Shannon staggered into the dim circle of light, a thermal blanket draped over his broad shoulders. The low-hung lantern accentuated his haggard features, his grizzled growth nearly all white. O'Toole handed him the message.
TO: HUDSON/SHANNON FM: RHODES
DTG: 011659 0233 ST
LOW UNSTABLE ORBIT FORCED ABANDONMENT OF HARRIER ONE. QUINT, BUCCARI, AND RHODES ON BOARD EPL. ORBIT TRAJECTORIES DICTATE REENTER NEXT ORBIT. EPL DAMAGED. UNABLE TO USE MAIN ENGINES. EXHAUST NOZZLES NO LONGER GIMBAL.
SET UP BEACON IMMEDIATELY. BUCCARI DIRECTS BEACON TO BE ESTABLISHED AT EXTREME NORTHWEST END OF LAKE, WITH ONE ONE ZERO DEGREE (110/2) TRUE RADIAL LINED UP WITH MAXIMUM DIMENSION OF LAKE AND CLEAR OF ISLANDS. GLIDE SLOPE FIVE DEG. WILL ATTEMPT WATER LANDING. ESTIMATE TOUCHDOWN AT 0410 ST.
RESPOND IN REAL TIME BEFORE 0330 ST IF UNABLE TO COMPLY.
ACKNOWLEDGE. RHODES
Adrenaline coursed into Shannon veins. A water landing? In the dark?
"O'Toole, roust'em out! All hands. I want the beacon up within the hour. New location. Break out the raft from the survey package. Get Tatum up here. Move!"
Dawson pounded out an acknowledgment. "Anything special you want to add, Sarge? I'm ready to reply."
Hudson had joined them in the circle of light. "You have flares in the planet survey package, don't you, Sergeant?" the ensign asked calmly.
Shannon understood immediately. "Tell 'em we'll run a flare line down the east side of the lake. And give them the weather," he said, walking to the entrance. "Ceiling three hundred meters, maybe lower. Visibility practically zero. Raining. Winds calm. That'll cheer 'em up."
"Roger," she replied, typing rapidly. "Anything else?" "Just tell 'em we'll be waiting," he said.
"Roger that," Dawson replied. She hit the transmit button, shooting the burst message to the heavens. Shannon moved back to his sleeping bag and pulled on his rancid clothes. He shivered.
* * *
"Retroburn in ten minutes," Buccari announced.
"I want you out before touchdown," Quinn insisted for the third time, his voice rising in volume, as if the sealed hatch between him and the cockpit needed to be shouted through. The lander had ejection seats but only for the pilot and the systems operator.
"Sir, shut up!" Buccari snapped. "All due respect, of course," she added, teeth clenched. "Rhodes will initiate ejection—on my command, or sooner if necessary. I plan to ride it to touchdown. That's the plan." Tension remained heavy. Buccari forced her thoughts onto other problems.
"You sure this little ejection seat will get me out?" asked Rhodes.
Buccari snorted. "It'll be close. Don't worry about the seat. Just suck in your gut and it'll blow you through the hatch. I'd be more worried about the parachute holding your weight."
Rhodes forced a laugh. "Speaking of hatches, I've worked through the overrides. I can open the hatches as soon as we slow to approach airspeed. She'll sink like a rock."
"She'll sink like a hot rock anyway, assuming she stays in one piece," added Buccari. "What do you think, Commander? Open all hatches?"
"All hatches," came back the sulky reply.
Buccari detected fear in the commander's tone. He was powerless, and, in being powerless, he was scared. Buccari was also scared. Quinn had no chance unless she set the lander down on the lake. An unpowered, night-instrument approach through a black overcast—thick and solid—a bad bet! She had only one shot. There would be no wave-offs.
* * *
"Beacon's up. All tests check, Sarge," Tatum panted.
Rain poured in rivulets from the brim of his soggy cap, sluicing down to join the cascades from his poncho. Shannon peered into the darkness. In the distance a flashlight flickered, emitting a feeble beam, revealing little. Everyone was in position, ranging down the northeastern shore of the lake, ready to light off the survival flares. Shannon racked his brain. How was she going to pull it off?
"Good job, Sandy," he said. Tatum had packed the assembled beacon at double time over the sloppy terrain. "Nice night for a swim."
"Beautiful. Just friggin' beautiful," Tatum huffed.
Shannon took the flashlight from Tatum and held it to his watch. "Twenty minutes, I reckon. Let's make sure O'Toole and Jones have finished preparing the raft." He gave the flashlight back.
* * *
"Phoowee, she's running hot!" Rhodes screamed over the intercom.
"But she's running!" Buccari screamed back. The lander was pointed backward in orbit, engines firing against the orbital vector. Rhodes had disabled the worst of the nozzles, but damage to others created havoc with temperatures and fuel flows. "Ten more seconds, and we're golden!"
Seconds crawled by. Buccari retarded the throttle, and the EPL's engines quieted, along with the nerves of its occupants. She made an adjustment to the lander's attitude, pitching the nose around with a maneuvering jet until reentry attitude was set. The glow of plasma around the forward viewscreen cast a pulsing amber light on her drawn features. Buffeting rocked the craft. They were dumb, blind, and helpless, the intense heat and turbulence of the reentry masking all communications. The flight controls were useless until the atmosphere grew thick enough to respond. They were totally committed.
* * *
Leslie Lee lugged her drenched medical satchel. It was not designed for hiking in the rain; nor was she. Gravity punished her back and legs; her breathing was heavy, and she alternated between perspiring and shivering. She collapsed on the heavy bag, wiping water from her eyes. The poncho was too large, and the hood flopped over her face. Whenever she moved, she needed to push the hood back in order to see. Sitting on the equipment to rest, she pulled the hood over her head, failing to first empty the reservoir of accumulated rain water. It ran cold and wet down her neck, wracking her short frame with shivers.
She turned to search for Fenstermacher. Despite his bad arm, the boatswain had stubbornly helped her lug the equipment from the cave. She heard him slogging toward her, his form appearing in the murky downpour. She shined the flashlight beam on the ground, watching raindrops slap the surface of the lake.
"Anything new?" she asked.
Fenstermacher, carrying two flares, splashed up and sat heavily on the bag, making contact with his skinny hips against her round ones. She moved to make room, and he slid over, again making contact along their thighs. She had run out of room, so she just sat there, not minding. It was warmer, and she actually liked Fenstermacher. Strangely, everyone liked Fenstermacher.
"Nothing," he answered, short of breath. "They must be inbound. O'Toole will help with your first aid kit. I'm not much good with this broken arm."
"Nonsense; you helped getting it here. You should have stayed in the cave with Rennault. You have a long way to go before you're back to normal. Not that you were ever normal."
Fenstermacher uncharacteristically let the jab pass. "Hope they make it," he gulped in despair, putting his chin in his hands.
Lee looked at him and then put her arm around his narrow shoulders. Both of them returned their stares to the small circle of light of the flashlight beam.
* * *
The bearing indicator on the head-up display moved from the stops and settled. The lander had drifted north. Buccari reset her approach track, and the bearing indicator adjusted. Distance readouts commenced. Her landing window was good, but there was no margin for error. The EPL was flying. She gently wiggled the sidestick.
The large moon, in its first quarter, cast faint light on the cloud deck. The lumpy small moon was full but contributed less illumination than the dense constellations of stars. Ridges of dark peaks rose above the silver clouds, giving reference to her velocity. Marching away, far in the distance, rising above the mountains, lines of towering cumulonimbus flickered magically.
She verified that the remaining fuel had been dumped. Precious fuel, it was worthless because of the damaged nozzles. Only enough fuel to ignite the hover blaster remained, and she retrimmed for a no-fuel approach. Her scan narrowed. She debat
ed whether to keep the autopilot engaged. The computer could fly the approach better than she could—if it worked. The autopilot had only shown problems on final. No, she could no longer trust the systems; too many things had gone wrong. She swallowed, half to clear the building pressure in her ears and half to push her doubts back into her being, and then she switched off the auto-controls.
Trailing double thunder, the glinting lander descended for the cloud deck. Buccari banked smoothly, airspeed dropping in the turn. She steadied on a truncated base leg and watched the timer count the seconds. Airspeed and altitude bled off rapidly and thefirst tendrils of cloud obscured her forward vision with ghostly wisps of cotton. The lander skimmed deeper into the silky vapors. Her view of the stars flickered and was gone.
* * *
Shannon jerked at the sonic booms. Rain fell across his face. He returned his vision to the ground, wiping the water from his eyes.
"Five minutes! Turn on flashlights—white beams." he shouted into his helmet radio. The Marines had traded their cloth hats for helmets. "Acknowledge!"
The Marines responded. Everyone was ready, but for what? If Buccari missed the lake to the right, she would kill his people. If she got lucky and landed in the water, then what?
Shannon reached down and touched the inflated raft. Shannon could swim well, but he had a deep-seated fear of the water. He did not look forward to pushing out onto the black, rain-spattered lake. He checked his watch; it was time to ignite the flares.
"Light 'em off!" he commanded over UHF. In the distance a bright red flare erupted into life, followed by another, and yet another, until a necklace of red sparklers pierced the drizzle, illuminating and defining the shoreline. He reached into the raft, took out the powerful search torch, and turned it on, pointing it into the skies.
* * *
The lander rolled onto final and dropped sub-sonic, the black fuzziness of clouds still obscuring forward vision. Raindrops vaporized against the viewscreen. Buccari concentrated on the head-up, noting her radar altimeter coming on line. She would be dragging it in; there was no excess airspeed. A good thing—she did not want to force the EPL down on the lake; but did she have enough energy to make it?
She checked distance to the beacon, made an alignment adjustment, pushed her nose down for airspeed, and armed airbrakes and spoilers in the unlikely event she stayed fast. The glide slope indicator moved steadily to center. In quick succession she activated wingtip fences and leading-edge slats, dropped the first increment of flaps, and armed hover blasters. She was ready; only flaps and blasters to go. Rhodes's voice droned steadily as he reported altitude and distance to the beacon for Quinn's benefit. Buccari concentrated on holding lineup and glide slope. Airspeed was good. She dropped the next increment of flaps. At thirty-four kilometers from the beacon, the radar altimeter abruptly decreased by a thousand meters—the plateau's edge.
Ten kilometers to go. On glide slope and on course. Attitude trimmed a bit fast, the nose not quite high enough, but that was the side on which to err—plenty of time to correct. She tapped the rudder and eased stick pressure to port; the lander corrected an incipient drift. Five kilometers; she added flaps; the nose ballooned slightly. Buccari compensated, holding the slope. Three kilometers. Where were the bottom of the clouds? She checked altitude, pushed the nose down, and added the last increment of flaps.
Red flares! She saw flares strung in a ragged line to the right of her nose. Airspeed approached stall. The radar altimeter indicated ten meters. She eased back the nose and held wings level using only rudders. Impact was seconds away! She forced herself to hold attitude—no jerky movements. With startling immediacy the tail of the lander met the water, and simultaneously—more luck than timing—Buccari fired the hover blaster, offsetting the impact and keeping the nose from slapping forward. She yelled for Rhodes to eject.
And found herself screaming hysterically into the wet night, a living projectile being rocketed violently out of the crashing craft below. Before she could comprehend the fact, she was swinging into the water, deadweight at the end of a pendulum, her canopy having opened just enough to retard impact. The reality of freezing water snapped disjointed thoughts into focus. She surfaced clear of the chute and fumbled for the disconnects, but they had been pulled high on her shoulders by the yanking deployment. Frantically treading water, she at last located the fittings and disengaged her harness from the enveloping shrouds. Panic struck as she felt snaking nylon wrapping around her ankles. Fighting to stay calm, she submerged and worked to separate herself from the tangle. Excruciatingly slowly, one by one, the clinging lines fell away. She surfaced and weakly frog-kicked onto her back.
The impenetrable blackness defied consciousness; her helmet shut out all sounds except for the beating of her heart and the explosions of her labored breathing. With difficulty she removed her headgear, letting in the splashing of the lake—and the cold water. She spit out a throatful, and then, as if in a dream, she heard yells carrying across the chop. A bright beam passed over her.
* * *
The EPL, a crazed dragon descending from the clouded heavens spouting evil flames, mushed into the lake, throwing before it a tremendous crest of water. A crashing emerald-green wave surrealistically illuminated by blazing hover blaster surged upward. The lander disappeared, but the fiery blasters continued to burn submerged, lighting up the roiled lake around the sinking craft like a huge Chinese lantern. After eternally long seconds, the blasters extinguished, their fuel exhausted.
Buccari had hit the mark, not a hundred meters from where the raft was waiting. As Tatum pulled on the oars, Shannon kept his eyes on the ejection seats exploding from the cockpit, their trajectories diverging, one forward and one aft of the impact point. Shannon ordered Tatum to steer for the closest, fifty meters away. He directed the powerful search torch, holding his balance against the waves surging out from the steaming and bubbling crash.
The first wall of water was powerful and steep, nearly capsizing the raft. Shannon was thrown against the giving sides of the raft and saved himself from going overboard by grasping the lifeline along the gunwale. He recovered and moved back into the bow to search the thrashing lake, struggling to stay upright on the bucking and twisting raft. He saw something—the powerful spotlight reflected from a white, gaping face—Buccari! Shannon removed his helmet and peeled off his poncho and boots, yelling directions to Tatum. With powerful strokes Tatum brought the raft within range, and Shannon dove into the frigid water. He surfaced beside the struggling pilot.
"Nice landing, Lieutenant," Shannon sputtered. He grabbed her by the torso harness and pulled her to the raft.
"Kiss my ass," she choked.
"That's…an order I can live with…sir," Shannon replied, spitting water. He grabbed the lifeline for leverage and pushed Buccari up by her rear as Tatum pulled her by the arms into the raft, dumping her unceremoniously into the water-washed bilge. Shannon hauled himself over the stern and pointed in the direction of the other ejection. As Tatum rowed, he reported back to the beach on his helmet radio. A rain-muted cheer drifted across the troubled water.
The lake's surface remained tortured from waves rebounding between the shores. Shannon yelled loudly and held the torch high over his head, directing the downpour-shrouded beam in slow, sweeping circles over the rain-drilled waters. Buccari, shivering, crawled, slipping and sliding, next to him. Nothing could be heard other than the noise of Tatum' s oars, the water slapping the raft's bow, and the hissing sound of raindrops striking the lake. Flares burned dimly on the lake shore. Tatum stopped stroking, lending his eyes to the search.
Shannon wailed the names of the two men: "Rhodes! Commander Quinn!"
They listened—to the sounds of water.
Buccari pointed and called out, "Over there! I see something!"
Tatum bent to the oars and propelled the raft on the designated heading, pulling alongside a shape in the water—a parachute! They leaned over the side, reaching and clawing for handfuls of s
odden canopy, and pulled together, dragging the fabric through the raft and off the other side, searching for shrouds. The lines came to hand and were in turn pulled relentlessly inward. The thin, biting cords seemed of interminable length, but they could feel the bulk at the other end, and they hauled with greater desperation. Rhodes's body came to the surface sideways, shrouds tangled around legs and torso—and around his neck. Tatum and Shannon flopped the heavy limp form into the raft, where it lay without movement.
Buccari lost her balance and slipped, landing with her face next to Rhodes's helmet. Shannon heard her gasp. He knelt and pulled the helmet release. The helmet came off with a sucking sound. Rhodes's fully open eyes stared vacantly—the look of the dead—lips deep purple, his skin faintly blue. Suffocated.
Buccari drew a breath, put her lips over the unconscious man's mouth, and blew firmly into his lungs while pinching his nostrils. Shannon knelt down and pushed rhythmically on Rhodes's chest with his powerful fists, difficult to do in the yielding bottom.
"Let's get back to shore. Maybe Lee can do something. We got another one to look for," Shannon said. Buccari did not respond, frantically continuing her resuscitation efforts. Shannon leaned back on his knees and watched. He signaled impatiently, and Tatum grabbed the oars and rowed. The flares on the beach were dying, one by one.
Shannon pushed Buccari aside and took a turn trying to breathe life back into the man. Buccari fell back, exhausted, on the verge of shock. The raft stubbed the shore and a dozen hands hauled it out. Shannon gave instructions to get Rhodes out of the raft, while Jones and Hudson helped Buccari, her legs wobbly with shock and cold. She took three steps and collapsed.
"Get her back to the cave!" Shannon commanded, and Jones, sobbing in his joy, picked her up bodily and started moving.
"Bullshit!" the lieutenant mumbled, regaining awareness. She struggled until Jones set her down. Her legs buckled. Jones held her by her shoulders.
Genellan: Planetfall Page 13