Captain Todd has read the newspapers, and he knows that not everyone is as excited as he is about these landmark flights. Billions of pounds have been spent on Concorde. It's years overdue. And the early promises that the jet would usher in a revolution in aviation now seem hollow—most of the pre-orders for the plane have been canceled and only the national carriers, British Airways and Air France, are still committed to the aircraft.

Still, many people thought this day would never come, so Captain Todd intends to enjoy it. At precisely 11:40 AM, he receives clearance to take off. Four Rolls-Royce Olympus engines ignite with a roar. Concorde accelerates down the runway, going faster and faster. It's needle-nose lifting. The delta wings catch the air. And passengers cheer in the cabin as Concorde takes to the skies.

At 60,000 feet, the aircraft reaches Mach 2. Twice the speed of sound. It’s everything the engineers promised. Smooth. Stable. Flawless. Britain and France have done it. The supersonic age has begun.

But it won't last. Far from representing the future of air travel, Concorde will be the world’s only supersonic passenger jet for its entire operational life. Its high running costs will mean it becomes a super-premium service catering only to the elite. And even that will eventually be unsustainable. Following a fatal crash in July 2000, the entire Concorde fleet will be grounded for extensive safety modifications. But from then on, the math will no longer work, and Concorde’s commercial service will come to an end in the fall of 2003.

Eighteen Concordes will remain preserved in museums around the world. They will be a reminder of the ingenuity and ambition of the aircraft’s creators, and a monument to the lost era of supersonic travel that first began when the first commercial Concorde flights took off from London and Paris on January 21st, 1976.

Outro

Next on History Daily. January 22nd, 1808. After fleeing a French invasion, the Portuguese royal family sets up court in exile on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.

From Noiser and Airship, this is History Daily, hosted, edited, and executive produced by me, Lindsay Graham.

Audio editing by Muhammad Shahzaib.

Sound design by Mollie Baack.

Music by Thrumm.

This episode is written and researched by Galen Foote.

Edited by William Simpson.

Managing producer Emily Burke.

Executive Producers are William Simpson for Airship and Pascal Hughes for Noiser.