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CHAPTER 25
DOWNFALL
"Forward batteries, stand by for full salvo fire," Tigh shouted. "Remember, your targets are the four fixed twin mounts. The baseship can't stand up to that kind of firepower, so we have to disable or destroy them in the first pass!"
And we won't last much longer ourselves, the XO thought. Why in the name of the gods did we have to pick a fight with a Mercury class?
Galactica was seriously outgunned, and everybody in the CIC knew it. Cain had ten full squadrons of Vipers at her disposal, in addition to fifty Raptors. On a good day, Galactica could launch two squadrons of her own, but the Mark II's were no match for the Mark VII's. The Raiders would give them a significant numerical advantage, but Saul didn't fancy their chances against Pegasus' seasoned pilots. He knew that Cole Taylor, the Pegasus CAG, had forty-eight confirmed kills in his jacket—and Stinger had two hundred more Viper jocks under his command.
It's a damned good thing we captured that Raider manufacturing vessel intact. By the time this is over, the Six may not have a Raider left to her name!
"Portside batteries Alpha through Echo, you are responsible for the four twin turrets on the bow. All other batteries, your targets are the six heavy guns on their starboard side. The quicker you take them out, the quicker we end this!"
And if we don't end this fast, we may not end it at all. Saul Tight was a realist. He appreciated the fact that Galactica shipped more guns than a Mercury class battlestar, but the latter's vastly superior computer systems guaranteed a more rapid rate of fire. To make matters worse, fully twenty of Pegasus' thirty-four twin guns spat out larger projectiles. Cain could punch faster than Adama, and she could punch harder.
"Mr. Gaeta," Adama quietly asked, "what is the range to the target?"
Felix stole a glance at the DRADIS. "The range is now 107, sir; the bearing remains constant." The lieutenant's voice was equally subdued.
"Thank you, Mr. Gaeta. Keep me apprised of their bearing. Dee, I want to address the entire ship."
Adama looked around the CIC. He had been through a lot with the personnel in this room, not just the officers but also the ratings. What he was about to ask of them now was almost unthinkable.
"Men and women of Galactica, this is the Admiral. A few moments ago, Colonel Jack Fisk of the Pegasus and three of the marines under his immediate command attempted to assassinate Colonel Tigh and myself here in the CIC. They were acting under direct orders from Helena Cain. I can now tell you that, almost from the beginning, Admiral Cain has been planning to take over Galactica and turn our guns on the rebel baseship. Moreover, while we have been fighting here with our Cylon allies, Demand Peace has been attempting to overthrow President Roslin and the Quorum in a bloody coup that has Cain's full support."
Adama's expression hardened.
"Several months ago, Pegasus encountered over a dozen FTL equipped civilian ships fleeing the Colonies. Cain stripped them of essential parts, including their FTL's. She impressed personnel at the point of a gun, and executed the families of the inductees who resisted her orders. If she prevails today, that is what awaits the civilians whom we have fought, bled, and died to protect. But she will not prevail because we are going to stop her. I know how hard this must be for all of you to hear, but Pegasus is no longer a part of the Colonial fleet. Pegasus is a pirate ship, and will be treated accordingly. So, stand to your duties, rely upon your shipmates, and we will get through this crisis as we have all the others that have tested us since our flight from the Colonies began. That is all."
Bill heard a commotion in the hatchway. He had left Shelly in their quarters at the start of the battle, with a heavily armed cordon of Cylon and marine guards to protect her. But he knew that, once she heard the sound of gunfire on Galactica's decks, nothing and no one would keep her away from the CIC. He smiled lightly when she rushed to stand at his side.
"Mr. Gaeta," Adama asked again in that quiet tone that carried such assurance, "what is our current range?"
"Range 94, sir … and the bearing is still constant."
"Helm, stand by and on my mark come starboard one-third. Colonel Tigh, you may now commence firing."
"All portside and forward batteries … fire!"
. . .
"Galactica is firing," Leoben reported. "Adama is concentrating on the main forward batteries, as well as the twin turrets along the starboard flank. He is ignoring the guns on the starboard pod."
"Does he have a decent firing angle?" Natalie was in the stream, but she was concentrating on mapping out her own attack strategy.
"Yes and no," Leoben responded. "Galactica is hammering Cain's flank, but the forward batteries are posing a problem. The overhang on the bow effectively shields them. They are only vulnerable to attack from below, and Adama is too high."
"Admiral Adama is screening us from the four fixed mounts." Natalie quickly came to a decision. "Six, drop us below Galactica's silhouette, and rotate the ship so that we can bring both the leading and the trailing dorsal into action. Eight, we have a hundred missile launchers out there, so let's use them. On this pass, target the forward batteries, and all four landing bays … constant velocities, conventional warheads only."
"Natalie," the Six called out, "Pegasus is turning to starboard and raising her nose. We are going to lose our angle on the starboard pod."
"Then let's go to plan B. Eight, concentrate on the forward batteries, and the portside guns and landing bays."
"Pegasus is launching Vipers," the Six announced. She studied the data flowing through the stream. "Seven squadrons … and two of them are … station keeping on their six. Cain's worried about her precious FTL's," the blond Cylon concluded.
"She's not the only one," Natalie retorted. "Task fifty Raiders and ten Heavy Raiders to cover our drives. If the Ones show up, we'll need to get out of here."
"We've cleared Galactica," the Six exclaimed, "and our vectors are still clean."
"Firing," the Eight said with a fierce grin. "One hundred missiles … that should get their attention!"
. . .
Pegasus shuddered as Galactica's opening salvo detonated across her bow, and rocked violently to port as a succession of shells pounded the battlestar's starboard flank.
"Damage report," Kendra Shaw shouted. "Mr. Riley, what have we lost?"
"Sir, we've taken minimal damage forward, but we've lost two of the starboard turrets. Two more are still in the fight, but their firing radius has been significantly degraded."
"Helm, hard to starboard," Cain ordered. "Bring us up fifteen degrees. Tactical, target Galactica's point defense batteries with our forward guns, and bring all of our port turrets to bear on their port landing pod. I want those guns reduced to slag!"
One immense KEW round after another streaked out from Pegasus, but Cain decided not to bring her flak suppression capability into play just yet.
"Mr. Curtis, where is the baseship?"
"She's hiding, Admiral … in Galactica's starboard shadow."
"Disarm the launch safeties on tubes fourteen through twenty-one and keep a close eye, Mr. Curtis. The Cylons aren't cowards, and they won't stay hidden forever. As soon as you have a firing solution for their central axis, give them our warmest regards."
"Yes, Ma'am!"
"Mr. Hoshi, I want to hold Orange Squadron in reserve, but get everything else off the deck. Send Gold and Silver Squadrons to our six, but commit Green, Yellow, and Purple to reinforce Red and Blue. Task Black and White to seek out targets of opportunity … I want that baseship!"
. . .
"Helm," Adama barked, starboard one-third now! Roll us to port, and take us down another twenty degrees."
Cain's initial volley struck the rolling ship at an oblique angle that dispersed most of the kinetic energy harmlessly into space. Galactica's portside guns, which had all escaped the opening exchange without damage, returned fire. They were zeroing in on the six twin turrets on Pegasus' exposed port flank, but the heavy guns were recessed and not easy to target.
"All secondary batteries," Tigh yelled, "initiate flak suppression now! Batteries Foxtrot through Lima, new targeting orders are coming down! Concentrate your fire on the port landing pod's secondary batteries. Let's punch some holes in their flak defenses!"
"Admiral, the baseship has cleared our shadow and is launching missiles." Sharon Agathon looked up from her tactical station. "Natalie's going after the forward batteries and the port landing bays."
Adama clenched his fist and softly pounded the console in triumph. Sorry, Madame President, but it just wasn't possible to honor your keen-edged desire to keep the Cylons out of this fight …oh, and I do apologize. "Helm, come left ninety degrees, but keep us on their negative axis. Batteries Alpha through Echo, once you have a firing solution, I want to eliminate their FTL's." Helena, you may have superior firepower, but you were slow off the mark. Now what are you going to do? If you turn to port in order to protect your jump drive, we'll rake you with broadsides to both port and starboard. If you don't turn, I'll take out your FTL's on this pass …
"Dee, I want to speak with Cain now. . . ."
"What do you want, Commander?"
"Helena, your tactical position is untenable. Cease fire, and prepare to be boarded. I'm relieving you of your command."
"Frak you!" Cain slammed the phone down.
"Helm," Adama instructed, "come left one-third; Mr. Gaeta, plot a vector that puts us on Pegasus' stern."
"Sir, come left seventy-five degrees."
"Very good. Helm, make the turn …"
. . .
"Admiral, the baseship has cleared Galactica. Bearing 278, carom 12 on our negative axis, range 74! Our missiles are outbound and tracking. But we have … my gods, we have one hundred missiles inbound!"
"All secondary batteries, initiate flak suppression; port batteries, target the lateral arms and fire at will!"
Helena studied the DRADIS display. Adama will keep turning hard to port, keep trying to threaten our FTL's …
"Helm, take us down twelve degrees, and come right one-third. All port batteries … continue to fire at will."
More than a dozen Cylon missiles survived the flak barrage, and slammed into the battlestar's heavily reinforced hide.
"Mr. Riley, SITREP."
"Admiral, the two secondary turrets forward the port landing bay have been destroyed, and we've lost two of the fixed forward batteries."
"Mr. Curtis?"
"No joy with our missiles, Admiral; the Raiders got them all. But we've inflicted massive damage on their lead dorsal. Half of it is hanging by a thread, and that translates into at least twenty-five launchers out of action!"
"Well done! Helm, come seventy-five degrees to port. All portside batteries, target their trailing dorsal … let's slice it off!"
. . .
You're mine! Cole Taylor grinned triumphantly as he splashed yet another Cylon Raider, the red paste that passed for brains smearing his canopy. The Raiders were swarming around the baseship like angry bees, and so far no one had managed to get close enough to take a shot at its FTL's, but Stinger knew that it was only a matter of time. His pilots were the best trained, the best disciplined, and the most seasoned in the universe. Our people, he snickered, are gonna tear up the toasters, and while we're at it, we're gonna kick Galactica's cylon-loving frakwits into next week.
"Freight Train," Taylor advised in his most practiced professional monotone, "you've got a turkey on your six. Climb the ladder, and I'll put it on the burner."
The Pegasus pilot instantly put his Viper into a steep, vertical climb, but he couldn't shake the Heavy Raider on his tail. How obliging of them, Taylor thought. The CAG lit up the Cylon's starboard engine with one well-aimed burst. The fuel nacelle ruptured and the Heavy Raider exploded—Cole Taylor's fourth kill of the day.
. . .
"Eight, prepare another salvo, conventional ordnance only. Target the aft turrets on the portside pod, as well as the landing bays proper. Six, do we have a bearing on Cain's FTL's?"
"No," the blond-haired Cylon replied. "Natalie," she warned, "if we stay on this course, we'll end up between Galactica and Pegasus, and Cain will chew up the trailing dorsal. At this range, she can't miss. We should turn to starboard, and spin the trailing ventral into alignment. It hasn't recovered from the battle over Caprica, but we still have thirty-two operational missile launchers on that arm …"
"We have fifty warheads outbound," the Eight interrupted. She had emptied every turret on the trailing dorsal.
"Adama is launching missiles of his own," Leoben called out. "Conventional warheads … he's going after the FTL's."
Natalie Faust concentrated on the stream beneath her outstretched fingers. She had devoted many hours to developing a rapport with Reun, knowing that they might one day have to fight a battle without the First Born being present to manage the tactical environment.
Roll us hard to port, and spin the trailing ventral to face Pegasus. Come right two-thirds …
Natalie looked up and caught Leoben's eye. "What's Galactica's track?"
"She's astern of Pegasus, but Cain has opened the range. Adama has missile lock, but there are two full squadrons of Vipers covering her rear …"
An invisible fist reached out and punched the baseship … punched it hard. Every Cylon in the control room was knocked off his or her feet.
Leoben Conoy reconnected with the stream and surveyed the damage. "We've taken multiple hits topside on the trailing dorsal. We're venting air out of two different landing bays."
He frowned. "Deck 63 is open to space directly above us. Natalie, Cain knows where we are … she's targeting the control room."
Pyrrha … Melpomene … David … please, God … watch over our children and keep them safe. They must be so frightened. Heavenly Father, please … protect them from the evil that this day besets us all.
"Pegasus is changing course again," the Six advised. "Cain is pursuing us."
. . .
"Colonel Tigh, open the launch doors on tubes six through seventeen. Mr. Gaeta, input coordinates for Cain's stern." Adama waited until the lieutenant gave him the go-ahead.
"XO, on my mark, launch missiles from tubes six through ten and fifteen through seventeen."
"Sir!"
"Three … two … one … mark."
The eight missiles leapt out of their topside cavities.
Adama counted slowly to five. "XO, on my mark, fire missiles eleven through fourteen. . . ."
"Mark."
"Admiral, the baseship is being mauled." Sharon Agathon decided not to mince words. "Natalie is venting air along both dorsal arms as well as across deck 63 of the pylon. Admiral, she can't take much more."
Adama nodded in agreement. "D'Anna, please instruct Natalie to execute an immediate turn to port. In forty seconds, I want her to repeat the maneuver." Adama glanced up at the overhead DRADIS display, but he already knew what he would see there. Without armor, a baseship simply could not square off against a battlestar—especially a baseship whose point defense had suffered the loss of literally hundreds of Raiders.
"Helm, bring us seventy-five degrees to port." The combined maneuver would once again position Galactica between Pegasus and the baseship.
Helena, if you want the baseship, you are going to have to come through us. Let's see if you've got the stones for a second pass.
. . .
Gina Inviere and Gaius Baltar were seated cross-legged on the floor of Gina's cell. They were holding hands, and in truth Baltar was holding on for dear life. He had been under fire before, he had been even closer to death, but somehow it had never seemed quite so terrifying. The sense of complete helplessness was overpowering; Gaius felt like he was suffocating.
The ship lurched hard to starboard, and Gaius lost his balance. He would have fallen over and collapsed into a fetal ball if Gina's strong grip had not been holding him upright.
Gina looked at the human scientist, and a brief surge of pity washed over her. Baltar's eyes were wide and glassy, red-rimmed and on the verge of tears. She could smell the fear on him, and yet she knew that he was trying to be strong … for her sake. She caressed the tops of his hands with her thumbs, encouraging him to tap into that strength.
"It's funny," Gina said softly. "I want to die. I want you to send my soul to God, but I can't die because there's a resurrection ship within range. And you want to live. We are surrounded by misery and ruin … we're drowning in pain and suffering … and yet you want to live. How can that be? I seek the comfort of oblivion … God's forgiveness … and you cling to a life that is defined by torment. Why is that, Gaius? Why is it so hard for you to accept God's love?"
"I used to think that it was because of my lack of belief," Baltar conceded, "my conviction that this is all that there is. But maybe …"
Gaius hesitated for a long moment, and then he realized that he was finally ready to let go of all the lies.
"But maybe that was never anything more than a convenient rationalization. Gina, the truth is … the truth is that I'm not worthy of God's love. I have done so many terrible things … I have hurt so many people. . . .
"I'm not worthy," he whispered. He stared down at the deck, unable to meet her eyes.
"Gaius, look at me." Gina's voice was commanding, but it was not unkind. She reached out and lifted his chin, and she willed him to look deeply into her eyes, willed him to believe.
"God forgives all," she said. "Will you hold yourself to a higher standard? I have raged against Him, accused Him of abandoning me … forgiven. I have cursed His name, spat it out with unblemished hatred in my heart … forgiven. I am personally responsible for the deaths of hundreds, perhaps thousands … forgiven. I have connived at the deaths of billions … forgiven."
Pegasus rocked again, the explosions this time pushing the ship hard to port. Gina ignored everything going on around them.
"John is right," she calmly continued. "The hardest thing in life is to forgive ourselves. But it is the one true path to Salvation. Gaius, you must accept God's grace. Let him lift the burden that is crushing your heart. His forgiveness will set you free."
. . .
The battlestar staggered violently to port, throwing both Cain and Kendra Shaw off their feet. Helena grabbed onto the edge of the console, and instantly grimaced in pain. She had landed heavily on her left shoulder, and something was torn or broken.
Cain got back to her feet, hugging her left arm tight against her body. "Mr. Kelso," she said to the young petty officer who was monitoring their engineering damage control panels, "you look like a man who's just lost his best friend. What's our status?"
"Ma'am, Commander Adama fired a dozen missiles at us, and two of them found their mark. We've lost three of our jump drives … One, Two, and Eight simply aren't there anymore."
"Damn," Helena thought.
"Thank you, Mr. Kelso." Helena Cain smiled—but it wasn't a pleasant sight. "Now you know why battlestars have redundant capacity and lots of spare parts."
. . .
John Bierns was racing to his Raptor, but the deck kept shifting under his feet. It was getting harder and harder to walk Galactica's corridors, never mind run. The two battlestars were exchanging fire at medium range, the two admirals both clearly intent upon destroying their adversary.
The CSS officer finally reached the landing bay, and smiled inwardly at the sight of the two centurions standing motionless and silent at the foot of the ramp. No one on the busy deck was paying them any attention—a fact that testified in and of itself to the resilience of the human spirit. Thanks to Galen Tyrol, the lethal machines that had once visited so much destruction upon the human race were increasingly viewed as uncomplaining partners in the often heavy labor that kept a starship up and running. This is the way it should have been, Ghostrider thought; why the hell couldn't bigots like Helena Cain see the obvious?
Bierns settled into his cockpit, fired up his engines, and eased his ship to the forward elevator. He obtained priority clearance, but forty-five long seconds would elapse before his ship could be lifted to the portside landing bay. The spook put the time to good use by hastily arming himself from his onboard armory—a high tech CSS treasure trove that put everything in the Colonial fleet to shame.
The major girded himself with two bandoliers, each of them stuffed with fragmentation, concussion, and smoke grenades. He jammed an electronic ferret into the breast pocket of his jacket; the device could pick any coded lock in the Colonies, and it would give him access to all of the secured areas on Pegasus' decks. Plastic explosive and timer pencils went into another pocket. But Bierns saved the best for last. He gathered up four Berensohn & Keppler MP16R machine pistols, each of which had been specially modified by the Service's ballistic geniuses for urban warfare. Lightweight (less than two kilos) and air cooled, the pistols were so small that they could easily be concealed in the deep, outside pockets of the average raincoat—or in any one of four artfully tailored pockets on a CSS sports jacket. On full auto the MP16R fired sixteen rounds a second, and each came with twin magazines that between them held six hundred and forty cartridges. All four had barrels specially milled to accept a state of the art sound and flash suppressor that silenced the weapon without reducing its muzzle velocity. The ammunition had a polymer coating that was dipped in a highly corrosive acid which only activated on contact with human or animal flesh. Anything it touched died.
A more chivalrous individual might have foresworn a Kevlar vest, but CSS agents had never been known to play fair, and John Bierns wanted every advantage he could get. The lightweight armor had served him well in the corridors of the resurrection ship, and he saw no reason to take it off now. For the second time on this very long day, Ghostrider was going to war.
. . .
"Break right! Hairbrush, break right!" Hot Dog was screaming at his fellow Viper pilot, but the Mark VII was all over the antiquated Mark II, and the nugget was torn apart with one sustained burst of fire.
"Damn it," Brendan Costanza yelled. "Apollo, Hot Dog: we're in over our heads here. If you have any bright ideas, now would be the time!"
"Galactica, this is Apollo." Lee didn't have any ideas at all, and his frustration had long since gotten the better of him. "Dad, we're being eaten alive out here. Maybe it's time to cut and run … leave Cain to her own devices."
"No, son; we can't do that. Cain has the jump coordinates for the fleet. We can't let this fight spill over among the civvies … we have to finish it, here and now." Adama cut the connection.
"Mr. Gaeta," he barked, "bring the FTL's on line; helm … all ahead full!"
"Dad, what are you doing?" Lee was on the edge of panic because he had a pretty good idea what his father was planning. My gods … he's going to ram her!
. . .
Cain looked up at the DRADIS screen, but her vision was blurred. A concussion, she concluded. The last hit took more out of me than I thought.
"Mr. Curtis, give me an update on the baseship."
"Yes, Ma'am. Galactica has maneuvered into position to screen the rebels, but if we continue on our present course for one more minute and then execute a hard turn to port, we can target the baseship with our forward guns while delivering a broadside to Galactica's port batteries."
"Is Adama currently within range of our port turrets?"
"Yes, Ma'am … comfortably so."
"Then continue firing. Helm, come left sixty degrees, and all ahead full. Take us down Galactica's throat!"
. . .
"Eight, fire everything we've got at their starboard landing pod … fire it now!"
For the first time in her life, Natalie Faust sensed that she was close to panic. The drama that she was following in the stream had shaken her so badly that she could now appreciate what humans meant when they talked about the acid taste of fear. She could taste the bile.
Adama had twice changed her course, the maneuver once again positioning Galactica to shield the baseship from Pegasus' heavy guns, but neither Bill Adama nor Helena Cain had been content to leave it at that. The two battlestars were now heading straight for one another, the two admirals playing chicken—only this wasn't like the movie that Natalie had seen back on Virgon. There the charismatic and sensuously handsome star of Nowhere Else to Go had walked away from the deadly game that drew alienated youths to the high cliffs of Canceron. No, this was real life … and in the real world the film star had died horribly on a lonely stretch of Leonis highway, neither driver willing to yield the point of honor. Since battlestars didn't turn on a cubit, Natalie realized that Cain and Adama were rapidly approaching a similar point of no return— beyond which lay shattered hulls and extinguished lives. With each passing second, she could feel the mantle of responsibility for the fleet shifting … settling onto her shoulders … and it was crushing her.
Natalie rushed to the new communications console that was tied into Galactica's CIC.
This is no time to stand on ceremony, she decided.
"D'Anna, this is Natalie. I want to speak with Adama now!"
D'Anna Biers looked up. "Excuse me, Admiral, but Natalie wishes to speak with you. It's urgent."
"Actual."
"Bill, what are you doing? For the love of God, turn away! Alter your course before it's too late!"
"Natalie, this is the only way to take Pegasus down … the only way to save the fleet. I'm ordering you to get clear and stay clear. Now, go!"
At the navigation console, the Six was frantically spinning the ship while simultaneously laboring to keep it at least partially out of Galactica's shadow. At tactical, the Eight was racing to reload the forty-four remaining missile turrets on the trailing dorsal. She no longer had the luxury of subtlety. She had eighteen nukes at her disposal, and she was going to use them all. Anything, she desperately thought; anything to keep Galactica from committing suicide.
D'Anna was bent over the communications station. She briefly nodded, and then she looked up to address Natalie.
"Sister, our son has boarded Pegasus. He's going to try and find Cain. He plans to assassinate her."
"In the CIC?" Natalie Faust thought that the entire universe had gone mad.
"Where's the Raptor?" The Eight could no longer blindly fire off her missiles.
"John has docked at the starboard secondary storage bay immediately forward of the engine room."
Natalie turned to the Eight. "Target everything of value on the starboard side, amidships and forward."
"On it," the Eight curtly replied. Now let's see if the hybrid will risk her brother's life.
. . .
John Bierns bobbed and weaved, and ducked and rolled. He had to stay out of two firing solutions, which wasn't particularly difficult because for all intents and purposes they were one and the same. He was trying to make a portside approach in order to avoid interfering with the baseship's missile salvos, but he was also trying to avoid becoming an easy target for one of Cain's Vipers. Raiders, Heavy Raiders and Vipers were dueling all around him. He had shut down his onboard and running lights as well as the transponder, reasoning that both sides would consider him one of their own—a wounded bird whose communications had been shot to hell.
After what seemed an eternity, the spook brought his Raptor beneath Pegasus and rolled up to her starboard side. Looking through the canopy, he could see a spectacular fireworks display unfolding around the landing pod. Flak was streaming out of the secondary batteries, but some of the Eight's missiles were nevertheless reaching their targets. One warhead detonated on the thick hull plating that roofed the pod, while a second tore into one of the three support pylons that anchored it in place. Pegasus shrugged off both explosions and continued to advance on Galactica.
Although the missile strikes were proving ineffectual, John reckoned that he could still put them to good use. He made hard seal outside the secondary storage bay, and then patiently waited for a third missile to hammer the hull and mask his entrance. He didn't have to wait long. . . .
Bierns opened the inner hatch, and peeked out into the corridor. It was empty, which was exactly as it should be: everyone in the crew was at battle stations, not out wandering the decks. The spook turned back to his two robotic companions.
"Do you know what Gaius Baltar looks like?"
Both centurions held up a single talon. Yes.
"Okay. Brothers, I would like you to make for the CIC. Stir up as much chaos and confusion as you can, but avoid firefights with the marines if at all possible. Keep moving, and try and make it back here in thirty-five minutes because we are off this ship in forty. Please do not shoot Doctor Baltar or the Six."
The two machines headed off down the corridor to the right. Turning left, John Bierns headed directly for the engine room. He pulled out one of the MP16R's and threaded the silencer into place as he walked.
There were two marines guarding the hatchway, and he did not even break stride as he shot them both in the head. Cycling the hatch, John cautiously peeked inside. He spotted the chief engineer, and three other technicians. They were scattered around the huge chamber, so the spook decided to make his entrance with a fragmentation grenade. The explosion ripped three of the men to shreds, and it stunned the fourth. Bierns shot him in the back of the head, quickly laid his traps, and headed for the gantry way that would grant him access to the portside FTL's.
. . .
"Admiral, fire alarms are going off in the engine room, and the sensors are picking up a spike in CO2 emissions."
"Thank you, Mr. Kelso. Captain Shaw, send a fire control team to the engine room." Helena Cain frowned in puzzlement. "Mr. Riley … did the missile strikes on our FTL's set off a cascade failure?"
"No, Ma'am; this is something else."
Pegasus dipped violently, and Cain once again crashed to the deck. With the two battlestars closing on reciprocal bearings and caroms, there was no way for either ship's forward batteries to miss. Both vessels were taking a pounding. Cain could only hope that the aged Galactica was getting the worst of it.
"Mr. Hoshi, dispatch a marine fire team to the engine room, and sound the intruder alert. We may have company. Mr. Curtis, how much time do we have before we collide with Galactica?"
"About fifty seconds, Admiral."
"Launch Orange Squadron, and tell them to get clear."
. . .
Bierns crushed the ends of three timer pencils under his heel, and inserted one into the plastic explosive that he had already affixed to the FTL. He triggered the stopwatch function on his watch, and raced along the gantry to the second jump drive. He had twelve minutes to rig the explosives and get clear, but the business was trickier than it looked because he wanted to mangle the housing as well as destroy the FTL itself. He had bought himself additional time by booby trapping the entrance to the engine room with a live grenade. It was a very dirty trick, but it would eliminate the damage control team that Cain would undoubtedly rush to the scene—and that would slow down any further pursuit. The marines who followed up would advance at a snail's pace, but if they happened to brush the trip wire that he had attached to the pins on another pair of grenades, they wouldn't be advancing at all.
When he was finished, John yanked the grating off the entrance to a ventilation shaft, and crawled in. He had several more nasty surprises in store for Helena Cain, but freeing Gina Inviere from captivity was at the very top of the list.
. . .
"Mr. Gaeta," Adama quietly asked, "is the jump drive spooled up?"
"Yes, sir," the lieutenant replied; "we're good to go."
"And how long before we collide?"
"Forty-five seconds, Admiral."
Shelly looked at her husband curiously. "Bill, you've got something up your sleeve, haven't you?"
Adama's eyes sparkled … he did indeed have something up his sleeve. "This isn't a suicide run, Shelly. "I'm not going to let you lose the baby."
"Mr. Gaeta, give me the jump key. Continue monitoring the DRADIS, and tell me when we are five seconds from impact."
The admiral walked over to the console and began to enter jump coordinates—a fifteen digit string. If this works, he softly chuckled, Helena Cain is going to get the biggest surprise of her life!
"Thirty seconds," Gaeta intoned.
. . .
"Thirty seconds to impact," the Six noted. "But I don't understand. Natalie, Admiral Adama has spooled up his jump drive." The puzzlement was plain in her voice.
"Pegasus is turning to starboard … heading right for us," she added.
Natalie breathed a deep sigh of relief—Helena Cain was a chicken after all.
"Withdraw," she ordered; "get us out of here, and make all possible speed." Natalie glanced at Leoben. "I've got a really bad feeling about this."
The Two looked at her with open fascination. "A premonition," he asked.
The Six at the navigation console blinked twice; she could barely credit what she was seeing in the stream.
"Natalie, Galactica has also turned … to port. Dear God … Adama is going to ram her amidships!"
. . .
The grenade detonated, and the shrapnel eviscerated five of the seven men in the damage control party.
. . .
"Thirty seconds," Admiral.
"Thank you, Mr. Curtis. Helm, bring us twenty degrees to starboard."
"Admiral …" Petty Officer Curtis was frowning, trying to decipher the meaning of what his instruments were telling him.
"Sir, Adama is spooling up his FTL's."
"What?"
"And he's turning to port! Admiral … he's going to cut across our course!"
"DRADIS contact," Kendra Shaw screamed. "Two … no, make it three … baseships have just come out of jump! They're inbound at high speed!"
The muffled sound of an explosion could be heard in the background, and Hoshi's phone began almost instantly to buzz.
"Keep all remaining port batteries trained on Galactica," Cain ordered. "Fire, and keep on firing! Helm, take us down; this is an emergency dive."
"Admiral," Hoshi interrupted, "Marine One reports that a booby trap has taken out the fire control team. Centurions have also been spotted on Causeway Alpha forward of frame 34. We've been boarded."
"Mr. Hoshi, get a full tactical team up here on the double. Send additional teams to the Secondary Damage and Auxiliary Fire Control stations. Recall all Vipers and Raptors … combat landings authorized. Captain Shaw, input the rendezvous jump coordinates … we're getting out of here!"
. . .
"What the frak?" Cavil was immersed in the stream, but the data being relayed by the hybrid were so bizarre that he wanted someone else to confirm them. Cavil glanced over at one of the Simons.
"Are you seeing what I'm seeing?"
"It would appear," the Four studiously replied, "that Galactica and Pegasus are shooting at each other."
"And the baseship is tossing missiles around like nuts at Saturnalia," Cavil sarcastically added.
"We need to contact the Old Man," Boomer suggested. "We should offer our assistance."
"We should do no … such … thing!" Cavil gave the Eight a look that communicated in no uncertain terms his conviction that she had taken leave of her senses.
"Cavil, what is the matter with you?" Caprica Six was more convinced than ever that she was dealing with a small and fractious child. "Adama fell in love with a Cylon, and we all know Cain's history. They're fighting about us, Cavil; isn't it obvious? Shelly has built a bridge between man and machine, and Cain is trying to destroy everything that she's accomplished."
"I know," Cavil smirked. "That's what makes the moment so delicious. The last two battlestars in the universe are going at it hammer and tong, and all because Commander Adama went and fell in love with a Six. I must confess that I never expected the infiltration program to reap such rich dividends, but there you have it."
Cavil sighed contentedly. "Brothers and sisters, it doesn't get any sweeter than this. It's time to break out the lemonade and the lawn chairs!"
Caprica Six looked at him with open disgust, and walked around the central console to stand at D'Anna's side.
"Three, open a channel. I want to speak with Commander Adama."
"No! You will do no … such … thing!"
"Brother, let it go." One of Cavil's siblings looked at him meaningfully, and then quietly slipped out of the chamber.
. . .
"DRADIS contact," Gaeta yelled. "Three Cylon baseships … bearing 468, carom 43 … range 1150; they're closing the range fast!"
"Oh, great," Saul Tigh groaned. "That's just what we need … a bunch of party crashers."
"Ignore them, Mr. Gaeta," the admiral ordered. "Continue with the count-down. Saul, keep tweaking our course; I want to take them amidships."
"Twenty seconds, Admiral."
Dualla looked up in surprise and turned to address the XO. "Colonel, I have one of the Cylon baseships on the line."
"Dee, pass them to me." Shelly picked up Adama's customary phone.
"This is Shelly Adama. What do you want?"
"Fifteen seconds."
"Helm, come three degrees to port …"
"Sister? This is Caprica Six …"
"Six, at the moment we're a little busy over here. But you might want to alter your course." Shelly hung up the phone.
"All hands, this is the XO. Stand by for emergency jump."
"Ten … nine … eight … seven … six … five … four …"
Adama twisted the key. Galactica was two kilometers to port of Pegasus when the battered old ship, her forward batteries now nothing more than blobs of molten metal, began to jump. Space turned inside out, and the spatial disruption blossomed across the face of Helena Cain's port landing pod. Massive sheets of armor plating were ripped off the hull and sucked into space. Electrical systems short circuited and fires erupted like geysers, feeding on the atmosphere that was venting out of the hull breaches. The pod began to cave in upon itself, crumpling like an empty beer can being flattened under foot. Sixty-four members of the crew were killed outright; another twenty-two would die slower and more agonizing deaths, trapped inside isolated pockets of air that finally, inevitably, would give out.
Galactica's footprint was enormous. The energy storm unleashed by her jump expanded, surging against Pegasus' port flank. The twin turreted batteries were reduced to unrecognizable lumps of twisted steel, and more of the heavy armor plating exploded into surrounding space. Thirty-one compartments were exposed to vacuum, and another 213 crewmen and women died. The last of the Mercury class battlestars was being hammered from without—and two Cylon centurions and the first born of the hybrid children were about to inflict equally grievous wounds from within.