Those torque effects might be alleviated by another, contrarotating rotor.
And the image of a Spaceship landing and taking off like a helicopter is just funny.
Ocean of Storms: A Timeline of A Scientific America
- Thread starter BowOfOrion
- Start date
And the image of a Spaceship landing and taking off like a helicopter is just funny.
You're not the first by a long shot. It was considered both for Apollo, (actually prior to Mercury with a concept called the "Roto-Chute") and CEV:
https://www.nasa.gov/centers/kennedy/news/rotocapsule.html
https://forum.nasaspaceflight.com/index.php?topic=30185.0
https://www.space.com/18456-nasa-space-capsule-helicopter-landing.html
http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.ntrs.nasa.gov/19710007058_1971007058.pdf
http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.ntrs.nasa.gov/19710007059_1971007059.pdf
http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.ntrs.nasa.gov/19710007060_1971007060.pdf
Using them for 'take-off' (Roton original concept) would probably work but it depended a great deal on getting as much accelleration out of the rotor system before you went to rockets and beyond a pretty small size it was found that the rocket-rotor system didn't give enough impulse so you had to have a rocket for ascent anyway.
You actually don't need to 'counter' the torque as long as the rotors are un-powered and you basically auto-rotating in. (Counter drag devices work) Rocket thrusters on the rotor tips also don't require anti-torque measures. But I'll note that atmosphere condition REALLY mean that one rotor does not fit all.
Randy
This playlist might give OP some inspiration:
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLH5r1YKR5wvY8SlrNhXFGAoS4nMZvJG0H
https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLH5r1YKR5wvY8SlrNhXFGAoS4nMZvJG0H
These along with the creator's other videos are very interesting, but I'm not sure if there is enough spare Apollo hardware to implement it ITTL as a lot was repurposed to create both the Horizon Lunar Outpost and Skylab Space Station.
XXVIII: чугун
чугун
5 July 1976 – 0100 hours
Bernard’s Surf
Cocoa Beach, FL
28° 19' 3.6" N 80° 36' 36.9" W
The smoke was a reminder of home to Yuri Romanenko and his copilot, Georgi Grechko. They were on the other side of the world from Moscow, but tobacco smoke was one thing American bars and Soviet bars had in common.
By 10 o’clock, everyone at The Surf had gotten sick of patriotic tunes. One Beatles track had been one too many for the central Florida crowd. Hank Williams had filled much of the midnight hour, but by 1 a.m. they’d moved on to the Man in Black.
Now this here’s a story about the Rock Island Line.
The Rock Island line, she runs down into New Orleans.
There’s a big toll gate down there
And, y’know, if you got certain things on board when you go through the toll gate,
Why you don’t have to pay the man no toll.
Well, the train driver, he pulled up to the toll gate and the man hollered and asked him what-all he had on board and he said:
‘I got livestock. I got livestock.
I got cows. I got pigs. I got sheep. I got mules.
I got all livestock.’
Well he said, ‘You’re all right boy. You don’t have to pay no toll, you just go right on through.’
So he went on through the toll gate and as he went through he started pickin’ up a little bit of speed.
Pickin’ up a little bit of steam
He got on through, he turned a look back at the man he said,
‘Well, I fooled you. I fooled you. I got pig iron. I got pig iron. I got all pig iron.’
“One thing I do not understand about this Rock Island Line,” said Yuri.
“What’s that?” asked Bill Pogue.
“The train conductor lies to the toll operator about his cargo and the operator is unable to penalize him for the infraction. Why did the operator not have a proper train schedule which would allow him to discover the deception beforehand?”
The Americans traded a smirk and a laugh.
“Well, it’s an old tune,” said Pogue, “Back from before we had much in the way of train schedules.”
Yuri gave a nod as he listened to Johnny Cash’s guitar speed along with that train.
Bill added, “It’s also an old prison song, so there you go.”
Yuri and Georgi gave a laugh and nodded, “Indeed. This is a country of adventurers and a few scoundrels.”
“Not the only one,” said Pogue, tilting his glass in the direction of his two Soviet guests.
“Правда,” said the cosmonaut.
Pogue nodded to Overmyer who went to pay the tab. They tossed on the NASA-issue windbreakers that marked them as astronauts. It was late and they needed to get back to the hotel and into beds. They had done well with this little ambassadorial expedition. With Soyuz-Skylab done, the idea now was to see about sending an Apollo up to a Salyut station for another international mission of cooperation. Personally, Bill could think of some better uses for a CSM, but a flight was a flight.
The cabal of space travelers made their way to the parking lot. Bill smelled the spent firecrackers from a thousand fading bicentennial celebrations. The burnt powder smell took him right back to the rendezvous on 22. It happened to be the smell of moon dust. He inhaled deeply and threw a comforting arm around the cosmonaut’s shoulder.
“What do you say, Yuri? You think we can make this work? Your boys seemed to get a lot out of their time on Skylab. We’d love to see your Salyut in orbit. Heck, maybe next time we pair up stations. Share resources and make one big platform. Our guys think we can make it work. What do you think?”
Romanenko gave a skeptical sigh, “I like it, William. I really do. But I think we are mice discussing the cat’s bell. We can fly. We can rendezvous. We can engineer and persevere and do all the important works, but I think we can never get our governments to totally commit to such a large friendly venture together. At least not soon. You’ll join us in orbit on our station. We’ll do much research and learning together, but beyond this, I fear we will hit a wall of bureaucrats. My superiors have not seen the stars as we have. They are warrior types. Cold and hard. I fear they will take advantage of the good natures we have cultivated.”
Bill resisted the urge to shrug, “Not sure how they could turn our agencies comradery into a problem, but you know your people.”
“One way or another, you will know them too,” replied Yuri.
The gold corvette roared down Atlantic Avenue and Bill turned his thoughts to a bed and whatever hangover cure he might need when the sun rose. There was a lot of work still to do.
16 February 1977
Manned Spacecraft Center
Houston, TX
29° 33’ 47” N 95° 05’ 28” W
The coffee from the commissary was dreck, but at least it was hot dreck, and that was all he really needed to get through the morning briefing for his guys. The staff of the press office was gathered loosely around the room, watching him as he shuffled through a dozen memos that he needed to cover. The morning meetings weren’t useless, but they were routine, and to keep his people engaged, he liked to keep it casual.
“Okay, guys, just a few notes before I send you out there. First and foremost,” Wheaton checked his notes. “Dear God, whatever you do, start referring to the runway at Kennedy as the Clipper Landing Facility. Please, please, please stop calling it the Clipper Strip, under any circumstances, as that is now the name of Cocoa Beach’s newest establishment for exotic dancers. The official policy of the Public Affairs Office is to only use the proper name in reference to the landing site, and a strict ‘no comment’ for any questions about the strip club. Whatever you do, don’t mix those two up.”
A few muffled laughs came from the staffers.
Wheaton bit back a grin, “Okay, moving on. We’re having the final round of press questions for the Skylab 5 crew in the main auditorium, but it’s been pushed back to 4. Please let the gaggle know about that.”
And this isn’t for release yet, but Washington is expecting that we’ll get a cancellation notice about Apollo-Salyut in the fall. Apparently, the Reds are pushing back Salyut 6’s launch date and they aren’t going to be ready for our boys in the fall. It’s not official yet, but I didn’t want you guys blindsided if the Post or the Chronicle gets it early. Anyone asks: it’s a rumor you haven’t heard, but you’ll look into it. Then come and get me.”
Ryan Grimm, one of the junior press secretaries piped up, “Chief, everyone I’m hearing from just wants to know about Constellation 1.”
“You think my answer this morning is gonna be different from the last seven times you’ve asked me this?”
“Well, hope springs eternal,” Ryan replied.
“Not this morning,” Tom grumbled, “Still no set date.”
The group collectively groaned.
“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not the guy who picks the launch date, nor am I the guy who picks when we announce the launch date. I am just the guy who…”
“…tells us what to do?” Ryan said.
Wheaton gently threw a ballpoint pen at his staffer. The kid caught it gracefully and he moved on with the meeting. “Okay, now, I’m getting on a plane for Kennedy at 2. Once I’m wheels up, Richard is in charge until I get back. No loud parties. Marty, this means you.”
Martin Brick, the senior, 66-year old, semi-retired staff writer gamely raised his hand from the back row to acknowledge the joke.
“Next thing, they’re taking a bit longer with the final round of ascan selections. I’m supposed to hear from Slayton and Stafford before the end of next week with the final list of names. Yes, there will be women. Yes, there will be minorities. Yes, this is a big win for us and the country at large. No, we are not leaking any of it until we officially announce. I want a tight seal on this one. No one gets it early.”
Brick at the back raised his hand again, “Marty, what have you got?”
“The name change for here?”
Wheaton nodded, “Yeah, that’s happening. We’re gonna workshop how to announce it next week. The higher-ups have given the go on that one.”
An intern raised a hand, “So, we’re going to be the Crewed Spacecraft Center instead of the Manned?”
Wheaton shook his head, “Carter wanted to give a nod to LBJ, what with him putting us in Texas and now being dead. Starting next month, you’re all going to be working in the Johnson Spacecraft Center.”
A few raised eyebrows as they jotted down notes.
“Okay, go to work.”
22 April 1977
Central Intelligence Agency
Directorate of Science and Technology
Langley, VA
Sam Donovan poked his head into the office of his subordinate, “TJ, am I going to have the report on the Baikonur deployments by next week?”
TJ did not look up from the file on his desk. Absentmindedly he responded, “Yeah. I can do that,” he said with the slow drawl of a man not paying attention to the conversation.
“Are you sure?” Donovan asked. He’d seen TJ get into these modes before. It wasn’t always conducive to prompt delivery.
TJ got up from his desk, carrying a black and white photograph, he handed it to Donovan, “What does that look like to you?”
Donovan frowned and rotated the image right side up, “Uh… I’d say a Salyut logistics tank. Maybe O2 or water?”
“You see the tech standing next to it? Look at the scale,” he pointed at the man near the truck. “They swapped this in for the standard one. We’re hearing about new arrivals to Baikonur. I’m telling you, something is going on with Salyut. Something big.”
Sam nodded sympathetically, trying not to sound condescending, “I don’t know if I’d say ‘big.’ They scrapped the joint mission. They’re having some kind of trouble. Probably testing showed something they didn’t like.”
“So they’re doing a full redesign?” said TJ, skeptically.
“You think they’re going that far?”
“I think they’re pulling in enough resources for a full redesign,” said TJ.
Donovan bit his lip and started to take this more seriously, “A redesign for what? Just as a thought experiment. I mean, what do they want to do? A long-term flight like Skylab 3? Some kind of ASAT platform?”
“Could be. We know they’re putting MiG-105’s on the board again. Maybe some kind of orbital aircraft carrier? Rapid dispatch and refuel for a squadron of space fighters?”
“Ooh, very Flash Gordon,” said TJ.
“Aaand that’s a good sign that we’re wrong,” Donovan said. When Flash Gordon entered the conversation, it was time to go home. Speaking of which, he looked at the clock. “TJ, leave it until Monday. Whatever it is, it’ll keep.”
“You’re right,” he said, closing the manila folder and locking it away in a desk drawer.
“You got weekend plans?” asked Sam.
“Got tickets to see the Bullets,” said TJ.
“Oh, who are they playing?” asked Sam.
“Kentucky,” TJ said.
“The Colonels? That’s great. Those old ABA teams are really putting on a show this year.”
He shut the door to his office and they headed for the elevator.
“What about you?” TJ asked.
“May try to catch a movie.”
“I’m excited about that thing coming next month. The science fiction one. Some director I hadn’t heard of before.”
“Star Wars, right?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
14 June 1977
Skylab 6
Orbital Inclination: 50°
Altitude: 270 mi
He’d expected it to smell like a new car. Silly, really. But he’d been hoping. In reality, it wasn’t nearly that interesting. It had the same antiseptic smell of the checkout room back at Kennedy where he’d gotten suited up last month. Entering Liberty through the nose docking port in space wasn’t much more exciting than entering it on the ground. There was barely enough room to fit the two of them along with the new space suits.
Cargo-Clippers were designed to work with crewed Clippers on missions that would require delicate handling. The idea was to send up a cargo ship with the bulk of the payload and then rendezvous with a crewed vessel that would be able to handle mission specific objectives. That might include anything from repairing a satellite, assembling components in new configurations, topping off fuel tanks, or swapping out experiment packages. The possibilities were vast. For all of that though, it was generally expected for ships like Liberty not to need astronauts for the majority of her work.
With Constellation patiently waiting for Liberty to prove the safety of the Clipper airframe, the only crewed vessel that Liberty could dock with was Skylab. The crew of Skylab 6 would be the first to conduct a spacewalk with Liberty’s airlock. The ability for astronauts to work with Cargo-Clippers would be tested here today.
Don Peterson went through another check of his spacesuit. He knew that a fourth inspection was unlikely to find any issues, but it felt comforting to do it once more before the hatch opened.
He looked around the cramped interior of the airlock and thought about what was behind these walls. The forward compartment of these ships was crammed with computer circuitry, fuel and power supplies, and sensors and radios.
Clippers had been designed to give the functionality of Apollos with the roominess and capabilities of a spaceplane. The result was yet to be proven. A side-effect of the airframe was that the cargo variants were able to swap out the cockpit for a rather large bank of computers and support equipment. Liberty’s brains and guts were found in her forward area. The engineers had been kind enough to carve out a couple of phone booth’s worth of space for an airlock for the astronauts. The rear exit would allow them to access Liberty’s cargo bay, the forward exit would take them back to Skylab via Liberty’s open nose cone.
“Eh, hope we won’t have to do much of this in the future,” Peterson said. He wasn’t wild about crawling through a robot ship to get to open space. It felt unseemly for reasons he couldn’t put his finger on.
“Hey, there’ll be upgrades for sure. One day the computers won’t be so big. One day we might even have room for our elbows,” said Bill Anders, his commander for this expedition.
“What a joy that would be,” said Don.
Anders keyed his microphone, “Houston, this is Anders, we’re ready to begin depressurization.”
22 September 1977
Central Intelligence Agency
Directorate of Science and Technology
Langley, VA
The coffee was cold. The rest of the office had gone home. Not that he was alone. In Langley, someone was always working. It was always morning somewhere.
Sam had heard him out about the latest intel from Baikonur. The satellite imagery had been interesting, but the Russians weren’t in the habit of leaving things outside for the Keyholes to photograph. He’d spent the last few months analyzing smuggled work orders and shipping manifests and comparing them with satellite imagery.
Then, two nights ago, a breakthrough.
The Australians had a source. A janitor or repair worker (the Aussies weren’t specific for security reasons) had managed to get some images out. He didn’t have access to the 105 program, which was what had the Air Force in a twitter, but he’d gotten some great stuff nonetheless.
Ten photographs were all that he’d seen. He suspected the Australians may be holding a few more, but were waiting, hoping to exchange them for naval intelligence about the newest Russian Delta sub. That wasn’t his department.
One image had consumed his time. It wasn’t even a photo of a launch pad or workroom. It was a shot of a closet in a handling facility.
The lead-lined suits gave him chills. They weren’t the kind for handling rocket fuel. These had but one purpose: radiation shielding.
TJ blew out a long breath and sat back in his chair. There was only one conclusion for the given data: the Russians were about to send something nuclear-powered into orbit.
Now he had to figure out what.
8 November 1977
Cargo Clipper Liberty
Orbital Inclination: 50°
Altitude: 287 miles
Silently, the grey beauty went through the electronic checks again. This was her third trip beyond the atmosphere and she was performing beautifully.
Ahead was the cylindrical companion that Liberty was here to reconnect with.
The Principia was a hardened tank filled almost to capacity with automated scientific experiments and the logistical mechanics to maintain them. She was the result of combined efforts from American and European engineers and technicians and the two-hundred experiments contained within her bulk had been paid for primarily by the fledgling European Space Agency.
Ten months ago, Liberty had delicately delivered Principia into low Earth orbit, had gently pushed her away to fly freely and had retreated back to the gravity well, leaving the big science tank to conduct her research with no interference save the occasional radio signal to check up on her.
As helpful as astronauts were to accomplishing on-orbit objectives, there were times when experiments benefitted from a lack of interference of any sort.
After a journey of several thousand orbits, it was time for Principia to be retrieved. She had many questions to answer.
With deliberate patience, Liberty approached the research vessel. The docking maneuvers had been calculated so as not to disturb any of the somewhat delicate cargos that were on board. Controllers in Houston coordinated with engineers and scientists in Noordwijk and carefully brought the vessels together.
Open cargo bay doors offered an inviting home for the Principia. Liberty positioned herself alongside the engineless vessel and pulsed her RCS to gently envelop the unsuspecting ship. Alignment sensors inside the Principia’s cradle recorded the reunification of the two spacecraft, after a 4 month separation. It took a few tense attempts, but with a minimal amount of jostling, the two craft came together.
The restraining arms of the cradle wrapped around the cylinder like a hand in a glove. When the last of the mechanical locks engaged, humans in Europe knew that their cargo was secure, and others in Houston knew their unmanned ship could deliver and retrieve things from low Earth orbit.
All that was left was for Liberty to come home.
Over the next twelve hours, pensive humans monitored a series of thunderstorms that imperiled the Florida coastline. When the storms failed to abate, a decision was made to end the mission on the other side of the continent.
Uploading new plans into Liberty’s computers took more time than the mission planners would have preferred, but both the computers and the communications systems were relatively new, and had issues to surmount.
By the time Liberty was in position to begin retrofire, Kennedy Space Center was beginning to see clear skies. By then, it was considered too great a hazard to change plans once again. Over the far side of the world, and in near total darkness, Liberty closed her doors and burned her twin engines for the fiery descent to her home planet.
At entry interface, her sensors detected the first notes of atmosphere and ran checks to ensure that all RCS doors were closed. They were. Temperature sensors monitored hot spots on the nose and leading edge of the wings. They diligently reported their data to NASA before superheated plasma interrupted their findings. After the grey whale had slowed in her journey through the stratosphere, the data began to flow yet again.
Homing beacons in Hawaii, Vandenberg Air Force Base, and Port Arguello, California sent out omnidirectional broadcasts to guide the earthbound ship home. Liberty approached North America with an angle of attack that would have alarmed any passengers on board, but did nothing to disturb her handlers on the ground.
The ILS systems of Edwards acquired signals from Liberty long before she was spotted by observers on the ground. With the change in plans, only a few West Coast newspapers had a chance to dispatch reporters and photographers to cover the landing.
Local time was 11:23 am when she completed the last turn and began final approach to the landing area. The previous night, astronaut Gordon had been dispatched to Edwards to be “in the loop” for the final descent. In an air-conditioned block house he monitored the descent through television camera feeds from the ground and within Liberty’s superstructure. Rarely had a pilot been able to access such a wealth of data from so many sources when it came to landing an aircraft.
A combination of factors led to the embarrassing accident that then occurred. None of which were readily apparent to observers on the ground, be they press or NASA officials.
Astronaut Gordon brought the Cargo-Clipper down within 5% of the predetermined safe speeds and descent rates. Touchdown occurred approximately 257 feet from the target point at the base of runway 22R. The rear wheels touched down at a velocity of over 200mph. The completion of the flare maneuver brought the nose gear down onto the desert sand. Even with the induced friction from the drag chute, Liberty was still moving at over 100 mph when her nose gear failed.
The unmanned ship fell like a boxer who had taken a hard uppercut. The nose slammed into the California sands and put up a plume of salty spray as it continued its journey towards the center of the Earth. The roughhewn skidmark trailed for almost 100 feet as the ship finally came to rest, held only by her rear wheels and nose. The orbiter bobbed side to side slowly, rocking about her centerline like an ocean vessel in a mild storm. After a long beat, the recovery vehicles that were to service the ship adjusted their course to meet her truncated trip down the runway. In addition to changing their directions, the drivers also activated the wailing emergency alarms, lest there be a fire on board the now troubled vessel.
* * *
Twelve hours later, under the glow of spotlights, Liberty was hoisted off the dry sands of Edwards Air Force Base.
The investigation was already underway when Thomas Wheaton arrived via a rented car. He’d scrambled to get here since news of the mishap had been broadcast to the world. The evening news shows had covered the crash as a top story.
With this only being the third landing for the Clipper system, it was widely seen as a potential fiasco bordering on disaster. The ship itself was essentially intact, but its cargo had been badly shaken and it brought into focus one of the primary criticisms of the Clipper system as a whole. It tended to land in something of a controlled crash.
Reviews of the high speed footage brought the situation into stark relief before night had fallen at Edwards.
The nose gear’s primary strut had failed shortly after touchdown. The resultant failure had led to Liberty rolling over her own nose gear as the assembly sheared away from the spacecraft. The wheel and lower half of the strut had left an angry white scar along the underside of the ship. Photos of which would be seen in many of the West Coast newspapers the next day, and would be seen by any interested parties within 24 hours. The wheel itself was recovered by ground crews several yards away from the rear of the ship.
With reentry being one of the most critical and dangerous parts of every flight, every Clipper was designed for the undersides to be overhauled and repaired if needs be. The next flight of Liberty would test whether those repairs were as effective as planned.
In a quiet moment, as the orbiter was being fitted for towing, Tom Wheaton managed to buttonhole one of the crash investigators to ask a few questions.
“Can you give me your first impressions?”
“The nose gear snapped. Not sure why, but that’s definitely what happened.”
“Can you say if it’s a design issue?
“Not without going through more of the wreckage.”
Wheaton’s jaw clenched, “Do we have to call it wreckage? The thing is still basically intact, right?”
“What would you like me to call it?”
“Never mind.”
“Okay.”
“What can you tell me about the design of the landing gear?”
“Nothing too exotic. There’s nothing that hasn’t been done on other aircraft in the past.”
“Do we know what part of the gear failed?”
“Looking like the strut at this point.”
“Not the connections?”
“No, the landing gear are zygodactyl.”
He gave the engineer a look that could only be described as an annoyed question mark.
The man sighed, “It means that the wheels are locked in with two forward-facing and two rear-facing clips. If you lost one, the other three serve as redundancies.”
Wheaton nodded and let the man go. He couldn’t foresee getting much more useful information this way.
An airman came to get him because he had a phone call waiting. In the most nondescript office he’d ever seen, he picked up a plain, government-issue telephone and heard Ryan Grimm’s voice.
“Boss, we’ve got the early edition of the Times,” Grimm said.
Thomas sighed, “Oh, God. How bad?”
“Liberty’s nose buried on page one. Haven’t gotten the Tribune yet, but it’ll be the same.”
“No kidding. What was the headline?”
“Liberty Falls.”
“Fuck.”
10 January 1978
Johnson Space Center
Houston, TX
29° 33’ 47” N 95° 05’ 28” W
If they ever did put up a No Smoking sign in this room, half of the Purple Flight Team would resign.
This was getting ridiculous. Every experimental aircraft had problems, but this was downright unacceptable.
They had to get the boys down fast. Horizon’s APU’s were on the verge of collapse. APU 1 was already down. APU 2 had a problem they couldn’t source. And the third wasn’t generating enough power to run the hydraulics for the control systems.
In addition, they were getting instrumentation issues with temperature sensors, which meant that they were having concerns about whether pressure data could be relied upon. If pressure sensors were faulty too, then Young and Crippen would have no idea of their altitude, assuming they survived entry interface.
“CAPCOM, try them again,” said Schaffer from the Flight Director’s chair.
It was one of the 35 FNG’s on CAPCOM today. She was handling the stress well. “Horizon, this is Houston. Do you read me? Horizon, this is Houston. Do you read?”
The static was louder than Young’s voice, but he could be heard over the speakers, barely. “Houston, this is Horizon. We’re passing through 300,000 now. We are off course and need a vector to Kennedy or nearest safest, do you read?”
“Horizon, we read you. We’re gonna get you that vector. Do you still have your control surfaces?” Judy Resnik’s eyes had gone wide but her voice was calm. Not bad under the circumstances.
They heard Young groan as the static cleared a bit, “Houston, we really don’t have time for a status update. We’re not getting any of the homing beacons and we need a course ASAP.”
The poor guy down in RETRO was close to fainting when he saw the updated ground track on the big board. Still, he’d trained for this, “Flight, Retro. Recommend we reroute them long. Miami, or we go for ditch off the Keys.”
EECOM chimed in around this time, “Flight, EECOM. Have them start fire suppression for APU 2. High priority.”
“CAPCOM, fire suppression. Tell ‘em,” Schaffer said.
“Horizon, Houston…” said Resnik, filling them in while Phillip Schaffer talked with Retro on the loop.
“What’s our closest recovery asset for the Keys?”
Retro replied, “Uh… USS Okinawa is about 70 miles from Cuba. She can be there in 2 hours.”
“Retro let’s start reviewing ditch procedures,” Schaffer said.
“We don’t even want to try for Miami?” Retro asked.
“Not with the APU fires,” Schaffer said, pointing at Resnik, “Give ‘em the vector.”
“Horizon, rerouting you for ditch. New vector as follows…”
There was a hiss and more static and then… nothing.
“Horizon? Horizon, this is Houston, do you read?”
Silence filled the MOCR far more effectively than the tobacco smoke had.
“Aw, hell,” said Schaffer.
No one else spoke for a long beat.
Then, very clearly, a voice came over the headsets, “Okay, Houston. This is the ghost of John Young. I’m fine if we want to rerun this one, but give us a few minutes to reset the panels and maybe a quick bathroom break, over.”
Schaffer nodded at Resnik, “Okay everyone. Take a breath and let’s do it again. SimSup, excellent work killing John, Bob and my career.”
“You got it Phil,” replied the SimSup over the comms.
Schaffer wasn’t the type to raise his voice. Instead, he chose to start the most important part of any simulation. “Okay, so what did we learn?”
* * *
Not far away, Thomas Wheaton was briefing a small gaggle of reporters about the Liberty investigation.
“So, here’s three-hundred pages in five minutes. What it boiled down to was a defect of the nose landing gear strut. The specifications called for titanium, which the strut was. But it turned out that there was an impurity in the metal.”
“What was the impurity?”
“Uhh...” he checked his notes, “The titanium had a small vein of iron.”
“That didn’t show up in testing?”
“We’re still reviewing the test documentation. At this point, it seems like it wasn’t big enough to be recognized. We’re talking a very small defect.”
“A small defect that caused a crash?” asked the man from the Times. His tone was skeptical.
“Ordinarily, that wouldn’t have led to a failure, but Liberty was landing with a fairly sizable payload. And, it’s a little counter-intuitive, but the sands at Edwards have more give than the runway at Kennedy. There was a lateral strain on the system that, when coupled with the payload and the defect and... well, you know the rest.”
“How will this affect Constellation One?”
“We’ve always wanted four successful, anomaly-free flights with Liberty before we moved into crewed Clipper missions. Liberty’s first three flights went off without a hitch. If all goes well with Liberty Five, Constellation One can proceed.”
“What’s Liberty’s current status?” asked a man from the San Francisco Chronicle.
“Repairs are basically complete. Liberty is undergoing standard maintenance at the Clipper Processing Facility at the Cape. Barring anything unforeseen, she’ll be transferred to the VAB later this month for final mating and rollout.”
The gaggle took down more notes and he took a sip of water.
“One more and then I’ve got to get to a meeting. Sarah?”
A reporter from the Dallas Morning News stood, “What’s the objective of the next Liberty mission?”
“Deployment of a DOD payload into Earth orbit,” Wheaton said.
“What’s the payload?” she asked, following up.
“Classified.”
2 March 1978
Pad 31/6
Baikonur Cosmodrome
45° 59′ 45.6″ N 63° 33′ 50.4″ E
It was a bit ridiculous. This was hardly a fair test for the system as a whole.
If it ever came to that, the Americans were not likely to announce the launch of their space bomber months in advance. They would not be so kind as to put the launch on television, complete with interviews of astronauts and large countdown clocks that announced every step in the process.
In a time of war, the space bomber would launch in secret, likely from their California cosmodrome, and the world would not know of its mission until the bomber was back on American soil, assuming by that point there was an Earth for it to return to.
Since the announcement of the Clipper program, (and long before that date) the Soviet Air Force had been developing plans for an armed fighter that could intercept and eliminate a threat from American space assets. The arrival of a reusable American craft that could deploy a large payload was seen as a thinly-veiled disguise for the development of a fourth branch of capitalist nuclear deployment methods.
Soviet generals did not adapt to new concepts any more quickly than the hardened cold warriors of the west. As such, they considered the appropriate response to a space bomber to be a space fighter.
Which was what had put Vasily Lazarev on top of this rocket, strapped into a tiny cockpit, flying a ship that belonged in a science-fiction drama.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. The original concept would have had this little acrobat loaded onto the spine of a large rocketplane and fired off from altitude. They’d had such a devil of a time getting the big plane to work. It was easier to simply fit a Soyuz rocket with an aeroshell and let the little flea ride on top.
Truthfully, he wished they’d gotten the big plane right first. Cosmonauts were required to control any fear of the dark, or enclosed spaces, but there was no reason he had to enjoy either. At the moment, he had his fill of both. The aeroshell completely surrounded his spacecraft and there was no aperture for light. All of his illumination came from the paltry displays of his cockpit. Moreover, he was tightly bound to the contoured seat in which he sat and unbuckling his safety belt would have been an exercise in futility as there was no room for him to move in the cockpit.
If they’d gotten the 50-50 flying, at least he could have looked out of the cockpit windows and seen the open sky above.
With the 50-50 Raketoplan, they would be able to deploy from almost any Soviet territory and interception of American space bombers would be far simpler. As it was, today’s mission would only give them one chance at a practice run. The orbits from Baikonur and Florida were not compatible, even with the Motherland’s powerful Soyuz engines pushing him into the heavens. The little space fighter did not have the fuel reserves necessary for a rendezvous with the American Liberty ship. A rendezvous was necessary in order to ensure an accurate shot if one intended to shoot down the target. Instead, the Soviet Air Force would try a simple intercept and deployment of a dummy payload that would stand in for an anti-satellite weapon. The clichéd metaphor was that they were sending Lazarev up, riding a bullet, armed with a smaller bullet, trying to shoot down a larger bullet. Though there would be no shooting today, the whole thing was rather farfetched.
Still, a flight was a flight, and this one would be historic, no matter what happened.
Many miles away, Flite Control monitored the bomber’s launch on a television feed. A colonel from the Комите́т Госуда́рственной Безопа́сности was on hand to ensure that the television was covered during commercial breaks and that no capitalist propaganda influenced the minds or hearts of the controllers working in Flite Control. All that they needed to concern themselves with was the precise moment of launch, which was apparent enough from the lighted clocks that the cameras were kind enough to focus on often.
Things began to move quickly as the bomber’s launch countdown proceeded nominally. Half a world away, the crisp warm Florida sunshine lit the cold grey titanium of the American’s shiny space bomber. Here on the Kazakh steppes, Lazarev dearly wished for a heater as he tried not to contemplate the near-miss that his superiors planned him to experience in a couple of hours.
The generals had been kind enough to allow for intercept to take place after the Americans had established orbit. It would have been a near-impossibility to intercept a target thrusting out of the atmosphere over the Indian Ocean. Waiting also ensured that the Spiral space fighter would not inadvertently cause an issue that would require the Liberty to abort her mission prior to reaching orbit. That would certainly be cause for an international incident and a rise in tension.
His own countdown being largely dependent on the Americans, he had little time to mentally prepare once his mission was given the signal to proceed. Had he the time, he might have been thankful for the hurried schedule as it allowed for no time for fear or apprehension.
The roar in his head and the kick in his back were clear confirmation that he was about to begin the most important hours of his career. He reported a good liftoff to the Flite Center, but other than that, stayed taciturn, content to receive their instructions and keep radio silent to the extent possible.
Not long after, when the aeroshell was cracked and his little ship emerged into the universe and spread her wings, he finally felt like a cosmonaut again. He rolled the Spiral onto her back, giving himself a wondrous view of the icy Antarctic below. With a whisper, he reported to the vigilship Vladimir Komarov the success of the interception burn. Before his next orbit was complete, he would intercept the Liberty and take many photographs of her at high speed. If the two ships met in orbit again, the Spiral might shoot something much more dangerous than a film shutter at the American vessel.
As he passed over the Soviet Union again, he looked ahead with a stern gaze, eager to spot his target, though they were more than one thousand kilometers from the intended point of closest approach.
A small illuminated clock counted down the minutes to intercept. With five to go, he checked the radar screen.
“Flite Control, this is the Spiral. No contacts on radar. No visual confirmation. Can you confirm my orbital position and course?”
“Spiral, this is Flite Control. We have you on correct trajectory. Stand by for interception activity. Maintain a sharp lookout.”
He scanned the skies again. He worried that if Liberty was above him, he might be searching for her black underbelly against the infinite black of space, but protocols for the American vessel were for it to open the cargo bay doors and turn belly-up for operations. Grey on black would give him better odds, but the plan was to come at her from above.
He put the little fighter into a slow roll and kept a look out above, below and ahead. With growing frustration he watched the clock tick down into the final minute.
“Flite Control, still nothing. Please advise.”
“Spiral, we are assessing the situation. Stand by for further instructions.”
They did not have time for assessment. There was only one chance to be had, and it was slipping out of their grasp.
With 15 seconds to go, he was almost ready to give up when he saw something moving at the edge of his canopy window, on the port side. As quickly as he could, he fired the maneuvering jets to try and center his target, but the nimble fighter wasn’t fast enough. With a frustrated gritting of teeth, he attempted a few photographs before storing the camera once again. There would be no intercept today.
“Flite Control. Intercept time has passed. Target was not observed. Request further instructions.”
“Spiral, in ten minutes you will deploy your interception payload, then begin retrofire with the following parameters…”
He wrote down the instructions from the ground and by the time he was finished, he was ready to activate the payload. With a flash, the small black missile began its own mission which would culminate in a loud splash into the Indian Ocean, sometime before dawn.
A confluence of orbital mechanics would be responsible for bringing him home safely. The orbital inclination, the ability of the MiG-105 to skip off the upper atmosphere, and its not-insignificant cross-range ability were all required to bring Lazarev back to a suitable landing site.
In sunlight, he began reentry. He kept a careful watch on the nose temperature gauge and the AoA indicator. The computer was handling much of the minutiae, but it gave him some reassurance to watch them and keep a hand on the joystick.
The lofted nose of the Spiral gave the fighter the innocuous nickname of “лапоть” as well as a low-intensity reentry profile. The plasma streaming past the cockpit windows was beautiful, but he was very aware of the forces that created it. The Soviet Air Force had commanded him to confront his mortality on many occasions, but this was by far the most beautiful.
With his helmet and the prevailing velocity, he could not hear the twin sonic booms that announced his return to the Motherland’s airspace. On his left, he pulled a handle and heard the mechanical whirr of the wings extending from the fuselage. The Spiral stretched out and her wingtips spread like a hawk awakening for the hunt. The fading twilight seemed an appropriate time to awaken this little metal bird of prey.
On his right there was a handle to open the air intake in the base of the dorsal fin. The Spiral’s designers had gifted her with an air-breathing jet to allow for a safe, controlled landing, surely something the Americans envied these days, after their disastrous crash on the California salt flats.
The intake door made no sound and he got no response when he sent the command to start the jet mounted in the rear of the craft. He reported as much to the Flite Center as the little fighter transitioned into the lower atmosphere.
Still in a steep dive, he twisted as far as he could in his seat, fighting a muscle cramp as he looked for a problem.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the silver tab at the base of the fin that indicated that the air intake had not yet opened. He pushed the handle in and pulled it out again, trying to cycle the door. It stayed stubbornly in place.
“Flite Center, Spiral. Air intake will not open. Request vector to nearest acceptable landing site. Have no engine power. We have an emergency.”
“Copy Spiral. Rerouting you to Vasylkiv Air Base. Turn left to heading 173. We are alerting ground forces to your situation. You are preliminarily cleared for landing.”
He turned the stick and rotated, still in heavy cloud cover. His altitude had him passing through ten thousand meters. Fear crept up slowly, chilling his hands and arms.
Training flights had only allowed for two unpowered landings because they had not wanted to risk damaging the airframe. Vasily scanned the cloud cover that surrounded him, desperate to get a view of his landing site.
Suddenly it cleared, the white soup vanished in a flash and the world came into view. His descent angle was a bit too steep, so he pulled back on the stick and saw the flashing red lights of the air base off to his left. A runway was already clear and illuminated. The early dawn light cast long shadows, but he was more or less on course and had enough energy and altitude to make it. He gave a silent cheer for the navigators of Flite Control.
In the lower altitudes, he felt the air buffet his extended wings. Gusting over the nose, he pulled back on the stick, trying to find a good angle to deal with the headwind. Continuing his descent through the glideslope, he spared a look to see if Vasylkiv had scrambled fighters to escort him in. The skies seemed empty, but they hadn’t really been expecting him. This place was always a low-probability alternative.
At 500 meters, the winds seemed to have more control than he did. He fought the aircraft as she tried to roll and bank and he struggled with the stick as he reached to deploy the landing skids.
Like the Americans first space interceptor, the X-20, the Soviet Spiral would land on skids, rather than wheels. He hoped that the air base commander would not be upset if the Spiral left a gouge in his runway.
With less than 50 meters of altitude, the bottom dropped out and he lost the struggle to maintain his glide. He clenched hard and pulled back to soften the impact as much as possible. He cursed the engineers who designed the air intake.
With an ear-curdling shriek the Spiral came back to Earth. The skids held firm as the impact rattled the cockpit. With a sharp pain, Vasily felt his tooth crack as the ship came down. The space fighter yawed to the left and for a moment he worried she might tip and roll. The loud protests of the skids came to an end as the ship slid to a halt on the grey concrete.
Sirens blared as he pulled off his helmet and opened the cockpit. The damp Ukranian air felt calming as he sank into the seat. There was no relief like that which came from the realization you had survived.
The alarm bells reached a crescendo and he shut his eyes for a moment. Then he heard angry voices and the clicks of AK rifles and he looked around.
“Pilot! Put your hands above your head and exit this aircraft slowly!” came the voice of a sergeant, levelling a pistol at his head.
He raised his arms quickly and started to comply as best he could. Looking around, he spotted a dozen men, surrounding his little ship armed with the finest weapons the Soviet Air Force could provide. He stifled a grin as he noticed the disheveled nature of their uniforms and hair. Clearly he’d woken up most of the air base with his surprise landing.
He jutted his chin towards the red star on the tail fin and identified himself. Clearly Flite Center had been pacifying him when they stated they were alerting the air base. He should have been more afraid, but having survived a space mission to be shot by his own countrymen was too comical to take seriously.
He stepped onto the runway, keeping his hands up and his voice level. He spat on the ground and saw a crimson puddle form by his foot.
From one of the vehicles, he heard the crackle of a radio and could see a young lieutenant speaking through a hand receiver. Vasily felt a dribble of blood run down his cheek as he waited for the result. The young lieutenant stepped out of the vehicle and walked through the ring of soldiers that surrounded the spacecraft. The junior officer called to the gathered men, “Stand down, comrades. This was an authorized landing.”
With various degrees of enthusiasm, the assembled security staff lowered their rifles. Lazarev put his hands down and the lieutenant approached him and put out a welcoming hand.
“Comrade Lazarev, welcome back to Earth. My compliments on your safe landing.”
9 March 1978
Central Intelligence Agency
Directorate of Science and Technology
Langley, VA
TJ and Sam talked it out over sandwiches. The last week had given them a lot to go over.
“What’s the latest on the 105?” Sam asked.
“They’re flying it back to Baikonur now. It’s been hopping from base to base,” said TJ.
“Hopping?”
“The fuel tank on this thing doesn’t allow for long flights.”
“Right.”
“So, now that they’ve got the 105 up and running, are we still thinking the new Salyut is actually a carrier?”
“I’m not convinced. It’s a hell of a thing to do in the first place, plus it’d be orbit-dependent. And what, you’re gonna have pilots on station just waiting for a Clipper launch on the off-chance they’d be able to intercept?”
“With the nuclear engine, they’d have plenty of delta-V to change inclination.”
“Before a polar-launched Clipper could put a nuke over Moscow? Not that we ever would do that. Would we ever do that?”
“If the shit started, God knows what the Air Force might do.”
“The whole thing is just stupid. The Cargo-Clippers are for hauling cargo. If we want a strategic bomber, what’s wrong with a motherfucking B-52?”
“Ivan thinks that we think that our toys will be the deciding factor.”
“Maybe, but do the reds really think that an orbiting carrier of 105’s would be capable of doing anything fast enough if the shit started? Missiles would be in Moscow and Memphis before they ever got the chance to intercept anything. And let’s not forget, they didn’t intercept anything.”
“Not for lack of trying.”
“They missed by a hundred and thirty seven miles! That ain’t exactly pinpoint accuracy.”
“Still, new-Salyut, or whatever it is, has consumables to last for a long watch on orbit, it’s got 2 docking ports and we know that they’re putting together a NERVA-equivalent to do… something. You put that together with the 105 flight and conventional wisdom says…”
“This is all connected?” TJ said.
“This is all connected,” Donovan confirmed.
Kennedy Space Center
CF-101 Constellation
T- 1:31:17
“Good afternoon. One hundred and eighty years ago, on a September day in the year 1797, a frigate was launched from Baltimore. That fighting vessel, one of the first in our nation’s history, was named for the grouping of stars on the flag of the United States. The USS Constellation would go on to have a storied career, bearing the stars and stripes around the globe. Today, we witness the launching of a vessel that will honor Constellation’s legacy, carrying that proud name into the final frontier.
Welcome to UBS’s coverage of the inaugural flight of the Space Clipper Constellation. I’m Emmett Seaborne and today we’ll be counting down to the liftoff of America’s newest spacecraft. We’ll be joined by astronauts, engineers and scientists from NASA who will tell us all about this historic mission and what is to come for the Clipper fleet in the next decade.
Five miles away, John Young wriggled in his harness and looked up into the crisp, blue Florida sky. The weather couldn’t have been more perfect and all was ready. Constellation was ready to give the world a show. He continued through the checklist and found a moment to sneak a look to his copilot in the right hand seat.
“Feeling good, Bob?” Young asked.
“You bet. Gonna get this baby moving. Put her in the sky where she belongs,” Crippen said.
“Absolutely,” Young replied.
There could be a volumetric psychological study done on the need for men in dangerous situations to act as though they were perfectly safe. Neither Young nor Crippen needed to be reminded that they sat on top of a set of massive fuel tanks, broken only by engines and hardware that could generously be described as “unproven.” While both men had complete confidence in the engineers, workmen and calculations that had made their mission possible, neither, in his heart of hearts could truthfully say that he wasn’t nervous.
Work is the best remedy for anxiety. Bob Crippen wandered if the men who had developed the checklists for Clipper launches had taken that maxim into account. They were certainly busy up through the last few minutes of the countdown. By the time he realized there would be no scrubs, no more delays, there were only a few minutes left.
“Constellation, Launch Control. You’re at T minus 50 seconds. On behalf of all of us down here, we want to wish you a great flight and a safe return,”
Crippen had spent hours watching the previous launches of Liberty, studying the proceedings from every conceivable angle. He felt as prepared for this flight as any astronaut had ever been.
With seven seconds to go, he felt the shudder under his back as the Pegasus engines started to stir. When the clock on the center console hit 00:00:00 he stifled a gasp and found himself with a big goofy grin. It was time to go.
6 August 1978
Gagarin’s Start
Baikonur Cosmodrome
45° 55′ 13″ N, 63° 20′ 32″ E
Dear William,
Long have I looked forward to this day. It was meant to be the start of another cooperation between our two countries. I’m sorry that we will not get to fly together, but I’m sure you can understand my excitement.
The van pulled over to the side of the asphalt strip. Neither man needed to be told why. This was tradition. There was no problem, just a task to be performed.
With an ironic grin, Yuri and Georgi got out of the van. The crunch of the grass on their feet was a subtle reminder of where they were headed and how long they would be gone. Suppressing an urge to roll their eyes, they walked to the rear tire of the van and began to open their suits.
Both of them were nervous, but neither would admit it, even to each other. The Soviet space program would permit fear, but not forgive a cosmonaut who gave it voice.
Urinating on the tire was one of the silly but comforting traditions that had begun with Yuri Gagarin’s first flight. Almost two decades later, Yuri and Georgi had no intention of skipping the ritual.
With fuel tanks full and bladders empty, the two proud representatives of the Soviet Union were secured into their custom, contour-fitted seats in the cramped Soyuz cockpit. As the ground crew withdrew, they saw the first rays of light from the dawn enter the porthole windows. The sunrise was a soothing sight. Should it be their last view of Earth, neither man would lament a lack of beauty.
Our second international mission had to be cancelled by politicians, but I am sorry our nations could not have found a way to make this new effort together. My son, Roman, wants to be a cosmonaut as well. Perhaps by the time he is a man, more men of goodwill will see past our differences and we can stop these petty competitions.
“Flite Center to Soyuz. We confirm your rendezvous trajectory. Velocity matching burn will take place in approximately one hour. You should proceed with your meal. We will contact you after.”
“Copy, Flite Center. We will break for lunch and get ourselves ready for the rendezvous. Going radio silent until we hear from you again.”
Their meal wasn’t much to speak of, but the Farther would have much better on board. And tonight they would begin the long process of eating through the supplies that took up so much of the module’s interior. With each day and meal, their elbow room would increase and they’d be more and more comfortable. For this mission, it had been necessary to maximize endurance, and comfort was always an acceptable sacrifice for the Soviet Union.
I feel very fortunate to have this opportunity to go farther, to set sail for a new horizon. But the manner in which this was done leaves me dissatisfied, and I wanted you to know that I sympathize with you and your compatriots. We voyagers know that the lines between us are meaningless, and in the void, there are no lines at all.
“Flite Center. We are prepared for the firing of the atomic motor. Proceed at your discretion,” Yuri said.
“Confirm Soyuz, commencement will occur in one minute, forty-five seconds.”
Yuri stretched out his hand over Georgi and Georgi took it and gave an awkward shake. It would have been impossible for a proper hug with their harnesses secure, so this was the most they could do. It was about to start. This grand adventure into open space and into history.
For so long, he had been envious of the American moonwalkers. Now they would envy him. For the first time since launch, he felt a surge of national pride swell through him. The Motherland would be first yet again. The napping American rabbits would be passed by a mighty Soviet tortoise with a nuclear rocket on its back.
On the other side of the habitat, hydrogen stirred and spun through the reactor at a great speed and temperature. The finest craftsmanship and uranium worked to fling the hydrogen into open space.
Yuri and Georgi were held against their seats by the straps, left hanging in an uncomfortable “eyeballs-out” burn configuration. Shutting their eyes was the only defense against this unpleasant acceleration. This was one of many sacrifices that had to be made to accommodate the Motherland’s first nuclear rocket engine.
Orbital mechanics only demanded a few moments of discomfort in trade for their new apogee. They were about to set an altitude record for a Soviet vessel. In a day, as they fell back to the gravity well, once again they would fire the atomic motor and then there would be no turning back. Soon, the American altitude record would be a thing of the past as well.
He wished there was a more momentous sentiment that came to mind, but in this departure, he had but one word to say to the Flite Center and his unfortunate comrades that must remain behind on this little blue planet.
"Поехали!"
I am grateful for the time we had together. The fishing and flying and the drinking and music back at your Cocoa Beach. I feel so much like Johnny Cash’s conductor. And I regret making you feel the fool at the tollgate. Nonetheless, the beauty in the heavens awaits, and I am eager to make my introduction.
У меня есть чугун. У меня есть чугун. У меня есть весь чугун.
Until we meet again.
Your friend,
Cosmonaut Yuri Romanenko
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Google translate claims this means
I have cast iron. I have cast iron. I have all the cast iron.
Which if anything remotely accurate, is a very strange thing to say.
I was of two minds about giving Constellation One its own post. I wanted to do it justice, but we're going to be spending a lot of time inside Clippers in the future. Also, this chapter had gotten away from me in terms of length and ambition. Constellation One also had the disadvantage of being the last part I wrote in a push to get the chapter published on May Day, which, as Yuri could tell you, is kind of a big deal for Soviets.
If it becomes advantageous, I may add to it in the future. If so, I'll let you all know.
Oh, and Bernard's Surf isn't new. It was a popular astronaut hang-out in the 60's and 70's.
Isn't it a reference to the song from the bar at the start of the chapter? The train engineer claiming to have pigs but actually having pig iron, where this is some kind of nuclear powered flyby mission, not a station at all?
one question? Mars or Venus? Obviously a flyby I think since hiding a lander test would be hard but IIRC the timing is right..
Randy
Alright, let's see. Clipper is flying, as is Spiral, and TMK has come out of nowhere, Deke's flown a year-long mission in '75, and detente seems to be ending early. Holy moly I need to keep up with this TL better.