Last Landing "Commander, this sorry excuse for an orbit ain't going to last," Rhodes reported from engineering. Holding his breath, Quinn dared to exercise the main engines one more time, all but stopping the closure rate. The power plant, vibrating insanely, threatened to explode. Orbital decay alarms brayed continuously.

"Hang on, Virgil," Quinn responded, nursing the thrusters. "She's in grappling range in ten minutes. The maneuvering jets can do the rest."

The EPL was no longer a point of light in the distance; it had shape and color. Red, white, and blue strobe lights flashed with irritating brilliance. Quinn eased the forward vector with axial thrust, diminishing the rate of closure. He turned off the corvette's strobes, and the lander pilot answered, extinguishing her own.

"Coming up on you, Sharl," Quinn announced over the radio.

"Roger, Commander. Best approach I've ever seen," she answered.

Quinn played the vernier thrusters delicately, setting the approach vector. The lander drifted down his starboard side.

"Piece of cake," Quinn mumbled. With visual reference no longer available, he concentrated on the docking display. Despite excursions caused by orbital drag, he brought the corvette to a halt relative to the lander and moved the huge ship within range of the gantry. After some touchy jostling, the lander was secured in its bay and the hanger doors sealed.

"Too easy," Quinn transmitted. "Initiate boost when she's clear."

"Roger that," Rhodes responded from the lander bay. "Should be quick, the bay has repressurized. Okay, the hatch is opening. She's back."

Quinn acknowledged and returned to setting up the next boost. Buccari glided onto the flight deck. Her features were drawn and fatigued, but she favored him with a supernova smile, green eyes glinting in the white light of sunrise.

"Thanks for picking me up. Sorry about the short orbit," she said.

"Welcome back. Let's just say we appreciate your effort," Quinn replied. "And besides, we didn't have anything else to do."

She floated to her station, replaced her helmet, and plugged her umbilicals into the console. "Where are you?"

Quinn brought her up to speed, and she was immediately absorbed in the flight deck situation. Orbital decay was past critical. Quinn was constantly maneuvering the wallowing craft. Air temperatures in the corvette had risen uncomfortably.

"Phew, I thought it looked bad before!" Buccari said, checking the instruments. "This power plant is really chewed up. Virgil, whatever did you do to these engines?"

"Begging the lieutenant's pardon, but we used 'em to come get you," Rhodes came back over the intercom.

"Well, I guess they look fine then," Buccari replied.

Quinn laughed. He was excited, for good reason. They were going to pull it off. A short boost to a safe orbit, refuel the lander, and they could all safely return to the planet.

"Okay, stand by for boost. Twenty seconds at two gees," Quinn said.

"Ready here," Buccari said.

"Engineering, aye," Rhodes reported.

"Two lousy gees, baby. You can do it," Quinn exhorted aloud as he rechecked throttle settings. "Counting down... three... two... one and ignition now!"

The engines exploded into life- -and stopped! Fuel pumps and compression turbines normally masked by engine tumult wound down with plaintive screams. A resounding thump thump resonated through the ship, more metallic banging, and then silence. Warning lights glared and flickered obscenely. resonated through the ship, more metallic banging, and then silence. Warning lights glared and flickered obscenely.

Buccari and Quinn turned to each other.

"Rhodes, start pumping fuel into the apple!" Quinn shouted.

Buccari was unstrapped before Quinn started talking. She propelled herself into the hatchway and through the crew area to the lander bay, retracing her path of only minutes before. Rhodes came through on her heels and took over refueling. Buccari jackknifed into the lander and started preflight checks, feeling as if she had spent her entire life in the confined c.o.c.kpit. The corvette danced, pitching and yawing with increasing amplitudes.

"We're losing it!" Quinn shouted over the intercom. "How long?"

Buccari noted the fuel gages registering, but only a minuscule increase. She did a mental calculation and checked their position relative to the desired landing site.

"We have three considerations," she responded. "One is just getting out of orbit without burning up or running out of oxygen. Two is having enough fuel to do a soft landing-apples aren't famous for belly landings. And three, landing near our people-it's a big planet. We could land and never see the crew again."

"I got the picture! How much time?" Quinn shouted.

"At least ten minutes to get fuel for a controlled deorbit. I don't know where we'll crash, but at least we'll leave orbit without running out of air. It'll take at least twenty minutes to get enough fuel for a controlled landing. Could be over an ocean," Buccari replied calmly. "It will take almost forty minutes to get the fuel we need, to land where we want to, and expect to walk away, and that depends on when and where we leave orbit. Anything after that's gravy. Virgil, do you agree?"

"Roger, Lieutenant. Close enough for me," Rhodes replied.

Quinn fought the monster, not surprised by Buccari's summary. Falling out of orbit was the least of his concerns-he fought the jerking and flailing ship. Forty minutes raced slowly by. Quinn made up his mind.

"Enough fuel," he commanded. He struggled to stay ahead of the excursions. "Get your b.u.t.ts in the lander. Sharl, deploy the apple when Rhodes gets inside. I'm staying. You can't launch the lander without someone stabilizing the corvette."

No response was forthcoming. Precious moments elapsed. "Rhodes, Buccari, you copy? I want both of you in that lander now!" now!"

Still nothing. Quinn caught a movement behind him. He turned to see Buccari and Rhodes floating on the flight deck, arms crossed on their chests. Buccari pointed to her helmet in the vicinity of her ears and gave a thumbs-down. Rhodes did the same.

"There's no time for this," Quinn groaned.

"Nice try, Commander, but we're not leaving without you," Buccari said. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself...sir."

"Buccari, dammit! I gave you an order!" Quinn was angry and thankful at the same time, a tough combination to deal with. "None of us is going to get out of here if I don't hold the ship steady. The gantry won't take the inertia changes. Even you can't get a lander out of this ship!"

Buccari watched Quinn wrestle the controls, the realization of the commander's words sinking in. "No! There has to be a way for all of us to make it," she moaned.

Rhodes had remained silent. "I got an idea," he finally said. Quinn and Buccari turned to look at him, expectantly.

"The skipper holds the 'vette down until we clear, and then he comes out the EVA port in his battle suit. We take him on board through the apple's main hatch. It's been done before."

"Sounds good!" Quinn barked. "Get going. I want you clear in five minutes. Go!" He returned his attention to the buffeting corvette.

Rhodes flew back to finish the fueling disconnects. Buccari went straight to the EPL c.o.c.kpit.

"Opening bay doors," Rhodes reported. The big doors crept open, fluttering as they spread. Buccari felt queasy. Door interlocks signaled green, and she ordered Rhodes to activate the gantry. Mooring locks released with their familiar clacking sound, and the lander floated free-for an instant. It banged back on its moorings, making a sickening, hollow-metal noise. The EPL had become a loose cannon! The mooring points fell away again; the lander separated, elevating within the confines of its womb, straining the gantry attachments. Seconds later the lander slammed down on its moorings.

"Goose the gantry! Get it off the locks, before we bottom out again!" she yelled. She watched the doors wave and felt the lander move vertically. She knew the vertical forces were seriously deflecting the fragile gantry crane. The lander drifted inexorably outward, clearing the mooring locks with a glancing contact. "Not too bad," she muttered. The lander was made tough. While still inside the door overhang she pulled the gantry release, opting to drive the lander out with maneuvering thrusters. She accelerated clear of the corvette, timing the vertical oscillations of the door almost perfectly-almost! One of the EPL's vertical fins clipped the descending upper bay door with a resounding clang! clang!

"Oops," Buccari mumbled into the intercom.

The EPL broke from the stark blackness of the corvette's solar lee and into the brightness of the sun-star. From four hundred meters away, the ma.s.sive corvette appeared stable, but her stabilizers were firing constantly. Spikes of blue flame erupted from the thruster ports.

"Commander, we're waiting for you," she broadcast.

"Hate to leave...a real picnic," Quinn gasped. "See you in... five minutes."

Buccari marked the time. The nose of the corvette pitched downward. A rolling motion commenced soon after, both motions accelerating.

"Lieutenant," Rhodes spoke up from his operator's station. "I'd like to open the main hatch. c.o.c.kpit is isolated and seals are good."

"Roger, cleared to open the main hatch," she responded, concentrating on the EVA port of the tumbling corvette. Vertigo plagued her; she shook her head, again and again. She did not want to miss Quinn's exit. The spinning ship would send him on tangential vector, the direction unpredictable. She piloted the lander between the sun-star and the corvette to get maximum contrast on Quinn's s.p.a.cesuit. Another two minutes dragged by. The tumbling increased in violence. Another two minutes. She tried to contact the commander on radio, in vain. He was shielded from her transmissions until he emerged from the corvette.

There he was-floating free, tumbling, an unbelievably tiny speck against the expansive bulk of the corvette, which was itself spinning against the infinite backdrop of the black void. She blinked, straining to verify that it was not just a vertigo-induced spot in her vision.

"I'm out, Sharl. Do you have me? I don't see you," he said, a hint of panic in his deep voice. His ballistic trajectory changed abruptly. He had strapped on a maneuvering unit.

"Tallyho, Commander. Coming out of the sun." Buccari pointed the EPL in his direction.

"Contact. Hold your vector, Sharl. Two minutes out," Quinn transmitted, controlling the rendezvous.

"Roger, holding." She brought herself back to the job at hand. "OK, Virg', let's set up an orbital boost. Get some alt.i.tude so we can think about our next step."

"Aye, aye, Lieutenant," Rhodes responded. "Everything looks good. I'm showing thirty percent fuel. We should be able to set down real soft."

"Rog,' concur. I figure we boost eight clicks. We can afford it."

"You're the captain," Rhodes responded. The checklist was almost complete when Rhodes interjected: "Skipper's coming aboard."

Buccari glanced over her shoulder. Quinn glided to the open hatch, his maneuvering jets firing like sparkling diamonds. He retrofired against his forward vector, halting smartly at the mouth of the gaping hatch, hooked a foot on the hatch rim, and pulled himself through the rectangular opening. She returned to her checklist.

"I'm up," Quinn said tersely.

"Commander, we're elevating. Fuel's good, and we could use the time to think this one out," Buccari replied, not asking permission. He was cargo. "What's your state?"

"Six hours of air," the commander replied.

"Six hours, aye. Plenty of time," Buccari reflected. "Virgil, let Shannon know we're coming in for breakfast. Commander, I want you to remember this on my next evaluation."

"Sharl, if I didn't think you'd spit in my eye, I'd give you a big kiss."

"Tsk, Commander! You're much too old. Money and promotions will do."

Rhodes interrupted, "I fixed the engines."

"Some fix!" replied Buccari. "Work something out with the skipper on your own."

Quinn muttered something incoherent and obviously off-color.

"First things first," Buccari said. "Standby for acceleration. Buckled in back there?" Quinn replied in the affirmative. Buccari continued: "Two gees for fifteen seconds. Ignition... four... three... two... one firing now."

The primaries jolted into life. The small ship jumped, but Buccari's elation was brief. EXHAUST OVERTEMP warning lights glared ominously. She aborted.

"Nothing's going right!" Rhodes said over the intercom. "Systems check coming up." Rhodes's news was not welcome. "Gimbals trashed on one and two," he reported. "One hundred percent asymmetrical! You couldn't use the engines for a landing retro if you wanted to. With those overtemps, even the reentry retro' s gonna' be pretty stimulating."

They sat silently. The planet rolled by overhead, filling the viewscreen. Buccari watched the terminator approach and pa.s.s, the darkness of night a relief from the brilliance of the cloud and sea-reflected sun.

"Sarge! They're in the lander. Lieutenant Buccari made it!" O'Toole shouted.

Shannon crawled from his sleeping bag into cold dampness. Dawson bolted past him, pulling on a hooded jacket. She pushed O'Toole out of the radio operator's seat, pulling the hard copy from his hands. A hooded lantern provided illumination, and a tarpaulin hung across the cramped alcove preventing its glow from escaping into the nerve-dulling downpour. The lightning had stopped.

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? 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 b.u.t.ton, 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 c.o.c.kpit 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.