"Very well," Adama said, and looked back down at the printouts.
Beside him, Tigh looked up, incredulous. "This is a joke! The fleet's playing a joke on you. It's a retirement prank!" When Adama didn't respond, he pleaded, "Come on!"
With the announcement phone in his hand, Adama finally looked at him. "I don't think so." Tigh looked bewildered. His jacket was open, and it was clear he'd been drinking.
Adama raised the heavy microphone in his hand and keyed the attention-tone. He spoke clearly, but in a modulated voice as he addressed the entire ship. "This is the commander. Moments ago, this ship received word that a Cylon attack against our home worlds was underway."
He paused to let that sink in, then continued grimly, "We do not know the size or the disposition or the strength of the enemy forces. But all indications point to a massive assault against the Colonial defenses. Admiral Nagala has taken personal command of the fleet, aboard the battlestar Atlantia, following the complete destruction of Picon Fleet Headquarters in the first wave of the attacks. How—why—doesn't really matter now. What does matter is that, as of this moment, we are at war."
Again he paused, and was well aware of the sober, frightened expressions on the faces of the crewmembers in the CIC, which he knew reflected reactions throughout the ship. He continued in measured tones. "You've trained for this. You're ready for this. Stand to your duties. Trust your shipmates. And we'll all get through this. Further updates as we get them." He looked around the CIC, meeting the eyes of everyone nearby, wishing he could meet the eyes of every crewmember on the ship. They were all young, and with the exception of Tigh, none of them had ever been in combat before. "Thank you." He released the PUSH-TO-TALK button and hung up the handset.
Speaking to the crewmembers at nearby workstations, he began issuing orders. "Tactical—begin a plot of all military units in the solar system, friendly or otherwise." As Gaeta acknowledged, Adama turned to Tigh. "XO!"
"Sir."
Adama lowered his voice, as Tigh stepped to his side. "If we're going to be in a shooting war, we need something to shoot with." His gaze met Tigh's.
Looking stricken, as if he still couldn't believe they were once again at war, Tigh said, "I'll start checking the munitions depots." He hurried away.
Adama swung around again. "D." Petty Officer Dualla was already looking at him. "Send a signal to our fighter squadron. I want positions and tactical status immediately."
"Yes sir," said Dualla.
"And get Kara Thrace out of the brig."
* * * *
Following Commander Adama's announcement, Chief Tyrol faced a circle of deckhands who all looked as if they'd been punched in the stomach. We are at war. The fear was etched in their faces; he felt it himself. Not a one of them had ever been in battle before, including Tyrol himself. No matter, he knew his responsibility: He had to be strong so that they could be strong. As he spoke, he turned in place to face the circle. "All right, people—this is what we do." Keep turning. Meet their fears head-on. "We're the best. So let's get the old girl ready to roll—and kick some Cylon ass!" He smacked his hands together. "Come on! Let's go! Move!"
As the deck crew broke to their duties, preparing for the return of their squadron, Tyrol put his hands on his hips and muttered under his breath, "This had better be for real."
Chapter 16
Galactica's Last Attack Squadron, Two Hours From Caprica
Sharon Valerii—Boomer—was in the right seat in the cockpit of the Raptor when the signal from Galactica came in. Helo, in the left seat, was spelling her at the controls. The Raptor, while somewhat slower and less maneuverable than the Vipers, was a more complex ship. It had room to carry a small complement of commandoes, and it was crammed with surveillance and intelligence-gathering equipment. The instrument panel in front of the pilot was easily twice the size of the panel in a Viper. In a space battle, the Raptor would be the one standing off at a distance, tracking the enemy and sending directions to the fast fighters. But in a landing operation, it could be in the vanguard, carrying soldiers to the front line.
This was a low-key flight, ferrying the squadron of Vipers and the Raptor itself to their next assignment. For most in the squadron, it was a bittersweet departure. Sharon didn't know anyone who didn't have pangs about leaving Galactica and the command of William "Husker" Adama; but for most, there was also the challenge of the next assignment to look forward to. Many felt that they'd been in the public-relations business for too long. Galactica herself, as the oldest battlestar in the fleet, had been performing mostly ceremonial duties for years now. For Sharon, though, the departure was all bitter, no sweet. She'd barely had time for a proper good-bye with Galen Tyrol. She didn't know when she'd see him again, or whether there was any possibility of maintaining their relationship.
It was possible, she supposed, that it could be a blessing in disguise. Sooner or later, their affair on Galactica was bound to blow up in their faces, and at least now they would no longer be engaged in an illicit affair, Lieutenant Sharon Valerii with her subordinate officer, Chief Tyrol. And they wouldn't be asking the whole deck crew to cover for them.
Frakking small consolation.
The wireless buzzed. It was Dualla, on Galactica. They'd spoken three or four times since the squadron had departed. This was no doubt just another check-in. "Raptor Three-One-Two," Sharon answered. "What's up, D.?"
"Boomer, we're recalling you! There's been a massive Cylon attack throughout the system—all Colonies under attack, including Caprica! Repeat, we're recalling your squadron. Please acknowledge."
Sharon exchanged horrified glances with Helo, in the left seat. She had to work very hard to keep her voice from quavering. "Galactica, Raptor Three-One-Two, roger. What are our instructions?"
"Raptor Three-One-Two, report your current position and tactical status. Scan your area for Cylons and estimate your time back to Galactica."
Helo was already out of his seat, climbing back to the instrumentation section. "I'm on it, Boomer, just give me a minute. Better put your helmet on."
Sharon managed to secure her helmet on her neck collar, but she was otherwise nearly frozen with panic. She was not just a rookie, she was the youngest pilot in the whole Galactica detachment. And because her Raptor was the Command and Communication center for the squadron, she had taken the call, and she had to pass the news on to the rest. Swallowing, she called the CAG, Jackson Spencer, lead pilot for the squadron.
"I heard it, Boomer. Send Galactica all the data you can, and plot us a course back. Squadron, prepare for immediate course change."
Searching for Cylons was one thing. But they were far enough from Galactica that it was going to be hard to return with the fuel they had. Reversing course in space was a very fuel-intensive thing to do. "Helo!" she yelled. "What have you got?"
"Holy frak, Sharon—"
Before Helo could continue, the CAG broke in again. "Disregard previous orders. Boomer, inform Galactica we've detected a formation of Cylon fighters directly ahead. And I intend to attack." Pause. "Boomer, do you copy?"
Sharon saw the Cylon formation on her own dradis screen. The ghostly contacts had appeared out of nowhere. "Copy that," she managed to reply to the CAG. Holy frak, is right.
Helo was leaning over her shoulder, apparently sensing her alarm. "Ease up there, Boomer," he said calmly. "Take a deep breath." She gulped and nodded, and slowly relaxed her white-knuckle grip on the control stick. He patted her on the shoulder, through her thick spacesuit, and headed back to his instruments as she made the call to Galactica.
"Stand by," she said to Dualla, after giving the preliminary information. "Helo?"
Back at the instrument panel, Helo was scanning the area. "I show ten—no, no, make that five Cylon raiders on course three-two-four mark one-one-zero, speed seven-point-one. Time to intercept . . ." There was a long hesitation. "Seven minutes."
"You don't sound too sure." That was the CAG.
Sharon could see most of w
hat Helo was coming up with on her own dradis display, though she couldn't enhance the image the way he could. She answered for him, "There's a lot of jamming going on out there. The Cylons are using a lot of sensor decoys. We're sorting through them, but—"
"Understood," said the CAG. "Just take your time. Guide us in. We'll do the rest."
"Yes sir." Just do it one step at a time, Sharon thought, swallowing bile. One step at a time . . . into your first taste of combat. Don't be scared . . .
* * * *
Galactica, Combat Information Center
In the CIC, Gaeta was using colored grease pencils to mark out the tactical situation on a large light table, using readings from their own dradis, as well as information received from Atlantia. A series of lines traced the positions and courses of a number of Colonial forces, relative to the closest worlds. "So that would put our squadron about here," he said, marking a spot in blue between Galactica and Caprica. "Now, it looks like the main fight is shaping up over here, near Virgon's orbit. Even at top speed, they're still over an hour away."
Adama frowned over the display. "Plot a course along this axis"—he traced a finger over the table—"and keep Virgon between us and the battle. We might be able to get pretty close before the Cylons are even aware—"
As Gaeta acknowledged, Adama looked up and saw Dualla returning to the CIC, with Kara Thrace right behind her. Tigh was following Kara's appearance with a frown. She tossed him a mocking half-salute, then presented herself soberly to Adama. "Commander?" This time her salute was thoroughly professional. "Ready for duty, sir."
"Good." His voice was terse and grim; he didn't have time to think about the nonsense between her and Tigh.
Kara waited a heartbeat for Adama to say something more, then blurted, "Where the hell did the Cylons come from?"
Adama looked up. "All we know for sure is that they achieved complete surprise. We've taken heavy losses. We lost thirty battlestars in the opening attack." He said it matter-of-factly, but just voicing the numbers made his heart heavy.
Kara didn't flinch, at least not outwardly. But her voice conveyed disbelief. "That's a quarter of the fleet."
"I need pilots, and I need fighters." He stared hard at the plotting table, trying to see a way out of the seemingly hopeless situation.
"Pilots you got. I just passed twenty of them, climbing the walls down in the ready room. But fighters—" She shook her head. The last active wing had left yesterday for Caprica and Picon. There were just a few Vipers, undergoing maintenance, last she'd heard.
Adama turned to meet her gaze squarely. "I seem to remember an entire squadron of fighters down in the starboard hangar deck yesterday."
For an instant, Kara's face was filled with incredulity—a squadron of obsolete, worn out, deactivated Vipers?—and then the incredulity gave way to resolve, as she realized the same thing he had. Those retired Vipers were their only hope. "Yes sir," she said, saluting smartly—and spun away and left the CIC at a dead run.
The starboard hangar deck had truly been turned into a museum, and had the subdued lighting of a museum gallery, with soft-focus beams aimed at the Vipers on display. Kara had a momentary feeling of invading the peace of the place, as she, the other pilots, and the hangar crew dashed onto the floor and began pulling down the velvet-rope guardrails around the meticulously placed Vipers. Then someone turned on the bright overhead floodlights, and the feeling vanished. Suddenly they were liberating fighting ships, ships needed on the front lines. Museum signs and placards soon littered the floor, torn in haste from the craft.
Everyone seemed to know instinctively what to do. The pilots started making walk-around inspections of the fighters, while the deckhands made quick checks under access panels, removed wheel chocks, and began moving tow-tractors into position. Kara strode alongside the nearest Viper with Chief Tyrol and squinted through the cockpit canopy. "Are you sure they'll fly?" she asked doubtfully.
Tyrol paced energetically, swinging his arms as he surveyed the collection of fighters. "Well, the reactor cores are all pulled, of course—but they're stored hot, and they'll pop right back in. Then all we have to do is recalibrate, restore the hydraulics and batteries, refuel, load the ordnance, and you're ready to go."
Kara looked back at him, biting her lip. "I thought all the ordnance was taken off back at Rhapsody Station, everything but what the CAG's squadron took with them."
Tyrol looked pained. "Yeah, most of it's gone. In fact, the only reason we have any at all is that Caprica Base wanted us to offload some there."
"So, we've got—"
"We've got about enough to load up your cannons. Not a hell of a lot more."
Kara took a deep breath. "Okay."
"The biggest problem is getting these things over to the port launch bay."
Kara looked sharply at Tyrol. "Why can't we use the starboard launch?"
"It's a gift shop now."
"Frak me."
"All right, let's go!" Tyrol called out. "Everybody pick a bird, we're going to the port launch bay! Get the tows on the ones closest to the service passage, and let's get 'em moving! Reactor crew, get back to port-side and start breaking the reactor cores out of storage! Let's go, we need to get these birds flying!"
The first Vipers were already in motion, on their way to the port hangar.
Things were for the moment quiet in the CIC, as everyone did their jobs and prayed for better news. Still no word on a place to find ammunition. A course had been plotted that would take them to the biggest fight, but right now they had nothing to fight with even if they got there. The commander was very quiet, waiting for developments, especially word from the hangar deck—and word from the CAG's squadron.
Petty Officer Dualla was scowling over the latest incoming comm printouts when Lieutenant Gaeta peered over her shoulder. "What's the latest, D.?"
She felt a knot in her stomach as she said, "A lot of confusion. I'm not getting much solid information from the fleet, but I keep seeing these weird reports about equipment malfunctions."
"Why's that weird?" Gaeta asked.
Dualla shook her head. "It's the number of malfunctions. It's happening all through the fleet. One report said an entire battlestar lost power just before it came into contact with the enemy. They said it was like someone just turned off a switch."
Gaeta frowned at her. "And?"
"Apparently that was the last message from her, on an emergency transmitter." Her voice faltered. "Before she was destroyed."
Gaeta didn't answer, but his face was grave as he turned to report to the commander.
Chapter 17
Galactica Viper Squadron, Near Caprica
The CAG's squadron was rapidly approaching the reported position of the Cylon formation. Its numbers and configuration seemed to be changing every time they took a new dradis reading; the electronic interference was infuriating. At the surveillance panel behind Boomer, Helo was giving minute-to-minute updates on the long-range situation. "We're down to two confirmed Cylons now. Approaching visual range on their formation."
The CAG, leading the Viper formation, called back, his voice distorted by interference on the wireless, "Okay, Boomer, we'll take it from here. You back way off."
"Roger that," Sharon replied—and hit the maneuvering thrusters, lifting the Raptor out of the Viper formation, then allowing it to fall back behind their advance. She had her fingers crossed, and she was scared to death. She knew they all must be. Even the CAG, all toughness and confidence, was flying into his first kill-or-be-killed combat mission. He never let it show, but he knew his limitations; they all did. And Sharon . . . Stop it. Stop thinking about it. Do your job, just do your job and don't let anyone down, all right?
"All right, boys and girls," the CAG was saying. "Break into attack formation. There might be only two of them out there, but I want you to stick with your wingman and do not get overconfident."
The Vipers were nearly out of visual range, ahead of the Raptor. Boomer followed their
progress by their wireless chatter, and by the little blips on the dradis screen, brightening as the little hoop-shaped lines of the scanner beam rotated past them. Still only two . . .
"Anybody know what these things look like?" someone asked. Scott, Boomer thought.
He was answered by a female voice. Erin. "The pictures I've seen of old Cylon fighters, they looked like a big flying wing."
A third voice: "Those pictures are forty years old. How do we know what they look like now?"
"Just shoot at whatever you see," answered Erin, with a laugh that was maybe a little too carefree to be real.
"Okay, keep the chatter down," the CAG interjected.
"Boomer," said Helo, behind her.
Sharon looked again at her dradis screen. The number of Cylons approaching the Vipers was multiplying rapidly. Oh frak. "CAG, Boomer. We've got a lot more contacts coming up. We've got a couple of squadrons, at least." She was trying to count them, but the display kept changing too rapidly. "Look sharp, you guys . . ."
In the dark of space, where nothing lived, the Cylons came in search of prey. They were silver, sleek, and powerful, with gull wings that swept sharply forward and inward at the tips, like great claws. The machine intelligence that drove them was relentless and implacable. They feared nothing; they would stop at nothing; there was nothing they would not destroy, if it bore the scent of humanity.
The nose of each raider was a shrouded metal head. In another time and place, it might have been taken for the helmeted head of a warrior, a visored knight on his way to a joust. But as it drew close to its quarry, the visor opened, and where there might have been eyes there was only a single red glowing spot, and it swept back and forth, back and forth, as it sought to identify its targets.
And then its deadliest weapon of all was unsheathed, as its silent and invisible electromagnetic talons stretched out to find its enemy's pitiful computer networks, and turn them off. Like flipping a switch . . .
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