Tigh’s next question was a lot more sobering, though.
“So what do we do about our prisoner?”
Ragnar Station, Interior
“What? You can’t—you can’t—you can’t do this!” Doral’s cries echoed through the metal-walled chambers of the Ragnar Station. Tigh accompanied a crew of two guards and two crewmen carrying cases of supplies, as they force-marched Aaron Doral into a huge, unused compartment within the Ragnar Station.
“You can’t just leave me here to die!” Released by the guards, Doral spun around and shouted his desperate plea.
Tigh answered in a steely voice. “You’ve got food, water, all the luxuries of home.” Even as he said it, he was turning to go back to Galactica. The guards and crewmen followed.
“I’m—I’m begging you! Don’t do this! I’m not a Cylon!” Doral cried behind them.
“May be, but we just can’t take that chance,” Tigh said with finality. “For all we know, you could be the one who gave them our position.”
“I’m not a Cylon!” Doral screamed.
The guards, backing out of the entrance, pulled on the heavy steel doors. “What kind of people are you?” Doral shouted, as the heavy doors shut with a thunderous boom. There were two further clanks as locks slid into place.
Through the heavy steel doors, they could still hear his shouts:
“Don’t leave me… !”
CHAPTER
46
Leaving Ragnar Anchorage
“Action stations! Action stations! Set Condition One throughout the ship!”
The warning voice echoed repeatedly as Commander Adama turned off the main corridor, went down a set of steps, and strode into the CIC. The place was afire with tension. The crew were doing their jobs with deliberation overlaid with urgency. Colonel Tigh met him. “The fleet is ready to Jump, sir.”
Adama nodded. “Lieutenant Gaeta,” he said, crossing the center of the CIC.
“Yes, sir.”
He handed Gaeta an octagonal paper bearing a complex series of numbers. “Disperse to all the fleet. Final coordinates.” He’d had two other people plot the Jump independently, and used their results as a check on Gaeta’s calculations. Gaeta’s work was confirmed. The start-point coordinate was still missing; that would have to await their emergence from the storm.
“Yes, sir.” Gaeta took the paper and went at once to the nearest comm station. He would be transmitting the coordinates not by wireless, which the Cylons might intercept even through the storm, but by short-range ship-to-ship laser transmission. If they’d been at sea, they might have used blinker lights, in a cascade from one ship to another.
Adama spoke quietly to his XO. “Stand by to execute battle plan.”
The fleet was moving. Galactica led the way out through the maelstrom of Ragnar’s atmosphere, taking a carefully chosen course that would keep as much of the fleet hidden as long as possible from the Cylons. The green clouds swirled their toxic dance. Lightning flashed along the edges of the ships.
It was an armada such as humanity had never launched before, except perhaps in the days of the exodus from Kobol, in the distant past. There were ships of every size and description: small freighters and transports, enormous passenger liners, private yachts, tankers, a ring-ship, one of just about every kind of ship known to the Twelve Colonies. It was motley, it was ragtag, and it looked as though it couldn’t possibly stick together in a coordinated fashion. And yet it did.
Galactica was now approaching the outer limits of the storm, close to the point where they could take their final reading and make the Jump—and also close to where the Cylons would detect them with ease.
As they reached the outer fringe of the atmosphere, the battlestar began a slow turn, bringing herself broadside to the expected position of the Cylons. Galactica’s purpose was to defend the Ragnar storm exit point. If she could protect the civilian fleet from the Cylons even for a few minutes, it would give the fleet the precious seconds it needed to make the Jump. Only a matter of moments, now.
“Weapons grid to full power,” Colonel Tigh ordered, striding through the CIC. “Stand by enemy-suppression barrage.”
On the outer hull of Galactica, forty-eight gun batteries swung into position, both rapid-fire cannon and longer-range heavy cannon. In the last battle, there’d been no ammunition for these guns, but now their magazines were full. On the other hand, they’d faced only a few raiders before; now they were up against a much more fearsome enemy, the Cylon base stars.
As the gunners made ready to fire, Galactica emerged at last from the interference of the storm, into what should have been the calm of space.
Gaeta, on the short-range dradis, saw what most of the crew could only imagine with dread: Cylon raiders swarming away from the nearby base star, like bees from a hive. They were too many to count by sight, but the dradis console told him the news. “Incoming seventy-two Cylon fighters, closing at one-two-zero mark four-eight!”
“FTL, get your fix and transmit to the fleet!” Adama ordered, watching on the overhead dradis monitor. He hated to give the Cylons time to disperse for attack, but they were still out of range. Until… closing, closing… now. “Enemy suppression fire—all batteries execute!”
His command was echoed by Colonel Tigh, on the all-ship: “All batteries, commence firing.”
The outer hull of Galactica came alive like a manic fireworks finale. The long-range cannon pounded out heavy fire against the enemy, thud-thud-thud-thud, relentlessly. The rapid-fire cannon erupted in streaming volleys, creating a jet stream of deadly fire raining outward at the incoming raiders.
The emptiness of space was filled with swarming killers, the scythelike Cylon raiders breaking in seemingly random zigzags, the hail of fire from Galactica, and then the white-hot streaks of the fast-boosting Cylon missiles, aimed at the battlestar and the fleet behind her. For a few moments, it looked as if the suppression fire was doing nothing. And then the Cylons started to explode, repeatedly, in great blossoms of fire…
From within the ship, it sounded like a continuous drumroll, over the bass-drum pounding of the heavies. Adama watched, grateful for every gunner who managed to pick off an incoming missile or an approaching fighter. Finally, Gaeta called out, “Perimeter established!”
The suppression-barrage had created a bubble of relative safety immediately surrounding the ship; now the Vipers were to widen the bubble and keep the raiders at bay. “Launch Vipers,” Adama ordered.
The voice of Dualla called out over the all-ship, “Vipers, cleared to launch.”
In the port launch bay, Captain Kelly gave the word, and Vipers sped down multiple launch tubes, flung into space by the magnetic catapults…
In the lead squadron, CAG Lee Adama, call-sign Apollo, led his wing of Vipers in a sweep, starting by getting them the hell out of the line of fire of Galactica’s gun batteries. His call went out to all the Vipers: “Broken formation, Razzle-Dazzle, don’t let ’em use their targeting computers! And for frak’s sake, stay out of Galactica’s firing solution!”
In another Viper, Starbuck nodded, keenly aware of just how difficult that was going to be. Cylons everywhere, freewheeling dogfight—and pull it off without getting directly between Galactica and the enemy.
From Galactica came the final instruction, Dualla’s voice calmly passing on the order: “Vipers engage fighters only. Leave the base star to us.”
“Okay, people, let’s do it.”
At Apollo’s signal, the Vipers shot outward in irregular formation, opening fire on the approaching raiders. In moments, all was chaos again, as fighters dodged and swerved, engaging the enemy. Some Cylons exploded, but so did some Vipers.
Apollo was hard pressed to track the immediate adversaries, keep a watch on the squadron at the same time—and do so without the aid of onboard computers. He was flying the way he had not flown since his last war games: spinning, twisting, flying tight and fast, and mostly by the seat of his pants. To his right, he saw on
e of his wingmen explode, hit by a Cylon missile. Cursing viciously, he dodged a raider, brought another into his sights, and let loose a burst on the cannon. It exploded. But there were so many more, far more of the Cylons than of the Vipers. He made a hard pitch up and a left turn, just in time to see another of his wingmen explode. Frak!
No time to think about it; three more raiders were buzzing around him. He kept turning, flipping, shooting. Another enemy gone. Several more coming in…
* * *
Colonel Tigh’s command went out to the fleet: “Galactica to all civilian ships. Commence Jumping in sequence.”
As still more Cylon missiles streaked in, some this time aiming for the civilian ships that were beginning to emerge from the storm, bright flashes of light signaled the departure of one ship after another through the folds in space that would take them to safety.
Galactica was holding the perimeter, but just barely. The Cylons were pressing the attack inward, and the Vipers could not avoid giving up ground. It was only a question of time until the Cylons broke through.
The Cylon missile tracks were getting closer, overwhelming the ability of the gunners or Vipers to stop them. In the CIC, Gaeta’s voice shouted a warning: “Incoming ordnance!” An instant later, the CIC shook from an explosion on the outer hull—then another. More than one screen shattered or went dark. The hits were probably not nukes, but were bad enough.
Tigh was on a handset at once. “Damage control—!”
Apollo’s jaw set with grim determination as he and his crew-mates fought against the steadily turning tide. How many ships away? His thumb squeezed the trigger, and another burst bracketed a Cylon above, below, then dead center. He veered out of the explosion path.
As he came back around, he saw another flash, and another of his shipmates died.
A flash, a different kind, and another civilian ship was away.
His headset was filled with chatter from the other pilots, warning each other, giving breathless encouragement, cursing with rage. Apollo remained silent except for the occasional barked order. All of his attention was on flying, shooting, and keeping an eye on Galactica and the fleet. Another ship away—a big one, too, just before a Cylon missile streaked right through the spot the ship had occupied an instant before.
Another target in sight. Kill the frakking thing. He squeezed a long burst, longer than he should, but it ended in a blossom of exploding Cylon.
Still another coming in, though, and he couldn’t come around quite fast enough. He saw the streak out of the corner of his eye, then felt the bone-crushing SLAM of the impact, and his Viper spinning out of control. Frakking hell! He fought to stabilize it, but his left wing was gone, the engine on fire, and all he had left working was a handful of thrusters.
Somewhere dimly he heard Starbuck’s voice: “Apollo! Do you read me?” He had no time to answer.
Using the thrusters, he gradually succeeded in slowing the spin. He saw a Cylon coming around, and his spin brought it directly into his sights. A quick squeeze, and another blossom. But the Viper was still gyrating, and there were plenty of enemies left.
Oh damn.
At his ten o’clock, he saw the white trail of a missile seeking its target. And its target was him. There was absolutely nothing he could do now except hold his breath and say good-bye…
The missile closed—and exploded in a hail of cannon fire, as a Viper shot past him. And Starbuck’s voice screaming with delight, “Wheeeee! C’mon, basss-tard!” And arcing right, then left, she destroyed the Cylon that had launched the missile. She turned back toward him. “Looks like you broke your ship, Apollo!”
“I’ve had worse!” he lied, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. “But thanks!”
His joy was cut short, though, as he looked to his left and saw another white streak—and the fiery blaze of a direct hit on Galactica.
CHAPTER
47
Galactica, Combat Information Center
Commander Adama wasn’t sure how much longer the ship could take this kind of pounding. The CIC was shaking as if an earthquake had struck, and consoles and wiring were flaring and sputtering. Colonel Tigh was making his way across the center. “Function check on the damage control panel!” he shouted to the two nearest crewmen.
Tigh reached Adama’s side as another hit threatened to crush the ship. Grimacing in pain, Adama pulled himself up as Tigh reported, “We’ve got multiple hull breaches. They’re targeting the landing bays. We’ve got to get the fighters back on board, retract the pods, or we won’t be able to Jump.”
“Fleet status!” Adama shouted.
In the monitor, one last large ship vanished in a flash of light. Gaeta turned. “Last civilian ship’s away!”
“Recall all fighters! Stand by to secure landing bays!” Adama ordered.
Dualla’s voice rang out, “Galactica to all Vipers, Break off, come on home. Repeat! Come on home!”
Apollo’s call reinforced the message. “All Vipers, this is the CAG! Return home at once! Starbuck, that means you, too!”
“Frak that, I’m coming after you!” answered Starbuck.
“Starbuck, shove the heroics and get home!”
“Save your breath! We go back together!”
Starbuck’s fighter continued to maneuver protectively around Apollo’s disabled craft, raking one Cylon after another with her cannon fire as they came too close. The other Vipers of the squadron were obeying the come-home order and were flocking back to Galactica.
In the port landing bay, wave after wave of Vipers came in hot, holding together in shaky formation. With a thunderous, rhythmic pounding spread along the entire length of the landing bay, they slammed down in emergency combat landings. They all came down hard; many of them bounced and some collided. But in they came, wing after wing of fighters, half of them with battle damage. The last few came in hotter than the rest, and had to brake-thrust violently to keep from plowing into the Vipers ahead of them.
Many of them broke something in landing. But their pilots came home alive.
In the CIC, Gaeta and Dualla were frantically tracking the IDs of the returning Vipers, getting a count.
Gaeta straightened up with his clipboard. “Forty-three. Ship reports ready for Jump as soon as landing bay’s secure, sir.”
Adama squinted up at the monitor, his stomach in knots. All back. All that were alive. Or were they? In the monitor he saw a spread of Cylon missiles, too fast for the gunners to handle. The ship quaked from the impact.
Dualla called, “Two Vipers still out there, sir! Starbuck and Apollo!”
Colonel Tigh strode past Adama, reaching for a microphone. “We can’t stand toe to toe with those base ships.” He grabbed the mic. “Retract the pods!”
Adama picked himself up from where the last impact had thrown him against a table, and looked anxiously from one monitor to another. Pods retracting, and Starbuck and Lee still out there? They’d lost Lee’s signal, but Starbuck was still out there with him. “I can’t leave them here,” he muttered. Raising his voice, he called, “Stand by on that pod retraction!” and to Dualla, “Patch me through to Starbuck!”
“Yes sir.”
He picked up a slender headset and held it to his ear and mouth. “Starbuck! What do you hear?”
The universe was going insane. Starbuck had shot up more Cylon raiders than she could count, and still they kept coming. She continued maneuvering around Apollo, keeping him alive until he could troubleshoot his machine, kick it in gear, and head back home. As another raider exploded at pointblank range, she heard a voice in her headset: “Starbuck, Galactica. What’d you… ’ere…”
“WHAT?” she shouted, over the intense cockpit noise, with just about everything running or firing at once.
The next time it came in clearer. It was Commander Adama, astoundingly calm. “Good morning, Starbuck. What do you hear?”
At that instant, her canopy was pelted by a hail of tiny bits of debris from a shattered Cylon. Another
time, she might have been worried about being holed. But just now she could only grin crazily and answer, “Nothing but the rain.”
“Then grab your gun and bring the cat in.”
The pelting continued. “Aye-aye, sir! Comin’ home!” She pitched up and over, potting another Cylon on her turn. “Let’s go, Apollo! Can you move that crate yet?”
From the Viper behind, she heard Apollo’s voice: “I’m losing power. I’m not gonna make it, Starbuck! It’s over. Just leave, damn it—that’s an order!”
“Lee, shut up and hold still!” Frakking hell with his orders. Starbuck fired her nose and belly thrusters and launched her ship up and over, in a completely reckless flip into an inside loop. “Whhaaa-HAAAAAHH!” Watching Apollo pass by her in an inverted position, she gave it one more second, then yanked back on the stick and repeated the maneuver and rolled sharply to complete the loop. She was now in front of Apollo’s ship, aiming straight at his nose.
“Oh no,” she heard Apollo murmur.
Starbuck kicked in power, hard, then eased back. She had to do this exactly right, or she’d kill them both. Apollo’s ship loomed in front of her. “YAHHHHHHHHH!” She tickled the yaw ever so slightly to the right, banked a hair—and slammed into Apollo’s Viper, nose beside nose, jamming the root of her left wing hard against the tip of his nose. She threw the mag-lock switch, praying that it would help hold the ships together.
“You are beyond insane!” he shouted as he flew backwards toward home, propelled by her engines. His canopy was maybe half a dozen meters ahead of hers, and she could see him gesturing and trying to look around behind him.
“Kickin’ in the burn!” she cried gleefully, hammering in full power. Together, one forward, one backward, they screamed through space toward Galactica.
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