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 thinning.

"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.

Shannon sometimes considered the lateral acceleration to be the worst part of the trip—like he was going to lose his lunch. It lasted fifteen seconds—a lifetime—the penetrators accelerating in the opposite trajectory of the hypermach lander, decelerating relative to the ground. He smelled the bitter residue of rocket fuel left behind after the spent motor separated from the canister.

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. Shannon checked disconnects for the third time, adjusted his helmet yet again, and listened to the rasp of his breathing through the forced-flow oxygen mask. Temperature increased rapidly. After another eternity he looked at his altimeter, still off the thirty kilometer scale. He went through the checks again.

The altimeter finally registered. Shannon waited, ear canals working to keep up with the compression schedule. He yawned and moved his jaw, ears and sinuses popping again and again. Long minutes rattled by. The altimeter unwound with increasing speed; the retros would be firing soon. He straightened his spine and positioned his head squarely over his neck, shoulders rolled back. One last look at the altimeter. He closed his eyes, tightly!

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 cannon shot trying to propel his shell back into space. And ten seconds later, yet another. Whooom!

Shannon shook the fog from his stunned brain. His rate of descent was in the safety range. He reached down and pulled the separation release, trying to beat the automatic sequence, but the system was faster. He heard and felt the shrill rattle of his drogue deploying overhead, and he prepared himself for another jolt, a very welcome one—the jolt of his parafoil filling with air. As usual the benevolent and satisfying ka-thump flushed away Shannon's anxieties. With the parafoil deployed and stabilized, the bottom two-thirds of his penetrator slipped smoothly from his body, the reentry canister plummeting groundward. Dangling against the variegated backdrop of the planet below, Shannon could see his size-twelves encased in impact webbing, still attached to the control section around his belt. He cleared the webbing and stowed it. Scanning the target area, he picked up the loop of the river and adjusted his drift. On course, target in sight. Reaching up, Shannon slipped the quick-release fittings on the penetrator' s aerodynamic top section; the shell structure oscillated in the slipstream. With the last fitting uncoupled, it slid smoothly along a tubular backpack railing until it was secured between his shoulders like the shell of turtle.

Shannon checked his men. Something was wrong with number five—Private Chastain. Five drifted noticeably downwind, falling out of the bearing line. At worst Chastain was already dead, suffocated or traumatically exposed by a pressure failure. At best he was simply unconscious, knocked out by bad positioning or a faulty harness during the retro-blasts.

Shannon keyed the transmit button on his control belt with a series of quick double pulses followed by a single pulse corresponding to his own position in the drop. After a pause he was rewarded with a short double click—Petit—another short pause and then three mike clicks—O'Toole—followed quickly by four— Tatum. A long, empty pause ensued. Finally, six clicks in three quick pairs. Six was the squad leader, MacArthur. Number five, Chastain, was not in the game.