A/N: Inspired by Lynnmichelle's triumphant return to ficcing, I have redoubled my efforts to finish this piece. As usual, I tried to make it slightly more 'realistic'. Least, as far as I figure. One more chapter.

The Raptor's doors swung down with a crash, and Gunnery Sergeant Sims was the first man out. He was yelling, waving his squad out of the Raptors, eyes sweeping the forest. Nothing, dead silence save the crash of boots and the furious barks of noncoms as they badgered their men into deployment. It took a few seconds for Sims to realize that he was effectively in command. Rifles swept the eerily quiet forest, caught in the orange glow of sunset.

"Jannos, c'mere," Gunny grunted, waving over his radio operator.

"Kilo Force, this is Kilo One One...scratch that, Kilo Actual. By the book, as fast advance as we can make it. Kilo Two Five on point, stay alert for mines or any other toys the toasters left us. In and out...I wanna be home for dinner."

It sounded better in his head. Thrace rolled her eyes as the individual sections formed a skirmish line behind the spread out scout party.

"I'm in charge, Gunny. I know the terrain, and I know the Resistance."

Letting Helo, Sharon and and rest of the squad fall into their place ahead of them, he did the unthinkable. Putting a hand firmly on her arm, he stopped her.

"Yessir. You DO know the Resistance. But after the Cloud Nine thing...do you honestly think my men will listen to a damn thing you say? You're a pilot, not a leatherneck. You have rank, so I'll listen to you, but I'm in charge just like the El-tee would have been."

There was fire in her eyes. She wasn't used to insubordination. Hernandez called after the Sims from the treeline.

"Better catch up, Captain."

"You gonna be able to keep up, Sergeant?" she spat back. Sims let her go, and redoubled his efforts to conceal the stiffness in his knee.

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

The advance was, as Gunny dictated, careful but quick. His men were a little spread out but the new HQ section was clustered around the 'sandwich stand'- Kara, Sharon, Helo, and a few volunteer ECO's. Kara reddened in the face when the marines used the term over open channels, requesting information or directions from the inexperienced group of fighters. An hour into the rescue mission's advance through the woods, Sharon called a halt. Janno broadcast the command, and marines automatically hunkered behind trees or went prone. Gunny Sims was still glaring enviously at Kara's rifle, gleaned magically from the Pegasus stockpiles, along with the heavy weapons issued to each section. Grenade launchers and Section Support Weapons -squat, short-barreled light machineguns- could be seen poking through foliage. Helo consulted the map.

"Just over a click to Resistance base."

Sims nodded his approval. That meant one mile there, five back...could be done reasonably in two hours, if nothing went awry.

"Movement, eleven o'clock," called out Valeri. Sims hadn't even seen it. He grumbled to himself as he slid a little, watching the subtle shift of his men's weapons. The Sandwich Stand tittered amongst themselves as the marines spread out and prepared to lay down a withering hail of bullets. Helo broke the silence by poking his head out of cover and yelling to the distant figures.

"You got a Samuel T Anders there?"

Sims half expected him to get his head blown off. Three heartbeats went by with agonizing slowness as Sims's finger tightened around the trigger, a silhouette picked out...

"There a Kara Thrace there?"

Sims relaxed a bit. A different voice called from the growing group of figures crouching in the woods.

"If there is, tell her she took her good sweet time!"

There were smiles, grins. Corpsmen yelled across the no-man's-land, and the resistance fighters began to filter across with joyous expressions on weary faces. Anders and Thrace embraced as Sims looked on.

"Well, this went better than expected."

"Whassat, Hernandez?"

"Yeah, yeah...but it's not-"

"Uhh, sir?"

A tallish, rough looking redhead shouldered a civilian rifle as she stood at an approximation of attention.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir, but your men pointed me..."

"I'm Gunnery Sergeant Sims, this is Sergeant Hernandez, three-fifty-second Colonial Marines."

"Jean Barolay, second in command of the Resistance. Don't mean to break up the merry occasion, but the reason we're out here is that the toasters are after us."

"This is all of you?"

"Yeah, what's left."

"INCOMING!" yelled Valeri.

Sims heard it over the murmur of voices too- a whine, slowly growing louder. An explosion burst off to their left, two hundred feet from a marine position.

"MORTARS!"

Noncoms were screaming, getting their men to cover. Hernandez and Sims shoved, pulled or tripped the Sandwich Stand into cover before diving to the ground themselves. Bullets whizzed overhead, and Sims could hear his men orient themselves towards the threat. Kara was livid.

"Back to the Raptors!" she screamed, before Helo pulled her down.

Sims nodded as he gauged the shell trajectories- left and back. His men held firm, despite the shelling and suppressive fire. Tommy was bandaging up some small fragmentation wounds on Jean's arm.

"Don't bunch up, dammit!" he screamed at the ECO's, who were frantically calling for Raptor support. "Jean, your men up for a fight?"

"No way. Half of 'em are wounded."

"Raptors?"

"Up and running, but they only get one pass or we're out a ride home!"

"Alright. Jannos, tell the men we're gonna fight.They can't put shells on us if we're close enough."

Kara's eyes were wide. "You're insane!"

"Okay, here's the facts of life: we sit here, we're dead. The close with them, we have a chance to kill those mortars.Then, we book it back to the Raptors, get the frak out of here."

Sims gritted his teeth, turned his back on Thrace. She was obviously not fit for command.

"Jannos, sound the advance."

The volume of fire from the marines increased sharply. Squad by squad, they began to leapfrog forwards. Here and there, blasted pieces of Centurions sparked and twitched. Sims put in a slug in one for good measure as he passed. Suddenly, the Cylon fire dropped dramatically, then stopped. Marines took cover, awaiting a counterattack.

"Sir," Jannos said, listening to his earpiece, "Kilo One Three is at the mortar...apparently, looks like they all just upped and left. Piles of shells and all."

"One Three? Alright, tell them to blow it all, and get back. Frakking weird. Tell 'em to be careful, too."

"Gotcha, sir."

Sims waited anxiously, thumbing shells into his shotgun as he waited. Nothing made sense. Kilo One Three blew the mortar site, and the retreat back to the Raptors continued.

The Cylons bracketed the SAR mission with mortar fire again, near the ruins of a building atop a hill.Sims tried to raise the Raptors, with no luck. Jannos's radio was jammed as well. Orders to hunker down were spread through word of mouth as Sims debated what to do.

"Sharon, take the gun! They got us blocked in here really good!" called out Starbuck, passing over her rifle.

"Frak! Can't raise the Raptors. The Cylons have jammed the freq's."

"Frak! Options?"

"Run back to the Raptors!" was Kara's suggestion.

"Can't, it's murder out there, damn mortars," replied Hernandez.

"Stick it out?"

"Looks like it, until we can get through to the Raptors and unfrak ourselves," grumbled Tommy. He ducked a little as a round ricocheted off the wall above him. Helo and Sims watched small groups of Centurions congregate at the base of the hill on which the SAR mission found itself perched. Marines and Cylons exchanged fire.

"Still out there?" asked Jannos as he fiddled with his radio.

"Watch yourself.Yeah. They're holding back though," murmured Kara as she stared through a hole in the ruins."

"Yeah, but why?" asked Anders as he checked his clip. Sharon's voice was cold as she responded.

"They're holding position. Sending for nonlethal weapons. They want some prisoners for interrogation. The rest they're gonna send to the farm."

"I'm not going back to one of those farms."

"Yeah, well, you won't have any choice. None of us will. They're gonna lob some gas in here and then we'll all wake up somewhere else."

Kara seemed to fade off into her memories for awhile. Sims consulted Tommy as she relived whatever private horror had been visited upon her.

"Tommy, what's with the Captain?"

"That's post-traumatic stress if I've ever seen it. She probably shouldn't have even come on this mission, Gunny. She's a psychological casualty if I've ever seen one."

Sims cursed himself stupid. He watched as Kara's eye movement became increasingly furtive, her breaths more labored. Suddenly, the fire became sporadic, slowed. Kara began to panic, whisper to Anders. Her jaw was set. Suddenly, she drew her sidearm, pointed it at his head. Sharon just watched mechanically, seemingly uncaring.

"Oh, frak."

Sims moved toward the agitated woman slowly. Hernandez, ever his right hand, moved to the right, trying to sneak up behind her.

"Captain, put down that gun, now."

"Sims," she whispered, tears winding down her face, "frak off. This is private."

"You're pointing your pistol at the man you came here to rescue, while we're pinned down by toasters. You're unfit for duty."

"Sims..."

There was a clumping sound, and Kara slumped to the ground. Hernandez flexed his fist around his heavy sap.

"Thanks," muttered Anders, stripping her of the pistol.

"No worries, mate. Tommy, get her back with the other wounded. If she comes to...well, use the butt of your gun or something."

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

The first wave struck a half hour later. Some of the Centurions below opened up once again, and the Marines and Resistance fighter leapt to the foxholes. Sims jammed his shotgun through a hole in the wall as a fellow marine leant an SSW on the wall above him.

Five Centurions struggled up the hill under a rain of fire, showered by sparks. The five didn't get very far, dismembered by shotgun slugs or blown up by grenade launchers.

Well, they'll think twice about doing that again, Sims thought to himself. The Cylons below seemed to be stuck, simply standing around, no longer even exchanging fire with the marines, despite the sparks striking off of them, illuminating them in the growing darkness. Then, something snapped. All the Centurions suddenly rushed into a charge, abandoning mortars and firing positions, charging up the hill.

"Frak!" screamed Sims as he noticed, opening up immediately. He counted two ways as they red 'eyes' of the enemy pulsed in the darkness below, muzzle flashes all around him flaring in the dusk.

Five shells, twenty three Cylons.

Four shells, twenty one Cylons.

Three shells, eighteen toasters.

The first one made it to their lines, a giant metal foot perched on the wall, set to leap. He blew it off at the ankle, sent the machine tumbling.

Two shells.

He popped a grenade halfway down the hill, cursing at his poor timing. more than half were already past it. He threw another. Up and down the line marines fought with grit and determination, bringing down as many Cylons as they could. Sims moved down the line, where the fighting was more concentrated.

"Come on, fight you bastards!" one corporal yelled to the Resistance fighters.

One shell.

The Cylon was missing is left arm and was cratered all over by the time it got to Sims. It crashed through the wall, sending men sprawling. The gunny fired instinctively, missing. He racked the slide again...nothing. His sidearm, one of the older revolvers, came up instinctually as back pedaled frantically, the Cylon's remaining claw reaching for his face. He tripped over a dazed private, virtually doing a pratfall and losing his shotgun.. The Centurion's leg raised, ready to crush him as Sims brought his gun up. His first two shots traced their way up the machine's torso, using the natural muzzle rise and recoil of the weapon. The third penetrated the machine's 'skull', stopping it. A flurry of shotgun slugs and rifle fire sent it rolling back down the hill where it came from. Gunny came up panting.

There was nothing else to kill. The suicidal charge of the Cylons ended in silence, save the moan of "Corpsman!"

Looking around at his shell-shocked men, Sims was a little numb. He picked up his shotgun, began thumbing shells in. Similar clicks filtered through the descending darkness.

"Jannos? Jannos, you make it?" he called out.

"Yeah, gunny, I'm right...ah, lords. Lords. CORPSMAN!"

A new voice came from the twilight. A country preacher stepped from a crowd of Resistance fighters, arms wide.

"Praise be to the gods, my children, for we have defeated the foes of Mankind once again!"

Something stung his left eye as the radio operator eased him into a sitting position, marines praying around him.

"What's the damage?"

"Bad, bad gash, sir. Wicked deep along the scalp, down long the forehead...you're lucky, sir. Looks like it missed your eye entirely, but you're gonna have one hell of a scar. Gods almighty, Tommy! Move!"

"Oh, frak. Follow my finger with your eyes...good. Gauze him, it's superficial. It's gods-damned ugly as all hell, but you'll be okay, sir."

Jannos grabbed a wad of gauze from the medpack as Sims took off his helmet. Near the edge over his eye, the very tip of the Cylon's finger had broken off and embedded itself in the helmet. The radio man pulled it out, handed it to him.

"Nice little keepsake. Hernandez, give me a hand."

The pair awkwardly taped the gauze to his bare head. Sims grumbled, packed most of an MRE into his face as he sat there.

"Alright, enough sitting," he grunted, sending crumbs everywhere as he dusted his hands off.

"Casualties?"

"Six of our dead, some more with the Resistance, though a bunch of them died of their wounds from before the fight. About a dozen more wounded, only a few critical."

"Alright, Jannos. Can you get through to the Raptors?"

"Five by five, sir. They were pretty anxious."

"Good. Alright, let's double time back. Lords only know what the toasters will do anymore."

BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG BSG

Sims stepped off the Raptor, feeling only slightly worse after a four mile dash and five hours of sleep. The deck was milling chaos- wounded being hurried off to Cottle's dungeon, Resistance fighters hollow-eyed, marines saluting friends, exchanging details. Colonel Tigh was the first officer to step up to the Gunnery Sergeant. He snapped a second-rate salute, and his CO returned it.

"Geez, Gunny. You look like hell. Where's Taiters?"

"Lost on Caprica, sir. Raptor jumped into a mountain. Do we have word on the other two Raptors we lost along the way?"

"Both made it back fine. You wouldn't BELIEVE what Racetrack found. Where's Thrace, then?"

"Psychological casualty, sir. Rather not talk about it right now."

"Oh. Mission successful?"

"Yessir."

"Good, go see Cottle. Good work, marine."

"Thank you, sir."

The preacher from Caprica bustled past Tyrol, who did a double take, clipboard in hand. Sims stared the man down, having a hard time keeping his eyes off the man who had stolen Callie. Suddenly, Tyrol whipped around, shoving the holy man up against a Raptor. Sims's reaction was the subject of some debate, afterwards. He rolled his shotgun off his shoulder, and slammed the butt into Tyrol's midsection. He crumpled. Admiral Adama's form suddenly filled the space between the two, voice booming.

"Gunny! What's the meaning of this?"

"He assaulted a priest, sir."

The priest nodded, full of bluster and indignation.

"He's...he's a Cylon...sir."

The priest grinned, semi-comically.

"Yes, it's true."

The hangar deck exploded in a riot of motion, and Gunny Sims felt small, gentle hands spirit him away from the center of things. Pulled to the edge of the crowd, he knew Cally had brought him there, but she disappeared as quickly as he came. He hadn't seen her. Jean was there, sitting on a crate. She looked numb. Sims called out to her.

"Miss Barolay...you alright?"

She looked up, surprised.

"You look like hell, Gunnery Sergeant."

"Yeah. Mind giving me a hand to the infirmary? I...uhh, well, I'm having trouble seeing."

"Gotcha. Sure."