Responses to Earlier Comments:
Chronus1326 - Thanks for all the comments! Bree's Twin has a big role coming (hint: The gallant lugger has a 'Turbo' button). I gotta get through the paperwork first, so-to-speak. It could be a while.
War Sage - Thanks per usual! I should have led with the Adama connection and then with the president connection. She would have been a better lead-in for the upcoming civies writing after this very military next chapter.
BSG FanFic - Bree's Twin
Chapter 10, Every Shot Earned
Please note: I own no part or share in the Battlestar Galactica realm, either commercial or otherwise. This story is submitted for entertainment purposes only.
Reminder: I did not spend time making up non-earth names for common things; a cat is not a "furry claw-thing ", a sock is not a "foot cover", ketchup is not "catsup"...or maybe it is, etc.
"The President and the Commander are known to me. Frak.…"
~Cru's journal, if he had time to keep one.
Chapter 10 Every Shot Earned
"How do I know Adama?" asked Cru. He smiled at a long-ago memory.
John sat at the table across from Cru. A bottle of spirits was open and stood between them. The better portion of it, three-fifths or more, was a memory. John poured another round.
"You never asked much about my service," said Cru.
"I guess not. Your father missed you greatly. He was a bit lost without you. It hurt him, I think. He went through hell during the war and he didn't want that for you. Then, some flashy Marine Recruiter in his dress blues, gets you star-struck and pulled you in it like a siren call. When you were back, he was glad. He moved on and I moved on."
Cru nodded his agreement. His father was one of only two survivors of the Timboku Battlestar when it was destroyed by the Cylons in the first war. His father didn't talk about the service either but Cru remembered many nights when the tough old man cried out in his sleep and awoke in cold sweats.
"To be fair, you didn't bring it up much either," said John. "You didn't talk about it."
"True," said Cru. John was right. Cru waved his glass in agreement.
Cru took a long breath. "Okay, so, I did a lot of heavy work in the asteroid belt - Helios - mostly against smugglers. They were criminals with small navies. We had guns. They had guns. They were highly mobile and very fast and our people gave chase, always. Sometimes they got into trouble. You couldn't do quick in-and-out rescue ops without learning a thing or two about flying. You lost a lot of paint in there. And then at some point, not so much."
"So, is that how Battlestar Bill knows you?"
Cru frowned. "You shouldn't call him that. He's kind of a big deal."
"I know, I know," said John. "They got other names for him."
Cru frowned again. "'Commander' works."
"Sure, Cru," said John. "Is that it then - is that how Commander Adama knows you? Your 'police action' out in the 'Stones'."
"You mean, the Asteroid Belt? Nobody who fought there calls it 'The Stones'."
John shrugged.
"But no, it was after that, I only mentioned it because it set me up with some skills that came in handy, later on." Cru continued. "It was when I pulled some easy-duty rotations. One was over on Aquaria." Cru paused and then corrected himself. "No. Not 'Over' on Aquaria. 'Back' on Aquaria." Cru paused again. "There is no 'over' on anywhere, anymore. It's all behind us - back there with the lost."
"So say we all," said John.
"So said we all. So say we again."
John nodded. "So then, what about this Adama fellow?"
"Well, not much to say about him - it's mostly about Lieutenant Cru - me. It was what I did. It got me some recognition...and a whole lotta good drink."
John poured him another round.
~~~~~/~~~~~
Above the planet Aquaria, 17 years prior
Three vipers were swinging wide of the fleet "pocket" tylium tanker, ACHILLES, to come around its stern and pass on its starboard side. The ACHILLES was a smallish tanker that could maneuver into tight places and could duck in behind the warships without offering an explosive target to enemy missiles. It didn't have the high capacity of the large fleet tankers but they had their use.
Five hundred miles below them, the planet of Aquaria lay in bright, icy, white, and blue splendor. Above them, at a distance, was the Battlestar ATLANTIA with a small flotilla of attending vessels. Far and away to their left was the orbiting Space Station, CARPATHIA. Trailing the ACHILLES was a single raptor escorting the vessel off-planet. The ACHILLES had topped off the tylium stores at the Harmony Moore fuel depot. The escort was routine. Aquaria was a planet of pristine frozen beauty. The raptor helped ensure a clear path skyward against any untoward environmental mishaps.
A glint of starlight brought notice to a large, thick, heavy, sheet of ice. It easily topped four hundred pounds and in near-weightlessness, it slid loose from the ACHILLES' fuselage. It happened sometimes - ice build-up from the vapors of idling engines, aided by freezing rain and extreme temperatures. It should have been removed during preflight checks but was not. Gravity was light. The atmosphere was thin. All-in-all, there was little to stop the large plate of glass-like ice from falling back and trailing after the tanker, but slowly widening the distance between.
ECO, Lieutenant "Red" Redding called out, "Are you watching that ice, Cru? Those vipers gotta move off their heading."
"Got it, Red," said Lieutenant Cru. "Thanks."
Cru keyed his mic. "Viper patrol, this is Raptor 2-2-8, callsign 'Cruiser', we have ice out here. Come wide on your approach."
No response.
"Viper patrol, acknowledge," said Cru. He clicked the radio mic several times to get their attention.
"Viper patrol, acknowledge," Cru repeated.
The Comm Officer in the small fleet tanker was listening. "Raptor 2-2-8, this is Achilles, how are we doing back there, Lieutenant?" The voice was of a communications operator Cru had met the night before. The tanker's crew had gathered before the morning departure. Most of them took dinner in the same cafeteria.
"Stand by, Achilles," replied Cru. He thought of the young ensign. He liked her. She was funny. Her husband was a telemetry analyst out in the fleet somewhere. Her son was back home with his grandmother, on Sagittaron. She had leave coming up and expected to see both husband and son in four weeks' time.
"Viper patrol, I say again, there is ice in your path. You need to alter your heading. Come wide on my six. Respond."
"They're on a collision course," said Red after a couple of quick checks. "That viper on the far side is gonna hit it, straight-on."
As if on-queue, the wash from the large thruster on the ACHILLES' starboard side caught the sheet of ice and turned it, slightly, so it was like a knife's edge facing the oncoming vipers.
"Viper patrol, acknowledge," called Cru over the radio. "What the hell are they doing?" he said out loud.
"Viper patrol, acknowledge!" shouted Red.
The large battlestar keyed in. "Raptor 2-2-8, this is Atlantia." The voice was young but fleet-weathered. He knew the lingo. "What are we not seeing, Lieutenant? You're in our blind."
"Cru, he's gonna hit it," said Red.
"Atlantia, your patrol is on a collision course and I cannot raise them on the comm."
"Raptor 2-2-8, this is Achilles. Lieutenant, please talk to me." The tanker's comm officer was getting insistent.
"Achilles," replied Cru. "Stay your course. Do not deviate."
The vipers needed to change course, and they could do so with great agility, even at the last moment if they had to. Colonial vipers were highly maneuverable. The fuel tanker, if it also changed course, would only complicate matters.
Cru flipped his radio to the open frequency where everyone and anyone could hear him, including the viper pilots - as long as their radios were on. "This is raptor 2-2-8 in the open. Viper patrol, break off now! Atlantia call off your vipers! I say again, call off your vipers!"
Cru swung the raptor around to face the oncoming flight and charged at them. He flashed a warning with the forward head-lamps. Too late.
The three jet fighters swept by in an instant. Cru and Red watched in disbelief.
"Atlantia, scramble your rescue! Atlantia..." Cru's voice trailed. Light caught up the keen edge of the plate ice. It glinted like a razor. Cru thought he knew what was happening next - the recovery of a foolish and absent-minded pilot. He was wrong by a long sea mile.
"Ls of K," breathed Red. "He's gonna hit it hard."
"2-2-8 this is Atlantia…," the comm officer from the battlestar began. His voice was lost in the ensuing chaos.
At the last moment, the viper pilots recognized their peril. The two who passed nearest to Cru's raptor laid heavy on the maneuvering thrusters, and banked sharply away. Lieutenant Matters, also known as "Kickstart", cut in tight towards the ACHILLES but he acted too late. He hit the ice as if destined to do so and nothing, Cru or otherwise, would change that.
Kickstart's viper struck the four hundred pound, Aquarian souvenir, full-on. The viper jolted from the impact. The leading edge of the ice gored the jet fighter's nose and flank. The canopy was struck hard, cracked, and was breached. The starboard engine cowling was peeled away like the skinning of a grape.
In a blink, the ill-fated viper ran up onto the tanker's starboard stabilizer wing, hitting it with a sickening crush. It "walked" across it - in flight-jockey vernacular, like a grim end-over-end cartwheel of sorts, and tumbled free, but not before gutting and disabling the tanker's large starboard engine. For final insult, or perhaps to hasten Kickstart's pending demise, the jet exhaust stream from the tanker's port side thruster caught hold of the largest viper piece, the one that held Kickstart within, and sent it winging backward, like a coin tossed into a waterfall.
"What the f-" said Cru in shock. His shoulders drooped as the crippled viper whipped out of view. "Red you still got it?" shouted Cru. He turned in his seat to get a look aft.
"Lost it!" shouted Red. "Get us around!"
"Cruiser, this is Husker, Rescue is inbound." The voice was cool and even. He sounded like another Caprican. "We're five minutes out."
"Copy that, Husker," Cru called back. He thought to himself, "that's about four minutes too late."
Cru swung the raptor around. Red scanned the scattering debris.
The Achilles boomed overhead with a loud explosion. Cru and Red looked up to see an umbrella of fiery wreckage spreading wide and comprising of all things flight-related from the tanker's starboard side.
"Sons of 'effing Zeus…," breathed Red. "We're not catching a break here."
"Not even a little one," said Cru.
The ACHILLES rolled over on its side, burning and smoking. The Port-side thruster was still lit and under a faltering burn.
"Flight Com, can you hear me?" The voice was from the ACHILLES but it wasn't the comm officer Cru had met. "We have wounded. There's smoke on the bridge. We need assistance." The voice was that of a young man. It was shaky. Frightened.
"I found the viper," called Red, "what's left of it." He ignored, for the moment, the crippled tanker. One crisis at a time. "He's alive, I got vitals."
"Where away?" shouted Cru.
"Low, eight hundred yards, broad on the starboard.
No hesitation. Cru dove after the pilot.
"Shouldn't the tanker be first?" called Red. "More lives? Tylium-boom?"
"It'll fly."
"Raptor 2-2-8, Raptor 2-2-8, We have wounded." The frightened voice from the ACHILLES rang out. "There's smoke on the bridge. The bridge crew is down, all of them."
"Cru?" said Red.
Cru hissed. "It'll fly, damn it" he repeated to Red. "It will."
"Achilles, this is Raptor 2-2-8," called Cru. "Get your wounded together. We'll dock after-"
"Hang on, Cru. They can't hear us," interrupted Red. "Their receiver is offline - it's not responding to a ping. And, the computer says they got a crew of thirty-eight. We can take ten, tops."
"Frak!" said Cru. "Okay, we get the pilot first than hard-burn for the tanker and see what we can do. Maybe get them facing upward again and back-to-black."
"Okay, roger that," said Red. "I'm ready."
Cru chased down the crippled viper under full burn, all the while ducking and dodging falling debris. Just as he caught the viper, the fellow ejected from the cockpit, right in front of them. The flailing body loomed large in their path. The pilot's face was a picture of wide-eyed terror in that fractional moment when he caught sight of Raptor 2-2-8 barrelling down on him. Cru rolled out of his way and missed the pilot by inches.
Cru spilled away the forward momentum, lit up the forward thrusters, spun hard, and dropped into a falling pace where the pilot should have been. Cru had only a momentary glimpse of Kickstart. The pilot was wounded and blood was visible, which meant his pressure suit was cut open. They were high above the Aquarian surface. Kickstart would die in the thin upper atmosphere - if not from lack of oxygen, he would burn to ashes during the re-entry.
Cru's raptor and Kickstart screamed downward in a planet-bound arc. Kickstart, like all pilots when they were cadets, had dropped from upper atmospheres before. Dropped, yes, but not rocketed downward by the nozzle blast of a tanker's jet engine.
Kickstart was in a state of controlled panic - a sort of "I can live through this if I don't lose my shit," state of mind. His flight suit had a supply of oxygen mix and provided a heavy in-flow of breathable air. It maintained the suit pressure against the loss, but only for the short term. His blood would not boil and his eyes would not explode...not yet, anyway. With a light ping tone, his emergency alert radio connected to the raptor's comm.
Kickstart's first words to Cru and Redding were eloquent and succinct, "Get me the frak aboard!"
Cru's raptor had two life pods attached below. They were meant for stranded pilots out in cold space. They were more practical than opening up the cabin. They could be pressurized with breathable air. They could sustain life for hours and they could deploy parachutes for safe landings. They weren't meant for high-speed recovery but they would do. It had been done before.
Kickstart rolled and flipped back and forth as he tried to steady himself, all the while plunging down through the thickening atmospherics. This caused a change in the way he fell, which Cru adjusted for. Kickstart slammed against the raptor multiple times, as he struggled for a handhold. Long precious seconds ticked by. Red watched Kickstart's attempts to reach for the pod. He sent the video up to Cru who was dead-eye set on keeping the raptor flying downward, straight and even.
"C'mon, buddy," said Cru under his breath. He watched Kickstart grapple, lose hold, and grapple again. "Get in."
At long last, Kickstart scrambled into the left-most pod like a mouse scurrying into a hole. Red monitored the progress. Every surface was warming from atmospheric friction. He watched the pod pressurize. Kickstart's vitals - blood pressure, heart rate, and other measurements came streaming through and displayed on a monitor screen.
"How ya doing, flyboy?" said Cru over the commlink. He jerked the raptor back skyward. Everything lurched. Kickstart was thrown into the bottom of the life pod. The whole shuttle reverberated under the strain.
"I'm banged up and bleeding...but fine," said Kickstart. "I'm alive. Thanks."
"You're welcome, from both of us," said Cru. He was somewhat distracted.
Cru whipped the raptor through large chunks of falling debris as he now chased after the stricken ACHILLES. Several course changes avoided the biggest pieces while the rest struck the raptor like a cacophony of heavy ball-peen hammers pounding its way in.
"Serious, is this a...is this a Marine bird?" asked Kickstart. He was shaken and fumbling through words. "Marine Corps?"
"Yep," said Cru. "The Marines just saved your ass."
"Son of a bitch," replied Kickstart. "That's really gonna be hard to live down."
Cru wanted to demand why Kickstart and the others were not listening to radio comm or watching their DRADIS. A chunk of ice didn't need a transponder aboard to show up on the screen directly in their path. There would be hell to pay, starting with the fellow locked up in the life pod and his two partners somewhere out and away. Kickstart's viper was a complete loss. The ACHILLES was heavily damaged and had wounded crew members - maybe even dead. A rain of large and small pieces of smoldering scrap metal would soon be striking down on fragile and protected, natural ecosystems far below. If they all lived through this, Cru and Red would likely be summoned to these pilots' courts-martial.
"I'd love to talk about your frak-up," said Cru, "but we're clear of the fall-out and I gotta drop you."
"My frak-up? Wait! We didn't...!" shouted Kickstart over the comlink. "Wait! Don't!"
A press of a button - a second press for confirmation - and the life pod containing Kickstart dropped away.
"Mother-Frakkers! Come back here!" shouted Kickstart over the commlink. He would spend more than forty minutes slowly floating down to the Aquarian surface and wait for a pick-up. He was injured but he would live. Cru and Red needed to move on.
~~~~~/~~~~~
Cru and Red ran down the ACHILLES. They had spent many long minutes in hard-burn. Fuel consumption was a problem. Landing with no fuel was a big problem.
The ACHILLES had auto-correcting navigation which chose the best solution during heavy turbulence, damage, or in this situation, the loss of an engine. The ACHILLES had rolled over on its side so the remaining port side thruster was fully under the weight of the ship, holding it aloft. But forward motion had slowed and the ship dropped many thousands of feet. The ACHILLES had to point more and more upwards against the increasing gravity until it was almost straight up and down.
It could not maintain flight and it danced there as if suspended on a string. This did not last long.
Cru and Red closed in and locked their raptor onto the ship's service access port.
"Achilles, this is Lieutenant Cru," said Cru over the joint intercom once the two ships linked. "We're coming in."
No response.
Cru and Red waited impatiently while the connected access ports pressurized. Cru hefted a fire extinguisher up onto his shoulder and carried a medical kit in hand. John had a second medical kit and a hand-held wireless radio. Just as the access port unlocked and swung open, the hulking tanker tumbled over, in-air, and spun downward out of control.
Cru's training, Human Asset Recovery and Forward Operations Re-Supply (HARFOR), covered the basics of bridge operations. He could figure out and fly most of the ships in the fleet as any fair helm officer could. All ships have the same basic flight needs. But, the ability to land a ship or guide it into a tight berth were specialized skills based on intimate ship knowledge, which Cru did not possess. Thankfully, Cru wouldn't have to fit the tanker anywhere. However, landing the ship was a distinct, albeit very real, possibility. Cru never flew or assisted in the flight of a small "Pocket" Fuel Tanker. How hard could it be?
The ACHILLES dropped from the sky, spinning and whirling like a maple seedling falling on a windless day.
Cru and Red half ran and half slid down the service corridor towards the bridge. It was not hard to find; all passages leaned sharply that way. Traveling was difficult. The gravity plates were operational, plus the planet's gravity, and then add in the centrifugal force of the spin.
Cru arrived on the bridge first. Only one crew member stood. He was at the helm. The others were against the port side wall on Cru's left, laying together battered, and bloodied. Some were moaning in pain while others were unconscious. The ship had lurched one way from the jarring force, corrected, and lurched back the other direction. The effect was to slam everyone against the wall on the right side first and then into the wall on the left side.
"Vent the smoke out of here," called Cru as he entered.
"I don't know how to," said the crewman. "I don't know any of this." The crewman's name was Canassis. He was a machinist and had no real business on the bridge other than him being one of only a few left standing.
Cru turned to Red.
"I'm on it," called Red before Cru spoke. He jumped onto the nearest computer terminal and began poking through menus.
"Here," said Cru to Canassis. "Take this med-kit and go help your people." He dropped the fire extinguisher where he stood.
"We need to end this damn spinning," said Cru. He took hold of the navigation paddles and gave them a hard turn while shutting down the port engine. The ship shuddered and rattled but the spinning slowed. Cru turned the maneuvering thrusters to face against the spin and slowed it further. The tanker was near empty of fuel and heavy in the rear where the remaining engine was located. The ship tipped backward as it continued its fall. Cru let it do this. He needed the tail end to get back underneath the ship.
"Can we get it back up, star-side?" asked Red. "There's no landing this thing. Not anymore."
Cru shook his head. "There won't be enough push. The tylium feed is wrong and I can't adjust it enough." Cru worked through the settings. "No full burn."
Red confirmed. "Okay, I see it. There are heavy O2 leaks - you'll get maybe sixty percent at best."
Cru focused on the ship's ever-accelerating descent, trying to tease out control of its large double rudder and the port aileron - in the absence of a starboard aileron. He used maneuvering thrusters to compensate. Progress was slow and Cru fought against the ship's continued desire to spin.
Red got the room cleared of smoke. "That was easy," he said. "Cru, what next?"
"Contact rescue ops - planetside, that battlestar, and the Carpathia. Send us everything they got. We're gonna hit hard."
"You mean, we're gonna crash it." Red knew they were - he was verbalizing the obvious.
"Oh yeah, like a crater."
"Roger that," said Red. He turned on the wireless radio and clicked over to the open frequencies. "Mayday! Mayday! This is Fleet Tanker Achilles in the open band. We are going down..."
Cru lit the port thruster again as the tail end came around underneath and they were facing straight-up-and-down again. He eased into the throttle and worked the directionals to keep the ship upright. He managed two-thirds of the full burn. He played with the mixes, all the while, trying to get more thrust. The ship still plummeted downward like a streak, but the speed slowed in time. It leaned over in all directions and each time, Cru fought to bring it back upright.
"...Negative, Husker," continued Red over the radio. "O2 feed is the problem. Too lean. We can't make altitude."
It took three minutes to drop down to the lower atmospheric reaches. It seemed an agonizing eternity.
"Eight seconds to impact," said Red.
"Damn, this is too fast," said Cru.
"Yeah," said Red under his breath. "I'm thinking we made a mistake coming aboard."
"Yeah," replied Cru, "me too."
"I appreciate your trying," said Cassanis. Cru forgot he was still there.
"You might want to brace for impact, kid," said Cru.
The ACHILLES cratered into the Aquarian landscape and spread debris over a three-mile radius. Crews aboard Rescue and First Response vehicles, and the small flight of vipers, including William "Husker" Adama, watched as the ACHILLES struck frozen hard-pack. A great cloud of ice, snow, surface, and permafrost was blasted up into the air. A burst of flames rolled up in a fireball, but not a large one, not as if the remaining fuel stores had exploded.
A steady wind cleared a view. The tanker, ACHILLES, had remained intact. A swarm of rescue ships descended upon the wreck. Heavy cutting tools were required to gain access. When fires were put out and tylium stabilized, every member of the thirty-eight-member crew was found living, as was Cru and Red.
~~~~~/~~~~~
Not long after.
"Bartender, line them up again - the best you got," called Major William Adama. His callsign was "Husker".
"Woo! Woo!" shouted Captain Evans. Her callsign was "Roughshod"
"Major…," stammered Lieutenant Cru. His callsign had been' "Cruiser' but he had recently been dubbed "Free-Fall". The young marine thought he could out-drink any and all navy officers. He had done so with many, but not this time."Major, what are we drinking for? I forgot."
"We are drinking to your health," said Adama as he waved his glass.
"To your health!" Shouted Evans. She was lit.
"Not feeling healthy." Cru tried to clear the blurriness from his eyes by closing one, opening it and then closing the other.
"In truth, you're not looking it," said Adama. "Are you done, Marine?"
"'Don't wanna be. This is good hooch."
Adama nodded his head. "Best spirits an Officer's Club can pour. I believe you're drinking the fifteen-year-old, Maker's."
"I think I'm drinking water," said Evans. "I can't taste it anymore. I can't feel my tongue." She emptied her glass and looked for more.
Adama gave a light laugh.
"They don't got this at a Marine O-Club," said Cru. "Seven days old is a very good year." Cru had propped his head upon his upturned forearm. He fell off it and his head dropped onto the bar countertop with a thud. He laughed. "A good year," he repeated. "Get it? I said a good year, except seven days isn't a year."
"I don't get it," said Evans to anyone listening. "A year is like…" she tried counting on her fingers without effect.
Adama laughed again. "Sure, Marine. Rot-gut jarhead hooch from a back-room still. The Marine Corps at its finest, I get it."
"...and all the planets are different," continued Evans. "How can you know which one?"
"Which one, what, Roughshod?" asked Adama. He was amused. Evans didn't get out much.
"Which planet has what years - I don't think any of them last just 7 days."
"That's it, Sir, I can't serve these two anymore," said the bartender.
"I understand, Kim. I think we're done celebrating."
"So it would seem, Major," said Kim. "I'm curious, what were you celebrating?"
"This man's a big hero." He pointed to Cru.
"And I'm chopped liver!" shouted Evans. "Eat me!"
Adama and Kim looked over at Evans with curious faces. Kim raised an eyebrow.
"Did I really just say that?" asked Evans. She looked at her hands as if they were somehow responsible for her outburst. "I think I did."
"Okay, they're done," said Adama.
Kim nodded his agreement as he started cleaning up the countertop in front of them. "So he's a hero? How so?"
"He is. This man saved a pilot of mine then boarded a fuel tanker - it was burning and disabled and he brought it down with no lives lost."
"Okay," said Kim. "I knew that crew - the Achilles, right? They flew outta here dozens of times." Kim looked at Cru with a sympathetic eye. Cru was toasted and was likely to regret it in the morning. "I heard about this fellow." Kim slid the bottle into Adama's hand. "The rest is on me." He smiled. "But that's a pretty drunk Marine and your wingman needs a drydock. Maybe take the bottle with you?"
"I…am…a wing-person!" called Evans. "Per-son," she repeated.
"Understood, Captain," said Kim to Evans. "Major, your 'Wing-Person' needs a drydock."
Another light laugh. "Yeah, I'll get this one home," said Adama as he pointed to Cru. "Can you call Miko and have her come get the good Captain, here?" Adama gestured to Evans.
Kim smiled. "Sure."
Adama looked around. "I'm not going to carry him. I don't suppose you have something I can push him in?"
"In fact, I do," said Kim. "There's a grocery cart outside, around the corner, against the wall. Your friend, here, won't be the first to use it."
Adama smiled. "Me pushing a Marine home in a grocery cart - I'll need to get a picture of that."
Adama and Kim half-walked, half-dragged Cru out of the Officer's Club to Evans shouts of, "Bring that dishy jarhead back here!"
Cru was tossed, without ceremony, into the waiting cart. A short trek through the evening chill found him back at his quarters. Adama got him into his rack and left the bottle.
~~~~~/~~~~~
Cru was decorated with the Distinguished Flying Cross medal and a short time later, meritoriously promoted to Captain. His brief experience aboard the ACHILLES changed his life and his career path. The medal on his chest provided him with advancement opportunities, and he angled his next assignments towards fleet and bridge crew operations. By the time he started his third military tour, and after years of night school, additional studies, and fifteen months in Fleet Ops Schools Battalion, he was commanding military fleet tankers and freighters as a Marine Major and "Acting" Commander. He never commanded a Marine warship to his everlasting disappointment. He chalked it up to Central Command's concerns, and some say rightly so, over giving a Special Forces Marine access to big guns during times of peace.
~~~~~/~~~~~
"That's how I know Commander Adama - or rather - how he knows me," said Cru.
The story took a long time to tell. Both Cru and John needed to get to bed. They kept a tight schedule with their work. They overlapped their evening watches and Cru would get four hours of sleep if he left at that moment.
Cru stood and washed out his glass. "You can understand my keeping that hushed - now, more than ever."
"I don't know, it's a good story."
"Yeah, but it's the grocery cart. I have my pride."
John smiled and joined Cru at the small, space-saver sink. "So, you had to be sick. That sounded like a whole lotta drinking."
Cru shook his head as if dispelling a bad memory. "Oh yeah, I wasn't right for days."
"What about Major Adama and Captain Evans?"
"They weren't there long. The Atlantia was only in port for a couple days and then they were gone. I didn't hear either of their names again until now-Commander Adama was retiring that old battlestar out there."
John nodded. "Small universe."
Cru smiled. "Yeah, small."
This ends Chapter 10.
As usual, please post any comments. I'm not sure how much I'm allowed to be interactive, but if you have questions or suggestions, I'll try to respond without giving away too much.