The runaway merchant galleon was falling at fifty knots.
Lord Giles Croft raised his brass binoculars. He tracked the crippled vessel as it broke through the ragged lower cloud base.
The gold lettering along the scorched bow read Breeze-Dancer.
Her port steering rudders hung limp, shattered by boiler backfire.
Her aft repulsor floats flickered with dying orange sparks, dumping lift faster than her crew could vent ballast.
“Four hundred tons gross shifted weight,” Giles said, his voice flat and calm.
“Approach speed twenty-five meters per second.
Touchdown point will be station four plus zero.
