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Vibration hummed through metal; the lander moved outboard, pushed by a spidery gantry crane, until it was clear of the confined bay. Ahead were the first signs of sunrise, a perfect red-gold arc starkly defining the limb of the ebony planet, silhouetting it against the utter blackness of space. Buccari released the attachment fitting, fired a micro-pulse on the port maneuvering rockets to initiate a separation rate, and reported "Clear." At the correct moment she rolled the lander on its back and commenced retrofire, falling toward the dark pre-dawn. The corvette, glinting in the rising sun, retreated on its orbital trajectory and disappeared into black infinity. The flowering sun-star, Rex-Kaliph, climbed rapidly over the planet's limb—a harsh, glaring blossom of light.
During the helpless waiting and hard chopping turbulence of reentry Buccari considered her drop target. The granite-topped plateau chosen for the landing site was located in the interior of the largest of the planet's four continents. Curving around the plateau was a major river, providing excellent navigational references. A spectacular chain of mountains to the west was a concern; radar returns indicated peaks in excess of eight thousand meters— geological giants. The mountains were ominous, but radar returns also showed the expansive plateau to be hard and flat—an ideal landing site. Hudson had discovered the plateau and unromantically christened it "Landing Site Alpha." Everyone else called it Hudson's Plateau.
Turbulence dampened sharply, and Buccari noticed the EPL's external skin temperatures stabilizing. Reentry was almost complete.
"Flight profile," she demanded. The computer echoed her words, and a digital flight envelope, complete with altitude, heading, and attitude read-outs, unfolded on the navigation display. The computer began aurally reporting the amount of air density build-up as a function of temperature and pressure altitude.
"Suspend," she ordered. Audio cues abruptly halted. Within minutes the aerodynamic flight symbol fluttered on and held steady, the atmosphere finally biting hard enough to make the lander an airplane.
"Reentry complete, Boats," she said. "Apple's flying." She disabled the auto-pilot.
"Checking good," the boatswain replied. "Everyone's breathing."
After a wide turn to lose altitude, Buccari initiated a course correction lining the EPL up with the run-in trajectory, moving the sun dead astern. Inverted, she looked through the top of the canopy and made out physical features of the planet. Hudson's Plateau was somewhere dead ahead, invisible, still shrouded in sun-shattered haze. Satisfied with course and position, she rolled upright. The planet moved beneath her, the cloud deck thi
"All right, Marines!" she broadcast, her audience six human projectiles, bound tightly into torpedolike shrouds. "Approaching zone. Ejection as briefed. Green light. Counting down…four…three…two…one. Bingo!"
The EPL shuddered. In less than a second, six penetrators ripple-fired from the tail. Jones came up on the intercom: "Penetrators cleared. Ejection port fairing closed. Nav track good. Fuel pressures in the green. Gun barrels hot. Checking good, sir."
Buccari returned the lander to computer control. "OK, Boats. Ignition in five. Checking good, checking good." Buccari flattened against her seat and awaited the massive kick of the EPL's engines.
The penetrators streaked into the atmosphere, glowing brighter and whiter, spreading linearly, each canister containing a living soul with little to do but impotently count the eternal seconds. Below, unseen, the dawn's slanted light revealed a wide expanse of verdant prairie, softly mottled. The river, jade-colored in the morning sun and steeped in wispy fog, meandered with little purpose but with certain power. To the west, snow-blanketed mountains, radiantly pink, reflected the morning sun; but the sensesof the men in the streaking cones were aware of only their own mortal being—of pulse and respiration and sweat.
Sha
He was free-falling feet first in a pressurized titanium, ablative coffin. Waiting. Waiting in endless anticipation for separation retrofire, which was truly the worst part of the trip. Sha
The altimeter finally registered. Sha
Whooom!
His whole being jarred as if some giant had taken a club and swung it straight up at his feet. His knees buckled, but the active retro-harness supported his back and torso; his spine ached at the base of his neck; his brain felt fuzzy, almost unconscious. The next one would be stronger. Fifteen seconds after the first jolt— Whooom! — another charge fired from the base of the cone, an explosive blast directed straight down at the planet, a ca
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