Jackson Spencer, the CAG, felt a satisfying rush of adrenaline as he caught first sight of the enemy, emerging from the glare of the sun, dead ahead. He heard the warning from Boomer, but they were committed. "All Vipers, weapons free. Let's go get 'em."
Together, in perfect formation, the twenty Vipers fired their main burners and accelerated toward the enemy. So far, he still saw only two Cylons on his small dradis screen. As they drew closer, he could just make out their shape. They looked almost batlike, with hooked wings. It was impossible to tell what their weaponry was, or what method of attack . . .
What the frak—?
Spencer glanced down at his instruments. Every single display was flickering and distorting. An instant later, they went dark. He had no instrumentation.
And . . . he had no power, of any sort. Thrusters were gone, lights were gone, ventilation was shut off. Complete systems failure. The Viper was suddenly drifting, turning, all attitude control gone. Spencer blanched, feeling more helpless than he'd ever felt in his life. There was no way he could lead the squadron. He quickly keyed his mic. "I've lost power! Jolly! Jolly, take over! Jolly, can you read me?" He turned his head to the right, trying to visually keep his bearings with the rest of the squadron.
His heart sank. All of the Vipers were dark, drifting. They'd all lost power. A couple were pitching slowly end over end. He looked to his left, just as one of the other Vipers careened toward him and slammed into the side of his ship, then bounced away. Shaken, he started running through his emergency checklist, but there was nothing he could do; he was dead in space, helpless. And so was his entire squadron . . .
Boomer gazed at her dradis screen with growing fear. What's happening to them? Why are they drifting like that?
Helo leaned over her shoulder. "What're they doing?"
"I don't know. They're just going straight in," Sharon replied, struggling to keep her voice steady.
"The comm chatter's gone. They're not talking anymore."
Sharon keyed her mic. "CAG—Boomer." Shut her eyes for an instant. "CAG—Boomer. Do you read?" She glanced back at Helo, her fear now turned into full-blown horror.
The Vipers tumbled, coasting straight into the jaws of the enemy. Spencer had tried everything. He kept trying, snapping switches, struggling to get some spark of life out of his ship. Main power was dead. Auxiliary power . . . he couldn't tell, because all the meters were dead. He continued calling on the wireless: "Boomer—CAG. If you can hear me—they must have done something to our computer systems. Some sort of electronic jamming. I've never seen anything like it."
He fell silent, as the two Cylon raiders swooped down on them, like sharks out of the depths of the ocean. There was a bloodred light sweeping from each of them. The Cylons arced past, as though inspecting the squadron, giving him a surprisingly clear view of them. As they circled back, CAG thumbed his mic again. "There's no cockpits! There's nobody flying these things!"
An instant later, he saw the contrails of missiles erupt from the Cylons, like streamers in a fireworks display. At least two dozen missiles had launched at once, and they were streaking in perfect arcs toward the Viper squadron. "Oh my God." Words failed him utterly as he watched helplessly, adrift, as the crisscrossing streamers flawlessly targeted every Viper in his squadron.
He saw three of his fighters explode in balls of fire in the instant before his own missile found him. And then his world ended abruptly in a flash of fire and death.
Sharon was paralyzed with horror at the sight of every single Viper flaring on her screen with the telltale signature of exploding metal, then vanishing. It was unbelievable. The entire squadron, utterly destroyed.
Except for them, in their Raptor.
And the dradis contacts of the Cylons were now changing course, turning toward them.
"Boomer, get us out of here!" Helo shouted, heading back for his console.
"Right!" she cried, bringing the Raptor quickly about and opening the throttle to the redline. The Raptor sprang away from the scene of the disaster, with the Cylons in pursuit.
Behind them, the debris of the Viper squadron swirled like flotsam left in the wake of a typhoon.
Chapter 18
Colonial Heavy 798, Nearing Caprica
Laura Roslin was barely able to stand in the tiny shipboard lavatory. She hunched over the washbasin, pressing a damp cloth to her face, fighting to stop the tears. Damn you, body. Damn you, cancer. How dare you do this to me! How dare you make me so weak! She shuddered uncontrollably, as the feelings of sickness and helplessness overwhelmed her. Finally she hauled in a ragged breath, willing herself to regain control. She dried her face, then straightened up and breathed deliberately in and out until she had reestablished a façade of calm. Opening the lavatory door, she stepped back out into the cabin of the transport.
The pilot was speaking to the passengers. Everyone looked grave. Something bad is happening. What? She pushed forward to her seat, trying to hear what the pilot was saying.
Unfortunately, he was just concluding, "Once again, we are processing the information we have been given. And I urge you all to try to stay calm. As we get more information, I will pass it along to you. Thank you for your patience."
Laura settled into her seat beside Billy. She let her bewilderment surface to her face. Billy looked scared. "What's going on?"
"I'm not sure," he said.
"But something is happening that's not good, am I right?"
"Yeah. Some kind of civil defense emergency on Caprica. That's all he could tell us," Billy said.
Laura nodded and sat back. She was not reassured.
The cockpit of the transport looked, at first glance, pretty much like the cockpit of any large airliner, with perhaps a couple dozen additional instruments dedicated to orbital position and navigation, environmental controls, Lorey-field gravity, reactor status, and the like. The pilot, Captain Russo, returned to his seat, confirmed to his copilot that he was taking the controls back, and keyed the wireless mic. "Any luck over there, Captain?" he asked, peering out his left window to catch a glimpse of the Viper Mark II. He was hoping their escort, Captain Adama, might have more information. Russo and his copilot had not much more information than he had given the passengers, with one exception: Fearing panic, they had not told the passengers that among the confused messages they had heard was one, completely unconfirmed, containing the words "Cylon attack."
Apollo's voice was scratchy coming from the speakers. "No, just picking up a lot of confusing chatter."
"Well," said Captain Russo, "to be honest with you, I'm glad you're sticking around. Makes us all feel better just seeing you out there."
"Well, don't get too comfortable," Apollo answered. "This junker I'm in was meant for show, not combat. If we run into a problem, I'll do what I can to protect you. But at the first sign of trouble, you pour on the speed and you run."
"Don't you worry about that," said the pilot. "I've got my hand on the throttle. It hasn't left since I got the first message." He drew a deep breath. "Colonial Heavy Seven-Niner-Eight . . . out."
Two Cylon raiders, one fleeing Raptor. Silent as space.
And in the silent darkness, a missile sprang from each of the raiders, trailing white contrails. They arced with flawless guidance toward the Raptor, as the Cylons pitched up and away.
In the Raptor's cockpit, Boomer and Helo were working frantically. "Two missiles now!" Helo called from the situation console.
"Jam their warheads," Boomer cried desperately.
"I'm trying! I can't find the frequency. Drop a swallow!"
Boomer worked silently. "I've got two left." She dropped one of the two remaining decoys, which spun downward out of the belly of the Raptor as she fired thrusters to lift in the other direction. The missiles took the bait and veered toward the decoy. Or one did; it intercepted the decoy in a heartbeat and exploded. The other changed course and resumed its pursuit of the Raptor. "Damn it! C'mon!" Sharon breathed, working the controls feverishly
.
"Aw, frak!" shouted Helo.
"What?"
"Check the screen ahead!"
She did, and winced. A swarm of Cylons had appeared in front of them. "I guess we found the main fight." No time to worry about that right now, though. They had a missile on their tail. She gave sharp thrust to the left and down, trying to evade it.
An alarm starting beeping. Behind her, Helo snapped, "Missile lock!"
Sharon shook her head. "We've got one left." She released the last swallow.
It spun away, and miraculously, the Cylon missile pitched over to follow it. The two zigzagged for a moment, perilously close to the Raptor, and the missile hit the decoy. It blew in cascading explosions. Sharon's heart leapt in triumph—and an instant later a cloud of shrapnel from the explosion hit the Raptor with a series of sickening thumps. Sparks and bits of molten metal flew through the cockpit. Alarms went off all over her board. She heard Helo howl in pain. Frak it frak it frak it! She tried to assess the damage quickly for critical failures, and keep flying the craft at the same time.
"We're hit!"
"Oh, really!" Helo gasped.
She finally managed a look over her shoulder, and saw Helo bent over at his seat, jamming an emergency patch over a hole in the floor. Blood was spurting from his thigh. Oh frakking Kobol! She had to keep flying, but a moment later she managed to turn again. "Helo—hey! Are you okay?"
"Aahh. Present." He had one hand on his thigh, trying to stop the bleeding, and the other on the deck, struggling to position the patch to stop the venting of air from the cabin.
The cabin's leaking, his suit's punctured, he's wounded . . . Keep flying the ship! "Stay with me!" she shouted over her shoulder.
Ferociously, she focused on the board in front of her. "Okay," she breathed. "We have a fuel leak! We need to put down to repair it! The nearest world is Caprica."
"A lot of company between us and there."
"Yeah," she said, and glanced back. He was sitting upright, putting pressure on his thigh. Good. Good. She couldn't help him, except by getting them down. If he could just tend to his own wound a little longer . . .
But all those Cylons out there, between them and Caprica! How could she possibly get past them, especially in their crippled condition? She bit her lip, thinking. Then she had it. She aimed the ship carefully, hit full throttle for a few seconds, and cut the engines. Then she reached over to the fuel valve and shut off the flow from the tank, to stop the loss of the precious Tylium. Finally, she killed power to lights, gravity, and everything else that might be detected from the outside. The cockpit went dark, except for starlight coming in through the windows.
Helo looked up in the gloom. "So we're coasting?"
She answered anxiously. "Best way to avoid attracting attention. No power signature. Go in a straight line." As she talked, Helo had his hands clamped to his thigh, gritting his teeth against the pain. "Unless somebody actually gets close enough to see us, we'll look like a chunk of debris on the sensors." She stopped her machine-gun-like delivery for a moment to assess the readings on her instruments. "I think we have enough inertia to make it to Caprica's ionosphere. Then we power up, and find a place to land."
"Nice," Helo panted. "Nice thinking there."
Sharon checked their course one more time, then unbuckled to float back to help Helo, grabbing the first-aid kit on her way. "Frak, Helo, you're hurt bad," she said, bracing herself against a panel so she could tend to his wound.
For a second, he looked as if he was going to make light of it—but as soon as she touched his leg, he gasped in agony. A piece of shrapnel, probably molten metal from the hull, had gone straight through his thigh. It must have missed the arteries, though, because the bleeding was slowing down. She had to cut the leg of his spacesuit, praying the cabin pressure would hold. Then she was able to get closure-patches on the wound and start wrapping cloth tape around it. "Hold still," she said, grabbing a hypodermic. Before he could say a word, she'd stuck him full of antibiotic and painkiller.
He sat back, breathing hard, as she handed the tape to him. "I have to check our position," she said. Then with as much of a smile as she could manage, she added, "Stick with me, partner. We've got to get through this together." She caught his hand and held it tightly until he nodded. "Good." Because Helo wasn't just her partner, he was her best friend in the world—Tyrol excepted, of course. She'd be devastated if anything happened to him. "Good," she repeated, then turned and floated back to her pilot's seat.
Caprica was drawing visibly closer, and she was starting to be able to pick out something of the situation there. The world was slowly being swallowed up by murky clouds, and here and there lighting up with flashes of light under the clouds. Lords of Kobol, what's happening? she thought. And then she realized: All those flashes were nukes going off on the surface of Caprica. The planet was being destroyed.
"Helo," she said shakily. Don't tell him how bad it is, not yet. "We're getting close to the atmosphere. I'm going to set up for entry. I think—" She checked her instruments again before continuing. "I think we can make it close to Caprica City. The city itself may be under attack, so I'm going to aim for the area just to the south."
"Okay with me," he said. "Just so you do the flying." He barked a laugh to mask his pain.
"I will," Sharon said. I will.
And with that, she powered up the systems and began steering the Raptor toward a smoking, high-speed entry into Caprica's atmosphere.
Chapter 19
Galactica, Combat Information Center
The assembled personnel in the CIC stood silent and grave as Commander Adama, bulky microphone in his hand, addressed the ship. Adama's voice echoed through the corridors. "Preliminary reports indicate that a thermonuclear device in the fifty-megaton range was detonated over Caprica City thirty minutes ago."
Though Adama could not see it from where he stood, all through the ship, shock waves reverberated among the crewmembers who had not previously heard the news. The Viper mechanics one by one stopped their work, reactors half-installed, their hands and their bodies seemingly drained of life. Caprica City, nuked . . . Caprica City was the ship's home port, and to many of the crew, it was the city they called home. Many of them had family, friends, and other loved ones in Caprica City and the surrounding region. Caprica City . . . It was too shocking to grasp, that this city, their home planet, was being destroyed by the Cylon attack.
Adama continued, "Nuclear detonations are also being reported on the planets of Aerilon, Picon, Sagittaron, and Geminon. No report on casualties. But obviously, they will be high. Very high."
On the hangar deck, holding a piece of test equipment in her hands, test equipment that right now felt meaningless, Specialist Cally asked without looking at anyone, "How many people in Caprica City alone?"
Kara Thrace answered, her voice barely audible, "Seven million."
Seven million. How many were already dead?
Standing almost like a statue in the CIC, Adama continued, with barely suppressed emotion, "Mourn the dead later. Right now, the best thing we can do is get this ship into the fight." He paused for a very long beat. "That is all."
And on every deck of the ship, crewmembers who had halted their work slowly came to, picked up their tools again, and continued their preparations to do exactly what their commander had asked.
* * * *
Colonial Heavy 798, Cockpit
It seemed like a very long way, as Laura Roslin mounted the flight of steps—only about six steps in reality—that led to the cockpit door. She drew a breath and knocked. When the captain opened the door, she started; she was on edge, and she knew it wasn't going to get better soon. "Excuse me," she said to the captain, stepping past him into the cockpit. He was holding a printout in his hand, and his face was ashen. He backed away to let her into the cockpit.
Once Captain Russo had closed the door again, she faced him. She thought she knew what was on that printout. "One of the passengers has a shor
twave wireless," she said softly. "They . . . heard a report that Caprica's been nuked."
The captain's face was immobile with shock; he seemed unable to answer.
"It has, hasn't it?" she asked, barely keeping her own expression together.
The captain finally managed to reply. "Caprica and three other colonies." He handed her the printout. His hand was shaking. Laura took the printout from him. With her other hand, she clasped his, and held it tightly. Stop shaking. We have to be strong. If we're not, who will be? She looked at the printout, and saw that it was exactly as she had thought and feared. She wept inwardly, but pushed the feeling away.
The captain turned from her, pulling his hand away. "I guess I, uh"—he rubbed his chin nervously—"should make an announcement or something."
You're in no condition to be making an announcement, she thought. The last thing they need is to see their pilot shaking, the same way they are. "I'll do it," she said. "I'm a member of the political cabinet. It's my responsibility." She could see the relief on his face as he nodded. "While I'm doing that, I would ask that you"—she had to think a moment, about what she should or could do—"contact the Ministry of Civil Defense. See what we can do to help." She made her voice sound deliberately upbeat on that last note. He accepted her offer with a desperate nod.
After reading over the printout one more time, Laura returned to the cabin and stood at the front, where she could address the passengers. She motioned to Billy to stand with her. She drew a breath, let it out slowly, drew another. Then she began speaking to the passengers, in a quiet but steady voice. "The reports are confirmed. There has been a Cylon nuclear attack on at least four of our worlds—including the colonies Caprica . . . Picon . . . Aerilon . . . and Tauron."
The passengers were immediately up out of their seats, all talking at once—asking for more information, demanding to be taken home, or simply crying out in fear. Laura gestured with both hands for people to quiet down. "Please! Please stop. Please." The cabin quieted, but only slightly. "I'm trying to reach the government now to get more information. In the meantime, we should all be prepared for an extended stay aboard this ship. So, uh"—she was thinking rapidly now, on her feet—"you, please, and you"—she turned, pointing to two of the flight attendants—"take an inventory of the emergency supplies and rations." Both flight attendants nodded and began moving to their jobs.
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