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IP: The rocket's red glare
From: Dave Farber <farber () cis upenn edu>
Date: Sun, 09 Jul 2000 08:13:42 -0400
Date: Sat, 8 Jul 2000 21:11:13 -0700 (PDT) From: John Wharton <jwharton () netcom com> To: farber () cis upenn edu Subject: The rocket's red glare Dave-- [[My apologies in advance for the following rather lengthy and self-indulgent techno-geek travelogue. Some of your readers may be amused, some not. In any case, though, I should disclaim that I am NOT a rocket scientist, so my speculation on booster stage design and other assorted smart-assed cynicism should be taken for whatever little it's worth.]] * * * * * * * Well, now THAT was interesting. And the Fourth of July week, no less. All day Friday the media was abuzz, of course, with reports of last night's planned test of the proposed missile-defense system. A modified Minuteman missile carrying a mock nuclear warhead was scheduled to be launched at 7:00pm Pacific time from Vandenberg Air Force Base. Ten minutes later a second rocket would be launched from an island in the South Pacific, carrying a test interceptor "kill vehicle" that would maneuver to smash head-on into the warhead at 15,000 miles per hour. (Right. "As simple as hitting one bullet with another," one critic explained, "except that missiles are a lot faster, can't be seen, and are surrounded by decoys.") (The press had been briefed that interceptor would have to be careful, of course, to NOT hit the "decoy" -- reportedly a single bright, shiny Mylar balloon deployed just in /front/ of the mock warhead. (Hm, let's see-- Two objects, one a big, bright, cold, radar-transparent Mylar balloon, the other a small, dark, warm, radar-dense mock warhead following right behind. How could sensors possibly tell them apart?!? (One wonders, Was this Mylar balloon /really/ a "decoy"? Or might it have been designed to be a giant "OVER HERE, STUPID!" navigation aid?) ===== Anyway, at about 8:20 Friday night I heard a radio report that the test had been delayed by two hours. At 7:00, of course, it was still daylight in Palo Alto. But by 9:00 it would be getting pretty dark. I've heard that night-time satellite launches from Vandenberg have been seen as far north as San Jose -- 200 miles to its north -- in the form of a red glow on the horizon. In the 45-plus minutes remaining before launch time, I figured, I could get myself at least as far south as Santa Cruz. And the weather forecasts were for the sky to be clear. So I grabbed my trusty astronomical binoculars, hopped in the del Sol, and set off for the coast... (There was just a four-hour "launch window" during which the test had to take place, the radio said, so any delay past 11:00 would force the mission to be scrubbed. (Hm. 11:00pm here corresponds to dusk in the target area. And, curiously, a January test launch likewise took place shortly before sunset, South Pacific time. One wonders if the warhead/decoy detection system works best in the late afternoon, local time, when the target is in direct sunlight, but the sun itself is directly /behind/ the interceptor, so as not to blind its precision infrared sensors? Nah.) (The two-hour delay, BTW, was needed to recharge telemetry batteries. For the U.S. to unilaterally break the 1972 ABM treaty is easy, of course. The hard part will be persuading rogue nations to schedule all sneak attacks for just after dawn, Alaska time, and to always give us a two-hour head's-up. (And to properly configure their decoys, of course.) ===== But back to the travelogue: My initial plan was to head for some bluffs on the Pacific coastline just north of the Santa Cruz boardwalk; figured they'd afford a good, clear southern view, all the way down to the horizon. But driving down Highway 17, approaching Scott's Valley, the radio reported the countdown had resumed, with lift-off in just over 15 minutes. Which would not allow enough time to negotiate Santa Cruz city traffic. So when I hit Highway 1, I turned south, figuring the flat highway itself would provide some view of the horizon. But it's hard to drive and gawk at the same time. So at T-minus three minutes I took an exit into Capitola, drove a few blocks off the highway, and pulled into a parking lot. The lot was surrounded by trees and buildings, as it happened, so I dashed across the street to a fairly large shopping center parking lot and ran to a mostly-empty section of asphalt. By then I'd lost my bearings. I looked up; the moon was in half-phase, so I followed its terminator backward to find the North Star. Was surprised at how many airplanes were in the sky! Once I'd found true North, having studied a California map on the drive down, I turned and looked back in what I figured was the direction of Vandenberg. Right above the trees I saw one airplane that seemed especially bright, as though I were looking at its landing lights. Thing is, the plane was /climbing/, not descending, at a most unnatural angle. And the light seemed to have a slight pink-orange tint, and left a faint purple-pink line glowing in its path, a thin and much dimmer version of the ion trail left by the Shuttle during a nighttime reentry. By the time I got my binoculars up and focused, the moving light had started leaving a bright blue contrail. Through the binoculars I could see two tiny white sparks falling away, right at the point where the contrail began. (Anybody know if Minuteman boosters use outrigger engines? The two sparks meandering around made me think of the solid-fuel boosters falling away during a Shuttle launch. Which would seem to be consistent with the contrail becoming visible at the same time, as the main engine -- or the second stage? -- throttled up its power.) The general path of the contrail was just below and parallel to the spine of the constellation Scorpius, climbing at an angle of maybe 25 or 30 degrees. A few seconds later the contrail REALLY began blossoming outward, ballooning into a wispy-blue cloud that grew bigger and bigger. In time the cloud reached steady-state, collapsing in on itself in back at the same rate the front part was advancing. It took the shape of a giant "spade" from a deck of cards, with an orange-white flare at the tip and a bulbous wake trailing behind, about the size of two fist-widths at arm's length. A narrow contrail became the "shaft" of the spade, like a spear rising slowly in the night sky. ===== It was at this stage that the rocket passed below and within maybe four moon-diameters of the half-moon. A truly spectacular, absolutely once- in-a-lifetime scene, with the night sky itself a distinct deep blue (it wasn't fully dark yet), just a handful of stars visible, the bright half-moon, the feathery-blue rocket-cloud, an orange flame, and faint pink ion trail, all visible in the same small region of the sky. All I could think was, If only I'd been able to grab some camera gear before hitting the road, and had time to set it up, well, that's the sort of juxtapositioning of images you don't often get a chance to record. At this point there was some commotion in the parking lot. (Turns out I was standing there, gawking, right in the middle of a traffic lane.) "What are you looking at?" "What IS that thing?!?" "Good GOD! Honey, come here! Take a LOOK at That Thing!!!" "WHAT IS IT?!?!?" I shouted back that it was a rocket launch from Vandenberg for the missile-defense test they'd probably been hearing about. ("I thought it was a nebula!" one fellow said, ignoring the fact that nebulae are somewhat fainter to the naked eye. Maybe he was thinking of those bright, once-a-century exploding SuperNebulas. "But then I thought, 'Naw, it's moving too fast!'" Which is, of course, true. Exploding SuperNebulae typically move much more slowly across the sky.) At that point there was a final, small burst of blue vapor at the tip of the cloud, and the spear-head seemed to freeze in place, while the orange flare continued on its path. Second stage separation, I'd guess -- although I confess total ignorance to your typical ICBM flight profile. Through the binoculars the microburst at the tip seemed to billow out in three directions, somewhat "club"-like, to stretch the card-suit metaphor. As the orange dot moved away from the blue cloud, I was able to follow it for just a short time longer. By now it was quite a ways down range, and its apparent motion against the star field was much slower. I lowered the binoculars to see if it was still visible to the naked eye -- it wasn't -- and after that, had trouble finding it again. I did see something dim and orange through the binoculars, but couldn't be sure if it was moving. Shortly after that, I gave up. Curiously, long after the down-range plume dissipated, a large cloud continued to glow a faint moon-lit blue, much lower down, near the start of the flight trajectory. After maybe 15 minutes I stopped watching and crossed back to where I'd parked the car -- across a thoroughfare that turned out to be surprisingly more busy than I'd realized crossing it before. Stopped at an all-night restaurant, had dinner, and drove home. By then, of course, the mission test had already failed. Saturday's papers say the intercept "kill vehicle" failed to separate from its booster and fell harmlessly into the sea. (Perhaps that should read "HARM"-lessly? Geek puns -- Ug! :-) ===== Air Force Lt. Gen. Ronald Kadish has been quoted as saying the failure of the interceptor to separate from its booster "wasn't even on [his] list" of potential mission concerns. Funny, isn't it, how in recent months the list keeps growing of failure modes that military/aerospace contractors neglected even to consider? "How was **I** supposed to know the dimensions were in English, not metric?!?" "You mean mechanical assemblies vibrate /differently/ at zero-G than they do in the lab?!?" "Nobody told **ME** to reset the microphone recorder subsystem before the rocket took off...!" :-) Plus, according to CBS, the target vehicle also failed to deploy its decoy. You'd have to be a true cynic to imagine an inspector telling one of the assembly technicians, "You see that blue wire there? Now, when I turn around, you be sure NOT to clip it with these diagonal cutters, 'cause if you do, the decoy won't deploy, which would INCREASE our odds of getting government funding for more research -- ya' hear?" Assuming, of course, the decoy wasn't really meant to serve as a beacon. In any case the spin being put on this by the military is that the failure of the kill vehicle to separate from its booster rocket should not reflect badly on the test, since a totally different booster will be used when the system is finally deployed. Oh. (Sort of like, on the Mars missions, everything worked just fine up until when they crashed.) To which critics replied, "This is a humiliating failure for the program -- I mean, these guys couldn't even get the car out of the garage!" ===== They say this "bungled" test launch cost American taxpayers $100 million. I figure my share was about 40 cents. Certainly not money wasted as far as **I'M** concerned! Not as much fun on a Friday night as having a date, maybe, but certainly a lot cheaper. I say, Bring on some rounds of testing!!! Once a month, if they want. Any time my government wants to hurl $100 million into the California night sky, I'd be HAPPY to zip down to Capitola again and pay 40 cents to watch! --John Wharton
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- IP: The rocket's red glare Dave Farber (Jul 09)