Chapter 9. Washing Ashore

Bill Thurston 12- Bridge

The sky was a kaleidoscope of green, white and gray clouds continuously rolling and crashing together. Enthralled with the view through the windows, Derek stared as another finger of lightning charged across the horizon in front of them. He leaned on the table as the ship was moderately shaken yet again by the angry winds which had been incessantly pummeling the enormous freighter.

"Thirty seconds 'til final turn" the navigator's voice called. "Set course 45 carom 294, maintain speed at 100."

Derek's eyes focused through the plate glass windows, searching for the Raptor that had been leading them through the storm. Squinting, he was just able to pick up the black shadow turning away, a mere 1,500 meters ahead of them.

"Execute turn on my signal. 3…2…1…Now." Marel called out to the helmsman sitting next to him.

Derek could feel the engines flare as they fought against the inertia of their previous course. The ship shook suddenly as if caught in the fist of an angry child. His arms stabbing out, Derek grabbed the edge of the table tightly to maintain his balance. Their path smoothed as the wave passed and it seemed as if the ship herself breathed out in relief.

"Turn complete, course now 45 carom 294; Ragnar Anchorage dead ahead," reported the stoic helmsman.

Derek observed Marel, quietly gauging the mettle of the young man. Constantly on edge, Derek had watched with concern as the navigator had practically dived under his console during the previous wave. Picking himself up, Marel's fingers flew across his console as he examined their course. "Confirm turn complete, Ragnar Station is six kilometers directly ahead. Helm, reduce speed to 50, our E.T.A. is 8.3 minutes."

A slight vibration traveled through the soles of his boots as the forward engines fired, gently slowing the lumbering giant. He continued to stare out the front canopy, patiently waiting for the space station to emerge through the swirling clouds. He focused on the Raptor in front of them as it bobbed in and out of view thru the storm. Then, out of nowhere, an indistinct shadow appeared, instantly resolving into a massive, spinning space station.

Derek turned at the sound of the helmsman gasping as he took in the sight of the fortress. It had been one of the Colonials' best kept secrets during the war. Hidden in the atmosphere of the planet, this station had anchored the Colonial Defense Forces, secretly funneling warriors and supplies to the front for action and back to their homes for rest and repair. Built at a massive scale, the station was in the shape of a child's top with three colossal rings attached to the upper half of a long central cylinder. The station had at one time retained three legions of marines and had been capable of provisioning an entire Battlestar Group for an extended deployment. Abandoned and forgotten by the children of those whom had built it, Derek wondered what, if anything, the station had for the Colonials, who were once again in desperate need.

Jumping at the suddenness of Rebecca's voice, Derek casually listened to her report. "Attention all hands, we have arrived at Ragnar Station. All stations secure ship for docking procedures." She paused a moment as she monitored the crew's activities. "Marel, open a channel to Ragnar Station."

A gaggle of spaceships, too numerous to count, were clustered around the station. The largest of these, a Colonial Battlestar, was moored on the far side of the top docking ring. Stepping forward to the windows he searched the growing ships again and again. A deep fear began to freeze in his core.

Picking up on his unease, Rebecca joined him at the forward windows. "What is it?" she asked quietly.

"They're all civilians," he responded quietly.

Rebecca looked again. She started with the Battlestar and then carefully scanned the fleet of vessels in front of them. Shaking her head, she surveyed the ships a second time. She turned to Derek, "That can't be right," she stated quietly.

"Captain," Marel addressed her, "I have the Battlestar Galactica on the line."

Discontinuing her survey of the ships gathered around the station, Rebecca picked up the phone. "Bill Thurston 12 to Battlestar Galactica, requesting permission to dock at Ragnar Station."

A man's voice, heavily distorted by the electromagnetic interference in the atmosphere, immediately responded. "This is Galactica Control; you are directed to dock with Ragnar Station, dorsal berthing ring, mooring number Two. A security detail will be waiting for you at Airlock Number One."

"Copy that Galactica Control, docking at Dorsal Berthing Ring, Mooring Number Two." She put the phone down. Turning to the computer at her side, she quickly brought up the schematics for the station provided to her by the Raptor crew. "Mr. Evans, take us in," she ordered.

Derek watched the station grow ever larger through the forward canopy as the freighter approached the space station. The crew was on edge. The corridor to the station had been harrowing, and the now-constant buffeting upon the ship made their advance that much more unsettling. Coming to a complete stop at the berthing arm next to the Galactica, the BT-12 began to pivot away, slowly turning and bringing its port side towards the dorsal ring. Relying solely on instruments, Derek nervously watched the screen as the young helmsman called out the shrinking distance to Ragnar Station. Reaching out for support, Derek quickly grabbed the table in front of him as a great vibration suddenly reverberated through the ship.

"Contact," called out the helmsman. His fingers flying over his station, he quickly began his report. "Mooring cables attached." He paused a moment, confirming the status on his screen, "Auxiliary power and life support cables attached, extending docking tubes and collars. Engines to standby-life support mode." He paused a couple more moments, his fingers continuing to dance across his station, "Confirm hard-seal Airlocks 1 thru 5." Turning to face his Captain, his brow was shining with sweat and he had a satisfied grin just barely visible, "Captain, we have successfully docked with Ragnar Anchorage."

Trying not to look relieved, Rebecca easily responded, "Good job, Mr. Evans." Now turning her attention to Parah and then Derek, "Parah, Captain, let's make our way to Airlock One." Standing up, she turned to the Navigator, "Marel, you have the con." Not waiting for a response, she quickly led the three through the hatch at the back of the compartment.

A mixed group of officers, marines, and medical personnel waited for Rebecca at the airlock. Standing in the front, wearing black clad and heavily- armed marines to either side stood two officers. The two officers were a study in contrasts. Dressed in the navy blue of the Colonial Fleet and standing almost uncomfortably at rigid attention, the younger officer waited motionlessly, towering over the old grizzled doctor standing to his left. With a seemingly permanent scowl on his face, the doctor rocked back forth slightly with impatience, the stethoscope hanging from his neck bouncing lightly off of his tattered and stained white lab coat.

The brown-haired officer's eyes met Rebecca's, "Captain Aaron Kelly, permission to come aboard."

"Permission granted. I'm Rebecca Davenport, C.O.," she responded automatically. She turned to her companions and then gestured to each, "My first mate Parah Gammons and this is Captain Robinaux, C.D.F."

Derek watched the younger officer turn towards him, "You're the officer from the Odin," he stated.

Extending his hand towards the officer, Derek, shook it firmly before replying, "Yes, I'm afraid I am the sole survivor."

Captain Kelly nodded his head, silently acknowledging his colleague's loss. "Commander Adama is expecting you." He paused, indicating one of the marine's attending the group, "Private Dansen will take you to him now."

"Very well," Derek answered the younger Captain. Turning to Rebecca and Parah, he braced in attention. His eyes boring into theirs, he sharply clicked his heels together, his hand snapping in a crisp salute as he did. He waited as they came to attention. Rebecca deliberately brought her hand up matching his salute. She held the pose and his gaze momentarily before slowly dropping her hand to her side. Relaxing his posture as she did, he extended his hand to her and then to Parah, shaking them both. "Thank you."

Caught in the moment, Rebecca composed herself before coarsely responding, "You're welcome Captain, and thank you for your help."

Turning to the young marine behind him, "If you're ready Private, please take me to Commander Adama."

"Yes, sir," she responded quickly. "This way please."

The older officer in the lab coat was now shifting menacingly behind Captain Kelly. "If we're done with the pleasantries, I have wounded to look at," he growled. Noticing the surprised faces from the Thurston's crew, he gruffly added as an afterthought, "Sherman Cottle, Galactica's Chief Medical Officer."

Derek turned away from the group, following the raven-haired soldier through the hatch and into Ragnar Station. They walked briskly through the corridor before reaching a cavernous staging area. Continuing silently, they made their way to a waiting train located along the interior wall of the depot. The marine stepped to the side, opening a waist-high door for him. Closing the door, she walked past Derek to the front where she stopped at the train's control.

Turning to him, "Sir, you will want to hold the support. It's not a very smooth ride," she suggested in a soft voice.

Derek grabbed the waist-high rail along the edge of the car. "I'm ready, Private," he stated. The car took off faster than he expected. Determined not to stumble he squeezed the hand-rail tightly, his left arm straining to hold his body still as the two of them accelerated from the platform. Barreling along the rails in front of them, Derek let his mind wander as the wind whipped across his face in the open air car.

Derek hadn't seen Commander Adama since he was a nugget assigned to the Columbia. Serving as the Battlestar's Executive Officer, the then-Colonel Adama, had a taken a personal interest in his career. He had nearly changed Derek's call sign to "Doghouse" due to the inordinate amount of time that the Colonel spent chewing out the freshly minted Lieutenant. Six months later, Commander Adama had left for the Valkyrie. Derek had breathed a sigh of relief, and had remained "Green-Bean". He remembered how surprised he was at the end of his first tour when Commander Adama had offered him a commission. He had turned it down, instead opting for a fresh start on the Battlestar Pacifica. He eventually had made his way to the Odin, where he had commanded a squadron of Vipers, Raptors and two General Purpose Shuttles.

Bill Thurston 12- Cargo Hold 5

Passing through the hatch into the expansive hold, Doctor Cottle brusquely pushed past the freighter's plump Captain, making a bee-line for a group of Colonial soldiers and civilian workers congregating in the middle portion of the hold. "Medics!" he called out to the trailing medical personnel. He kept a brisk pace as two of the nurses rushed to his side. "Ishay, your with me, the rest of you begin triage on the ambulatory refugees. I am heading to the more serious group over there," he ordered, pointing at a group of men and women sitting or lying on the deck to his right.

"Yes sir!" they responded in unison, quickly streaming past him, gurneys in tow, towards the throng of people standing to their right.

Dr. Cottle and Ishay along with two additional marines quickly reached the small group of patients clustered towards the far wall. He knelt down next to an unconscious young man. His duty shirt had been removed. In its place, blood stained bandages were wrapped tightly around his chest, arms and hands. Grimacing, Doctor Cottle placed his stethoscope on the side of the man's throat, silently gauging the man's pulse. Satisfied, he gently turned his face, noting the burn marks on the man's chin and cheeks before pulling a small flashlight out of his coat pocket to check the patient's pupillary response. Sighing, he returned the light to his pocket and began to search the immediate area for a chart on the patient. Not seeing one, he stood up and looked again, noticing a handmade bracelet taped around the man's left wrist for the first time, the name "Avazz, R." carefully printed on it.

"Doctor," A soft timid voice sounded from behind him.

Turning in that direction, Dr. Cottle found a young blonde woman quietly kneeling behind him. "You must be the ship's nurse," he stated gruffly.

Clearly intimidated by the surly man, she meekly responded, "Yes Doctor, I'm Spera Harris." She looked as she wanted to bolt. Instead, she pointed to a table along the wall. "I have the charts on the table over there," she added nervously.

Doctor Cottle looked at the table, and then he briefly surveyed the wounded in front of him. Sighing loudly, he looked at the young woman, "You've done well here." He watched her face relax slightly at that remark, "Go grab those charts and bring them over here."

The three medical officers spent the next 30 minutes going over the patients' conditions in hushed tones, carefully prioritizing those most in need from those beyond their ability to heal. Kneeling over a young man, the Doctor looked at the patient's wrist band, it read, Korzann, A. He gently administered a shot of morpha into his remaining arm. Placing his hand on the young man's sweat-covered forehead, he offered him a last bit of comfort. He watched the young man's face relax slightly as the opiate took effect. Waiting for the inevitable, the doctor took his hand and sat with him. Within a few minutes, Specialist Korzann began to wheeze and then hyperventilate. Squeezing the young man's hand firmly, Doctor Cottle met his gaze as his patient slipped into the afterworld. He placed the limp hand on the man's chest before reaching forward to close his now lifeless eyes. He remained seated there a few moments, quietly collecting his thoughts. Then, with grace belying his age, the doctor quickly stood up and called to his assistant.

"Ishay, what is the status of the ambulatory refugees?" he asked pointedly.

Turning to him, the young brunette medic reported back, "They are all fit for travel Doctor, most have minor frostbite from exposure, some burns, sprains, and a few broken bones, but none of these patients are seriously injured."

"Let's get these patients to Galactica's sick bay," he ordered indicating the group of most serious patients in front of him. Turning to the nurse, "I need a line to the Galactica."

"This way Doctor," she answered, leading him to a small control room in the front of the hold. She picked up the receiver, depressing a few keys. "This is Nurse Harris, Doctor Cottle needs a line to Galactica." She paused a moment, "Thanks, Marel." She handed the phone to the Doctor.

"Galactica, Combat. Specialist Dualla," sounded through the handset a moment later.

"Dee, this is Doc Cottle, I need you to patch me through to the quartermaster."

"Very well sir, one moment."

His conservation with the quartermaster was brief. With the Galactica in the middle of her decommissioning when the attacks began, there was ample room aboard the old warship for survivors. He and the nurse headed back to the refugees in the middle portion of the hold. Signaling for the marines to join him, he quickly got the attention of all in the room. They organized the patients into small groups, and then escorted by the Galactica's marines, he watched them neatly file out of the hold.

Turning to the nurse, "Ms. Harris, I am going to keep the deceased here for now. Once things calm down a bit, I will have them transferred to a temporary morgue that I have set up on Galactica." He waited for her reaction. Seeing none, he continued, "Now, this is important." He fixed her with a hard expression, "Under no circumstances are these souls to be handled in any way. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir." she answered him.

Doctor Cottle turned and with Nurse Harris in tow, began walking towards the back of the hold. He quickly began surveying the deceased, laying in neat rows on the floor. A few bodies were mangled, several more showed damage from being burned, but the vast majority of the deceased had succumbed to hypothermia, anoxia, and the exposure to a vacuum. He was passing down the third row of victims, his mind juggling the turmoil of emotions running through him. He had just turned to inspect the next row of bodies, when he suddenly stopped. He turned back to the previous row, a look of confusion on his face. Something caught in his mind, a face that he recognized.

Marching swiftly back to the third row, he quickly came to a stop in front of one of the victims. His face was distorted by frost bite burns and broken blood vessels caused by the vacuum. Dr. Cottle looked at the plain man carefully. He was in his mid-30's, and he wore the light gray uniform of the civilian firm which had been updating the computers. He was of average height and build with sandy brown hair. He picked up the man's hand and looked at the wristband; it read, "M. Doral."

"Nurse, do you have a chart for this man?" he asked the nurse.

"Yes, Doctor, it's over there," she said before turning and jogging towards a different table along the wall.

Doctor Cottle waited, anxiously studying the young man's face, his mind paralyzed as he tried to solve the puzzle before him. The nurse returned momentarily. Taking the folder from her hand, he quickly opened it, pulling out the form that the Nurse had filled out after recovering the victims. Taped to the sheet was the young man's I.D. card from Integral Systems Engineering. Grabbing it firmly he roughly ripped it off the page. Now studying the picture on the I.D. the Doctor could hardly believe his eyes. The face on the card belonged to Michael Doral, but it also belonged to Aaron Doral, the arrogant public relations officer assigned to the Galactica for her decommissioning. The same Aaron Doral whom was now in Galactica's brig, who had been accused of placing an unknown device in Galactica's C.I.C, and was also suspected of being a human-like Cylon. He closed the folder in frustration and handed it back to the young nurse. "Son of a bitch," he growled.

"Doctor, do you know him?" the nurse asked.

Gathering his thoughts, he responded, "I think his cousin serves on the Galactica." Looking around, he called out, "Corporal!"

A young black marine came up, his uniform pocket identifying him as Corporal Venner.

"I need you to bring this body back to the Galactica immediately, take it to Nurse Ishay and have her take him to the morgue in life station."

The marine waited for a medic to bring over a gurney, quickly lifting the body on to it. Once secured to the cart Corporal Venner began pushing the deceased towards the hatch.

Clearly agitated, the ill-disposed doctor quickly called out, "Corporal, wait one moment please." He turned to the nurse, "You have done an excellent job here. I need to attend to this," he pointed to the deceased man. "If he is who I think he is, his cousin will want to know as soon as possible." Without waiting for a response, he took the folder from her and whirled towards the marine. The two quickly made their way back to the Galactica.