December 21st, 2012, a battlestar galactica: 2003 fanfic

"December 21st 2012"

A Very Short Story by

Steven James Robeson

North American Air Defense Command Headquarters

Cheyenne Mountain

Colorado

23:50 UTC 21 December 2012

Brigadier Alexander Weycoff sat back in the high-topped leather chair reserved for the Senior Staff Officer at Cheyenne Mountain. The lanky Canadian Forces officer was watched with satisfaction as the junior officers and enlisted staff of the Command Center went about the routine duties of protecting the North American continent as they had since the 1960's. There was a latent buzz that went on around the center, and with the exception of the occasional wayward airliner or unannounced drill, that's the way they liked to keep it.

At Brigadier Wyecoff's fingertips was unthinkable horror. He, like scores of Canadian and American generals before him, had their proverbial finger on the trigger that would launch a nuclear war if any of the dozens of outposts, stations or bases around the world signaled a strike against North America or NATO. Thankfully, just like those predecessors before him, Alexander Weycoff watched the clock tick down to the end of another uneventful shift.

The Brigadier allowed himself to relax into his seat and take in the sights around him. In his view were a dozen massive screens, ten of which projected various 'sectors of interest' around the world, and two that monitored the northern and southern hemispheres of the sky. Scattered across each were hundreds of icon and avatars of various potential threats. Some were no more significant than pirates operating off of the Somali and Malaccan Straights, and others the known position of Russian and Chinese warships.

But of all the technology at the Brigadier's fingertips, the most informative, he thought, were the smaller monitors across the bottom of the massive displays. It was on these monitors that TV news programs from around the world were displayed: CNN, BBC World Service, Al-Jeezera and Reuters, among others. Even the news services of Iran, China, and North Korea rolled continually, 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

And it was on the BBC monitor that something caught his eye. What appeared to be dozens of British police were scrambling to erect barriers and stretch out "do not cross" tape in any number of directions at the entrance to a high school football stadium. Of course the Yanks with whom he worked would call it soccer, but he'd not been very successful in correcting their error. Nonetheless, he watched with some heightened awareness of something gone-dreadfully-wrong had happened. He reached across his console and turned up the volume for his monitor. The melodic yet sorrowful tones of a young Englishwoman came forth:

"…and as the worried parents and friends arrived at this once peaceful and secluded hamlet's sport's stadium, their worst fears had been realised. There, in the middle of the field, over two hundred believers of a Mayan end-of-times cult lay dead or dying, all by their own hands, all arm-in-arm. There had been warnings, one spectator stated, as many of the now deceased had recently been seen giving away their entire possessions, some saying good-bye to loved-ones and friends. Now, for them, the end has come, even as December 22nd arrives peacefully, and without the prophecies of the Mayan calendar having come to fruition. For the BBC, I am Elaina Sheffield reporting from Summer-on-Kent, UK…"

"Damned fool cultists…" The words startled Brigadier Weycoff from the screen in front of him. He turned to find the familiar face of Major General Paulette Sutkowski, U.S. Air Force, standing at his left.

"Are you sure you aren't a Marine at heart, Paulette? You never cease to amaze me how you always manage to get behind me like that!" The Brigadier was obviously embarrassed to have allowed his colleague to startle him so.

"Well, I guess twenty years of marriage to one may have rubbed off a bit, eh?" The younger American officer was obviously pleased with herself and her stealthy arrival. It hadn't been the first time that she'd managed to get the better of her Canadian colleague.

The brigadier rose from the large chair in front of him and turned to the monitors. "Well, just for that, I'm getting out of here a few minutes early! The Daywatch Logbook is pretty brief today. As you can imagine, there had been a lot of end-of-the-world parties around the world, and all of them, except for some nut case antics like that one, ended with a good drunk and little else."

Paula Sutkowski took the Canadian's hand and shook it vigorously. "OK, Alexander, guess I owe you one.." she chuckled. As she reached for the Watch Commander's phone, she turned to the departing officer. "If I didn't know better, I'd say they were disappointed that we're still here!"

With that, Paula Sutkowski took the white handset from it's cradle as she slid into the still-warm seat just vacated by her friend. "Watch Commanders all stations, this is Center Court, Yankee Seven Charlie has the watch. Time now, twenty-three fifty-six Zulu, out."

In the split second that she set the phone on the cradle, an overhead alarm sounded. "Center Court, Center Court, this is Alcatraz, emergency traffic, over!"

Paula Sutkowski was shocked to hear that call sign. It was the tactical call sign reserved for the Americans occupying the International Space Station. A fitting one, perhaps, since like it's terrestrial namesake, there was no escape from it, except by official conveyance!

There had always been good reason for at least one American to be on that platform, and that one person was almost always an active duty officer of the armed forces, or at the very least, a reservist. And few persons, if any, outside of Cheyenne Mountain or the Houston Space Flight Center, knew that the ISS could communicate directly with Cheyenne Mountain.

The general leaned forward and observed the communications specialist at the console just forward and slightly below her as he pushed a flashing red button on his own console.

"Alcatraz, this is Center Court, go ahead, over." Unlike the voice that had erupted from the overhead speakers a second ago, the specialist's voice was calm and professional, much like that of a 9-1-1 operator.

"Center Court! This damned thing is huge! It's easily a kilometer across! It came out of no where! One minute we were alone, and the next minute, it was there! There are four, five, no six giant arms! They look like spires! It just appeared out of…" The voice suddenly disappeared. At the same time, there were new alarms sounding in the command center.

"Center Court, Center Court, this is Galileo. We count six targets in near-Earth trajectory, all within lunar orbit! Now seven…"

The general leaned across her console to the Navy officer at the center station below her. "DEFCON Three, Commander, before this can get away from us!" As she said the words, the flight suited officer reached around and opened a caution-marked panel. He pushed the center button, and suddenly klaxons began sounding throughout the facility. As they did, the massive, vault-like door began to swing shut.

In a second, Brigadier Alexander Weycoff was back at Paula Sutkowski's side. "I leave you alone for one minute…" he said, jokingly, perhaps, but with the tone of someone who knew that this wasn't going to be followed up with a Sky King message announcing a drill.

In that second, all of the monitors suddenly went from their usual maps and status messages to screens-full of static. And across the lower row of TV monitors that had been watching the civilian media, they too went from their running video to static. Then just as abruptly, the screens went to their familiar 'stand-by' blue. Voices in the center were suddenly loud. Officers at each station called out to others, their intercoms seemingly inoperative. Technicians and controllers frantically called to others and worked at their consoles, each vainly trying to determine what had happened.

Then, without warning, there was a loud squeal from every speaker in the complex. Anyone wearing a headset was ripping it from their skulls, the deafening noise, like hot pokers, piercing their ears. The shrill screech reverberated off of the walls, it was so loud.

Then, the noise was gone. Yet somehow there was an even more deafening crescendo in that silence. As the screech subsided, every video monitor in the facility suddenly illuminated with an eerie light blue glow.

And on every monitor, and on every screen, was the face of a beautiful woman. She appeared to be no more than mid-twenties…maybe thirty. But behind her were two automatons. Each of them sterling-silver colored, and with a menacing, red scanning 'eye' that sweeped side-to-side.

From the speakers now came a soft, almost sultry voice.

"People of Earth. Prepare to surrender. We are the Cylon."

For some reason, Paula Sutkowski glanced up at the chronometer over the monitor screens ahead of her.

23:59, 21 December 2012.

Damn. How did they know…?

THE END