Swarm: The Rise of Mega-Constellations and the Battle for Low Earth Orbit - Chapter 1
Orbits of Power: From Sputnik to Starlink
© Jay Allen 2025
“It wasn’t the beep that scared them. It was the orbit.”
On 4 October 1957, a polished metal sphere the size of a beach ball lifted off from the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan. It weighed just 83 kilograms and transmitted nothing more than a simple, rhythmic radio pulse. Yet when Sputnik 1 completed its first orbit of the Earth, the signal it sent wasn’t just technical; it was political. It marked the moment the sky became a strategic domain.
In Washington, panic set in. Military planners feared the Soviets could soon launch nuclear weapons from orbit. Politicians fumed at the perceived failure of American science. Newspapers ran headlines filled with dread. The United States, long confident in its technological superiority, now found itself looking up at an unfamiliar vulnerability: a machine overhead that proved space was no longer empty and no longer theirs alone.
The reaction was swift. Within months, the United States accelerated its own satellite programme and created the Advanced Research Projects Agency (ARPA), later known as DARPA, to prevent future technological surprises. The National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) followed soon after. Sputnik did not just launch a satellite; it launched an entire strategic infrastructure race. Public fear mixed with political urgency. Schoolchildren were taught to duck and cover. Editorials speculated about orbital missile strikes. Space had become the newest theatre.
It was not the satellite’s payload that changed the world, but its position. For the first time, a human-made object was circling the globe beyond the reach of national borders, laws, or defences. And in that simple act, an orbit, the strategic importance of space was born. The space race that followed was cast as a contest of national pride, marked by Kennedy’s “moonshot” speech, Gagarin’s orbit, and Armstrong’s footprint on the lunar surface. But behind the spectacle, the United States and the Soviet Union were quietly building something else: a vast network of infrastructure.
By the early 1960s, both sides were launching satellites not to inspire but to observe. The CORONA programme, America’s first successful reconnaissance satellite initiative, became operational in 1960 after several failed attempts. CORONA satellites carried film-based cameras capable of capturing images of Soviet missile installations, airfields, and military infrastructure from hundreds of kilometres above the Earth. What made CORONA revolutionary was not just the imagery itself but the system for returning it: film canisters were ejected from orbit and parachuted down to Earth, where they were snatched in mid-air by recovery aircraft or collected after landing.
This analogue surveillance system transformed the practice of arms control verification. Rather than relying on human spies or public diplomacy, Washington could now observe Soviet developments with near-global reach. The existence of CORONA was kept secret for years, but its impact was enormous. It gave US leaders confidence during crisis moments, enabled more accurate assessments of Soviet capability, and laid the foundation for strategic stability based on observation rather than assumption. The USSR, for its part, quickly followed with its own reconnaissance constellations. Overhead imagery became an essential tool of Cold War diplomacy, arms control, and pre-emptive defence.
Other satellite systems followed. The Vela satellites, first launched in the 1960s, were designed to monitor compliance with the Partial Test Ban Treaty by detecting nuclear detonations in the atmosphere and space. They were equipped with a suite of optical and electromagnetic sensors capable of detecting gamma rays, X-rays, and dual light flashes. This allowed them to detect not only atmospheric tests but also potential clandestine detonations in deep space. In 1979, Vela 6911 recorded what would become known as the “South Atlantic Flash”, a mysterious double light burst off the coast of South Africa, widely speculated to have been a secret Israeli nuclear test. Though the event was never officially confirmed, it demonstrated the reach and ambiguity of orbital sensing.
The Vela programme became the precursor to a new generation of early-warning satellites, demonstrating that space could enforce treaties as well as gather intelligence. Their presence helped prevent clandestine testing and offered a new layer of transparency between rival powers. Meanwhile, the United States developed the Global Positioning System (GPS), originally intended for military navigation. By the 1970s and 80s, GPS had become essential for guiding precision munitions, coordinating troop movements, and synchronising military operations across continents. Its signals enabled forces to operate with a level of accuracy and timing that reshaped battlefield logistics and strike planning. The Soviet Union, recognising the strategic advantage GPS conferred, responded by developing its own satellite navigation system: GLONASS. Though initially slower to deploy and less precise, GLONASS would become a vital part of Moscow’s military and civilian infrastructure.
Weather satellites, often overlooked, played a critical role in planning and executing operations. They provided real-time meteorological data for flight paths, missile tests, and surveillance activities. Communications satellites, meanwhile, enabled rapid inter-theatre command, linking far-flung bases, carrier groups, and allied command centres. These systems allowed for more agile and decentralised military planning, reducing dependency on vulnerable ground infrastructure.
Together, these tools extended deterrence into the orbital domain. By the mid-1980s, space had evolved from a passive backdrop to a focal point of an Earth-based conflict. It had become inextricably linked to the logic of nuclear command, control, and warning. It was not just that satellites could observe from above, it was that they could compress the time between detection and decision. They could provide leaders with more clarity or force them into irreversible choices. In a nuclear crisis, the difference between minutes and seconds mattered. Space offered an edge, but it also introduced new risks.
In 1983, a Soviet early-warning satellite mistakenly interpreted sunlight reflecting off high-altitude clouds as incoming American missiles. The alert reached Lieutenant Colonel Stanislav Petrov at a command bunker outside Moscow. Protocol demanded immediate escalation to Soviet leadership, but Petrov questioned why the satellite detected only five missiles; surely, a real American first strike would involve hundreds. He made the fateful decision to treat the warning as a false alarm and wait for confirmation from ground-based radar.
This close call underscored the fragility of space-based warning systems. They extended the eyes of the state but demanded trust in algorithms, signal clarity, and human judgment under pressure. Satellites reduced uncertainty until, at the very moment they failed, they amplified it catastrophically.
The United States responded by investing further in redundancy. The Reagan administration launched the Strategic Defense Initiative (SDI) in 1983, a sprawling, futuristic programme to create a layered defence against intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs). It was unprecedented in ambition. SDI sought to break with the logic of mutually assured destruction by rendering nuclear attacks survivable, if not futile. Its concept architecture included ground-based and space-based elements: directed-energy weapons, such as space-based lasers; kinetic energy interceptors designed to collide with warheads mid-flight; and a constellation of advanced sensors to track missile launches from boost phase through to terminal descent.
Critics derided the programme as “Star Wars,” viewing it as both technologically unrealistic and strategically destabilising. Physicists and defence analysts doubted whether the precision and power required for such a system were achievable with 1980s technology. Political opponents warned that undermining the threat of retaliation, the cornerstone of deterrence, might incentivise a first strike. Allies, too, were uneasy. A system designed to defend the continental United States could leave Europe vulnerable or isolated, especially if extended deterrence began to appear selective.
Yet SDI captured the imagination of a generation of defence planners. Billions were spent on research. Some of its offshoot technologies, particularly in satellite sensing, data fusion, and guidance systems, would later find their way into modern missile defence and commercial aerospace. It introduced a new concept: that space could be not just a platform for observation but an active domain of conflict and control. Although SDI was never fully realised, being cancelled and repackaged in the post-Cold War era, it reflected a broader logic that endures. Whoever controls space might shape not only communications and surveillance but the very architecture of escalation.
By the end of the 1980s, space had shifted from theatre to infrastructure. Moving beyond symbolic launches or elite military surveillance, satellites had become embedded in the day-to-day operations of modern conflict. The Gulf War in 1990–91 would later be hailed as the first “space-enabled war”, a conflict where GPS-guided munitions, satellite communications, and reconnaissance imagery were integrated into nearly every phase of planning and execution. GPS enabled unprecedented accuracy in targeting, allowing for the widespread use of precision-guided bombs that minimised collateral damage and maximised operational effectiveness. Satellite imagery provided coalition forces with near-real-time updates on Iraqi troop movements, while satellite communications ensured commanders could coordinate seamlessly across land, sea, and air assets.
This integration marked a decisive shift in how wars were fought. Military commanders had moved beyond relying on incomplete maps or delayed situational reports. Instead, satellite feeds and geospatial intelligence turned the battlefield into a dynamic, data-rich environment. The famous “left hook” manoeuvre, a sweeping flanking movement through the desert, was executed with confidence in large part because of accurate satellite navigation and near-instantaneous command updates.
The Gulf War became a proof of concept for the operational value of space systems. It demonstrated that space had evolved beyond merely supporting nuclear forces and providing strategic intelligence. It had become central to conventional warfare. Satellites had evolved from silent sentinels to integral components.
This transformation was subtle but profound. Unlike tanks or fighter jets, satellites were invisible to most observers, quietly enabling the machinery of modern warfare. Commanders could now synchronise across continents. Missile strikes could be timed to the second. Weather forecasts, once a matter of chance, became precise inputs. Orbit became the backbone not just of strategic warning but of everyday military efficiency.
This shift also had a psychological dimension. It gave militaries a sense of omnipresence, the ability to see, communicate, and strike globally. But it also introduced new dependencies. As reliance on space-based systems grew, so too did the vulnerabilities. Space had transformed from a symbol to a tangible reality of power.
It was a critical infrastructure layer, and it was just beginning to attract commercial interest.
As satellites became more essential, they also became more invisible. Unlike rockets or fighter jets, they operated in silence, orbiting unnoticed, taken for granted. Their signals timed the world’s financial transactions, synced global logistics, and enabled everything from disaster response to drone strikes. But this very invisibility bred a form of complacency. Space was increasingly seen as a stable domain, a reliable utility layer immune from disruption. Few policymakers asked what would happen if that infrastructure failed, or if it were deliberately targeted. The systems that once dazzled with spectacle had faded into background reliance. What was once exceptional became routine. Orbit was no longer a frontier, but a function, and in that quiet transition, new risks took root.
The 1990s began with promise. The Cold War was over, and space, once a preserve of generals and government labs, was opening to private actors. New satellite ventures emerged with bold ambitions: to connect every person on Earth.
Iridium was among the most ambitious. Backed by Motorola, it envisioned a global satellite phone network comprising 66 low-Earth orbit satellites. The system promised uninterrupted coverage anywhere on the planet, from mountain ranges to open oceans. The technology worked, but the business model did not. Handsets were bulky and expensive. Call rates were prohibitive. And just as Iridium went live in 1998, terrestrial mobile networks exploded in reach and affordability. Within a year, Iridium filed for bankruptcy protection, writing off nearly $5 billion in investment.
Teledesic promised even more. With funding from Bill Gates and Craig McCaw and support from Boeing, the company proposed a constellation of 840 low-Earth orbit satellites to deliver broadband internet to every point on the globe. Its vision was audacious: global coverage, high data rates, and seamless connectivity, years before cloud computing or smartphones would create mass demand. Teledesic anticipated a world that didn’t yet exist.
The concept had unlikely origins. Teledesic’s architecture drew from “Brilliant Pebbles,” a component of Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative that envisioned thousands of small, networked satellites working in coordination to intercept incoming missiles. When SDI was scaled back after the end of the Cold War, its engineers and concepts migrated to commercial ventures. The idea of managing massive constellations of interconnected satellites, once intended to stop nuclear warheads, was reborn as a plan to beam the internet from space.
The challenge, however, was monumental. Each satellite needed to interlink with others, relay data with minimal latency, and operate within strict regulatory frameworks for spectrum and orbital slots. The cost was estimated in the tens of billions. Despite significant political backing and prototype development, the project struggled with delays, rising costs, and a technology environment that was moving faster on the ground than in orbit. When the dot-com bubble burst, investor confidence evaporated. Teledesic folded quietly, its vision left unrealised.
Yet its architectural thinking endured. The idea of a dense mesh of satellites, interconnected and global, would return decades later with Starlink and Kuiper. What Teledesic lacked in timing and tools, its successors would inherit with cheaper launch, better miniaturisation, and an audience ready for continuous connection.
Globalstar, a third major player, aimed for a hybrid model, using satellites for voice and low-data services in remote regions whilst relying on ground gateways to connect to terrestrial telecoms. Unlike Iridium’s fully orbital approach, Globalstar’s design required ground stations to complete calls, making it cheaper to build but more limited in coverage. It launched its first satellites in 1998, but by 2002, it too had filed for bankruptcy. Demand never met expectations, and hardware limitations rendered the service obsolete before it could scale.
Though Globalstar emerged from bankruptcy and continues to operate today as a niche provider for emergency services and remote industries, its early struggles epitomised the challenges facing 1990s satellite ventures. The company learnt to survive by focusing on specialised markets rather than mass consumer adoption, a lesson that would inform later constellation strategies.
These failures shared common traits: immense upfront costs, slow deployment cycles, and a misreading of the competition. While satellites were being designed and launched, mobile towers were being built at a faster rate. Fibre-optic networks spread. Data compression improved. Customers chose convenience and speed over global coverage.
But these failures were not without legacy. They left behind patents, prototypes, and sobering lessons. They demonstrated the difficulty of commercialising space infrastructure without government backing or long-term resilience strategies. And they made investors wary, for a while.
Today, the ghosts of Iridium, Teledesic, and Globalstar haunt the mega-constellations rising again. The new ventures claim faster timelines, more innovative technology, and vertically integrated business models. But they also benefit from government subsidies, defence contracts, and geopolitical urgency. The line between commercial service and strategic infrastructure has blurred. What failed in the 1990s due to market friction is now succeeding because of national interest. The risks have not vanished. But the stakes have changed.
By the 2010s, the concept of the mega-constellation was reborn. What had failed once due to premature ambition was now viable due to three fundamental shifts. First, SpaceX’s reusable Falcon 9 rockets slashed launch costs from $10,000 per kilogram to under $3,000, making mass deployment economically feasible. Second, advances in miniaturisation meant satellites could be built smaller, lighter, and cheaper. Starlink satellites cost roughly $250,000 each compared to the millions spent on 1990s equivalents. Third, the explosion of smartphones, cloud computing, and streaming services has created a massive demand for bandwidth, making orbital internet profitable rather than speculative.
But the most crucial change was geopolitical. The 1990s ventures had assumed a peaceful, interconnected world where global coverage was a convenience. By the 2010s, rising tensions between the US and China, cyber warfare, and concerns about digital sovereignty made orbital infrastructure a national security imperative, not just a business opportunity.
SpaceX’s Starlink capitalised on this convergence, placing tens of thousands of satellites in low Earth orbit to provide broadband globally. Its launches began with little fanfare but quickly scaled into the most extensive satellite network in history. Amazon’s Project Kuiper followed suit, positioning itself as a future rival with deep capital and distribution reach, despite being years behind Starlink in actual deployment. OneWeb, originally a private venture, was resurrected by a bailout from the UK government and India’s Bharti Group, a rescue that signalled how quickly “commercial” infrastructure could become strategic assets.
These constellations moved beyond relying on novelty. They were built on scale, speed, and integration with ground-based systems and terrestrial networks. The goal was to achieve persistent, high-capacity coverage of the Earth’s surface, with responsiveness and resilience built into their design. And their ambitions extended well beyond connectivity.
This transformation reflects broader patterns in the global race for orbital infrastructure. OneWeb found a new purpose after its bailout, evolving beyond connecting remote schools or supporting maritime logistics to serve national resilience goals. China pursued a different path from the start, treating orbital infrastructure as a state strategy rather than a commercial opportunity.
China’s approach reveals methodical, redundant planning. Early experimental constellations, such as Hongyun (domestic broadband) and Hongyan (global communications), served as technological pathfinders. Their lessons now feed into Guowang, a multi-orbit system blending communications, remote sensing, and navigation to anchor Beijing’s digital sovereignty goals. Alongside this, Qianfan emerges as China’s commercial counterweight: a 15,000-satellite network designed to compete directly with Starlink in global markets. Together, they reveal China’s dual-track strategy, characterised by state control and commercial competition, which is both redundant and unified in serving national power.
Europe’s IRIS² seeks a middle path, blending public security needs with private investment to create an autonomous orbital backbone, hedging against dependence on either American or Chinese infrastructure.
Orbit had become a service layer, not just for internet access but for surveillance, command, logistics, and deterrence. Satellites that once merely observed now route data, host compute, guide munitions, and enable encryption.
And once again, the question of control emerged. Who owns this infrastructure? Who governs its use in times of tension? Can a commercial operator deny access to a nation during a war? Can a rival state target these constellations without triggering open conflict?
The answers remain unclear. But the trajectory is unmistakable.
We are entering a second age of constellations, not led by superpower prestige but by commercial ambition fused with strategic calculation. The satellites are smaller. The launches are cheaper. The networks are denser. And the stakes are higher.
Orbit has evolved from the frontier to the backbone of modern power. As the backbone approaches real-time surveillance, AI-enabled coordination, and autonomous integration with military systems, the implications become increasingly dangerous. In the past, command and control systems were linear and hierarchical. Today, orbital networks operate at machine speed, fusing sensor data and operational guidance across entire theatres.
Military planners now speak of space as both a domain and a conduit. It is where early warning meets persistent ISR (intelligence, surveillance, reconnaissance), where precision timing enables nuclear deterrence, and where bandwidth can be the difference between an armed drone loitering or crashing into terrain.
This has moved from theory to practice. In the Indo-Pacific region, Starlink terminals have reportedly been utilised for maritime logistics and island connectivity. China is accelerating its launch cadence, building towards near-constant coverage with AI tasking. NATO has launched the DIANA accelerator to fund dual-use space technology, and the United States has established a dedicated Space Force. Russia has resumed direct-ascent ASAT testing, joining China, which demonstrated its own anti-satellite capabilities in 2007 by destroying one of its weather satellites and creating thousands of pieces of persistent orbital debris. France is developing dedicated military satellites with defensive manoeuvring capabilities.
The speed of escalation is not just political, it is architectural. With many systems now operating on commercial frameworks, the lines between civilian, corporate, and military use have become increasingly blurred. A single satellite could be providing bandwidth for rural schools in Africa one day and battlefield data relay in Eastern Europe the next.
In such an environment, attribution becomes murky, deterrence becomes unstable, and decision-making must contend with the velocity of code. This is the new logic of orbit: Strategic power may shift from fleets and battalions to networks, algorithms, and control of the mesh above.
