Sgt. Salty and the Misfits - Chapter 5: The Payload Problem

Salty here. We’ve hit peak logistical absurdity. The Sherman is gone—vaporized by HQ’s clean-up crew to avoid local press coverage—and the Soyuz-TM Capsule is sitting on Sharon’s front lawn, guarded by Squid who is now covered in anti-static foam and looks suspiciously like a depressed meringue.

Our mission is simple: get Sharon, the six small agents of anarchy, the rapidly gestating seventh agent, the dog, and the metric ton of pickled onions into the capsule and launch them into the glorious, sound-dampened vacuum of space.

For this impossible task, I deployed the specialists: Sarah, our ruthless inventory expert, and Susan, our resident expert in utterly useless, touchy-feely nonsense.

Sarah and the Payload Nightmare

Sarah is a woman of cold, hard numbers. She lives for spreadsheets and abhors anything that cannot be accurately measured, weighed, or categorized. I tasked her with calculating the final launch mass, a task that quickly became her personal hell.

She set up industrial scales next to the capsule hatch. The first problem? Trying to get the children to stand still long enough to register a mass reading.

“Marie, Kate, Ashley!” Sarah barked, holding a clipboard that already had three angry tears on it. “One at a time! Weight is essential for calculating burn rates, you little variables!”

The triplets treated the scale like a tiny trampoline. They jumped on it three at a time, resulting in readings like ‘200 lbs of Pure Glee’ or ‘ERROR: TAPE MEASURE WEDGED IN FAN.’ Dick and Tom then decided the scale was an excellent spot to stage a wrestling match involving mud and a stale biscuit.

But the true crisis was the payload. Sarah pointed at a huge stack of plastic tubs. “Salty, we have a breach of containment protocol. The metric ton of pickled onions is not the primary mass problem.”

“What is it, then?” I demanded.

“It’s the ancillary payload, Sarge. Sharon’s latest demand. She has packed approximately 300 pounds of smooth river stones. She says she needs them for ‘texture’ during the nine-month journey. And the dog—the dog has claimed the life support panel as its permanent residence. It weighs 65 pounds, Sarge. That’s enough mass to necessitate jettisoning three of the children.”

I glanced at the six children, now drawing permanent marker graffiti on the side of the priceless Soyuz. “Which three, Sarah? Recommendations?”

“The heaviest, Sarge,” she replied instantly, her voice flatlining with despair. “It’s the only logical choice.”

Susan and the Zero-G Zen

While Sarah was busy trying to assign a jettison priority to Harry (who was calmly drawing a circuit diagram on the capsule window with a Cheeto), Susan was attempting to implement a 'Space Prep Wellness Initiative.' Susan genuinely believes that every problem can be solved with a positive attitude and a scented candle. She approached Sharon, who was busy trying to wire a small, loud plastic toy into the capsule’s main power supply.

“Now, Sharon,” Susan began brightly, holding a bundle of sage and a small amethyst crystal. “We need to address the energy of the Soyuz. It feels a little… military. We need to center the seven little spirits with some positive affirmations.”

Sharon paused her wiring project. She was now visibly pregnant, leaning heavily against the blast door, still dipping her teabag into the pickle jar. She looked at Susan with the tired patience reserved for people who have never experienced genuine terror.

“Listen, sweetheart,” Sharon said slowly, her voice thick with brine and exhaustion. “The only affirmation I need is ’Oxygen is confirmed.’ And the only centering we’re doing is making sure Tom doesn’t flush his action figure down the waste disposal system. Do you know what my latest craving is, Susan? Dry cement. I crave the grit, the finality, the structural integrity of it. Your crystal is not going to survive this trip. It’s too soft. It has no tensile strength.”

Susan, still smiling bravely, attempted one last maneuver. She tried to lead the triplets in a breathing exercise: deep inhales, slow exhales.

The triplets stood still for approximately 0.2 seconds. Then, Marie pointed at Susan’s calming aromatherapy diffuser. “What’s that?”

“It’s lavender oil,” Susan explained gently. “It helps us relax and feel grounded.”

Ashley immediately grabbed the diffuser, Kate opened the capsule hatch, and Marie declared, “It smells nice! It’s going to space!” and hurled the entire, expensive diffuser into the atmosphere, where it spun briefly before splashing into the remnants of the Sherman Tank clean-up water.

Susan stared at the water, then at the children, then at the large, heavily pregnant woman casually eating a tablespoon of powdered concrete. Susan’s eyes lost their light. She did not cry. She simply walked over to the stack of river stones, picked up a smooth, grey one, and began sucking on it thoughtfully.

Orbital Upgrade

I watched my two Misfits dissolve—Sarah, crushed by the physics of the family, and Susan, crushed by the pure vibe of the family.

“Salty, the numbers don’t lie,” Sarah whispered, clutching her data sheet. “The mass limit is non-negotiable. If we take the stones and the dog, we are legally required to leave the father, or perhaps two of the girls.”

“We’re leaving the dog, Sarah. The dog gets a small satellite uplink and a very nice, one-way ticket to a kennel in the next county,” I decided.

But the moment passed. Even without the dog, the seven children, the brine, the stones, and Sharon’s impending explosive delivery meant the Soyuz was nothing more than a metal coffin waiting for ignition.

This required a command vehicle. A vessel built not for exploration, but for pure, brute force transportation of excessive mass and chaos.

I hit the comms again, bypassing Procurement entirely.

“Salty to Chief Logistics. Cancel the Soyuz. I need the biggest, ugliest, most over-engineered transportation vehicle you can find. I’m talking about a vehicle that doesn’t just break the laws of physics, it insults them. Get me the decommissioned Saturn V rocket. We’re not going to low Earth orbit anymore. We’re going to Alpha Centauri. I need enough space for seven custom-built bunk beds, a fully stocked nursery, three fridges for brine, and a lead-lined bunker for Susan’s crystals. And I need a dedicated section for Harry to test his structural weaknesses.”

This mission has officially gone interstellar. Salty out. I’m joining Susan; pass the decorative pebble.