OOC: This takes place in a parallel universe, not that far from this one, where a few things were different- say, an early success of the Luna landerbots. "Historically," the Zenobians started N1 before the Murcans started Saturn V, and I had this preplanned as an expensive but chivalrous gesture if the program had gone
too well- though also as a way to improve N1 reliability without risking massively expensive hardware...
Recommended Listening
"Those were the days, my friend..."
Simon_Jester wrote:Spacecraft Prototyping Facility
May 4, 1969
"Syrgy! The Murcans are
still up there! They threaten to break our duration record, staying up LONGER than your paleocapsules! This is an outrage!
Why is our shuttle not ready?" Not satisfied with his usual habits, the General Secretary reached out and shoved a passing engineerski, tripping him. Shroomanski then took off
his shoe and started banging it on a convenient workbench. The one-shoed engineerski groaned and started to crawl away.
"Your Excellency, the reason our shuttle is not ready is that the resources which the Murcans devoted to obsessive development of their new toy, we devoted to practicing the proletarian techniques of spacelabor and perfecting our knowledge of the lunar surface. These are areas where the Murcans are still behind us, and will have to catch up before they can match our achievements. Their position is superficially made to look stronger by this shuttle, but it is like a Hollywood movie facade without the infrastructure and knowledge to support it. Here they must delay, and here we will have ample time to catch up and surpass their momentary advantage."
"Hmph. I, must see what you have for myself. What of the moon rockets?"
"Well, our current planning still revolves around the well-known Proton rocket which has returned so many photochromographoids of the heavenly bodies... Your Excellency, are you all right?"
"Mmmms, heavenly b- da, da. Anyway, those are
current plans. What of future plans?"
"I will show you."
"You'd better."
"...Kerosene fuels drive the liquid rocket engines- thirty in the first stage, eight in the second, four in the third. With this we put the rocket into orbit; subsequent stages can be added in various configurations to boost payloads to the moon in what we call "trans-lunar injection." There are also proposals to add additional booster motors, as we have done so successfully with the Semyorka and plan to do with the Proton for early manned lunar missions, which would increase payload even further."
"Impressive. How much can you put into space this way?"
"By design, the unboosted model is capable of lofting ninety tonnes into low Earth orbit. The boosted version, slightly more- the main benefit to the boosters is increased payload that can be sent to the moon and beyond, though."
"Ninety tonnes. Da... you could put a tankski into orbit with such power."
"You could, although..."
"Da! DA! This must be done! The Zenobian people must EXCEL in flying-tankski research, as we did during the Great Patriotic Salvation War!"...
Baikonurek Cosmodrome
Early 1970s
Plan Pavylyvych Sometime 197X
Budget: ?? megarubleoids
Research and Development
blah blah blah
Total: $* MB
Remaining budget: @! MB
Hardware Purchase
Purchase 1 N-1 Rocket: 18 MB
Purchase 1 Satellite: 1 MB
Total: 19 MB
Remaining budget: ? MB
Schedule Missions
Schedule orbital satellite launch using the N-1...
...
Baikonurek Cosmodrome
Some Months Later
Ignaty Dubolomov beamed. All this space flight had been strange: difficult and confusing beyond imaginings. But his boys had pulled through! The small yet disturbingly advanced Baikonurek Armor Plate Production Plant was in full swing. Already, BAPPP had forged the hull of the spacetankski
Potemkin. Work was underway on
Avrora, despite delayed delivery of rare earth metals crucial to the supership's disturbingly advanced alloys, and the occasional murmurings of the spirits of the damned. The engineerskis had even contributed valuable technoproletarian labors to the creation of the experimental Lunokhod moontractors, which had sent back glourious photographic evidence that the rocks in the Baurus-Litter valley were, in fact, rocks all the way round, having photographed them from both the frontal and backal aspects!
And he himself had become- how did Comrade Chief Designer put it?- "a cornerstone of the tight-knit, if occasionally dysfunctional and homicidal, Baikonurek family."
All was well. All was
better! For today, on orders from the Kreamlin, the cosmodrome would perform a
most impressive test of comrade Mishingun's N1 rocket, that for which the degenerate Murcans in their prancing, strutting, boasting dickishness had no match! Compared to the glourious cylindroconicosteroidal might of Comrade N1, even their most Titanic boosters appeared limp-wristed and inferior! Only their Saturn V could compare, and even then, only with MIGHTY STRAPONS could it carry the Atlas-crushing loads of which the N1 was capable.
But today, the N1 would not fly one of the lunar-program's magnificent space
planetankskis. No, today, at the behest of the Red Army and Comrade Shroomanski himself, they had a different payload...
Suspending this modified tankski, known as Objekt 999, in the payload faring of the rocket had proven most challenging. Much had been learned about the loading of N1s under massive static and dynamic loads. But
it had been done!
Gargantuan proletarian machineries had laboriously hoisted into position on the test gantry. All was ready. Comrade Syrgy was, alas, unable to attend, for medical reasons- something about the whole project giving him a migraine. So the honor of carrying out the ceremonial unceremonious launch-key-turning would go to his deputy, Dubolomov...
or his other deputy, Vasili Mishingun.
"Rock, vodka, matches, shootski!"
"SHITS!"
Vasili smirked; vodka dissolved rock. The rocket scientist snatched the key from Ignaty's hand. Carefully ignoring the byplay, one of the control room engineerskis called out to the top tier: "All is ready, Comrade Deputy."
"Da. Thank you." Mishingun reached down to the master board, to perform the ceremonial unceremonious key-turning.
*click*
Blinding light on the main screen- "We have ignition! All engines are aligned... the synchronization controls are within parameters... rocket is moving... rocket has cleared the tower!"
Then the deafening roar hit the bunker.
Dubolomov held his breath.
They always blow up, they always blow up...
"Synchronization controls report not-blowing-up, all engines burning as nominal... engine fifteen has the hiccups. Computer is administering hiccup remedy. All is well, da, da!"
All
was well! Their mighty rocket was flying so smoothly and triumphally. Truly, a wondrous day for the Motherland, the launch of Objekt 999! It was massive. It was glourious. It was Zenobian.
They were launching a tank into low Earth orbit.
Just. Because.
Baikonurek Cosmodrome
Some Minutes Later
"Prepare insertion burn."
The waiting, oh the waiting... done!
"Tracking reports stable orbital trajectory, all parameters nominal."
"Separate desantnikbot."
The tiny fellow-traveling
tank-rider satellite had been constructed specifically for this mission. It was tucked into the nosecone of the mighty N-1 by the vaunted probe-bot engineerskis of the Zenobian space program, they who had sent automatomechanical commienist vehicles to all the nine vectors of the cosmos these past few years. The probe accelerated slightly away from Objekt 999 and fired its maneuvering jets, pivoting with its cameras to show the tankski floating in the void of orbit.
"Test autorotation."
"Spinning up the tracks."
Objekt 999, modified for all-electric propulsion for obvious reasons, began slowly rotating its tracks. Obviously, there was no traction in the vacuum of space, for the ground was over a hundred kilometers below. But as the tracks began to torque
one way, the carefully balanced hull of the tankski rotated the
other way, following Newtonian laws as inexorable as those of Groucho-Lennonism. This rotation was slow, but it consumed no great reserves of rocket fuels, and thus was safe. On the camera, Objekt 999's gun barrel began to pivot away from the camerabot's line of sight. Then the tracks halted to conserve battery power- and the rotation halted as well!
"Autorotation along pitch axis confirmed. No obstacles to our path observed. Testing yaw rotation."
Now the tankski's turret began to revolve- the gun barrel spinning left, the hull spinning right. This continued for some seconds, then halted.
"Autorotation along yaw axis confirmed."
Ignaty grunted. "Good! Continue the checklist."
More time passed, as the tankski ran through its first and second orbits and its telemetries and instrumentations were tested most thoroughly. The engineerskis were pleased, for none had ever had an opportunity like this, and perhaps none would again. At last, one stolid technologist sighed, tucked away his slide rule, and flipped a switch on his console.
"Switching control over to cosmotankers."
Now, matters were up to a
very special group of trained telemetricians, who were also a tight-knit tankski crew! The elaborate cardboard and tinfoil replica of a tankski turret, with its many tubes and wires hooking up their controls to the remote transceivers of Objekt 999 did not muffle sound, and so the conversations of the crew were clear.
"...Approaching apsis."
"Gun is on target, elevated through center of mass."
The sargeant grunted. "Good. Load sabot!"
On the ground there was silence. In the heavens, Objekt 999's mechanized and automatonatronic bowels rumbled soundlessly in the void of space, as the autoloader selected a single round for its 125mm gun...
"Gun ready!"
"Fire!"
The five-kilogram spear of repleted Zenobian uranium gained an incredible burst of forward speed, hurtling away from the spacetankski at nearly two kilometers per second.
"We have lost radar contact with the projectile. It is on course to within limits of our projections..."
Ignaty slapped the desk and bellowed
fucking laughter. "Congratulations, comrades of Baikonurek! We have fired the first cannonball to reach escape velocity!"
There were raucous cheers from throughout the room, most especially from the mockup turret.
Then, from the audio feed-
*CLANG*
"What the hell was that?"
"Something flashed, zoom in the probe-bot camera!"
There was a tiny divot in 999's glacis, a mar in its gleaming finish.
"Must be an orbiting bolt or something. Maybe one of those blasted
Murcan space needles- damn cosmic litterers!"
"Not much good against our boy up there, was it?"
"Hah!"
Palace of the Soviets
Moosecow, Zenobia
A Few Hours After That
"Da, da, mister president, I assure you that we know
exactly what we are doing. The new experimental satellite is purely a test of Zenobia's mighty heavy-lift rocket. It does not represent any hostility towards Murcan possessions in space, and Zenobia will most certainly abide by the treaties of international spacepeace and astro-demilitarization of the universe. Did I not pound the staples flat on these documents with my own shoe?"
"I understand your concerns, we will be de-orbiting the satellite into the announced area, at the announced time, clear of all major shipping lanes. My scientists inform me that there may be debris problems, we advise that your own navy stay away from the area- we cannot guarantee their safety, any more than you could when your Mercury capsules re-entered."
After setting down the red phone, Shroomanski hummed softly to himself. He chuckled, tapping an ear of corn on the desk.
"I shoot a tankski into the air. It falls to Earth... I do not care!"
Baikonurek Cosmodrome
A Few Days Later
"Begin de-orbit burn."
"Excuse me? Say again?"
"I'm sorry, begin de-orbit
bang!"
"Of course, comrade. Gunner, load shrapnel shell."
"...Done."
"Check time delay fuze."
"Fuze diagnostics checked... and double-checked. Gun ready!"
"Fire!"
On the viewscreen, Objekt 999 again flashed with the recoil of a 125mm projectile, this time a heavier, lower-velocity round custom built for this mission. The tank appeared to develop a sudden drift to one side. The normal engineerskis went through a flurry of activity, and the motion stopped.
"Probe-bot's trajectory adjusted to compensate. All ballistics changes are as predicted."
"Adjust turret azimuth and elevation to next target coordinates... on my mark..."
"Again!"
"Loading..."
Some Time After That
The tankski commander popped the hatch of the mockup turret and grunted to Ignaty. "That's the last round, comrade."
"Well done, Pitr. Tracking, will it be enough, or must we engage the auxiliary retro-rockets?"
"...Two or three more orbits, I think, and the aerobraking will be sufficient."
"Good. But do we have a good plot as to where the lithobraking phase of the descent will take place?"
"I... think so. We will refine. Do I have permission to plot use of the retros if necessary?"
"Yes. Between you and me, we
do want to be careful about de-orbiting 999."
"As you say, Comrade Director of Operations."
"What of the artillery rounds we fired? Are they all on course?"
"It was difficult, but the gun crew performed excellently. Each round is on a different orbital trajectory that will intersect the Earth, da."
"And the time delay fuzes? We don't want any of them entering the atmosphere intact, but we don't want..."
"It is under control, Comrade Dubolomov. The rounds will break up in the upper atmosphere, but
only in the upper atmosphere, so as not to litter space with debris."
"Good. Now, go take a break, you've earned it!"
Colonial Mangola
Heart of Darkness
Besieged Garrison on the Kurtzy Cuntza River
Mangola burned with the flames of war. Native guerillas struggled valiantly against heavily armed colonial corporatowhiteythanasanoideofascist oppression. They harried the outposts held by the evil Portuguys, harried them with machete, Killyshnikov, sneaky-bomb, even an exploding anvil or two. The battle would be endless, until victory was at last won and Mangola was secured for brown people once again!
Except here, it looked like the battle was not endless, and indeed would be ending in a hurry. The Portuguys had copious machine guns and bunkers guarding their outpost, and mere bullets were useless against such defenses. The tactics of guerilla warfare were unable to overcome this defense, unable to drive out the oppressor. Even the tactics of
gorilla warfare had failed them.
The rebels wouldn't even have bothered assaulting such a strongpoint, except for the promised help of their commienist advisors. The commienists preached ideals of international humanitarianism, and quasihumanitarianism (so as not to alienate beings like the gorillas and Kerbals). Most of the Mangolans, though, knew that they were just another pack of pallid devils. Devils who could be cunningly used against the other devils, in a great blood war that would one day leave Mangola free. Such were the words of their glorious leaders, like Onitsoga Oten and Cananaan Banananana. But today, the commienists had proven... unreliable about their artilleries and explosive munitoriums.
"Where's the mortar support? Stupid Zenobian shits! They're all drunk!"
"...Look! Up in the sky!"
"Government planes?" Just what they needed.
"No! It looks like... a meteor!"
None of the guerillas knew the true origin of this hurtling projectile. The third shell fired by Objekt 999 during braking maneuvers had suffered a malfunction. It was coming in intact. It was coming down towards Mangola. It was coming down straight for the river... straight for the garrison!
*BOOM*
The Portuguys shook in womanly fear at the massive explosion. Bigger than a mortar explosion, bigger than a mere cannonball, it smote their ammobunker with terrifying force. The garrison had dug well, and deep, then dug better and deeper, and the bunker did not explode. It just collapsed, burying all their ammunitions under tons of rock and mud.
Before, they had fired heroically, like Murcan action heroes, knowing that their copious storehouse of bullets would last almost indefinitely. They had fought bravely, like there was no tomorrow.
Now, there really
was no tomorrow. The Portuguys ran, like Portu-gals. They
fucking ran, for the safety of the river and its boats.
"Yeah! You like that? How do you like that, you bastards!"
"Look at 'em go!"
"Look at the gorillas chasing after them!"
"Yeah, that's really something. I guess the Zenobians aren't all drunk after all."
"That... that didn't look like a mortar bomb."
"Meh. Whatever works."
"Yeah, that was better than an exploding anvil!"
"FUCK YEAH!"
"Shut up! Do you want them to think we're seekrit Murcan sympathizers or something?"
"And what are all these rivets doing here, anyway?"
Cape Teddy
Some Hours Later
They all knew it was there. Tracking stations in Straya and other points around the globe had confirmed the orbital changes, monitored the fast-moving chunks of space debris separated from the tankski in the hours before they burst and re-entered.
This would be its last orbit- Tracking had confirmed that too. So low to the ground, a last round of aerobraking against the Earth's atmosphere to slow its orbital speed. The...
thing would come down in the Pacific, just as the Zenobians had boasted some time earlier. But here and now, it was just after dark, and they could see the tankski zooming overhead in the sky, reflecting sunlight from its disturbing armor.
It just hung there. Like Sputnik, all those years ago, only bigger, with more artillery and less beeping. But it didn't really need to beep. They could all hear the ethereal sound, which was neither radio nor audial, nor visible nor any other earthly cosmic frequency. It was paracosmic, vibration of pangalactic frequencies that blasted the Murcans' very gargles. It was a thing of the zeitgeist. It told them strange things, HORRIBEL things. In the future, in this world or in other worlds, they might match the feat of launching a tank into space. They might fly to the moon, to Mars, to infinity and beyond.
And yet, somehow, it would never be quite the same. Not after this. For the Zenobians had shot a
tank into
space.
As it passed over Cape Teddy, the furriners' accursed satellite, this artificial moon, this BAD MOON, laughed. It
fucking laughed.
An unnamed engineer bellowed and fired a rifle into the air, though none could say where he'd got it from or why he carried it.
Astronauts bared their chests in defiance, posturing like paleoquasi-mythistorical hero-astrogonauts, as if to prove that they were harder and manlier than any mere forty-ton main battle tank.
And Wernher von Shapp just sat, seemingly unperturbed, waiting, thinking...
graphing.
Missile Destroyer ZMS Gumrak
Glourious Zenobian Mavy
Somewhere in the Pacific
"I see it! Bozhemoi!"
Objekt 999 still burned with the heat of reentry, glowing radiant from its disturbingly advanced alloys. Even this mighty armor pitted and corroded under that terrible flame against the unastrodynamic, unaerodynamic surfaces of the tankski. 999 screamed earthward like a hurtling, uncontrollable meteor forged from forty tons of Zenobian steel. Because it was.
"I think there are some pieces... around it. Wonder what they could be?"
"I don't know..."
"Getting close to the horizon..."
There was a mighty plume of water and steam, kilometers away.
"Impact! Merciful Lennon!"
Captain Nikitin of the glourious Zenobian Mavy grimaced. He had not seen such a tremendous splash since the day he had witnessed the test-firing of a nuclear torpedo from a Zenobian attack submarine, many years before, in the worst days of paranoia among the submarine forces. Those were the bad days, after Murcan boats had infiltrated the northern sea and sunk Zenobian ships seemingly at will. It was especially bad for ASW specialists, and Nikitin had long suspected that the high admirals of the Mavy deliberately exposed destroyers and frigates to nuclear tests on the sea, so as to convince them that war with the Murcans was a real and serious danger.
Compared to a nuclear bomb exploding under the water, the impact of Objekt 999 was not impressive. Compared to any mere mortal thing... the plume rose to the height of a great skyscraper, like a Palace of the Soviets built of mist and cloud. For a moment, Nikitin thought he saw that most familiar feature of the Palace, the great statue of Lennon at its peak, in its full glory. That was a rare sight, for the statue was usually only partly visible, due to the tragically low cloud ceiling of typical Moosecow weather, which swathed the upper half of the mighty monument in fog, revealing only its nether portions to the common Zenobian citizen. But it must be his imagination, he thought.
Then the world exploded. Nikitin rose to his feet, patting his arms and legs to be sure they were all still there. He looked down at the holes in his ship, at the great one where some deadly missile had ripped through the superstructure and come to rest below the bridge wing, below his feet, at the end of a long gouge along the deck. It was... it couldn't be... a METAL GEAR!
For Objekt 999's autorotary tracks had not survived reentry well! Many pieces had shaken, rattled, and rolled clean off the spacetankski's hull, and it was
Gumrak's bad luck to be in the way of one of the drive sprockets. In the minutes that followed, all became clear. The lethal flaming wheel of alloy had damaged bulkheads and shattering vacuum tubules. Fortunately, few were maimed. Fewer still suffered injury from the rain of twisted, deformitized track links, several of which peppered the missile destroyer's deck and the seas around the ship.
With shock-and-awed reverence, the crewmeng of the Zenobian Mavy picked up the spacetankski fragments, boxing them up for return to the motherland.
Some weeks later, these magnificent artifacts were placed in the glourious Kybynkya Tankski Museum outside Moosecow, forever to prove the monumental brilliance of the Zenobian engineerski, and the invulnerable superiority of the Zenobian tankski. The museum, of course, remained off limits to the public, containing as it did many state secrets.
But one day, they would see. One day...
