PREFACE (IN THE MANNER OF AN INTRODUCTION)
Every year, the US Air force holds a series of highly realistic and coordinated exercises called Red Flag. There is another set called Green Flag, much like it, but will not concern the reader because of its primary focus on Electronic Warfare and Ordnance. Red Flag involves the best pilots in the USAF converging on the Nevada desert for the purpose of keeping their skills and tactical abilities sharp, as well as learn about the new developments in their field of expertise. It seemed obvious that the world of the twelve colonies would have a similar set of trials for the Colonial Fleet.
The international reader will hopefully forgive me with the liberties I have taken with likening the customs of the Colonial Fleet to those of the US Armed Services, as those are the ones I can offer the most detail of. If my perspective of the Battlestar as much like that of a cross between an Aircraft Carrier, Submarine, and Space Ship encroach upon the plot of the book more than I had intended, or my somewhat archaic analogies to the naval fleets of the late 18th and early 19th centuries, I again beg the reader's forgiveness. In order to preserve the reality of the book, I have somewhat selfishly written a multitude of acronyms without explanations, I have tried to remedy this when convenient. My aim is to enliven and detail the atmosphere of the CIC, the universal quiet of space, the bustle of Fleet Headquarters, and the tension of battle uniquely and interestingly. I hope that the reader will enjoy it from start to finish in any way he deems fit. After all, writing is viewed principally through the minds of others.
BANNER RED
PART I: THE EXERCISES
I.
The figure walked briskly down the 3rd floor hallway of Picon Fleet Headquarters. Strolling along the red carpet lining the passageway, he nodded to the ensign standing at the door of the conference room and proceeded inside. In his hand he held a folder, the contents of which the ensign wasn't supposed to know, or even supposed to want to know.
Sitting down in his place at the long, mahogany table, he addressed the assembled fleet officers confidently.
"Gentlemen, I have here in my hand the key to making our Banner Red exercises for this year a resounding success." Most of the table nodded their assent, while a few of their number (some of the more senior officers) remained skeptical of the recently promoted Rear- Admiral.
"First of all," boomed Vice- Admiral Canon, "thank you for arriving in such a timely fashion." At this he gestured to the clock on the wall. "Secondly, what makes you so confident about this plan you and the DFI have conjured up?" The DFI, Director of Fleet Intelligence, did not operate within the actual fleet, but was attached to the Colonial Intelligence Agency (CIA). Canon was known in the Admiralty for generally distrusting anything the CIA said or did. Although the suspicion was well-founded, Rear- Admiral Foley (the latecomer) did not share the sentiment.
"We didn't 'conjure' it," said the DFI himself, "and this a legitimate opportunity to garner some publicity, which could very well mean a wider slot in the budget for you. And as I have already mentioned, we have the full approval of CinCPic for this operation."
With that, the rest of those at the table settled in for a long and productive meeting.
On the other side of the planet, a software technician was installing his last servo of the day. And that was good, he thought to himself, because the more he worked, the more information he would have to keep to himself. He remembered the first day that he was assigned to the project, and how he protested against having to work full-time on a top-secret project for the fleet, instead of the normal consulting that he did.
But the project would be finished soon, and then he wouldn't have to worry about not telling anyone what he was doing in the middle of the desert every day.
"Four-two Ground, Diver six ready to taxi, IFR to the Bravo MOA." The transmission was followed by a short period of static, and then another voice. This one belonged to the ground traffic controller at Fleet Base 42, informally known as the home of fleet target practice.
"Diver six, clearance void at 0940, standby."
"Diver six," the pilot acknowledged. In the tower, the controller was busy trying to sort out the clearances he had to give to each raptor and viper on base. After half a minute, the controller came back on.
"Diver six, weather Juliet is current. Give way to the Mark VI and follow him to runway one-seven right. Monitor tower now, 569-2."
"Follow the Mark VI to one-seven right, 569-2, and we have Juliet, Diver six."
The raptor nudged out of its hardstand, and then followed the viper to runway 17R, the northernmost at four-two. After a short hop to the Bravo Military Operations Area, the pilot called en-route control and switched callsigns."
"North Control, Buck one-eight out of 14,000, looking for range one." Again, a slight pause before the controller came on frequency.
"They must be busy today," commented the ECO from his jumpseat in the back.
"Buck one-eight, North Control. Dradis terminated, maintain VFR at or above 3,000. Ceilings 1,800, call when run complete."
"Buck one-eight," the ECO responded, the pilot already beginning his descent to the altitude at which they would test their equipment. It wasn't really so much "equipment" as a weapon, thought the ECO, but that was the term which the ground crew had to use and it stuck. Their "equipment" was the admiralty's newest toy, a CDU-20 combination guided rocket. The scuttlebutt was that it would be the centerpiece of Banner Red this year, but scuttlebutt was just another word for rumor, wasn't it?
"10,000, red 1 live," the ECO reported.
"Roger," the pilot replied, and continued down, wondering what was on the O-club menu for lunch, and hoping they would be back by then.
Colonel John Greene stared at the DRADIS screen above his eyes in the crowded CIC of the battlestar Apollo. As executive officer of the ship and barely out of the drydock, he had to make sure that all civilian traffic was clear before the behemoth could lumber into space. Having just finished a three- month tour at base while the Apollo received a well-deserved refit, he along with the rest of the crew were itching to get out in the open.
"Everything's clear, sir," he reported to the commanding officer, Commander Seldon Pascal. "Helm reports ready."
"Set all ahead full, Mister Greene. Let's be on our way," Pascal stoically replied.
"All ahead full, aye," grinned the XO, relaying the order to the Flight Engineer. After a few seconds, the engines spooled up and Apollo was headed into the black vastness between Libran and Picon Fleet Yards.
II.
The receiving shed at Picon Fleet Yards was always a bustling place, with all manner of people and goods coming into the enormous military complex that was the nerve center of the Colonial Fleet. Grey-uniformed customs officers traversed the length of the shed, checking to ensure that nothing suspicious was being allowed into Fleet Headquarters.
The receiving shed was also busier than normal on this particular day, two important battlestar groups having arrived at the yards for resupply. One, group 75, was represented by the Galactica. The other, group 28, was represented by the Apollo, fresh from her refit at Libran. The first to disembark from that ship were couriers carrying despatches to the Admiralty. The second group was the contingent of officers headed to the Admiralty on official business. Among them was Commander Seldon Pascal.
At the far end of the shed, near the ammunition lifts, was Vice-Admiral David Ordway.
"Pascal! Over here!" he called to the commander. Pascal began to wind his way towards the admiral.
"Admiral Ordway, pleasure to see you," said Pascal.
"And you as well, commander," Ordway said, ushering him towards the portal to fleet headquarters. "How has Libran been to you?"
"Considering that I spent over half my time there flying a desk, I'd say our little venture went pretty well."
"Ah, but the liquor there is unparalleled? I see you've brought me a case."
"But of course."
"Marvelous. Step inside my office, will you?" The pair stepped inside Ordway's oak-paneled office. As Pascal pulled a chair to the desk, Ordway opened the blinds to look out on a courtyard. After straightening some papers on his desk, he too fell into a chair.
"So, Seldon, you've missed a lot of happenings around the Admiralty the past few months."
"So I've heard. What's all of this scuttlebutt around Banner Red?"
"They had the meeting with the DFI last week. Foley was there, so I got at least some information out of him. I do know that West 2 is going to partake in the fun, so at least you'll get to see more of me."
"Groups 13, 25, 75, and 51. Is that all you gleaned from Foley?"
"Yes, but keep in mind I'm not even supposed to know this stuff. It's strange, actually, the way they red-taped everything. They must be planning a very big surprise."
"Bringing toasters back?"
"Heh, not exactly." Ordway stifled his laughter. "It's probably some new simulation that the spooks over at operations have coded into our mainframes without us knowing. You know, there is some new guy they've been talking about that side of the hall."
"What's his name?"
"Baltar something-or-other. Apparently he's one of the contractors they brought in to work on the CMP. But anyway, that's all I can tell you without-"
"I know how the line goes, Dave. Greene will probably want to know too."
"Greene?"
"My new XO."
"Ah, yes. Capable?"
"He seems to be pretty capable. He handled the deck chief pretty well a couple days back when a crewman nearly got his arm blown off working on an FTL cable."
"Without the breaker open?"
"You guessed it."
"That must have been a pretty FUBAR situation for your XO."
"Oh, it was FUBAR indeed. To compound the matter, I wasn't even on the ship when it happened. Like I said, a seemingly capable guy."
"Only time will tell."
"With the business of XO's, only time can tell."
Back at the receiving shed, a third contingent was debarking from the berth where the Apollo was perched. Among this contingent was Captain Luke Pritcher, intelligence officer aboard the Apollo.
Being generally distrusted by the rest of the crew aboard the battlestar because he came from the Naval department of the CIA, Pritcher's social interactions (like those of many intelligence officers) were limited mainly to the officers in the CIC, which was why his companion was Lieutenant Samuel Avery, communications officer. For Avery, coming into his second year in the service, Pritcher was one of the first people he met aboard the Apollo. The two found they had many things in common (although they sat on opposite sides of the room), and quickly became inseperable.
"Some place," said Avery, gazing at the mass of people milling about the shed.
"It was built during the Cylon War, y'know," said Pritcher, glancing back at another one of the CIC staff debarking. "Smells like ozone."
Strolling towards them was the executive officer, Colonel John Greene. "Ah, Pritcher!" he called. "Would you mind taking these over to Intelligence?"
"Not at all, sir," he replied. After a week with Greene in the CIC, Pritcher still wasn't quite sure what to make of the XO. "I'll bring them with me this afternoon."
"Excellent! And good morning to you as well, Mr. Avery," said Greene, strolling back towards the gangway.
"Wasn't he supposed to be in charge of the ship?" queried the communications officer.
"I suppose he left Weber in charge. Come on, I don't think you want the last billets, and neither do I." Avery nodded and proceeded to catch up with their compatriots, one of whom turned to greet them.
"Hey, Sam! I though you would still be working on the displays!" called the Electronics officer (known as EECOM), Captain Marcus Weber.
"And I thought you were covering for the XO? I guess we both have better things to do."
"Well, as a matter of fact, the XO himself instructed me to get off the ship before I inadvertently launched a nuke in my boredom-induced trance," he replied.
"Well, I think that you wanted to rig the count-wys to detect the entry of any officer above the rank of Captain," said Captain Andrew Prindle, the FTL officer. "And to think that in your irresponsible hands lie the fate of countless dangerous weapons, the XO is probably sick at the sight of you already."
"And I'm sure our intel officer would have appreciated the prank immensely," said Avery, casting a wry glance towards Pritcher.
"I would have mentioned it in the paperwork," Pritcher replied sarcastically.
"Walk with us, or at least act like you're from the same ship as us," offered Captain Gordon Schmidt, the Nuclear Weapons Officer, "If you can stand to be around these two clowns." Everyone chuckled, and was soon in conversation.
"So, Pritcher, what can you tell us about Banner Red? Surely the Intelligence office is not totally devoid of gossip," said Prindle.
"You know I can't tell you anything about that, right? It's meant to be a surprise, Prindle."
"Could you give us a hint?" said Weber, narrowly avoiding a passing cart.
"Hmm… let me see. I can say it will be very exciting."
"That sounds good," said Schmidt, the milder of the trio. "Will it be exciting for the pilots, or exciting in the CIC?"
"Both, assuredly."
"Well, that's something nice for a change. Usually it's the viper jocks who have all the fun." The group continued towards the raptor bay.
"What do you mean?" Weber turned towards Schmidt. "We have lots of fun in the CIC! Don't you remember the time we convinced you to set up a firewall around the targeting mainframe last year? I think that might have been one of Colonel Darp's reasons for transferring," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "And we enjoy the company of everybody's favorite intel officer, don't we, Captain Pritcher?"
"I would have no reason to believe anything else, but you do have a way of showing your love."
"Oh, we just like to play around," piped Prindle. "All fun aside though, what's the big deal about Banner Red?"
"If I told you, it'd earn me a one-way ticket to the airlock."
"Will Major Deitch like it?"
"There's a part for everyone."
"Will Colonel Greene like it?"
"Yes."
"Will I like it?" said Avery.
"Yes," said Pritcher, with a wink.
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Weber.
"Nothing that concerns you. Which flight can we get to fleet headquarters?"
"103. Speaking of flights, where did all of the pilots go? Normally they'd be chomping at the bit by now," said Avery.
"They were supposed to fly down to FB 42. Weapons refit, or something like it," returned Schmidt as he led the group to a waiting raptor.
"Captain Schmidt!" called another one of the Apollo's officers. "Major Deitch's respects, sir, and he would like you in the CIC five minutes from now.
"Thank you, Ensign Frowling, I will be returning to the ship as soon as I see my comrades off." Ensign Frowling trotted back to the gangway. "Well, guys, have a fun time at headquarters. Have to run!" And Schmidt followed him.
With those words, the officers assembled climbed into the waiting shuttle and continued to headquarters.
Once the duty of re-stocking the Apollo with supplies had been attended to, and Captain Pritcher had returned his despatches to the Commanding Officer at fleet intelligence, Captain Jalet received an unusual visit from Major Deitch, the Commander (Air Group) aboard Apollo. Being the ship's Chief Medical Officer, Captain Jalet was usually extremely busy during sick call, but today most of his charges were ashore (in a manner of speaking), so he was in his office. The Major knocked on the door.
"Captain? Have a moment?"
"Ah… yes, Major, have a seat. Is it the leg again?" Major Deitch had sustained the wound to his knee during the Cylon War, when he was an Ensign.
"No, I just wanted to make sure that the casualties were reported correctly for the accident that happened on the flight deck a couple of days ago. Do you mind if I have a look at the files?"
"Not at all, just let me see if I can find them." Captain Jalet crossed over to a large file cabinet, shuffled papers for some time, and then pulled out a manila folder. "Here they are. Five wounded, three still in sick bay."
"And those are?"
"Ensign Navarre, Lieutenant Zim, and Lieutenant Rico."
"When will they be back on duty?"
"It depends on the severity of the individual injury." Major Deitch seemed pensive for a moment, and then turned towards the doctor.
"Thank you for your time, Captain. Keep me posted if there are any further developments."
"Certainly, sir."
Waiting for Major Deitch when he entered the CIC was the officer of the watch, Lieutenant Bronzetti, and Captain Schmidt.
"Captain Schmidt reporting, sir. Ensign Frowling indicated that my presence was required in the CIC?"
"That's correct. In order to complete the refit for Banner Red, there is one piece of software governing the NWTS that asks for the NWO's verification codes. Until we finalize the installation, we need you in the CIC just in case."
"Aye, sir. I'll assume my regular post."
Nuclear Weapons Officer Gordon Schmidt was something of a rarity among Colonial ships, and he knew it. Normally, a Columbia-class battlestar was equipped with only a minimal arsenal of Nuclear Weapons. The same case applied to nearly every other battlestar in the fleet manufactured before or during the Cylon War: one battery of five tubes, and room reserved in the arms hold for ten nukes at a time. Consequently, the munitions officer, the commanding officer, and the executive officer of a battlestar were each given separate codes, which had to be inputted separately and authenticated to fire a nuclear weapon. This presented two problems. One, if any of the three officers were incapacitated during a battle, their codes would be lost; this presented a somewhat tenacious security plan. Two, a sizeable squadron of ships would be needed to present a formidable threat to an enemy fleet, given the limited nuclear capability of each.
However, the Apollo and her sister ship, the Pegasus, had been refitted by order of the DCI to carry up to sixty nukes at a time, and expand the batteries from one with five tubes to two each with ten tubes. The battlestars were accordingly given the designation of "Heavy Ship-to-Ship," or "HSS." The control of the nuclear arsenal was then delegated to a single Nuclear Weapons Officer, and with him was vested the sole authority to use or modify the nuclear arsenal, on command of the respective senior officer. The NWO was supposed to be the only person on the ship with complete access to the schematics and software governing the nukes, and was CIA-certified and trained accordingly. On Commander Pascal's ship, though, the maintenance crew was allowed some leeway in this respect.
Captain Weber sat down at his station in the CIC, powering the computer displays from the battery bus beneath his feet, the familiar hum of the generators filling his ears and settling him into the rhythm of working in the ship. At once several identification logs appeared, requiring his codes, which he keyed in listlessly, imagining the fun Prindle and Schmidt were having down at headquarters.
On the floor of the hangar deck, Master Chief Petty Officer Patrim Cross was busy supervising the re-filling of the tylium fuel reserves. From his desk adjoining the deck, he could see the workmen monitoring the dials indicating fuel pressure, capacity, and temperature. In his office, he glanced at his task list and realized that he had forgotten to ask one of his maintenance chiefs about the atmospheric static pitot valve on one of the Vipers backlogged for work. He jogged out to where the chief in question was refitting a drill bit.
"Tom, do you think know if we replaced the static valve on 24-19? I remember Lieutenant Rico informing me about that particular piece on the last dry run."
"No, Pat, I don't think we've done that yet, but I can ask one of the snipes to bring one forward."
"Sure, thanks." He jogged back to his office, meeting a familiar figure in the companionway.
"Gunnery Sergeant Holcomb! How are the land-lovers treatin' you?"
"Same as always chief, although if I could sit down for a bit it would probably be better." replied the marine in question, stuck on guard duty. Another familiar figure awaited Cross in his office.
"Major Deitch, what brings you down here?" he said to the blue undress coat.
"Fleet exercises, chief! Colonel Greene and I need a cost index report for the refits on the Raptors. Budget's rather tight this year. In addition, I have reports from several pilots that the starboard localizer is somewhat erratic on final. There is some suspicion that the hardware was misplaced during our exit from Libran, but I believe it might be faulty wiring."
"I have that report here, Major, and we did notice the issue, but it was not deemed severe enough to merit immediate servicing. Were there severe oscillations?" "To the best of my knowledge, no, but it was reported as getting worse towards the deck."
"I'll get Karofsky out there to fix it tomorrow morning."
"Thank you, Chief, that's all." The Major turned smartly out the corridor and into the hangar.