"A search radar, Skipper," Hudson said. "Someone's watching us."
Buccari watched the commander clear his console. He had been re-playing the communication tapes of the battle. Buccari felt his despair.
"Surprising it took this long," Quinn sighed. "At least they aren't shooting…yet."
"You get a fix on the transmitter, Nash?" Buccari asked.
"Yeah," Hudson replied. "Mapping isn't complete, but the source is located here." Hudson designated the coordinates on their screens. "We'll be out of range in five minutes. Funny. No acquisition signals, no targeting lobes, no interrogations. It's as if they're indifferent."
"They may have other targeting methods," Buccari said. "Optical—"
"No matter. It's time to start moving," Quinn said, as if coming awake. "We didn't come this far to get blown out of orbit. Run the fuel numbers, Sharl."
"The good news is we're in low orbit," Buccari said, scanning her digital clipboard. "We have fuel for an injection run and at least seven round trips carrying standard loads, assuming we have a stable landing site. Any problems or delays and we easily double the consumption. And, of course, any serious problems and the lander doesn't get back up to the ship. Makes the rest of the calculations somewhat academic."
"Don't be so damned optimistic," Quinn said.
Buccari smiled, taking the command pilot's rudeness as a good sign. "I've been working on EPL manifests," she said. "On the first landing I recommend we take down a generator and an auxiliary fuel tank—"
"Crew first, equipment second," Quinn said.
"But Commander," she argued, "after we inject the Marines, we'll have fuel for seven or even eight landings. We only need four runs to get the crew and their equipment down. If we have fuel problems on the planet, the whole program is over. Anyone left onboard is stranded."
Quinn hit his palm with a fist. "That's my point," he responded too loudly, strain showing in his face. "We load the lander with crew until we get everyone down. We'll review priorities after the first trip. For now, do it my way."
Buccari withheld comment. She glanced through the flightdeck viewscreen at the ethereal limb of the planet. The corvette was well past the terminator. Her thoughts darkened with the planet below; night engulfed their only hope. No lights twinkled, no cities sparkled—no lights at all. Buccari scanned the unplumbable depths. And then her eyes detected a soft amber glow—a luminescence above the orbital plane, rotating into view on the horizon.
"Nash! I have a visual on lights! What's on the instruments?"
"Volcanoes, Sharl," Hudson stated quietly. "Showing moderate to heavy seismic activity. We could be in for some interesting shore leave."
"Get off the deck, Sharl," Quinn ordered abruptly. "This is my watch."
"Aye, Commander," she replied dryly, separating from her station and pushing through the pressure iris. She took the first junction and descended onto the mess deck, stopping at her locker to stow helmet and battle suit. Helmet off, she could once again feel and hear the ambient drone of the circulation systems, the vibrations and whispers of the ship's power systems. The confined and recirculated odors of life in space, stale and antiseptic, assaulted her sensibilities.
The mess deck was congested with the off-watch. Sleep cells were vacant, everyone more nervous than tired. As usual, spacer Marines floated around the game tables, although the magnetic dice were still. The hulking, forest-green clad men watched her, their demeanor uncharacteristically subdued. It had been two days since the emergency sortie, and the rugged warriors, particularly the darker ones, displayed resurgent stubble on their normally hairless bodies—an inevitable result of foregoing twice daily depilatories and skin scrubs. The air in the corvette was pungent, especially in the vicinity of the Marines.
"What's the deal, Lieutenant?" Corporal Tatum asked, orienting his lanky body to Buccari's vertical and assuming a respectful, if loose, position of attention. "MacArthur says we're going to inject." All conversation stopped.
"That's the plan," Buccari replied.
"Injection!" Gordon exclaimed, thin-framed and youthful. "Hope Mac tags me."
"Don't be so anxious to die, Boot," admonished O'Toole, a high-browed private first class. "But don't worry; there's only six fun plugs. You can ride down with the rest of the women.. er, excuse me, Lieutenant. I didn't—"
"No problem," Buccari yawned.
"Sir, what's it like—the planet?" Chastain asked. He was huge—a giant—his cow eyes wide with innocent alarm. "Can you breathe the air? What we going to do, huh, sir?"
"Got no choice, pea-brain," said Petit, heavy-bearded, barrel-chested and lantern-jawed. "What else we going to do—hold our breath?"
The giant hung his head, embarrassed.
"Easy, Petit," warned Tatum. "Let Jocko ask his questions—"
"Good. It looks real good," Buccari replied. "We got a breathable atmosphere. We know that much. Survey systems are still in bad shape. We should have a reasonable planet profile in a few hours, but Private Petit is right—we don't have much of a choice." She was tired, hungry, and thirsty. Too excited to sleep, she could not ignore her stomach. She pushed by the Marines and aimed for the galley.
"Where's Corporal Mac?" she asked as she grabbed a squeeze container and drew off some soup. It was hot, deliciously warming her hands.
"Lander bay, Lieutenant," replied Tatum. "Him and the sergeant-major are helping Jones configure penetrators." As Tatum spoke, the afterhatch yawned open. Lander Boatswain First Class Jones, Corporal MacArthur, and a senior enlisted Marine floated onto the mess decks.
"Lieutenant, checking good!" the boatswain roared. "Heard the skinny from Ensign Hudson. You whupped up on those bugs. Burned three of them! Flamed butt!"
"Not sure whose butt got flamed, Boats," replied Buccari. "Let's worry about getting everyone down, shall we? Everything ready?"
"You bet, sir. Checking good, with you steering and me flapping," Jones crowed. "Been telling Sarge Shannon here how good you are. These boot chewers don't believe you're a legend."
"Throttle back, Boats," Buccari said, smiling weakly, "and stop spewing."
"She's superwoman, er… excuse me, Lieutenant," Jones persisted. "Lieutenant Buccari and me've won the fleet EPL competitions three years running. No one's ever even won it more than twice, 'cept us."
"Don't believe it," Buccari smirked, "especially the part about him being the reason why. I could have done it with Fenstermacher."
"Aw, Lieutenant! Hurt me sorely," Jones groaned.
"Everyone knows the lieutenant is the best pilot in the fleet," Laser Corporal MacArthur said. The lithe, square-shouldered Marine stared squarely into Buccari' s eyes, his own pewter-gray eyes alert and clear. Buccari looked down at the deck.
"Mac thinks you're pretty, too, sir," Chastain said. The Marines hooted and banged their boots on the deck.
"Why, Corporal!" Buccari declared, pivoting sharply to confront the squad leader. "Thank you. I bet you say that about all the officers."
"Eh…" MacArthur stammered, blushing as he pushed the hood from his wide forehead. "Hardly, sir—er…I mean, you're welcome, sir. No disrespect intended." He shot Chastain a withering glare, his fine features revealing determination more than anger.
"You can't be denying your fame, Lieutenant," interrupted the sergeant-major, a chesty, square-jawed, broken-veined space veteran. "Sergeant-Major Shannon, sir."