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Chapter 7

 

First Landing

The EPL rumbled and vibrated in the turmoil of atmospheric reentry. Plasma gases danced across the windscreen.

"How're the passengers, Boats?" Buccari shouted into her mask.

"Checking good, Lieutenant," Jones replied. "Fenstermacher and Dawson are keeping everyone real loose—real garbage mouths they are. Dawson' s just tearing Fenstermacher apart. And Leslie Lee can hold her own, too."

"Fenstermacher brings out the best in everyone," Buccari said, perspiring in the glowing reentry heat. The massive deceleration of the reentry over, Buccari felt changes in airspeed, as the thermal warping of the airframe steadily diminished. The gas pressures flowing through her suit umbilical eased; she worked her jaws and yawned.

"Reentry complete," she reported. "Compute . . . command: auto disconnect." The flight computer disengaged. Buccari gently pulled the lander through sweeping reversals. Her feather touch moved the nose of the lander to starboard, and the tracking bug on the course indicator drifted slowly back onto the programmed course. She approached the descent funnel, the signal from Shannon's ground navigation beacon strong and steady. Reluctantly, Buccari reactivated the autopilot. Decelerating against gathering pressure, unpowered, its engines held quiescent, the lander bucked in the hypermach turbulence. Thickly sleek and delta-winged, the silver EPL, a fuel-laden glider, screamed into a wide, slicing turn, dragging a double explosion across the new land.

"Mach two point five, altitude on schedule," Jones said. "In the groove. Engines hot and feathering, fuel pressure in the green. Checking good, Lieutenant, checking good."

Buccari double-clicked the intercom. She watched the landscape roll by, searching ahead for topographical cues. On the head-up display the "roadway" in the sky showed as two converging lines; they were on final. The autopilot held altitude while airspeed rapidly decayed. The EPL dropped transsonic as the glide slope indicator eased resolutely to center scale. Established on glide slope, the altitude readout resumed its steady decrease. Buccari peered ahead. In the distance the bend in the river marked Hudson's Plateau. Mountains loomed ominously beyond. She was heading straight into a range of vertical granite, but it mattered not; if she chose to abort, she could accelerate straight up—emergency procedure number one: return to orbit.

"Landing checks complete, Lieutenant," Jones reported.

"Checking good, Boats," Buccari acknowledged, flattening her seat and cinching her harness. The edge of the plateau passed beneath them; Buccari detected steam rising from the river, and the radar altimeter beeped at the sudden decrease in altitude. Airspeed decayed rapidly, but glide slope remained in the funnel. Terrain features sharpened; a lake passed down the left side. The landing configurator initiated; wing tip fences snapped erect; a growling vibrated through the craft signaling movement of the massive flaps as they crawled out and down from the trailing edges of the fat wings. The lander flared, its nose elevating, blocking her view of the mountainous horizon. She went to the gauges.

Touchdown was imminent. Airspeed fell away; the nose of the craft rotated smoothly toward the vertical—and past! Well past! With alarming intensity, the guttural bass of the main engines exploded into activity; Buccari was pressed into her acceleration chair. She felt more than heard the gimbal motors grinding through their pivots. Beneath her feet pulsing hover blaster joined the cacophony, and the nose of the ship slowly fell back toward the horizon. Huge snowy mountains loomed to each side, but suddenly all view was blocked by rising dust and debris. As abruptly as they had started, the main engines wound down with a plaintive whine. The hover blaster screamed for a second longer, and the lander shivered to a jolting halt. Her apple was on the ground.

* * *

Predawn revealed starlit skies. Peach-colored alpenglow illuminated the great peaks, giving hint of the sun's impending presence. Brappa came awake and uncoiled from Craag's warmth.

Craag stirred to activity. Brappa was stiff, but he felt excited, strong. He was also hungry, and the fragrance of burning wood stimulated his metabolism. Kibba had prepared a tiny smokeless fire with twigs kept dry from the night's rains, and Kiit was slicing fish filets into thin strips for cooking. The ravenous hunters queued up and, using sharpened sticks, held the fish in the flames long enough to be civilized—which was not very long.

Craag finished eating. Brappa spit out fish bones and stood to follow; it was time to relieve the watch. The clear morning air was shattered by massive, stuttering explosions! Brappa clasped hands over his ear openings, but too late; detonations swept their campsite. Dazed, ears aching, Brappa looked anxiously at the other hunters. Even Braan and Craag were wide-eyed and frozen. The two old warriors quickly shook off the effects of the horrible noises and became alert. Inspired, Brappa felt his own courage grow warm and strong within. He was the first to hear the passage of the alien ship. The strange object made an audible noise, hissing loudly through the air. Brappa whistled a sharp warning. It was immense, silver and cold looking; it caught the bright sun, reflecting its red rays painfully into the hunter's eyes. The sentry, mouth gaping, watched the awesome object as it flew from sight. Moments later the air shuddered with distant, rumbling vibrations.

Braan faced the hunters. "Our mission reaps fruit, but we have not yet learned of its taste. Expedite your preparations. The thermals come early today."

* * *

Shannon's Marines sprinted to the lander, assuming defensive positions. Shannon warily scanned the rim of the plateau, his senses heightened. The lander's arrival had announced their presence within a wide radius.

"Sergeant Shannon, Buccari here," Buccari' s voice came up on UHF.

"Yes, sir. Welcome to our new home, and a mighty pretty landing, I might add. Bit noisy, though," Shannon responded.

"I had nothing to do with it, Sergeant. Autopilot does all the work," Buccari said. "I have six new inhabitants and equipment to offload. I plan to rendezvous with the 'vette on the next orbit."

"Piece of cake, Lieutenant. As soon as we can touch you. You're pretty hot, er . . . the ship, I mean, is hot.. .er, as soon as we can touch you, uh...the ship. 'Sorry, sir. We'll get..." He stopped, bemused with the laughter coming over the radio.

"Relax, Sarge," the pilot finally replied. "I copy."

"You aren't powering down, Lieutenant?" Shannon asked after several minutes. The lander's skin temperature was stabilizing rapidly in the cool, breezy air.

"I'm running tertiaries at idle so I can keep a generator on line. I need to keep the fuel pressures up—takes too much fuel and time to re-ignite otherwise, and too many things can go wrong doing a cold start," she answered. "I'm pretty comfortable right here. This gravity isn't bad, if you can stay on your back. I might just take a snooze."

* * *

"You saw what?" MacArthur asked, dropping the dried branches.

"A bear!" the big man exclaimed. Purple stains colored his lips and tongue. Sonic booms echoed in the valley. Both men jerked to the noise and stared at the sky, searching for the lander. Only the twin plumes of thin smoke from the volcanoes on each side of the valley marred the deep blue heavens.

"What the hell you been eating?" MacArthur sighed, bringing his eyes back to the surface of the planet. "Geez, Jocko, it could be poisonous."

"Berries," Chastain replied, dropping his eyes and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "They're all over the place. I picked a bunch for you, too. They're real good."

"Yeah, well, let's see how good you feel in a couple of hours," he said, falling to his knees next to the small fire. "A bear, eh?"

"Looked like a bear," Chastain said. "Up there, on the ridge."

MacArthur looked up at the ridge climbing in the distance, winding to the summit of the westernmost volcano. Smoke and steam rose from the blunt pinnacle, shredding into the stiff breeze that held the stink of the buffalo herds at bay.

"On its hind legs, next to that humpy rock pile," Chastain said. "It was twice as tall as the rocks. It disappeared over the ridge." Chastain stood, hunched over. "It was reddish-brown colored, sorta."

"How's your back?" MacArthur asked, still looking at the mountain.

"Hurts when I move wrong, but it ain't as bad as yesterday. I could try and carry my pack." Chastain's face twitched in discomfort.

"We'll wait one more day," MacArthur said, staring uphill. "I got the fire going, like you told me."

"Huh, Jocko?...oh, good," MacArthur replied, turning from the mountain. "Let's cook up some field rations to go with these berries. As soon as I eat some real food I'm going to do some climbing."

"Can I go with you, Mac? I don't want to stay...by myself." "No, Jocko. We got a big hike in front of us, and I want you ready."

An hour later MacArthur neared the ridge where Chastain had seen the animal. The location was above the tree line, devoid of vegetation, but cut with ravines, affording abundant places of concealment. MacArthur climbed until he reached the distinctive pile of boulders. He halted and looked back at the camp. Chastain, no larger than half a fingernail held at arm's length, waved enthusiastically. MacArthur waved back and somberly considered what Chastain had said about the size of the animal. Twice the size of the rock pile? The rocks came up past MacArthur' s shoulders. He threw Chastain a final wave and resumed hiking.

After three hours of climbing, the ridge faded into a shoulder of the mountain; talus and scrabble gave way to rocky slabs and short vertical ascents. MacArthur traversed the northern face of the mountain, endeavoring to get a clear view of the plateau. To the north, the rolling plains, alive with herd animals, stretched into the haze. MacArthur was hypnotized by the splashes of mixed golds and browns. The herds moved slowly around and through each other—countless animals, their ranks stretching to the limits of vision, their scent only a memory.

MacArthur came upon old lava flows and steaming vents. Despite his exertions and the unaccustomed gravity, he felt comfortable; the sun was slow in chasing the shade from the north face of the mountain, but humid steam vents smelling strongly of minerals and sulfur provided welcome warmth. MacArthur worked his way around the side of the mountain, across a surface of unrelieved igneous rock and congealed lava flows, sterile and bleak, until the distant plateau came into view. He checked his chronometer—fifteen minutes to go. Two hundred meters from the summit, the terrain changed dramatically: a small crater dominated the landscape, the truncated tip of what once had been the mountain's summit, its sides steeply banked with hardened lava flows. Thin streams of smoke and steam drifted up from its depths. Clammy, sulfurous currents caused him to blink, but fresh winds flushed the summit, making it only a nuisance.

MacArthur settled in position. At five seconds to the hour he turned on his radio, listened briefly, and broadcast: "Alpha Site, Alpha Site, Insertion Six. Alpha Site, Alpha Site, this is Six. Do you copy?"

* * *

Everyone else was at the landing site. O'Toole reclined next to the radio, having little to do but listen to static. The transmission jerked him to attention. It was weak, almost indecipherable. It was MacArthur.

"Roger Six, this is Alpha. You are weak and broken. How do you read, Mac? Over."

"Loud an ...ear, Alpha. I rea ...five by fi..." MacArthur' s reply was cracked and whispery.

"Roger, Six. You are unreadable. Hold while I get Shannon. Break. Insertion One, Alpha Site. Insertion One, this is Alpha. I got MacArthur," O'Toole broadcast.

"Roger, Alpha. One here. I hear you loud and clear, but you're all I hear," Shannon replied. "MacArthur' s batteries must be low, or he's just too far away. Ask him how Chastain is."

O'Toole played with the squelch and turned up the volume. "Okay, Six," he said. "Give me your report, but talk slow. You are very weak. How is Chastain?"

The reply was unreadable. O'Toole could decipher nothing. Shannon jumped into the confusion and told O'Toole to ask only questions with yes or no answers and to have MacArthur answer with discrete transmission pulses: one for yes, two for no. With frustrating effort O'Toole was able to comprehend a portion of MacArthur's report—Chastain' s injuries were minor, that they had seen animal life, and that they were not in danger—but little else.

"Enough," Shannon transmitted. "Terminate the connection. All we're doing is wearing down his batteries and giving the bugs a signal to localize. Order him to proceed to Alpha and to communicate, if able, at standard times."

O'Toole complied. He could no longer hear MacArthur.

* * *

MacArthur stood and stared across the distance, the magnitude of their challenge apparent. The elevation of Hudson's Plateau was much higher than his current position, and there was still the river to cross, a serious hike. Heading straight for the plateau would require skirting the plains herds and their overwhelming musk; and, once arrived at the base of the plateau, they would have to ford the river. Then, once across the river, they would have to make a direct ascent on vertical cliffs. Perplexed, he looked to the south and saw the rising hills beyond the river.

Something passed between him and the sun. MacArthur squinted into the brightness but saw nothing. He thought to remove his helmet, to widen his field of vision, but as he lifted his hand to the fitting, a fierce blow struck the back of his head. He tumbled down the steep lava slope, his head slamming to a jarring halt. Dazed, he shook his head to clear his vision and looked around, trying to find his assailant. The shadow again! MacArthur looked up.

A Gargantuan bird with an astonishing wing span dove from the sky, monstrous talons swinging menacingly. Instinctively, MacArthur pulled in his feet and, a split second before the gigantic bird tore into his chest, leapt to the side, receiving a painful, glancing blow to his left shoulder. Talons gored flesh and knocked him sprawling in the brittle cinders. Stunned, MacArthur rolled onto his knees and drew his pistol. The giant raptor wheeled for the kill. Huge! Black-bodied with white and tan pinions, its reptilian yellow eyes fixed in predatory stare. MacArthur squatted and clasped the service automatic in both hands. With cool urgency he elevated the weapon's sights and aimed at the feathered breast filling the skies. Three rounds exploded from the pistol, each slug pounding into the big bird. The eagle fell from the skies like a feathered stone.

From the bottom of a black well his thoughts returned—and his pain—and panic! He could not see. He could breathe only with difficulty. Something heavy and warm pressed his body into the rocks. A breeze caressed his hand—the hand holding the pistol. He dropped the weapon, pulled his hands and legs beneath him, and pushed to his knees; the weight on his back grudgingly lifted. Blinding sunlight struck bleary eyes. Dizzy and bedraggled, MacArthur squirmed from beneath the feathery carcass, retrieving the pistol as he struggled clear.

He crawled away, scanning the skies, pistol cocked upward. Blood flowed down his shoulder. Cuts and abrasions stung palms, elbows, and knees. His head reeled and sparks danced before his eyes. He put a hand to his helmet—the headgear was cracked, shattered through the crown. A cold breeze seeped around his sweaty head. MacArthur pulled the helmet off and cast it aside. Worthless now, it had saved his life. His body ached; he trembled. Chilly air and the first stages of shock took over. Still on his knees, he darted nervous, ducking glances between the skies overhead and the mass of feathers lying on the ground.

Clambering to his feet, MacArthur staggered to the bird's head and gingerly poked at it with the barrel of his pistol. It was dead, its yellow eyes staring but not seeing. Tentatively, MacArthur grabbed hold of a wing and lugged it out to its full extent. It was three times as long as a man was tall. He moved around the carcass and repeated the process with the other wing. Wingtip to wingtip the span measured fifteen paces across! The gaudy orange beak, fiercely hooked like an eagle's, was as long as his leg! He stood erect over his fallen foe, amazed at the power and substance of his attacker, but also feeling an atavistic flush of victory. He shook himself and returned the pistol to its holster. Drawing his survival knife from its ankle scabbard, he hacked off chunks of the eagle's proud breast and carried them away in his shattered helmet. Tonight they would have something beside berries to eat with their field rations.

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