7.
Mason blinked, his eyes instantly over to the side, examining the dradis readout.
Emory had planned the jump perfectly. Raptor Eight-Eight-Six floated aimlessly less than a kilometer from an asteroid easily ten times its size. And that was one of the small ones. As a backdrop to the massive field, the Osceollan Nebula glowed with an infinite pallete of blues, greens, and violets - entrancing almost anyone who looked at it.
"Well the radiation is playing hell, along with those frakkin' rocks," Emory muttered, leering at the dradis.
The pilots both sat in silence momentarily, each considering their present implication. One Raptor, barely armed, in the middle of Cylon space. Alone.
Mason chanced a look over at Emory and instantly felt a pang of guilt. His friend of about five years, now sitting across from him, holding his forehead in his hand. He riddled himself for being so impulsive on an assignment that was clearly suicide. How could he be so brash? So impulsive as to not to think of his friends; not to mention his family?
Emory sat silently, hopelessly examining the dradis. He pulled out the can of milled fumella leaves and placed a pinch under his lip. He glanced at Mason, holding the can up.
The young Lieutenant nodded, repeating the motion that Emory had just done. The leaves tasted bitter under his lip, but yet somewhat aromatic and earthy - reminding him of summers on Tauron spent in the forests and by the lake, enjoying the simple pleasures that nature had to offer.
"Garrett, I...I feel as though I need to apologize to you," Mason said after a moment.
"Why?" Emory asked, looking across the flight instruments at his friend.
"This is stupid. We're in the middle of Cylon space, strapped to three nukes, looking for a fight. Wire was right. There's no reason for us to be here," Mason sighed, his eyes distant through the windscreen.
Emory was silent a moment, considering his words. His voice was even as he replied, "Perhaps. But I could have just as easily stayed behind. I came along because I think there's a real chance you're on to something, Scott. I think you're right, for whatever reason. And that's reason enough to be here."
His words fell with grace through the small cabin. Secretly, Mason would never let on how much they meant to him. In all honesty, however, he held the words close to his heart. The opinions and orders of the rest of the entire Colonial Fleet made no difference to him. The support he found in his closest friend, however, made the facts of their predicament bearable enough to be viewed as an almost optimistic situation.
It was a fact about Mason he almost did not know about himself, for he repressed it so much. The opinions of his friends and the support of those around him were critical to the successes he had thus far accomplished - and to the projected accomplishments he wished to achieve. He drew his energy and support from those around him. He felt emboldened, courageous, and brilliant when he saw the smiles of his friends. And in their absence, he felt disparaging, cold, and alone.
"Thanks," he said, simply. His mind switched back to a tactical frame momentarily. "So, I'm thinking we can use thrusters and limited burns to get through this field until we find the Cylons. From there, I think we can find an asteroid to set up shop on. We'll launch from there. If we hit them right, the rest of the fleet will probably scatter, allowing a Colonial pickup for us within the forty-eight hour window. Maybe."
Emory sighed, nodding and smiling sadly, "Maybe so. I like it. Let's go toaster hunting."
Mason nodded, setting his jaw firmly. He torched off the thrusters slightly, guiding the Raptor slowly and softly around the massive asteroid field.
"Sector Twelve," Emory remarked, examining the navigational chart. "The sector of sectors. At least that's no surprise. Where better to have a Cylon party than deep in Cylon territory?"
"At least they're consistent," Mason nodded.
Emory took off his helmet and pressurization collar around his suit, taking a deep breath of recycled cabin air. Mason did likewise as Emory flew momentarily.
"Y'know, I heard a rumor about this sector once," said Emory as he stared out of the bubble-shaped canopy.
"What's that?" Mason asked, raising an eyebrow.
"That awhile back, there was a top-secret Fleet that was stationed deep out here. Made up of ships that were supposedly destroyed or something. Like the Valkyrie, the Osiris, the Loki...you know. Not just a bunch of transports, but Colonial capital ships," the co-pilot smiled at the absurdity of the statement.
"Why the frak would the admiralty want to keep a fleet of capital ships hidden deep in Cylon space?" Mason shook his head. "If the Cylons found out...it'd be game over."
Emory shrugged, "I don't know. Like I said, this was awhile back, anyway. Back when we were in the war college. It was a rumor at best. Some idiot got a little drunk and started flapping his jaw. Besides, if there was any weight to it, that fleet would probably be long gone by now. Probably blown to frak. In all reality this time."
"Hanging out in Cylon space for the duration of a tour just doesn't sound like a good time to me," Mason nodded, giving short bursts on the maneuvering thrusters. The Raptor edged further into the field, its path slow and graceful.
Emory ducked into the rear momentarily. He returned holding two ration packs and two canteens of water. Mason paused, realizing it had been over a dozen hours since they had last eaten.
He gently pointed the nose of the Raptor at a section of wide-open space and fired the engines for five seconds, giving the Raptor a boost of speed. Mason released the controls and allowed the craft to drift. He sat back in his seat and put his boots up on the console, relaxing for what felt like the first time in years.
Emory paused midway through a mouthful of food. He considered something momentarily, as though struggling with a decision. He then reached into the shoulder pocket on his flight suit and pulled out a small picture, wedging the side and top of it into the frame around the dradis readout.
Mason stopped chewing, looking at the picture. Then, the biggest self-satisfied smirk in human recorded history spread across his face.
"I knew it!" he said, his mouth full of food.
"Ok, ok," Emory sighed, crashing his head back on the seat's headrest and rolling his eyes out to empty space. "You're right. You win. Congratulations."
Mason smiled, looking at the picture. It showed a stunningly beautiful woman with flowing auburn hair and bright, light blue eyes. Her smile was radiant - creating the illusion of light within the small cabin of the Raptor.
"I don't need any congratulations," Mason said, in all seriousness. "I think you're the one who deserves congratulations."
"Well, maybe I did," Emory said, looking at the picture. His visage softened noticeably as his thoughts drifted to those of the woman in the picture. "Seeing as we're probably not going to make it back, though..."
Mason looked down at his boots, feeling instantly terrible.
"It probably wouldn't have worked for long anyway," continued Emory. "I mean, it's not like we get back to Tauron all that often. And the chances of both of us surviving this war...I mean, let's be real here."
His friend's gaze remained locked on his boots. Mason took a deep breath before gently setting his ration pack down by the throttle.
"What?" Emory asked, looking at Mason with a confused expression.
"We've got enough fuel to get us back to the Scorpion Yards," Mason said, quietly. "Help me plot the jump."
"And just like that, this is over?"
"Yeah, just like that."
Emory shook his head, "You've got to be kidding me. We hijacked a Colonial Raptor, escaped a fully loaded Battlestar, snuck into the biggest military installation outside of Picon fleet headquarters, stole not one, but three nuclear warheads and a metric ton of high explosives - blasted our way out of the place, and jumped deep into Cylon space in order to facilitate what is possibly the biggest guerrilla attack on the Cylons to date, and you just want to give up?"
Mason swallowed, "Yeah. We did all that. But it isn't worth it. I'm not going to die knowing that I took you away from the possibility of a normal life after this is all over. I won't do it."
"Frak off, Scott," Emory shook his head. "That isn't you. That isn't me. You know that. You knew what you were getting into - despite the brashness of your decision making. And I knew what I was getting into. I'm not going back - and neither are you."
"I'm just getting my head around this," Mason replied. "I mean. This is it. We're probably not going back. You don't deserve that, Garrett. You've got more going for you than I do. You need to survive."
"And you don't?" Emory's reply contained a rare flash of emotion. He looked at Mason, outraged. "Your modesty is your downfall, Scott. The way you fly - how deadly you are to the enemy - it's - it's something that we need. And by 'we' I mean all of us. There's going to come a day when you're going to save many lives with the way you operate. If anyone needs to survive this, it's you."
Mason smirked, pointing at the picture wedged into the dradis readout. "I think she would disagree."
"Well, possibly," Emory relented, laughing a little.
The twenty-three year old Scott Mason sighed, frustrated by the futility of the argument. He also marveled at the character of his wingman seated next to him. Many other pilots - good pilots - in the fleet would have wholeheartedly agreed with the decision to retire and return back. But not Emory.
"Besides," the co-pilot remarked. "I think our fate is better out here rather than returning back. I mean, dishonerable discharge is the least of our worries now..."
Mason opened his mouth again to apologize.
"Scott. Stop apologizing," Emory sighed. "Have you even given consideration to what would happen if this actually works?"
"Well," Mason said, glancing out at the space in front of him, seeing nothing but rocks and the sprawling nebula. "Yes. I mean, to take down a Basestar of this importance...that's huge. And if we can get back with the intel on the number of Basestars and support ships that we see, they can compare that with other intelligence in order to get a more accurate picture of what's going on with the Cylons. It very well may-"
"-win the war," Emory smiled confidently, nodding. "So let's just stop worrying about it, find these frakkin' toasters, blow them to frak, and go home, okay?"
Mason was quiet for a prolonged moment before nodding slowly.
"Besides," Emory said, taking another massive bite of whatever it was they put into field rations. "What's the story with you and that whatsherface Marine?"
"There isn't much of a story," Mason adjusted the course of the Raptor slightly before diving back into his own ration. "I mean, nothing's happening."
"Nothing?" Emory asked, apalled. "Scott, please, I think she kind of likes you."
"Right, well..."
"Don't 'well' me," the sandy-haired co-pilot pointed a fork in Mason's direction. "This always happens. Again with your modesty! When will you finally admit to yourself that you are, in fact, an elligable bachelor? And that maybe you could focus on something other than flying for a little bit?"
"Flying's not the only thing I focus on!" Mason snorted. "I focus on other things!"
"Like what?"
"...things!"
"Right."
"Shut up."
It was Emory's turn to wear a self-satisfied smirk. Mason shook his head, scowling.
"How many times, Scott, do we have to go through this?" Emory asked, tweaking the range on the dradis. "It's all about your attitude towards this. You could get a really fantastic girl if you-"
Beep beep.
"Dradis contact," Emory snapped into business mode faster than a Viper rolling a hard six. "Unknown transponder, running now. Bearing zero-one-seven, range ten-five, carem three-seven-seven, and holding."
"I'll slow us down easy," Mason said quietly, quickly dropping his per-packaged meal and easing the forward momentum of the Raptor.
"Transponder doesn't register...now more contacts...spread around the first," Emory whispered.
"Garrett, look," Mason muttered, his eyes upward and to the right.
"My gods," Emory breathed.
Floating in no particular formation were the forms of no less than nine Basestars. The bluish green light from the nebula refracted off the hulls of the massive capital ships - creating a dazzling show. Patrolling slowly around the Basestars were literally hundreds of Raiders with no set course.
"Wow," Mason shook his head, struck by the sight. "This has got to be half the Cylon fleet."
"Indeed," agreed Emory. "Now. The real question. How do we get close?"
"I think I have an idea," Mason said, a smirk forming.
"A complete shut-down," Mason said. "The Cylons detect us based upon radio signals, transponders, electronics, and whatever else. We get on course with the command ship, fire the engines, and then kill everything. To them, we'll look like a floating piece of junk."
"A floating piece of junk that looks exactly like a Colonial Raptor, you idiot," said Emory. "It'll work great until we get in close. Then we're frakked."
"So we get in close, then make a hard line for the command ship," Mason rebutted. "Activate the weapons, and blow it when we get close."
"Which doesn't leave an option for escape."
"Well, no," Mason paused, perplexed. He instantly brightened. "Wait. Do we still have those close-dock tow cables?"
"Of course," Emory nodded. Mason was referring to the close-quarters docking cable guns carried by every Raptor. They were fired like mooring lines in tight spaces to help Raptors dock. They worked like a fishing reel - just the size and weight of an over sized rifle.
"So we fly into the hanger bay of the command ship-"
"-you're insane-"
"-latch on to a Raider, and ride out of there before the package detonates - detach in space and activate the beacons."
Emory wore an expression that read both amazement and disgust. "And that's the plan?"
"You got a better idea?"
Emory was silent a moment, "No. Not exactly."
"We can't just set an autopilot and punch out - they'd pick up on it...we can't set a glide path and punch out, either. You're right, they'd pick up on the Raptor's shape if nothing else. I'm not seeing many options except to fly right on in there and flip the switch," Mason sighed.
"You're right," relented Emory. "I don't like it. But you're right."
"I never said I liked it, either."
Mason glanced over and shrugged. Emory shook his head.
"Best drink some water, then," he said, nonchalantly. "It may be awhile before we're picked up."
"Right," Mason nodded, uncapping his canteen.
"So best I can surmise, the command vessel is, of course, the central one," Emory pointed at the central part of the formation. "It has the most traffic going in and out of it in terms of Raiders. Passive scans also show the most activity from that Basestar in terms of wireless and other signals."
"We can sneak behind this big bastard here," Mason nodded towards a sizable asteroid hovering around the inner perimeter of the formation. "And go from there."
"Okay," Emory nodded, latching the silver pressurization collar around his flight suit. "Here goes, then, eh?"
"I suppose," Mason nodded, putting his helmet on. "Okay...course look good?"
"Looks good. Let's give it a shot."
"Okay, three...two...one," Mason counted down as the Raptor's nose came in line with the aforementioned asteroid. He and Emory opened up the throttles wide.
The Raptor surged forward, headlong into the outer perimeter of the widespread Raider patrols.
"Okay, full shutdown," Emory began quickly shutting down the systems on the craft. "Weapons...engines...dradis...FTL...transponder...oh, frak, come on..."
"What?" Mason wheeled around.
"Error in safe shutdown of the transponder - it's going into protection on mode...oooooh, frak," Emory's hands flew over the controls, attempting to override.
"Come on, Garrett," Mason pleaded quietly, eying a full squadron of Raiders that were flying in their general direction. Quite suddenly, the squadron hit their engines in machine-perfect unison, making a blinding turn straight for their Raptor.
"They made us!"
"Frak it," Emory turned quickly in his seat, un-holstering his sidearm. He reached over his right shoulder with the weapon, and loosed a devastating burst of fire towards the bulkhead of the Raptor.
"Kill the life support!" he bellowed.
Mason quickly disengaged the life support - effectively ending any sort of automated process aboard the small ship. He quickly turned, looking wildly out the window at the approaching squadron.
Just as quickly as they had changed course to intercept the Raptor, they disengaged, returning to their normal patrol route in a slow, but efficient, arc. Raptor Eight-Eight-Six was now, effectively, dead in the water. Carried only by momentum, their course carried them past the outer perimeter of the Raider patrols - and into the formation.
"Wow," Mason breathed slowly. "It worked."
Emory, with his hand shaking, slowly holstered his sidearm, glancing back at the smoking holes in the bulkhead, "Thank the gods..."
"Nice shooting," Mason examined his wingman's handiwork. The bullet holes were literally centimeters from the outer edges of the ordinance package. He knew that rounds from a sidearm wouldn't detonate the nuclear payload...however, the same couldn't be said for the high explosives surrounding it.
"Ah, yes," Emory sighed, smiling almost sheepishly. "Kind of ran out of time there."
Mason smirked as he pulled out a small, cylindrical object from his flight suit. He uncapped it and pulled out the contents. It was a strip of materiel perhaps five centimeters in length - its color white.
"We've got a little bit of time until we need to switch over to self-contained," Mason remarked, placing the cylinder on the darkened dradis console. Both men watched the materiel warily - watching for the color change from white to black. The material was designed to fade to black when toxic atmospheres were detected. The young pilots knew that as they breathed the remaining atmosphere in the cabin, they would eventually foul the air. Recycling the atmosphere would mean re-activating part of the processing system, and drawing the wrath of the Cylon armada down upon them. So there was nothing to do except sit, wait, and breathe.
Mason's pulse slowly returned to the low hundreds as he took several deep breaths. His eyes were wide as literally dozens of Raider squadrons flew around his Raptor - paying no mind to the floating hunk of metal drifting through their airspace. It was unnerving, to say the least.
"We're quite literally the sheep among the wolves," Emory said quietly, contemplating the massed armada around them.
"No kidding," Mason agreed. "Say...how many confirmed kills you got now? It's four isn't it?"
"Right," his wingman nodded. "The same as you."
"So," mused the young pilot. "D'you think if we take down a Basestar, it'll count as one? Or maybe one for the both of us?"
Emory cracked into laughter, "I think it'll count as one for each of us. We'll die aces."
"Nice," Mason smiled, failing to contain his own laughter.
Battlestar Cathedral - CIC - Raptor 886 +14 hours AWOL
"Sir," the communications officer spoke in the direction of Weissbach.
"Hmph?" the Commander grunted, shifting his tired eyes over.
"It's Admiral Schaeffer," the young warrant officer's voice shook slightly.
"Great," Weissbach growled. "My office."
"James," the deep voice on the other end of the line said. Weissbach pressed the heavy black phone to his ear as he sank into his chair.
"Admiral," Weissbach relented.
"Am I correct in this understanding - one of your Raptors is missing?"
"That's correct, sir." The commander knew better than to try and cover anything up from his boss's boss's boss.
"And that they jumped to the Scorpion Yards, grabbed the payload that was designed for Operation Harvest Moon - and then jumped deep into Cylon space?"
"Well, sir, I wasn't on Scorpion for myself, so the last part I cannot confirm, but that is what I'm told," Weissbach correctly reported.
A deep sigh answered him, "Don't worry, James, I was. Those boys literally parked that stolen Raptor next to mine. Gods above. Never mind that the combined efforts of the Colonial Fleet couldn't stop them, but now they're actually going to give Harvest a shot. It's a suicide mission. I never liked it to begin with."
"Yes, sir."
"And what if they discover the fleet that's out there? What if they come back and tell everyone that the Valkyrie and the Osiris and all those other gods damned frakking mental people are out there, too? This is a huge mess, James."
"Agreed, sir," Weissbach sighed like the old man he was. "I must say, though, sir, that if they somehow survive, and if they see anything, then I think they'll have the presence of mind to keep quiet about what they saw out there. They're not stupid, sir. They did get away from me and my ship."
"And me and my entire frakking fleet at Scorpion. I hope you're right about this, James. Gods be with those boys. If they can do it...it'll be the biggest break we've seen in ten years."
Weissbach felt a slight pang of sympathy in his heart for the two pilots - both young enough to be his sons, "You know something, Alan...I think we're underestimating them. They may surprise us yet."
"So what's your plan once we get to that rock?" Emory asked.
Mason hesitated, "I - um - hang on..."
"You don't have a plan, do you?"
"No."
Emory smirked, "Well that rock is at about five clicks, and we're closing."
"Right," Mason nodded, racking his brain. "Right you are."
"Don't worry. I think this might work," Emory unstrapped himself. "But, it does mean that we'll have to vent the rest of our air."
"Collateral damage," Mason eyed the sizable asteroid, now four and a half kilometers away.
"I won't be able to fit around this payload again if I strap into the support pack," Emory remarked. "So I'll have to go around it and...well, frak, that won't work, I'll run out of air..."
"You're thinking of using the tow gun to get us close," Mason suddenly realized.
"Yes, but I need to be outside of the Raptor in order to fire the gun, Scott, and I can't get this frakking hulk of a survival pack around it to the door," Emory sighed.
"Hang on," Mason said, strapping his pack on. "Get your pack. We'll jettison the frakkin' windscreen, and you can go out and around the bird that way."
"Jettison the windscreen," Emory said. "But think of the radiation and not to mention the bullets that will be flying here in a few minutes..."
"Like it's going to be any better out there for you," Mason remarked with raised eyebrows.
"True enough," Emroy shrugged. "Hell. Let's do it. We're dead men flying anyway."
Mason smiled. He reached down into the duffel bag resting between the seats and pulled out a small camera. He quickly slid it into a mounting bracket on the side of his helmet, "Might as well record some good stuff for when they find our bodies."
"Right," Emory said, snapping his air supply hose in place and nodding.
The young pilot reached up with a gloved hand and pressed the tiny "record" button.
"Here goes," he said, standing slightly out of his seat and breaking open the manual windscreen release lever boxes. Emory did the same next to him.
"Three...two...one..."
They twisted the handles simultaneously. What was left of the atmospheric pressure in the cabin did the rest. The windscreen vented violently out into open space - tumbling away with speed. Whatever wasn't tied down inside the cabin also vented with speed.
Emory grabbed a tow cable gun from behind the seat and quickly unstrapped himself from the co-pilots chair. The large asteroid - now less than a klick away - absolutely dwarfed the Raptor.
"Okay," Emory said, grabbing the windscreen support post with one hand and gently swinging himself outside the Raptor - walking now in open space.
"For frak's sake, tie yourself down to something out there, ok?" Mason swore, craning his neck as he attempted to keep his eyes on Emory.
"I'm really glad you're here to tell me these things," Emory muttered as he carefully edged along the outer rail of the Raptor. He knelt down, attaching the harness of his suit to a tie-down anchor on the stubbed wing of the craft. He shouldered the towing gun, taking aim at the giant rock.
"Ok, half a klick," Mason whispered, realizing that he had failed to appreciate the sheer size of the rock. As it spun on its axis, Mason realized that an outcropping or some other piece of it could swing about and crush the Raptor with ease.
"And there's only five hundred meters in this rope...great design, guys," Emory sighed as the Raptor passed into the shadow of the rock. He took aim, taking his best guess at the distance.
"Garrett?"
"Just a little closer," breathed the young Caprican pilot. He spied his chance, and depressed the trigger gently.
The towing gun launched the hook with surprising force - propelled by a bottle of highly compressed air. Emory quickly jettisoned the empty bottle and attatched the gun to a bracket on the side of the Raptor designed for that purpose.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon," Mason whispered, watching the tow rope unspool wildly behind the hook.
The hook clanged violently against the surface of the asteroid, sending a small cloud of debris floating into space.
"Reeling in," Emory said quietly, activating the spool. The rope wound up before becoming instantly as taught as a guitar string, pulling the Raptor in to the surface.
"Excellent," Mason sighed with relief. "When this thing comes about again, we'll be in perfect launching position."
"Quite," Emory agreed.
The Raptor was guided gently on to the surface of the asteroid much like a fish that had given up protesting the fact it had been caught. Mason unclipped himself from his seat and gently floated out of the craft.
"I'll lower the skids manually," he said to Emory.
"Roger."
Mason crawled around the outside of the craft - a relatively easy task, despite his bulky profile with the survival pack strapped to his back. The zero-g environment allowed him to access the underside of the craft with little difficulty. He popped open the doors to the landing and arresting gear, and hand-cranked each skid into its downward and locked position.
"Ok, we're ready," he called to Emory.
"Coming in now!"
Mason vaguely recalled sitting in a lecture back in war college - something that was a feat unto itself, considering he had spent an inordinate amount of time in war college partaking in extra-curricular activity. In the lecture, the professor had said something about all bodies possessing mass in the universe generated a gravitational field. Now, the amount of mass an object possessed dictated exactly how much gravity it generated.
The pull of this particular interstellar body's field took effect on Mason, Emory, and the Raptor at the same time. It was a weak pull, but still present.
"Perfect," Emory whispered as the Raptor bumped down gently on the surface. He quickly retrieved the tow rope and hook.
Mason glanced under the craft, double-checking that the skids had found at least something to grip on to temporarily. He glanced up as Emory floated gently over to him.
"How's it look?"
"Good, for now," Mason reported, glancing out towards space. The scene slowly changed as the asteroid spun gently. "I'm thinking fifteen minutes, max, we'll be lined up and ready."
Emory nodded, glancing out at the expanse before them. Raider squadrons cruised by silently, as no sound transferred in the depths of space.
"I will say this," Mason remarked. "This is going to be one hell of a video..."
Picon Fleet Headquarters - Raptor 886 +17 hours AWOL
A furious knocking resounded from the heavy solid-core wooden door to Fleet Admiral Schaeffer's office. The Admiral glanced up, sighing, "Yes?"
"Sir!" a Major - Schaeffer chastised himself for not remembering the guy's name - rushed in with a briefing packet. "Sir, just in from satellites outside Sector Twelve."
Schaeffer took the packet from the Major, his brow furrowed. The attitude around headquarters, even in somewhat dire times, had always been one of quiet professionalism. To see this officer worked up concerned the Admiral slightly.
"What am I looking at?" Schaeffer asked as he opened the packet and began leafing through it.
"Sir, approximately eighteen hours ago, several more Basestars jumped into Section Twelve, bringing the total to nine. One hour ago, reports began coming in of Basestars suddenly abandoning known sectors. The Universal reported that she was engaged with one in Sector Nine when it suddenly cut and ran - didn't even recover her Raiders. Same reports elsewhere. It's like they're gone, sir."
Schaeffer's hand, holding the satellite images, began to shake slightly.
"Get me emergency message priority to all Colonial Ships."
Mason sat with Emory in front of their Viper - leaning their backs against the nose of the resting craft.
"Should almost be time," Emory remarked, glancing over at Mason.
Mason nodded, opening his mouth to speak. In the same instant, a masive flash of light dazzled the eyes of the two young men.
"My gods," Mason whispered.
A basestar had jumped in literally kilometers from where they sat on the asteroid. Followed by another. And another. And another.
"Thirteen Basestars," Emory stood slowly. "That's over half their fleet."
Mason made a point to look up, down, and around to allow the camera on his helmet to capture the scene.
"What in the frak are they doing here?" Mason made an attempt to kept his voice even. "This isn't right...something's going on here..."
"We're coming about, Scott," Emory quietly said. The men stood rooted to the spot as the horizon of the asteroid crept down, revealing the rest of the armada.
"This is unbelievable," Mason said, absolutely stunned.
"Let's move," Emory replied. "Our window's closing."
The men jumped gently into their seats.
"Set for quick start," Mason said needlessly, mostly to himself.
"Roger," Emory replied.
"Garrett - look, they're recalling their Raiders."
"Well, we know what that means," Emory quickly flipped axillary power on.
"A jump," Mason agreed. The time for subtlety had passed. He quickly hard-booted the Raptor back to life. "Skid release...now!"
Emory yanked a lever near the floor - releasing the Raptor's slight grip on the asteroid.
"Punch it, Scott!"
BSG 45 Battlestar Cathedral & Col. Cruiser Fairwood Common - R886 +17.25 hours AWOL
"'...believed to be massing in Sector Twelve for coordinated attack on unknown Colonial targets - all elements ordered to Condition Two...combat air patrols are ordered around all Colonial assets, with alert fighters on standby.' Sweet frakkin' mother of Artemis," Weissbach read the orders in disbelief. He wheeled over to communications, "Ensign! Get in touch with the Fairwood Common, we're going to condition one!"
"Sir! The Common shows condition one already!"
"Well, at least they got the message, too," growled the Cathedral's Executive Officer, a severe-looking Colonel by the name of A.J. Bauer.
"A.J., let's do the same," Weissbach said quickly.
"Aye, sir," Bauer flipped up a phone with speed. "Action stations, action stations! Set condition one throughout the ship, this is not a drill! Action stations! This is the X.O."
Bauer set the phone down, glancing over at Weissbach. He leaned across the nav table, speaking quietly to Weissbach, "Do you think our boys have any idea? They're right in the middle of it."
"If they made it," Weissbach whispered back, "I'm sure they're wondering why they're surrounded by half the Cylon fleet...gods, I hope they pull this off..."
Mason laid the throttle down on the Raptor - demanding everything the engines had. The Raptor shook slightly in protest to escape the weak gravitational pull of the asteroid, but broke free without much protest. The craft blazed a straight line toward the command ship - a mere fifteen hundred kilometers away.
"Keep her pinned, Scott! I'm going to arm the package!"
"Not too early!" Mason bellowed. "They'll jump away!"
"We'll be there in thirty seconds! Just fly, you idiot!" Emory retorted.
Mason's eyes shifted forward once again, locking themselves on the Command Basestar. He knew that without the Colonial transponder, it would take the Cylons only a few seconds longer to recognize what exactly was beating feet toward their command vessel, and only a few seconds after that to open fire. He generously estimated that they had fifteen seconds of free flying time before all hell broke loose.
"Multiple dradis contacts! Mark thirteen Cylon basestars...ten Cylon heavy freighters, several hundred Raiders, ah, hell I can't even read this frakkin' thing!" Emory growled at the screen.
"I think they're on to us," Mason said cryptically as the Basestars surrounding them began launching innumerable Raiders. The glinting specks of silver massed together, looking like a powerful river as it plunged over high falls.
"Incoming missiles!" Emory cried. Not being satisfied simply with launching Raiders, several Basestars loosed a volly of missiles, all headed in the direction of the comparatively tiny Raptor 886.
"Those ships have to have some sort of safeguard, like ours do," Mason said, flying straight on toward the centralized Basestar. "The missiles will veer off once they get close as not to cause friendly fire."
"You're one hell of an optimist," Emory remarked. "Weapons online."
Mason nodded, "Ok."
"I'm going to save the missiles for when we get close - if you can get me in for guns offense, I can do it," Emory shouted.
"I'm going to stay on course - if anything gets in our way -"
"- I'll blow them straight to hell," Emory nodded. "Like this!"
A flight of Raiders detached from their squadron and formed a head-to-head run with the Raptor. Emory took careful aim and began peppering the opposing fighters with quick bursts of fire. It wasn't enough to wholly destroy any fighters - but it offered some deterrence.
"Five hundred meters!" Mason called, his eyes focused on the yawning hanger door on the Basestar - belching Raiders by the dozens.
"Go for it, I'll plow the road!" Emory bellowed. He quickly brought up the targeting computer.
The Raptor lurched as it absorbed a burst of fire from a passing Raider. Alarms squawked.
Emory locked the four Archer missiles on to the hanger bay door and formed a firing solution in less than three seconds. "Firing!"
Four frozen vapor trails streaked out from the Raptor - blazing a path straight for the Basestar.
"Arm the nukes! Give us one minute!" Mason called.
"If we make it," Emory replied, flipping over the weapons detonator. He punched in one minute, and slammed his thumb down hard on the "Arm" button.
Instantly, the nukes came to life in the back seat. The central board where the whole works was wired to blinked furiously. And, in the same moment, the Cylons instantly disengaged.
"Hey, Scott, guess what," Emory cracked.
"What, Emory?!" Mason roared.
"Radiological alarm," the co-pilot snickered.
"Gods! Get ready to jump!"
Mason pointed the nose of the Raptor up, rolling into a tight arc. The four missiles that Emory fired slammed into the side of the Basestar, sending a ball of fire outward. Mason flew right for it.
"Heads up!" Emory yelled. Debris scattered like confetti in the space around the hanger door. The absence of a windscreen made this a problem.
"Gods damn!" Mason yelled as fragments of metal invaded the cabin space.
"Just set us down!"
Mason squinted furiously through the chaos - locating a flat spot on the inside of the hanger. Raiders were now launching en masse - having detected the presence of nuclear weapons in uncomfortably close proximity.
"Forty seconds!"
"Grab the guns!" Mason bellowed. Emory reached behind the seats, pulling out the towing guns.
Mason pushed the yoke down, forcing the Raptor down onto the deck of the Basestar in a landing that could best be described as horrendous. The craft skidded across the deck in a wild and dizzying spin.
"Jump!" Emory cried, grabbing Mason's shoulder. Mason grabbed the towing gun and leaped blindly from the Raptor.
They landed in a heap on the flight deck of the basestar. Disentangling themselves from one another with speed, they stood and looked wildly about.
"How much time?" Mason pressed.
"Thirty seconds at best!" Emory replied, looking around quickly. "There!"
Emory pointed at a line of launching Raiders perhaps fifty meters away. The pair began sprinting over, drawing their sidearms.
"Clankers!" Mason roared, raising his weapon and firing at a line of Cylon Centurions that had seemingly appeared from out of nowhere.
"We need to go, Scott!" Emory roared as Mason ducked behind a support column for cover.
Mason whipped around again, raising his towing gun and firing it at the head of an approaching Centurion. The machine was no match for the rapidly approaching tow hook. The hook instantly decapitated the machine - another fell next to it - shot in the metallic face by Mason.
Emory continued sprinting forward, his gun blazing. After dropping three in as many seconds, he raised his towing gun and fired into the side of a Raider that was idling up noisily.
"Scott!"
Mason wheeled around, seeing Emory fire his towing gun into the side of the idling Raider. He dropped his own towing gun, reloading his sidearm as he sprinted over to his wingman.
"Come on!" Emory bellowed.
Mason skidded to a halt next to his wingman, quickly attaching himself to his wingman with a heavy-duty metal clip.
There was perhaps a prolonged second where Mason and Emory looked at each other, acknowledging the fact that they had just strapped themselves to an enemy space superiority fighter capable of sublight speeds approaching the FTL mark. Also considered in the prolonged second was the soundness of this decision. However, with the alternative being remaining on an enemy capital ship with three nuclear weapons and a metric ton of high explosive recently delivered to it - the decision to strap oneself to a Raider didn't seem that outlandish.
The Raider took off with a shocking start - knocking the wind out of both pilots as the tow line snapped taut - instantly yanking the two off their feet and out into open space.
In the hypothetical situation of Mason posessing any air in his lungs, he surely would have been screaming. There was no training program, no standard operating guideline, and indeed no precedent to describe the feeling of being towed behind a Cylon Raider in open space in nothing but a sealed flight suit and a survival pack.
Emory had somehow regained the wind in his lungs, "Ten seconds!"
Mason blinked slowly, attempting to count down in his head. He made sure to close his eyes tightly.
Five...four...three...
Emory had produced his field knife from a side pocket in his flight suit. He scraped the blade along the line, loosing the two tethered pilots from the Raider. Their momentum flung them away from the sabotaged Basestar.
Two...one...
The Basestars surrounding the command ship jumped away with speed as the package detonated. A blinding flash preceded a massive, albeit quick, explosion. The Basestar literally disintegrated in a blinding flash of tyllium-fueled flash fire.
In the span of the following ten seconds, every Cylon ship in the vicinity jumped away - leaving behind the rapidly-expanding debris field that was once a capital ship.
Floating ahead of the debris field, and somehow still breathing, were the forms of Mason and Emory, tethered together by a short piece of rope. Mason's head was swimming as he fought to keep conscious.
"That was fun," he managed to whisper.
"Right, let's never do it again," Emory breathed, unmoving as the pair floated aimlessly.
Mason managed to regain feeling in his fingers, and slowly, deliberately reached upward to the side of his survival pack. He found a cord secured under a peice of ripstop fabric, and pulled it with force.
Beep...beep...beep...beep...
"Well at least they'll be able to find our bodies," Mason sighed. He looked down to his left wrist at the secondary pressure readout.
"Forty-six hours and change," Emory said quietly.
"Time to breathe slowly, then," Mason agreed. The two young pilots had been through air conservation training. They knew that talking, moving about, and stress caused a person to consume air faster than a person who remained still and quiet.
Which appeared to a non-issue for Mason, as the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion washed over him. The weightlessness of space was surprisingly comfortable. He admitted to himself that this comfortable feeling would possibly be the last thing that he felt.
That's alright he thought as he drifted into unconsciousness. That's alright.
