-0001 Hours
After the unexpected twist in the training the day earlier, Nikolai needed a normal day. Cutter was out in the yard harvesting the engines from a civie ship, the pilots were taking turns flying a two bird CAP and playing Triad in the officer's lounge. Everyone else was where he or she was supposed to be, that is, except for the supply ship. It still had not arrived. This made it now five days late. Even on sublight engines only, the ship should have been within communications range by now to explain their lateness. Nikolai understood that his command was not a top priority for the Defense Ministry, but they did exist. This formal complaint would be significantly stronger than the previous.
After much consideration and several less than appropriate drafts, Belakov finally wrote his final. He headed off to the CIC to perform his daily check in before heading back to his quarters to yet continue updating the data bank. He took the long way around the base to mingle with all the personnel. Passing by the officer's lounge he noted it was relatively empty. Fiddler was sitting alone playing a card game, and two lieutenants from the raptor teams were sitting having a quiet conversation near the coffee maker. Continuing his walk, Belakov got to the observation deck. Out in the yard, three raptors were wrestling one of the engines to the storage area to await the supply ship. He noticed one more raptor come out from the deeper parts of the yard and zip in right on top of the engine. It dropped a cable and took charge over the engine's direction. Walking on, he headed to the mess. The normal three crewmen were behind the counter serving the food and helping to prepare it. Further in the kitchen, the sergeant and corporal chefs were preparing tonight's dinner. About fifteen other people were around eating or getting food. Off alone was a brooding Captain Argos. The Commander walked to the serving counter and ordered a quick snack, just a protein bar. He stepped out and went to his last stop before the CIC, the medical center. Under staffed, ill equipped, and fortunately never filled, this space was off the main hall and rarely visited. When it was, it was usually a couple stitches and out. Dr. Lyons was sitting at her desk with her head down, apparently asleep. Her two orderlies were nowhere to be seen. He left her to rest.
In the CIC, Greene was with a group younger officers staring at the DRADIS. Walking closer, the Commander heard some of the conversation.
"It must be a glitch."
"That's one hell of a glitch ensign. That's an entire frakking fleet out there. And you're sure there's no Colonial IFF?" Greene had a very puzzled look on his face when he asked this.
"Sir, I've run the diagnostics twice. There is nothing wrong with the system."
"And you say they just appeared? They didn't move onto the screen?"
One of the other officers turned to Greene and responded, "They just appeared there. The same way you'd expect any ship jumping in to range would."
"Major, what's going on?" Belakov felt it was time to step in and find out what exactly was going on.
"Sir, we don't really know. We have eight contacts on DRADIS, all unknown."
"Could they be pirates looking for a place to loot?"
"Unlikely sir, they're not headed this way, and they're all the size of Battlestars."
"Major, eight Battlestars? Without an IFF? That's about as likely as a C-Bucs- Stallions game without controversy. Have you tried hailing them?"
"We sent a signal, but they're out of range. It'll reach them if they stay there a while, but the moment they jump they'll never get it." Greene looked over at the ensign who sent the signal as though seeking justification.
"What about a subspace message?"
"Sir, we've never had the equipment for that. It's one of the things that Fleet Command never gave us." The ensign looked disappointed at that fact.
"Okay, I need options. Rogue asteroids?"
"Negative, DRADIS would have shown them floating in, these just showed up."
As they were speaking, they DRADIS refreshed and suddenly the eight contacts were gone. The next sweep showed one contact. This time, it was bearing a Colonial IFF.
"Ensign, please confirm what I'm looking at." The commander was staring almost blankly at the screen, which in the last ten seconds had shown eight potentially hostile contacts, nothing, and then one friendly contact.
"Sir, it would appear that our scheduled supply ship is here. I have no other explanation than our DRADIS had a malfunction and read the one ship as eight total ships." She looked over at Ensign Morris who had first noticed the eight contacts and run the diagnostics.
Morris felt it was his duty to restate his position. "Sir, I respect Ensign James's opinion on the matter, but I would like to restate that I ran the diagnostics twice, there was no glitch in our system."
"Very well Morris, is the new ship in communications range?"
"Yes sir, it is."
"Get me on the horn with them, I need to straighten this out."
Ensign James grabbed the corded phone and handed it to Commander Belakov.
"This is Commander Belakov of the Colonial Scrapyard Orcus, please state your business in Colonial Fleet airspace."
"Commander, this is Colonel Harkin of the Colonial Fleet Supply Ship Ananke. We're here to supply your outpost if that is acceptable with you, sir." The last was added with an almost condescending tone. Belakov would put this Colonel in his place.
"Colonel, your DRADIS. Please tell me what you see."
"Well Commander, there is the expected number of raptors in the yard, but other than that it's clear out. Can't keep track of your CAP?"
"No Colonel, our sensors read eight unknown contacts in your vicinity just prior to your arrival." The Commander was getting very impatient with this Colonel.
"Well, we've got new sensors and they show that the space outside of your little playground is devoid of anything but rocks."
"Alright Colonel, get your ship in here and off load our supplies so you can go act superior to the next Battlestar you deliver mail to." The Colonel acknowledged with a mere two-click affirmative over the horn, letting Belakov know he was done.
"Ensign, keep checking that equipment. I saw the same thing you did. There was something out there, I need to know what." At that, the Commander walked off to the deck where the Colonel would be landing his transport.
He arrived just in time. Right as he stopped in front of the airlock, the door slid open and a group of people stepped out. The Colonel was not one of them; in fact, all of them were lieutenants or lower. The most senior of the lieutenants stepped forward and handed the Commander a note. It was marked with the Colonial Fleet insignia so he opened it. Skimming it he realized that they were trading half of his pilots for these new ones. On the list were Riddle and Cutter. With no reason given for the switch, that was unacceptable.
"Lieutenant, what is this about?" He looked the younger pilot right in the eyes.
"Sir, from what I gather, Command feels that these pilots would be better suited in other positions. I have no say, and I'd rather not be here either sir. No offense sir." The man looked uneasy but otherwise had a sort of confidence that impressed Belakov.
"Very well, I'll try to settle this." Belakov stepped aside and headed into the transport.
Mostly a cargo hold with a few gangways for the crew to walk through, the ship was more cramped than he expected. It was also had a much larger crew than he expected. This ship must have been forgotten when Command chose to partially automate ships in the fleet.
The crew was certainly efficient; he'd give them that. In less than five minutes of docking, they had already gotten the fuel lines attached and pumping into the base stock. The lower levels were loading the crates of supplies, mostly food and necessities onto a belt that took them to the main bay door, which was now open to the hangar. From there, they got lowered into the hangar and left for his crew to sort out.
The actual crew space of ship was quite small for the number of personnel onboard. Even the old Battlestars, with their six to eight thousand personnel crew weren't this cramped. Belakov pushed his way through to the CIC. Looking around, he wasn't sure he was even there. The space used for a CIC was almost as pathetic as his station's and consisted of nothing more than simple DRADIS console, a small navigation station, and a communications officer station. When he stepped in, it was dead silent. The officer that must have been Harkin was standing by the Communications officer with all of the blood drained from his face. The rest of the small cadre was also crowding around in silence.
"Colonel, I need a moment with you."
"Sir… We've been attacked."
"Excuse me Colonel?" Belakov hadn't a clue what the man was talking about. The ship or station was most certainly not under attack.
"Fleet Headquarters sent out a report in the clear. The Cylons are attacking us. We are at war."
Belakov stepped past him and went directly to the console. There had to be some sort of mistake. Some hacker got into the network and thought this would make a funny prank. But the more he looked at it, the more real it became. The message was verified. It carried all of the right subcodes to confirm it was real. He couldn't believe it.
"Okay, Colonel, we need to get out there in the fight. The reports say the Fleet suffered heavy losses in the initial strike. They're going to need every ship out there." Belakov turned to go prep his crew but Harkin stopped him.
"This ship is unarmed. We have one missile tube with four missiles for protection from pirates. We don't even have flak guns or viper tubes." Harkin had seen combat, but even he was taken completely by shock.
"Alright, fine. The Strikestar in the yard is still flight worthy. It needs some repairs before it's ready for combat, but it has weapons." Belakov turned and headed off the ship.