CatastrophicFailure

The going theory is that they’re simply out of space for used boosters, and being a Block 3 there’s not much utility in recovering it anyway. #1stworldproblems

In other news, Space.com would like to thank @KSK for single handedly doubling their web traffic today and, hence, ad revenues.

I shudder to think what unholy machinations you came up with in that one. “here we have a fully functioning rocket fueled by the souls of the condemned...” Back in the dark ages before the Internet I spent hours trying to figure out how to do that.

Wow. 400 engines. That’s a lot of data points. And even more when a good chunk (most?) of those engines get examined after a flight. So with the above discussions in mind, it begs the question: how reliable is “reliable enough” for a rocket, in terms of overflying areas with X population? Airplanes are absolutely far more reliable, but there’s a lot more of them flitting about, too. Which is more risky in the long term, one rocket a day flying overhead or a couple dozen airliners? If SpaceX’s P2P BFR is ever going to come about, that’s a question that will need to be addressed.

Pushme-pullyou? there’s a word for Keepers like me...

Probably unlikely this particular core will ever see re-use, anyway. I expect it’ll get an extra thorough teardown so they can go over everything with a fine tooth comb, then maybe Get gate guard duty at Boca or something. It’s apparently started randomly capitalizing words, too.

I’m saying, until recently you don’t seem to think it even existed...

The difference is, (most) of the rest of us are confident she will actually fly... even if it’s not on the first try.

Dangit. I been up for 20 minutes and I'm already out of likes for the day.

Standard practice, now. The payload/fairing aren’t installed until after the static fire thanks to the AMOS-6 incident. And since they’re even more worried about lighting this thing up... I sense Elon wants to get a few more miles in on his ride, too.

Worth randomly waking up in the middle of the night for. Hope I’m not still dreaming. Now if you’ll excuzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz ........

Inappropriate SpaceBalls reference “Ah just kinna do it, Captain! Ah dun’t have the power!” seriously, anyone know the displacement on Mr. Steven there? We’ve established Scotty topped out around 400 tons. Or was it tonnes?

From what I’ve heard, most/all of their GTO flights will relocate to Boca (it is just a touch farther south, after all), leaving the Cape free for ISS/LEO/General stuff. Boca would also make a slightly better launch site for Mars, especially if they’re doing a lot of launches, which is the plan.

Wait, I thought this was gonna be a barge landing still?

*medieval headbanging intensifies*

@Just Jimcheck this mod out: I have it but never actually used it, but among other things you can set it for timed screenshot bursts and (I think) trigger on crash/explosion.

Seriously doubt that. The rocket was never designed to land near its full weight like that, gear can’t take it, then you have the instability from having the loaded second stage on top (grid fins and thrusters are now too close to COM...).

*squints* Hey, how’d you get the nameplate on the tower like that?

Six months to the day since I started this latest bit of madness, I see. 14 chapters in six months... ok, I can live with that. And a very special thanks to @Ten Key & @KSK on this latest one for helping me get my head on straight.

As I understand it, only 3 engines are equipped for in-flight restart. So if one of those goes out, the flight software might have to get... creative... Or as @KSK said, colorful...

Now I am become Death... Chapter 14: Shatterer of Worlds “General, sir... the SAR team from the Mercy is reporting back from Orpheus’s last known position. Spectral is detecting a diffuse oil slick on the surface, but increasingly rough seas are hampering the search effort. IR is negative, no debris has been spotted. They’ll continue orbiting as long as fuel holds out.” “Thank you, Captain,” General Kerman nodded to the officer, then turned away from the long banks of screens and technicians to the long table that dominated the room. Around that table sat several people, all of whom looked far too green. Ties hung from unbuttoned collars, and suit jackets lay forgotten in one empty chair. The near wall bore an immense display surrounded by many smaller ones, and on that display was a map. An irregular, boxy, vaguely rectangular shape in the middle represented perhaps a small city, or a large town. Centered on that rectangle, barely containing it, was a broken, incomplete circle. Concentric circles spanned out from that one; the next, complete, but with bulbous, organic blobs crammed in sporadic lumps around its inner edge. Between this circle and the next were many blue icons, each marked with several numbers. The blue icons continued beyond the third circle, where they became mingled with green boxes, each of these marked with a single, large number. The final circle surrounded everything on the map by a wide margin. It was very thick, and very red. General Kerman approached the table, and leaned on it with both fists, “gentlekerbs... we are running out of options.” The others around the table studied its surface a moment longer. “There... there has to be another way...” the Science Advisor said at length. “If you have one, Professor,” the General said softly, “now is the time.” The other kerb seemed to shrink in on himself a bit. “We spent a fortune modifying those tanks on such short notice," the Chair of the Joint Chiefs began, “what’s changed? Why have they lost effectiveness?” The General nodded, moving back to the enormous screen. He gestured before it, and images shifted and changed by his hand. The display zoomed in to one of the amorphous blobs pressing against a circle, showing a dozen more blue icons within the mass, each covered with an X. “There’s too many of them, sir,” he pointed, “our tanks are being overwhelmed.” The Intelligence Director scoffed, “how can mindless, barely mobile invalids stop a 1500-horsepower gas turbine pushing a sixty tonne tank wielding the world’s largest flame thrower, General?” The General eyed him a moment, then waved at the screen. A smaller video image appeared. “Drone footage from earlier, as we were trying to withdraw our last units behind beta perimeter and got bogged down. Yankee company from the 19th Cavalry Regiment disobeyed a direct order and charged the oncoming hoard, buying the infantry time to get behind the wall.” The video began to play, a rock-steady view from above as the dozen tanks sprinted forward. As wall of steel and fire, they turned night into day, raging like dragons from the very bowels of the world. This wall slammed against something that looked like mud in the hellish glow, splattering it backwards and setting it aflame. But the mud... kept coming. The tanks slowed, first one and then another, and then ground to a halt. Wave after wave of writhing, inky darkness, like shadow made flesh, washed over them. The fire belching from their turrets dwindled to nothing. For a moment the screen went black, then returned with an eerie green cast, showing something that was definitely not mud squirming and flowing over huge, formless lumps where the tanks had been. The picture winked out. “This was the first incident,” the General explained, “more followed. With such a fluid situation, the significance was not immediately clear.” “But still,” the Director prodded, looking unwell, “how?” General Kerman flicked at the screen, the video returning and zooming in to carnage beyond measure, “dozens, hundreds, clogging the treads... the intakes... the radiators... Like honeybees suffocating a hornet.” The Director’s eyes grew wide, “that looks like a directed response... do you mean to say they’re showing some sort of collective intelligence?” “I’m not the scientist,” the General looked at the Science Advisor... then cleared his throat loudly. “Huh? Oh,” the lab-coated kerb swallowed hard, “we can’t say definitively. According to our research team embedded at the hospital, the infected never showed any outward sign of advanced brain function, although EEG’s did resemble greatly stressed but otherwise normal activity. For all we know, this behavior could be a simple ingrained response to outside stimuli. We never could determine what attracted them to living people, they never—“ he paused to swallow again, “they never actually harmed anyone, not directly, just... pawed at them... with those eyes...” he ended with a shudder. “How long can we hold out?” the Directed squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing at the wide space between them. General Kerman shared a glance with the Chair, then shook his head, “hours. Midday at most. The infected are pressing against the wall wherever we try to reinforce it, piling on top of each other. We have to pull back and keep moving or risk them overtopping it. The troops are exhausted. Air strikes had only limited effectiveness to begin with, but we can’t even use precision munitions with them pressed against the wall like they are. Once beta perimeter is breached we have plans for a stepped withdrawal behind gamma perimeter, but none of the commanders in the field give that much hope. Gamma won’t last long, we’re stretched thin enough as it is.” He leaned down on the table again, “gentlekerbs, at this point we can only conclude that secondary sanitation protocol has failed, and the time has come to activate primary protocol.” “What you’re advocating is unprecedented!” the Director snapped, “we only made those devices because they made them! They only made them because someone else did, and someone else only made them to see if they could! No one ever thought they’d be used...” “What if it doesn’t work at all?” the Advisor broke in, “the device has never been tested at this yield. If it fizzles—“ “Then we’re back in the same situation we already are,” the Chair answered, “we’ve been over the risks of trying a lower yield detonation. Anything less is unlikely to provide a wide enough thermal radius to neutralize the toxin.” The Director seemed to think on this a moment, “could we make it worse? Professor, is there any indication the toxin is airborne?” “No,” the Advisor shook his head, “it can only be spread through direct contact. And any exposure to temperatures above 300C denatures it instantly. That’s about the only thing we’re certain of.” Nods, and mumbles around the table. More flipping through notes and tapping at tablets. Then the Professor spoke up again. “What about other civilian exposure?” he asked. “Winds are favorable, at the moment,” General Kerman flicked at the map, “blowing southeast. They should carry any residual fallout out to sea. But they could shift at any time.” “That wasn’t what I meant,” the Advisor cringed, “What about the press, internet...?” The National Intelligence Director cringed in turn, “we’ve been able to keep a lid on the domestic press, for the most part. Foul and disrupt social media feeds, slow any international exchanges, feed the right information to the wrong sources and vice-versa. Keep it muddled. People know something significant is going on, but they don’t know what,” he tapped his pen irritably on the table, “except across the border in Nefcarkaland. Somehow, word got out through Blabber about a ‘supervirus,’ and—” he winced, “—zombies.” “But... but that’s not right at all...” the Advisor pleaded. The Director waved him off, “we’re getting reports of growing civil unrest in some of their cities near the border, and—“ his expression darkened as the Secretary of State now approached the table, talking into his phone. “I know sir, I understand that,” he was saying, “Mister Ambassador, you’re backing us into a corner here and setting a very troubling precedent, if you would only... I understand the difficulty of your position, but you’re not leaving us... that is a matter for our concern and... yes, sir... yes, sir... very well, I will relay that.” The Secretary sat down with a grunt, and fixed everyone at the table with a hard stare, “we have a new complication.” He took a moment to blot at his head with a handkerchief, tossed his coat on the chair, “the Nefcarkalandern are getting restless. They believe their own situation is already deteriorating, and are no longer willing to sit idly by while we discuss this matter in a committee,” just the slightest roll of his eyes, “they’ve given us an ultimatum: we have until dawn to take decisive and final action... or they will.” “That’s madness!” the Director snorted, “their stockpile isn’t as advanced as ours, they don’t have anything nearly powerful enough to sanitize the entire—“ He cut off, as his eyes grew wide in realization. The Advisor’s head whipped back and forth, “but... we’ve never had any quarrel with Nefcarkaland... they’re signatories to the KSA treaty, they’re... they’re our friends!” his own eyes didn’t seem to find any answers, “that would start a war...” “No,” the Chair said softly, “it wouldn’t.” “What?” “He’s right,” General Kerman nodded, “a war requires two belligerents.” “I... I don’t...” The General turned to the map, “a Nefcarkalandern strike would only succeed in demolishing the perimeter, disabling or destroying nearly all of our available forces, and making all the land around physically impassable. Thousands of infected would survive, maybe more. Hemmed in from the north, by the mountains to the west, and the sea to the east, they’d have only one way to go. “South. Right into the heartland of Kleptogart, and we would have nothing left to respond with.” “But...” the Advisor’s lip began to quiver, “why would they do such a thing?” “They’re scared, Professor,” the General said, “people do foolish things when they’re scared.” “And they have reason to be,” the Director broke in, giving his own wave to the screen, “five of their largest cities, stretched out up the valley like so, the first less than a day’s walk from the border. That’s upwards of fifty million people who just got wind that a horde of movie monsters is coming for them. Riots have broken out here in Spløtsbørgen and Trøndhølm already, demanding that their government do something. What doesn’t really matter at this point.” “Excuse me, General, sirs,” the watch officer returned, one hand covering his headset mic, “AWACS is reporting sixteen contacts taking off from Spløtsbørgen Air Base. Profiles match Bjørk-19 high-speed bombers.” “Thank you, Captain,” the General nodded, “I want to know the minute they approach the border.” “Yes, sir.” “But... but...” the Advisor still foundered, “what about Omork? They have a much longer border with Nefcarkaland, they’d get dragged into it too!” “I’m afraid the General is correct, Professor,” said a new voice, “a war requires two belligerents.” A tall, well-dressed figure stepped from the shadow of a support column near the rows of technicians, leaning heavily on a walking stick, “Her Majesty has directed me to inform you of her gratitude for including a representative of her interests as an observer in these discussions. She wishes me to convey that the United Federal People’s Democratic Kingdom of Omork, as ever, stands by its oldest and most trusted ally, the Republic of Kleptogart, and that she will spare no effort in assisting the Kleptogarti people in any way it is required. However, Her Majesty can see no benefit to the Kleptogarti people in pressing their interests against a sovereign power in their stead, should they suddenly find themselves unable to do so. She gives her assurance that my counterpart in Nefcarkaland continues to press for a level-headed and civil resolution to this matter, and instead suggests that her assistance will be most effective in a more... kermanitarian role. “General, Her Majesty wishes me to inform you that, given the circumstances, she believes that discretion will be most conducive to our continued ability to provide whatever aid you require, and therefore has withdrawn all of her resources from the Tripartite Border region to more defensible positions in the mountains to the west. Her Majesty understands that, due to the nature of the situation, collateral injury to her assets may be unavoidable, and has directed me to give you her assurance that any such injury shall, for the time being, not be held in contempt.” “Excuse me, General, sirs,” the watch officer didn’t bother with his mic, “a second flight of sixteen aircraft just launched from Trøndhølm.” The General gave him a curt nod and turned back to the table, “gentlekerbs... time is running out.” Leaning over, the Secretary of State rubbed at his temples with both hands, “General, how soon can you pull your troops back to a safe distance?” When no answer came, he looked up to find the General staring at him. “Every asset I have is committed to holding the perimeters right now. If they stand down even for a moment, we risk a complete collapse.” “There’s fifty thousand people out there!” the Secretary gaped at him, “our people!” “Fifty-seven thousand, two hundred and twenty, representing eighty-seven percent of our deployable ground forces. And every single one of them made a choice, and took an oath; to support and defend, to the gravest extreme, so that others might live. “But I will tell you who did not take an oath. The twenty-three thousand uncleared civilians still in quarantine camps within the red zone. Or the fifteen hundred police, firefighters, doctors and nurses who heard the situation breaking, jumped in their own kars, and drove toward it. Or the untold survivors still within the city. And their loss, their sacrifice, will mean nothing, if we do not end this thing here and now. “Make no mistake, Mister Secretary, this toxin, whatever it is, is a planet killer. A shatterer of worlds. And we have one chance to stop it.” “Excuse me, General, sirs,” the watch officer had begun to sweat, “both flights have taken up holding patterns ten kilometers from the border,” he swallowed hard, “and we have thirty two more contacts inbound at high speed from deeper in-country.” General Kerman turned to the head of the table, where a lone figure had been sitting quietly, only listening, his fingers steepled before him, “Mister President, sir... we need an answer.” The President of Kleptogart rose, the lines on his face somehow deeper, the last shocks of brown in his hair now faded to white, as if he had aged twenty years in twenty minutes. He stood with his back straight, shoulders up, taking a moment to straighten a tie that did not need straightening. He fixed every kerb at the table with a long stare before speaking. “May whatever good is left in this world have mercy on us all,” he said with a voice full of power and regret, “General Kerman, I order you to deploy with all haste.” *** A short time later, over what had once been a quiet, unremarkable town at the edge of anyone’s concern, the dawn broke twice. —————————— The dawn has moved on, leaning only dusk. A harsh wind roars across a cracked, crumbling expanse of nothing, dried and dead, every last trace of moisture gone. It kicks up gritty, alkaline dust, scouring the surface, shrouding the land in a sickly, yellow haze. Through this haze walks a figure, clad all in black, hunched over against the relentless wind. Its hands are bandaged, its legs wrapped in rags, leaving nothing exposed to the abrasive torrent around it. What might once have been a gas mask covers its eyes, the rubber cracked, the dark lenses scratched to near opacity. With one hand the figure holds its ragged cloak across the rest of its face. Its head is always bowed, studying the tortured ground as it lurches onward, never looking up. No, to look up is to know madness. I want to cry... but I can't... As the dark figure trudges along, a great form looms out of the roiling sepia cloud. The figure approaches, unperturbed, and pauses before the enormous bulk rising out of the ruined land. Here, someone has cut a hole in the hull of the ancient fishing trawler. A torn square of cloth whips in the wind, half covering it. A pathetic patch of ground nearby has been scraped up, a few dried brown stalks of some stringy plant still stand, slowly being eroded by the unceasing gale. For a long time, the figure only stares, clutching its cloak against the maelstrom. It moves to brush the scrap of cloth aside, but the wind tears it from its mounts, and it disappears off into the torrent. Inside, the howl is left a muted wail. Shafts of dim light from rusted holes illuminate the dust hanging in the air. All around are the cast off detritus of a waning world. The figure bends, reaching for an object on the ground. It is a tiny doll, cobbled together from whatever was to be found. The moment the figure lifts it, it crumbles away. I want to cry... but I can't... The figure moves on into the next room, and there he sees. Two skeletons huddle on the floor, cradling another, much smaller, its features twisted and deformed. Even here, in this dying place, some had clung to hope until the last bitter breath. The figure looks on a moment longer before turning away. Outside, the wind rages louder than ever before. The figure trembles and slowly falls to its knees. Above, there is no sky. The sky has been gone since the day it receded, rolled up like a scroll; when the sun became as dark as sackcloth, the Mün became as blood, and the stars fell like rain. Above, there are only roiling clouds, red and angry. Snaking through them, twisting and churning, dominating what had once been the sky... It is formless, yet it has form. Soundless, yet it has sound. Arm-claw-tentacle-appendage-things jut from its not-flanks randomly, always shifting, changing. Its not-skin is the agony of a thousand faces, and hideous visions torn from the nightmares of a trillion slumbering beings. My fault... all my fault... The wind finally catches the figure's cloak, tearing it from its bandaged hand. Below the tattered remains of what might once have been a gas mask, there is only the weathered, desiccated jaw of a skull. I want to cry... but I can't... I want to die... but I can't... I thought I was doing the right thing... Edgas jerked upright, a scream on his lips, cracking his head on the shelf above his cot. He pawed at his face as his breath came in ragged gasps. A dream... just a dream... Panting, he shoved himself around to the cot’s edge. He could almost feel the dry grit of sand still between his teeth. His breath puffed out into billowing clouds of mist, lit by a sunbeam in the dark room. His eyes shot open. Not right... that’s not right... Panic began to rise again as he spun to his small window. There, he caught a last glimpse of the sun... as it disappeared below the rim of the crater, condemning the land once more to the long Münar night. In an instant, the air was ripped from his aching lungs. He tumbled from the cot in slow motion, hands at his throat. Even as he fell, he felt irresistible pressure in his mind, piercing into it, cutting like knives. THAT IS NOT DEAD WHICH ETERNAL LIE. His mouth curled into a breathless scream. He could feel the moisture on his tongue begin to boil. I AM A PART OF YOU. I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A PART OF YOU. Edgas flailed, helpless, tightness closing in around his face. YOU SAW, BUT YOU HAVE NOT SEEN. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. His eyes burned with icy dryness. DESTINY. YOU CANNOT. DESTROY. MY DESINY. The darkness swarmed in. AND YOU CANNOT ESCAPE YOUR OWN. The darkness retreated with a flash, leaving only the familiar dim light of Edgas’s room, where several nightlights glowed on the walls. His chest clenched and his throat spasmed, his lungs unsure whether to gasp or gag. He lurched from his bed, stumbling across the small space, flicking on every light he could in near madness. Finally he came to his little sink and heaved, producing only few bitter drops, sure he could feel the alkaline grit in them. He clung there, panting, waiting for the tremors to work their way from his arms. In his reflection, his eyes were wide with terror yet still drooping from exhaustion. His lips felt parched as desert sand, his throat dry as Münar regolith. “Dream...” he croaked, as if trying to convince himself, “just... dream...” You know this is what happens when you don’t sleep, the Scientist in him chided. Yes, the Practical Kerbal agreed, and you know why you must not ignore it. Even as Edgas stared, gasping, the rest of the nightmare fading, the last words seemed carved into his brain. You cannot destroy my destiny. You cannot escape your own.

Wha? FTS = Flight Termination System. Wait, what did you think I said? On second thought, you probably can’t say.

I was only thinking ascent, but now that you mention it, I wonder what the pre-programmed flight protocols are for landing? If they loose an engine during boostback or reentry (or one of those three-engine GTO barge landings), I wonder if the flight computer will try to save it or just go FTS... (I’m guessing human responses are out of the loop at that point, ‘cept for the range guy with the big red button.)

... no one’s out of a job, are they?

Don’t the other engines automatically gimbal to compensate, like the Saturn V? On the Dragon flight when the engine went bang, I recall all eight of the rest still running the whole time.