MSteele

Heck yes.

Oh, haha! I highly doubt he resembles anything of the sort, and any living relatives would not be very happy of this portrayal. I totally ripped off two Brad Pitt characters for this guy. One from Snatch, and the other from Fight Club.

Walking into the outer office, I see Melanie on the phone. She's currently gossiping about one of the new engineers with her girlfriend from the secretary pool. "Hang on a sec, Laverne," she mouths around the cigarette hanging limply from her lips. "Director Glushko's waitin' for you inside. I figured you wouldn't mind so I let him in." Without waiting for an answer, Melanie takes a puff between pursed lips and continues her phone conversation, "As I was sayin' Laverne, he ain't no Rock Hudson for sure but he's got the kindest eyes..." I nod in thanks, but she's already forgotten me as I pass by for the door to my office. Inside, I see Glushko at my desk with a Belinda he just lit. He looks up from an open folder and motions me to the chair across from him. I make for the couch instead. As I sit down, Glushko arranges the papers he's reading and says, "Comrade Bee. We have a new management staff hire." "That's great Valentin," I say, "I knew you were looking over candidates for Chief Designer but hadn't realized you had already made a decision." "Da. A Chief Designer. He will bring a lot to the table, comrade. He is also highly regarded within the aerospace community. I have read many of his research papers and I am impressed with his accomplishments." "Wow, Valentin," I say genuinely surprised. "He must be a real gem considering such high praise from you." Glushko pulls from the Belinda, "Well, my fellow Ukrainian engineer Chelomey declined the offer, so I chose the Brit instead." "An Englishman you say?" I ask, wracking my memory for the list of candidates. Glushko nods and says, "Da. I have sent Gnut to escort him here. He should be returning to Florida shortly." I ask, "Did he take a steamer or did he fly? That flight would be a multi-layover 20-hour ordeal." Glushko chuckles and says, "He flew into Atlanta last evening from Croydon in London via Idlewild in New York. I received a cable saying he arrived and preferred to drive down rather than spend another minute on a plane." Glushko hands me the folder and I take a look inside. It contains several sheets of paper outlining a detailed history of education, his employment at an early age at de Haviland, and member of the British Interplanetary Society. The headshot is of youngish man wearing an obviously English cut tweed suit and round spectacles. A gentleman. Otherwise he is nondescript. A hand written note attached to the back of the folder reads: A fine young man. Signed, Arthur C. Clark. The name on the header of the paperwork is A. Valentine Cleaver. Valentine. Hmph. What a coincidence. The next two days were busy around the office. The research teams were complaining they are getting nowhere with a current project due to limited resources and threatening to stop work. A quick call to Mr. Hoffa was made by Glushko, and by noon the teams were back in their labs. Those that weren't researching research stuff were sweeping, mopping, shining brass, dusting shelves, and organizing stuff that needed organizing. Hoffa don't play, apparently. Gnut left a message with Melanie that he and Cleaver were due to arrive at the Cape just before 1500. Glushko and I made it a point to be available to greet Cleaver in my office along with Tang and snacks. The intercom buzzes and we both stand. Glushko from behind my desk, takes care to brush his jacket free of any stray ash from the half-smoked Belinda. We both look toward the door, expectantly. Gnut enters looking haggard from the long trip. Is that a slight bruise around his eye? And I can see the knuckles on his hands have recent cuts across them. "Comrades," Gnut says, "I bring Valentine Cleaver." Gnut bows slightly to Glushko and half turns to the door. Striding confidently into the room, head on a swivel and bare chest pushing out past an open knee-length white fur coat enters a man that does not look in the least like an English gentleman. He's wearing Gnuts white fur trucker-hat and he pulls it off revealing overly long and slightly dirty brown hair that he pushes out of his eyes with a slight head toss. He then jabs a calloused meat hook of a hand towards Glushko in greeting. As the man does so, at the same time he tilts his face towards me, a lock of dirty hair falling across his brow and gives me a wink and a tongue click, then turns his attention back to Glushko. I notice he has minor cuts and bruises in various states of healing as well. Glushko slow-blinks, face neutral. I'm catching flies with an open mouth. The man says in a very fast cadence, in a halfway unintelligible language, "Me nan calls me Valentine. Me pals call me Val, ye get me?!" His hand outstretched still extended, he looks around the office and says in double-time, "Oi, this’s a bleedin’ good spot yeh got ‘ere. We dumped our vans down at the docks. Hope that don’t cause no grief, yeah?" "What?" Glushko and I say at the same time. Gnut was ready for this apparently, "Cleaver says he has positioned his travel trailers and entourage near the loading docks and promises not to cause too much of an inconvenience," he says. Glushko still staring at Cleavers outstretched hand, takes it in his and shakes it firmly. "You have an entourage? And trailers, comrade Cleaver?" He asks as he stretches his neck slightly to compare the picture in the folder to this scabbed up bare-chested ruffian wearing a fur coat in Florida. Cleaver smiles broadly and says, ""Aye! That's me, ye ken. Hope ye dinnae mind. Had to bring me nan an' me maw wi' me. Oh, an' cousin Liam an' his mob as well."" "What?" I turn to Glushko and ask, "I thought you said he was British? I can understand one word in ten." Glushko releases Cleavers hand, and Cleaver shakes it out in mock pain. Like a machine gun, his words are rapid-fire, "That’s a bleedin’ vice ya got, mate. Nearly mashed me hand to bits. Look like a proper hard case, feel like ye wanna go for a friendly match?" He shadow-boxes a bit, his fur coat swinging and gives Glushko a winning smile. Glushko turns to Gnut and says, "Explain. Now." To be continued... Sorry, but I had to get this part out. I don't like posting a wall of text, and there is a bit more so I thought I'd break it up a little and leave you with a cliffhanger of sorts. Feel free to engage with thoughts, criticisms, and speculation

Grats! Those reaction wheels got you out of that turtle spot. Also, forums are a slideshow loading images despite changing themes.

Geeze, these forums. I should make a copy of the story somewhere. Pchelka 2 Design and Launch July 1956 After the launch of the Pchelka satellite, morale was high for everyone at Space-B. Snacks all around! We can not rest on our laurels, however. Glushko immediately got to work redesigning the base model of the Pupa and Thunderbee to account for discrepancies overlooked in the original. Aside from minor tweaks, the most significant design change was to split the avionics between the Pupa and Thunderbee stages. Once Thunderbee separated from the lower stage, there is no reason to hold on to the oversized avionics package. By splitting the avionics, Thunderbee will have a dramatic increase in performance. Additionally, Glushko recommended to modify the first stage engine to the A6 version. It uses a different fuel type, but we can modify the LC relatively cheaply. We have been pushing the original engine well past what is recommended for burn time, and if we go much further than that we could be facing a catastrophic failure. The A6 will relieve the stress of impending doom with double the burn time. Next up is to get a satellite into a polar orbit. The satellite will not do much more than orbit, since we really do not have the technology to perform many experiments beyond temperature and pressure. In hindsight, the polar orbit and first satellite contracts could have been completed at the same time if we planned the initial rocket better. The final design of the rocket: Pupa IV + Thunderbee + Pchelka 2. December is the soonest we can begin construction due to the need for Basic Rocketry, but we get the LC modified and ready well before then. The day arrives for the launch. Here we are on the newly modified LC6. We will be launching toward the south instead of an easterly departure. The contract allows for an inclination between 85 and 95 degrees, and I opted to stay slightly east in my ascent to take advantage of what small amount of dV I could still gain from the rotation of the Earth. With the MJ settings below, I should end up on a 178-179 degree ascent path. We launch and get through the separation stages with no issue. The final stage completes the burn and a stable orbit is established. Contract complete! Sure, the Apoapsis is a lot higher than I planned for, but I haven't figured out how to dial in the orbit precisely using two unguided stages. I do, however, meet to contract requirements.

Retcon: XLR11. During my research looking for a suitable second stage, I conflated the XLR11 rocket motor with a later version of the XLR11 called the XLR-RM-35-1. When I was looking at the engine configs I noted the the XLR-RM-35-1 had gimbals and chose that over the first version listed. I did not pay attention to the name and assumed it was the same engine despite the name being listed on the config in game right in front of my eyes. I just blew right past that. Additionally, I described the incident of the tail of a XF-91 being burned up by the motor we stole. That actually did happen, but not with the XLR-RM-35-1 version of the engine which was used in the Hiroc missile (Predecessor to Atlas and Viking). XF-91 - Wikipedia Link Hiroc Missile - Wikipedia Link

The suspense!

This is a bad design. I do not even know where to begin, so it will have to suffice for me to say that this is a really, really bad rocket design. I'll provide the .craft file upon request so you can shake your head as well. At least it works, sort of. Here's the thing though, I'm so laser focused on brute forcing it to work I just ignore everything else and do not realize its a bad design until - I swear to Christ - when it's on the launchpad about to launch for real and not in a sim. Regardless, the next rocket may resemble this one, but it's going to have to be a brand new design. I'll eat the costs and try to salvage some of the tooling, but I'm just shaking my head at it right now. Date: 1956 July 17 Location: LC6 Contract: First Artificial Satellite Finishing up key research and getting the LC built took a little bit of time, but eventually, Pchelka was placed on the schedule. Sitting on the pad at LC6. It was at this exact moment I knew I had messed up. At this point, I'm sweating bullets. I know the rocket has inherent flaws and they have been covered up with a big ole dash of lipstick. That pig is flying, though! I love these Cape shots. Here's a few shots of the Thunderbee stage with the RMI XLR-11 firing. Just over the Karman Line where the upper fairings blow out to reveal Pchelka sitting atop the solid rocket stages. Thunderbee with the Bahamas in the background. Next to the last stage firing here. The Baby Sergeants doing their job. Those tiny spin motors you can see on the bottom are not to be trusted. Ever. Even when simming tells you they are working as intended. Just. Don't. And finally, the GCRC 33KS-2800 firing. You can't see it from this screenshot, but there is a small amount of wobbling going on here. Eventually, the wobble has turned into a serious issue that may have a negative effect on our flight. What seemed like it was the longest 22-second burn ever passes and the tell-tale screen flip tells me we have entered an orbit. Barely meeting the contract goals.

Look at that mass. lol. And here I am struggling with a 6k down range rocket. edit: btw, the visuals are fantastic.

The 6000km downrange contract opened up as soon as we finished the 5000km contract. We were very close to the 6000km mark at the end but we need to see if we can get more out of our rocket. I don't like leaving it up to chance, so I flattened out the flight profile a small amount and threw it in the simulator. After a few iterations, I was able to determine the correct parameters to program into the guidance computer. The launch of the second Pupa IIA + Zhalo was a resounding success. It's basically the same launch as the last except for the range requirement. I'll not bore you with duplicate screenshots and commentary, but I will mention that the profile it flew is probably at the limit of what that rocket can do and things got a little toasty up around 65km. Pay no attention to the PVG Settings window. I had that open for another sim'd rocket I was testing. Spicy! There are the islands we need to get to in order to reach 6000km. Rocket is tumbling at this point, but it doesn't matter. And just barely over the finish line. Sure, the only thing left are the avionics, but it counts. I find it interesting that this flight only took 26 and a half minutes and the last flight was 30 minutes to travel 1000km less. We were bookin' it, for sure. 1955 29 November Late evening VAB Office I am sitting at my desk eating cold Thanksgiving leftovers Melanie brought me this afternoon going over a budgeting report. All the employees have called it a day, and the only illumination in the building are the security lights shining dimly through my office widow overlooking the VAB, and my green hooded desk lamp. I sigh quietly and approve another round of research personnel hiring. We are cutting it very close to the chin hairs but we absolutely have to have more people. The new Program will fall behind if we do not keep up with technology demands. The sound of chains rattling against gears and aluminum panels of the delivery entrance raising startles me. Standing, I move to the window overlooking the VAB to see what all the ruckus is at this hour. As I do so, I see out of the corner of my eye Glushko bounding up the catwalk stairs toward my outer office. He is carrying a large wooden box and nearly stumbles on the last step when he sees me in the doorway looking out. Below, at the delivery entrance, several red-tinted flashlights and dark figures are moving about with purpose, one pulling an empty cart of sorts. Glushko staggers into my office nearly dropping the wooden box. He places it on my desk and turns to me. "Comrade Bee. It is good you are here. It saves me the trouble of dragging this box up the stairs in the morning," he says gasping for breath. "Please turn the lights on. How can you see with such dim lighting? You'll go blind," he chastises. "Valentin! Sit down, please," I say as I hit the light switch. "You should have had Gnut bring that box upstairs," I say trying to look past Glushko's body into the open top of the box. "Yes, of course. Thank you, but Gnut is downstairs now gearing up for an assignment," he says as he falls into his usual spot behind my desk. "What is this red jelly on your plate here next to the other unmentionable food?" Glushko wrinkles his nose as he pushes the budgeting papers off to the side. "What? Oh. That is canned cranberry sauce. Easily identifiable by the imprint of the can contour, it is..." "Never mind," he says, "it looks horrid." He pushes the plate of food over with a handkerchief to sit on top of the budget. He wrinkles his nose and places the handkerchief atop the food, hiding it from sight. He continues, "Comrade Bee. It is nearly complete. We need just one more item and it is done." "I'm sorry, Val. It is late, and I have no idea what you are talking about." I say, inching closer to the box. "Nyet! This is not for you at this moment," Glushko says as he pulls the box closer toward him. "In a moment, comrade. Allow me to give my presentation without you sneaking your nose into the box!" I take a step back and hold my hands up in surrender, one hand still holding my fork, "The floor is all yours, Val." I set the fork down on the coffee table, but with a sharp glace from Glushko I pick it back up. At a loss of what to do with the fork, I settle on putting it in my jacket pocket. Cranberry sauce no doubt staining my inside liner. Glushko reaches into the wooden box and pulls out part of a model rocket asking, "Do you know what this is?" He sits the model on my desk, and glances up at me over the box. "Of course, it looks like a Pupa launch vehicle," I say, realizing Glushko is giving me a presentation on the new rocket he's been designing. Glushko nods, "You are correct. Only this Pupa is slightly wider and taller, but not so much to be immediately noticeable." He reaches in the box again and pulls out another model. He sits it next to the Pupa and stands back a little. "Have a look, comrade," he says triumphantly. "This rocket will begin our next Program in earnest!" With a nod from Glushko, I pick up the smaller rocket. It is obviously an upper stage to the Pupa. "Valentin," I say, "this rocket doesn't have an engine. And what's under this top fairing?" Glushko lighty slaps my hand with a Belinda he has removed from the humidor, and snatches the model away. "Allow me, comrade." With a twist, the top of the model rocket comes apart and reveals the upper stage. He pulls it free from the rest of the model and tosses it to me." "That, "Glushko continues, "is Pchelka. Little Bee." I roll the model around in my hands, marveling at the detail. "I can see you are a little confused, comrade. Not to worry, Dyadya Valentin will explain," Glushko says with a smile. I know the word for uncle, but am a little surprised Glushko referred to himself as such. Can he be warming up to me after all these years? Glushko takes the model back and pulls on it again. The inner portion separates from the outer with a snap, and he holds up both for me to see. "This entire assembly will separate from the second stage and spin up to 240 RPM or thereabouts with the help of these 4 small spin motors angled so," he says pointing them out on the sides of the model. He continues, "At that precise moment, all 12 boosters will ignite and propel the craft forward, accelerating faster than anything we have yet to put into space. Finally, when the boosters are done, this inner part will also ignite," he explains holding up the golden rocket. "It will get our rocket up to orbital speed in just a short time. It will discard the used boosters," he goes on, "carrying our little bee... our Pchelka on its nose into orbit!" I couldn't help myself. I applauded loudly and clapped him on the shoulder, "Wonderful! This is wonderful, Valentin! Dyayda Valentin!" Glushko gives me a slight shake of his head, and purses his lips. Apparently, he's a part-time uncle. I take the hint. Pointing back at the smaller second stage on the desk I say, "But what goes in the rocket hole? Surely, the XASR-1 is too weak - like a 29 year old babushka, right?" Glushko gives me a sidelong glance and says, "You are correct, comrade. And this is where Gnut comes in." Glushko tugs at his silver pocket watch attached to his belt with a sturdy chain. "Right about now, Gnut should be returning to the VAB with our new rocket engine," Glushko says, snapping his pocket watch shut. I peer out the window to the VAB below, and sure enough, there was Gnut in his trucker-hat pulling a Red Flyer wagon. Strapped to the wagon, its wheels nearly buckling under the weight, is a rocket engine at least 6 times the size of the wagon body. Gnut wheels the load into the VAB with ease. Golly, but he's frikkin strong! "Where did he get that contraption?" I ask Glushko, my voice cracking. "How much does that thing weigh? Is that my wagon? And how is Gnut so dang strong?" "Enough!" Glushko interrupts. He walks over to the window to stand next to me and asks, "Do you remember last week when that RMI test pilot burned the tail off their new XF-91 jet with a rocket engine?" "Yes," I say cautiously, "It was in the news. That was their Thunderceptor test aircraft. The entire tail assembly turned to molten slag." "Exactly," Glushko says. "And this contraption is the culprit! It is an RMI designed XLR-11 rocket motor. We purchased it from Reaction Motors for kopeks on the ruble! We'll put that thing in the... as you call it: the rocket hole." "Ah, I see," I say. "But what's with all the red flashlights and skulking around at night? And why is Gnut dressed like that and wearing his trucker-hat?" "It is better you not worry yourself too much, comrade. Just know that Gnut left an envelope in their hangar with enough rubles to cover the cost of that engine. Minus his snack per diem, of course."

Yea, I’ve been lucky. I’ve reverted three times tbh. All on the same launch. All 3 were launch clamp mishaps. I thought about rolling back to move the rocket up a bit, but the 4th try was just a slight nudge. There are like 4-5 more times when I forgot to spin up because I was distracted. The last time I reverted was this launch. I was on the phone when I forgot to spin up. Wife was a little confused. As far as reliability is concerned… lucky.

Dat MiK-27! Awesome!

Early Fall 1955 As usual, follow along with this playthrough's RP-1 Analytics page. The 5000km downrange contract has turned out to be a tough nut to crack. I thought for sure all I would need to do is to add a bit of fuel to the Mizhinet and call it a day. Nope. As it turns out, I had to tool just about everything including avionics. Which kind of sucks because I was hoping to save unlock credits for the next set of programs. Not only that, we have to modify the LC slightly, as we do not have the fuel capacity for this new rocket. Oh, the fuel types are the same, we just need to expand our capacity for more LOX, Ethanol75, and IRFNA-III. I present the Pupa IIA + Zhalo. I like the design to be fair. What's not to like? It's a longer Pupa with a sleek upper stage rocket. There's no use crying over spilled milk. As Glushko once said: What is done, is done. We need to move on with the Program and this is what we have. Let's see what this Pupa IIA + Zhalo thing can do. Two months or so later. Date: 1955 04 October Vehicle: Pupa IIA + Zhalo Contract: 5000 km Downrange (Capstone) Zhalo separates from the Pupa IIA at just over 60km altitude. The AJ10-27 engine kicks in and we are shooting across the sky at well over 3000m/s and steadily increasing speed. Passing 90km altitude burning for just over 12 seconds since separation. It's a little hard to make out in this screenshot but Mercury and Venus can be seen as bright splotches below the sun. Even harder to make out is Neptune. I can't even remember where it is on the shot. I just remember my mouse highlighting it randomly. No doubt in my mind we'll complete the contract now. Looking at the extrapolated trajectory once we have burned all fuel, I can see splashdown will be just off the coast of Africa. Just south of Cape Verde Islands off the west African coast, our journey comes to an end. Thirty minutes from lifting off from LC5 at Cape Canaveral Florida, the last of our rocket burns up in the atmosphere. We exceeded the contract requirement of 5000km downrange by nearly another 1000 km! Woo! We even broke another FAI record: Uncrewed 1000km altitude. Until next time, comrades.

Haha! That’s awesome! I’ve been waiting to spring that encounter for a while.

"Senator! It is good to have you. Welcome to Space-B," I say as I extend my hand, greeting McCarthy in the anteroom with Melanie sitting at her station dutifully typing away at something needing typing. McCarthy is flanked by two men in dark suits, their eyes concealed with mirrored Ray-bans. Security, no doubt. Gnut, in his usual position outside the door on the catwalk shifts slightly to allow them entry. McCarthy offers his hand in an icy cold, but firm handshake. He doesn't reply, merely nods his head with a thin smile. Nothing in the eyes, just his mouth tilted slightly upward at the corners showing no teeth. With a sweeping gesture, I indicate my open office door. "Please, come in. Your men are more than welcome to avail themselves to snacks and this wonderful orange-flavored powdered drink. Melanie will no doubt take very good care of them." Melanie glances up from her typing and asks, "Tang, gentlemen? On the rocks or neat?" McCarthy nods, still silent. His slate gray eyes take in every square centimeter (or square inch in Freedom Units), of his surroundings as we enter my office. As I turn around from shutting the door, I begin to introduce Glushko who I left behind in my office, "And this is Director Valentin Ivanovich Glushko, a true Kamerican." The scene before me is out of a movie. It can not be real. I am frozen in disbelief. Is this how those workers in the VAB felt just before they all went rigid and fainted onto the VAB floor like those goats people make fun of? As the tunnel begins to close and the oxygen in the room depletes, I see Glushko bound over the desk like an Olympic athlete then lift McCarthy off the ground, squeezing him in a full-bodied bear hug. Glushko is straining with all his strength, his face red and veins on his neck bulging. Meanwhile, McCarthy begins karate chopping with both hands staccato at Glushko's shoulders, his feet kicking at his shins. I am having a stroke for sure. My vision is nearly gone and the only sound is the muffled chit chat of Melanie outside the door serving snacks. A silent struggle to the death is unfolding before me. Just before I check out for the evening, Glushko releases McCarthy from his bear hug, throwing him across the room a few feet. McCarthy deftly lands on his feet, bent at the waist with his fingers lightly touching the floor in a three-point stance. Both men stare at each other with murder in their eyes. After a short pause, they break into raucous laughter, grinning and slapping each other on the back. Someone hail the coroner, for I am dead. When I come to, I am lying on the couch in the corner of the office with my shirt and tie loosened, a damp cloth across my forehead. Glushko is leaning back in his - my - chair with his feet propped up on the desk puffing at his Belinda. McCarthy casually sits on the corner of the desk with his arms folded across his chest. They are in deep conversation and I can't quite make out what they are saying, almost as if I were hearing them from under water. As my head clears, I realize it is not English I am hearing. It is Russian.. or is it? It sounds Russian enough. "What? What is hap..." I choke out. "Ah! There she is," Glushko chuckles, switching to English. "Welcome back, comrade. We were worried you suffered a concussion in your fainting spell." "McCarthy, smiling now says, "Yea, you really should see a doctor when we finish up here. I know just the chap." No doubt referring to his personal pharmacist supplying his morphine habit, I think to myself. "Come join us comrade Bee," Glushko says, "Cousin Joseph and I were just discussing his brilliant subterfuge." Glushko holds up the anti-communist poster and slaps it with the back of his free hand, "This! Zavodila, Osip. Simply amazing, Joseph. Your work here in Kamerica is inspiring. While you focus your Red Scare antics on Hollywood and the movies, we can continue our work unmolested. I stand up, grabbing the back of the visitor chair for support. "Wait. Hold up just a second. Never mind the whole Red Scare business, Glushko. You can't just drop an H-Bomb and casually gloss over the fact afterwards," I say. Both Glushko and McCarthy look at me to continue. "Cousin Joseph, Val! Cousin." I say incredulously, emphasizing the last word. "Cousin!" I say again. "Oh, da, da. This is not well known here in Kamerica," Glushko says. "I'd say!" "Allow me to educate you, comrade Bee" Glushko continues in his classroom lecturing voice, "Ukraine in the mid 1800s was not a very nice place to be. Many families under Habsburg rule fled to Canada but retained their love of their home country. My own grandfather's brother did so, but took a wrong turn in Ottawa and ended up in Milwaukee after a short boat ride." "Yea, that doesn't mean anything to me," I say flatly. "Consider this, comrade," McCarthy says patiently. I do not even blink when he says the word comrade, "Glushko's grandfather's brother Joseph, is my grandfather." Like a frying pan to the head. It hits me. "And you've been hunting and prosecuting so-called Reds your entire political career to what end?" I ask. "Eh. A small price to pay. Most of the communists we deported or jailed were patsies. Their ties to true communism were tenuous at best, McCarthy states candidly. "Let me be clear here," McCarthy continues, "Spreading communism in Kamerica, or spying on governmental agencies is in truth the lowest priority of most spies here." "Then why are you here?" Glushko pops a PEZ in his mouth and spits it into a napkin, "The snacks! Isn't is obvious?" McCarthy nods. "It's the snacks, comrade." My vision tunnels once again. I tap out for the night.