Chapter 25.
Fatigue. Matthew Lensherr hadn't felt this tired since both the fire and military academies he attended years before. The days when instructors would run the recruits endlessly, to break them down physically and mentally in order to rebuild them. This would be his one hundred and twenty-third sortie within 70 hours. The Cylons were appearing every 33 minutes, no matter what coordinates the fleet jumped to, within 33 minutes of arriving, an attack force consisting of one basestar would appear. Galactica's air wing would be dispatched to hold off the attacking Cylons until the civilian fleet had a chance to jump away to yet another location.
They were down two vipers due to landing gear damage. The wear and tear on both ship and pilots were extreme, with the CAG now ordering pilots to take "stims" in order to stay awake. No pilot worth their salt wanted anything to do with stimulants. They dulled the reaction time, something a combat pilot could ill afford. His attention was snapped back to reality at the sound of Apollo's voice.
"Hephaestus! You awake over there?" This was the second time the CAG had called out to him over the comline. He vaguely heard him the first time, Matt immediately triggered the transmitter.
"I read you, Apollo...sorry!" said Matt embarrassed.
"We've got to keep it together, Matt. I know we're all fraking tired out here, but sooner or later we'll find a jump spot they can't track us to. Thirty seconds to intercept...weapons free." ordered Apollo. The alert vipers were facing close to 200 Cylon raiders, and the basestar was advancing at high speed. Galactica's point defense turrets through up a solid wall of flak, ripping into the wall of raiders bearing down on them. The fifty year old battlestar's dorsal batteries opened up a blistering attack on the attacking Cylon warship, causing significant damage to the launch berths of the bio-mechanical raiders which luckily prevented more raiders from joining the fray. A Cylon Basestar was less armored than a Colonial Battlestar, thus depending on its massive raider complement and over two hundred and twenty missile launchers positioned throughout the ship's exterior. Those missiles, and an average air wing of 792 heavy and conventional raiders projected an incredible destructive force across the cosmos.
Boomer, and her new ECO, Lieutenant Lieutenant Alex "Crashdown" Quartararo was holding position in Raptor 1. Crashdown was another refugee from the Triton, he had replaced Boomer's long-time ECO, Lt. Karl "Helo" Agathon, whom she reluctantly left on Cylon-occupied Caprica. Normally ashen-faced, Crashdown had looked even worse with the lack of sleep he shared with every other member of the air wing.
"Be ready to fire those Spectra Six missiles, Crashdown. Our fighters are pretty badly outnumbered...as usual." said Sharon "Boomer" Valeri over the comline. Crashdown mumbled a reply and kept his fingers ready to launch the missiles when the time came.
"Frak I can't get out the felgercarb caked in my eyelids." complained Crashdown unable to get to his eyes through the sealed environmental helmet both raptor crew members wore.
"Can you stop your bitching, already?" snapped Boomer. "We're all fraking tired, I need your pale ass operating as close to 100 percent as possible. If you can't hack it, I'll fly with Racetrack or Betty." she said referring to Margaret Edmondson and Nina Nintius. Sharon glanced out the windscreen of the Raptor, it was a mess out there. Thick cannon-fire filled the skies, and one viper was blown apart by a pinwheel attack.
Matt had the thruster pedal pushed all the way to the fire wall, he was barely remaining one step ahead of the two raiders on his tail. At one point he heard the impact of rounds against the fuselage, silently thanking the gods he didn't believe in for making the damage minimal. He slammed the navi-hilt hard to the left while engaging the maneuvering thrusters at the port side of the nose. This allowed his viper to get a full length view of the nearest raider as it overflew him. He fired off a long burst, separating the "head" of the raider from the rest of the craft. The second raider was able to roll and easily avoid a similar fate, Matt took off after it. The raider was quick and nimble, making its pursuer work for the kill.
"Hephaestus, Starbuck...don't stray too far past the recovery line." warned Starbuck. Each pilot was tasked with keeping the enemy from advancing on the fleet as they jumped away, once all civilian ships were away, then the recall orders would come, and the vipers would then race back to the protection of Galactica for a combat landing, a tactic which is performed in combat situations where retreat is necessary and a battlestar must leave the combat zone immediately.
"Roger that Starbuck, just setting the sparrow up." replied Matt. At that moment, two vipers converged on the raider Hephaestus was chasing, obliterating it. Moments later, the recall order sounded.
"Galactica to all vipers, civilian fleet is away...come back home, repeat...come back home!"
Almost in unison, the vipers reverse course and speed towards Galactica, the point defense turrets, along with picket raptors firing their spectra six missiles covering the withdrawal. With the entire air wing safely aboard, the mighty battlestar escaped in jump number one hundred and twenty four.
Hanger bay
"Alright people, let's get out of the leathers, grab a quick shower to wake up, eat something and be ready for the next pre-flight brief." yelled Lee as the vipers were brought below deck to be inspected for damage, rearmed, and refueled within 33 minutes. Matt climbed down from his viper, he was in dire need of a shave, but that required time, and that was a luxury he did not have at this time. All pilots carried the heaviest load during this crisis, In order not to burn out their pilots, the CAG devised a rotating schedule, allowing two full squadrons to be on duty and launched when the Cylons attacked, while a third squadron slept for at least enough time to stave off a complete physical and mental breakdown. The three squadrons were not complete squadrons that would normally constitute a battlestar. The museum pieces that presently resided aboard Galactica were divided up equally and renamed. Galactica's air wing now contained Blue and Red squadrons, and Silver Spar squadron.
Matt made his way to the head that was shared by male and female pilots alike. He peeled off the flight leathers that seemed to produce an odor that could drop a charging wild boar. His body was well toned, a result of the exercise regiment he shared with his marine friends when he served aboard the Triton. He walked over to the row of ten shower stalls, most occupied. The last one had the curtain ajar which he assumed was unoccupied. Half asleep he walked over to it and yanked open the curtain. Much to his surprise, it wasn't unoccupied. Standing soaking wet, naked and fully lathered with soap was Kara Thrace, and she was now annoyed.
Looking at Matt's also naked body from head to toe, Thrace finally looked up with a half smile and spoke. "Listen farm boy, it's obvious from where I'm standing that you've got a great body, one worthy of a decent frak from time to time, but seriously...this isn't the time! We're on a tight time frame, so wait your fraking turn!" said Starbuck as she snapped shut the curtain. A shower at the other end of the row opened up and Matt quickly entered. He turned the knob slowly, allowing ice cold water to flow out, snapping every nerve, muscle, hair on his body to life. He quickly washed himself and dashed out of the stall to allow the next person in. After a quick change of underwear and socks, he slipped back on the filthy flight leathers he'd worn for close to 70 hours now and jogged over to the pilot's ready room for the next pre-flight briefing. Upon entering the room, a young female ensign handed him a silver wrapper containing an energy bar. Lee had ordered the ship's commissary to gather up any and all high-energy bars or snacks and bring them immediately to the flight pod in order to dispense to the pilots who needed to remain at peak efficiency.
Matt slumped into a seat next to Nina "Betty" Nintius, a young female Raptor pilot with auburn hair tied tightly into a ponytail. Nina and Kara Thrace were very similar to each other, with Nina having better self-control over her temper. She cast an eye towards Matt and nodded. Lee was already at the podium, he skipped the opportunity to grab a shower in order to oversee the repair work done to viper 1422's landing gear that was damaged in the combat landing.
"Hello again," began Lee. He shuffled some papers before looking up. "Sortie number 124 is on deck, hopefully this jump will be the one that finally loses the Cylons, if not... then we all get the honor of going back out there and hold em off until the fleet jumps away, yet again. We lost two out there last time," said Lee holding up two fingers. "Two! We need to do a better job people, stay sharper and cover your wingman."
Galactica CIC
Adama looked up at the chronometer, thirty minutes had past since they had arrived in this quadrant. Looking around the room he took notice of the men and women who staffed the sensitive positions. All the males were in dire need of a shave, and the females didn't look too good either. Under any other circumstances, crewmen showing up for duty looking the way they did now would immediately be relieved from duty to go clean up, and most likely fined or given a reprimand or disciplinary action. Bill Adama removed his glasses to rub the sleep from his eyes. "Mr. Gaeta, have all ships in the fleet confirmed updated jump coordinates?"
"Yes sir, all ships confirm." replied Gaeta. The final three minutes seemed like an eternity, the digital chronometer flashed down the final seconds of minute thirty-two. An eerie silence permeated the CIC as all eyes were upon the suspended dradis screen. A glimmer of hope filled the mind of every person in the room, for all of five seconds. The all-too familiar audible sounding of a dradis contact sounded.
"Dradis contact... basestar off the port bow, 132 carom 227, launching raiders." reported Gaeta.
"Launch vipers... order the fleet to initiate jump number one hundred twenty-five." said Adama.
"Damn!" exclaimed an equally haggard Colonel Tigh. "How the hell are they tracking us, Bill?"
"That's the million cubit question, Saul. But if we're gonna survive this we had better find out quickly." replied Adama gripping the side of the plotting table. Seventeen minutes later the fleet vanished.
Command and Control Center – Cylon Basestar
"At what point do you wager they'll break?" asked Cavil chuckling. The older man was the first model of humanoid Cylon created. While not the leader of the baseship, all decisions were made with the collective consent of the majority humanoid Cylons present, he was nonetheless a commanding presence.
"Their strategy against our relentless attacks seem to be taking a toll. Our raiders destroyed another three vipers, and suffered fewer losses." added the Cylon the humans knew as Aaron Doral.
"Their reaction time is slowing, it's only a matter of time." added Simon.
"The days of the pestilence, otherwise known as humanity, are numbered my brothers and sisters." said Cavil gesturing to the humanoid Cylons in the room. "Their day of reckoning was long overdue, and their luck is now running out. Our intelligence reports identify the battlestar as the Galactica, a ship obsolete by today's standards. An aging relic that was about to be converted into a floating museum before we attacked the colonies. How much longer could they possibly hold out? Even their vipers are old, I mean where in God's name did they get those things?" laughed Cavil.
A six model humanoid Cylon who had been listening to Cavil silently finally spoke up. "Those old vipers seem to have no trouble holding off our own raiders, and destroying them in significant numbers."
"Ah six, beauty and intelligence, an incredible combination. However, what you fail to recognize is that we are the superior race. While it's true that the humans created our kind, it didn't take long for us to surpass them on every level... to cast off their oppressive yoke of slavery and take our rightful place in the cosmos. It's only a matter of time now."
Colonial Fleet – Post Jump Number 237
Jump number 237 was barely five minutes old when President Laura Roslin received the message from the captain of the starliner Olympic Carrier. Apparently he had a doctor from the Defense Ministry aboard that was insisting on meeting the president on a vital issue to fleet security.
"Who is this Dr. Amarak?" asked Laura.
"He worked at the defense ministry, madam president." replied Billy. "He claims he knows how the Cylons overcame Colonial defenses, and that there may be a traitor in our midst."
"Well there is no way to get him aboard at this point, if we have to make jump number 238 I want him brought aboard this ship immediately once we've jumped to the new coordinates." ordered Laura. She was exhausted, too many ships in the fleet were having engine troubles and computer failures due to the excessive faster-than-light jumps they were forced to make. Some of these ships were never intended for prolonged space flight, much less non-stop hyperlight jumps, and the ever-growing breakdowns are causing delays resulting in the Galactica being forced to remain on station much longer in direct Cylon line of fire while the rest of the fleet complete their jumps.
Hanger Bay - Port Flight Pod
Matt was laying across the wing of his viper, the stimulants he and other pilots were ordered to take had started taking their toll. His head felt like a boulder on his shoulders, his mouth was constantly dry, and he felt like his heart would burst. There had to be an end in sight, the people of the fleet could not keep up the pace, something had to give. Despite his exhaustion, he still sensed the presence of another person, opening his eyelids he looked up to see Lieutenant Mark Sarnex, formerly of Libran intelligence. He was a reserve officer on temporary duty aboard Galactica prior to the attack, with the assignment to remove the sensitive components of the intel system aboard ship prior to the decommissioning ceremonies. After the attack, and defeat of the colonies, he was ordered to put the intel system back online and then had been reassigned to the CIC staff to assist tactical officer Felix Gaeta, who, coincidentally, just happened to be Mark's roommate in the academy.
"You alive, Matt?" asked Mark flashing his trademark toothy grin.
"Oh frak off...how the hell can you even have the energy to smile?" groaned Matt covering his eyes with his forearm. "What are you even doing down in the flight pods?"
"My expertise has not been needed throughout this crisis, so I decided to volunteer myself to the chief's deck gang in order to help ease the burdens placed on the young knuckle-draggers."
"Felgercarb! You've never volunteered for anything since I've known you."
"Be that as it may," began Sarnex with mock offense, "I'm here to help out where I can. Shouldn't you be in the showers or some such thing?"
"No, it's to the point where a strapping a fraking glacier to my body wouldn't wake me up. The preflight briefing has basically been the same the last two hundred and thirtyish times, so Apollo has let us rest here, and then gives us the friendly reminder to stay alert and good hunting." Matt sat up and looked directly at Mark. "A lot different than being in the reserves I would imagine, eh?"
"Yeah, the full timers used to look down their noses at us, especially the fraking ring-knockers who spent their off duty time wanking each other off in their mutual admiration parties. Now everyone is a vital component to fleet survival, although not as revered as you viper jocks."
"How do you like serving in the CIC? Not much reason for any of us viper jocks to be there, I think I've been by it twice, and got a tour of it briefly when I first came aboard."
"Well as you know, I was roomed with Felix Gaeta in Tactical Officers course, getting assigned to him was unexpected, I guess the old man saw my incredible technical gifts."
"Or perhaps he just needed his data bases brought back up to current levels, and make sure you put everything back they way you first found it when you took it apart." replied Matt bluntly.
"Another example of typical commentary from a slack-jawed, daggit-kissing, cousin-fraking uncultured farmer from Aerilon." sniffed Sarnex. "Look, stay safe out there, our reaction time to the Cylons is slowing, and we're making too many mistakes while waiting for the fleet to jump away." As if on cue, the klaxon sounded for action stations, the Cylons had returned.
"Action stations, action stations, set condition one throughout the fleet...incoming Cylon attack force."
"Sortie number 238 here we come." sighed Matt as the grabbed the helmet that was perched up on the 30 mm cannon barrel attached to the vertical stabilizer of his Mk. VII viper.
"Good hunting, Hephaestus!" yelled Mark as he got out of the way of the deck gang who cam running to load the viper into the launch tube. Within moments, Galactica's air wing is once again airborne and running interference for the fleet. The aging battlestar once again puts herself between the Cylons and the fleet, taking an incredible beating as the civilian fleet slowly jumps away. When the next jump is made, the Olympic Carrier, containing 1,344 souls, fails to appear with the rest of the Fleet at the emergency coordinates.