Chapter 2
There were times when Chief Tyrol loved his job. He loved the feeling of success when one of his pilots managed to do the impossible with his plane. He loved when a problem was solved, and when the purr of an engine was just right. He loved it when his team worked together like the well oiled machinery that they worked on. Yes, there were times that despite the headaches, and the responsibilities, the irritations, and the deadlines, when he loved his work.
This was not one of those times.
Around him, his bay was in shambles. Every frakking one of his Vipers was banged and battered, some of them crushed beyond what he would normally consider his ability to repair them. But they had no choice. There would be no new spacecraft to replace what was damaged. There would be no men to replace those who had died. There would be no rest for any of them; not for a very long time.
He had just sent one of his best mechanics back to work, and he would have rather have had her sedated and sent back to her parents. But there were no available sedatives and her parents were long dead, and there wasn't even one of her friends nearby to provide comfort. Hell, there wasn't any comfort to be provided.
Half of what was left of his team was now clearing out debris from the flight pod they'd blown to save the ship. Earlier, they'd had time to go in and retrieve the men — the children — but they hadn't even begun to repair the damage. It would take them a very long time. On the other hand, it wasn't as though they had anything better to do. What he had told Cally was the Lords' honest truth: he would work until he dropped, because there would be no other way for him to get to sleep.
"Chief?"
Startled from his thoughts, Tyrol turned to see one of his men — kids — approaching with more speed than he would have thought possible given the battle they'd endured, the work to be done, and the pervasive feeling of gloom that surrounded them. It took him a moment to remember the kid's name. "What do you need, Socinus?"
"The Commander wants to see you," the Crewman Specialist said without preamble. "I think he's trying to get a status report on the whole ship."
Tyrol couldn't help but smile at the enthusiasm. He couldn't ever remember a time when battle had been exciting, or even interesting. He had heard stories from his father since he'd been a boy about the horrors of war with the Cylons, and regardless of the patriotism that had pushed him into the service in the first place, he'd never had a desire for revenge or first-hand knowledge of war. He had just wanted to work on the best spacecraft in the known universe. That was all. Now it was all that was left.
"Chief?"
Tyrol shook himself. Lords, he must be tired if every thought went off on a tangent. If he was this tired, what must these kids feel like? "CIC?" he asked, trying to cover his inattention.
"Pilot's briefing room," the young man corrected. "I guess he's asking a bunch of people to come for it."
"Must be," the Chief said with a furrowed brow. "While I'm off the deck, you guys can report to" He thought about it for a moment. Anyone with any rank at all was gone; lost to the fire that had decimated their crews. Only the kids were left, with their enthusiasm and fear and shock. "Cally," he finally decided. She was the best he had for putting things together, and far more instinctive than anyone else remaining on staff. She had looked tired when he'd found her earlier, and as much in shock as the rest of them, but this might just be what she needed. It might be the reason, the purpose that could hold her together until the shock passed and the reality became livable. "Let Cally know she's in command until I'm back. It shouldn't be too long. If this goes longer than an hour I'm ducking out of there; we have work to get done."
Socinus gave a nod, then jogged off towards the line of Vipers that were in the process of having their underbellies rebuilt. Combat landings were hell on aircraft.
The hallways of the ship were deserted as Tyrol made his way to the briefing room. Normally used to inform pilots of the daily roster and specific duties, the room was essentially a podium surrounded by chairs. As he entered, Tyrol was shocked to see how many of the chairs were filled. The room was essentially silent, with only a few whispered conversations going on that didn't carry. After the noise and activity of the flight deck, the quiet was deafening. Chief Tyrol walked towards the front of the room and took a seat three rows back and on an aisle. He hadn't been kidding about ducking out early if this went too long. He didn't have the patience for a lengthy lecture.
His wait was brief, but he was nearly asleep when Captain Kelly took a seat next to him and greeted him with a glance. Tyrol nodded. They were both too tired for more. Looking back behind him at the lack of even quiet conversation, Tyrol saw Commander Adama entering with his jackass of an Executive Officer behind him. The Chief deliberately ignored the murderer of the majority of his crew in favor of watching the Commander's slow and steady steps. His face was impassive, but the aura of power was clear. The world might be blown to hell and back, but William Adama was still in command of what was left.
"Good morning," the Commander said as he reached the podium. He stood in front of it, rather than behind it, and he didn't bother with the microphone. He didn't need it. His low, gravelly voice carried clearly despite the fatigue that was evident in it. "Thank you all for coming. I know you have things to get done, so this will be brief. Sargent Klipston, can you get the door please?"
Tyrol turned to watch an eager man close the hatch to block out the briefing that was about to take place. He wondered what on earth was private under the circumstances. The Commander didn't leave them in suspense.
"I've called you here because you are currently the primary leadership for this battlestar," Adama began. "You all have reports on damage and repair status. You all know your jobs, and you're getting them done. The reason you're here is for something more urgent, even than the repairs." The Commander took a deep breath and removed his glasses as he faced them. He looked as tired as Tyrol felt. "There have been eleven attempted suicides in the last twenty-four hours. Nine of those attempts have been successful."
The silence following the Commander's words was shattering. Tyrol didn't think anyone was even breathing. "We have lost everything," he said softly. "So have our men. Right now, everyone is far too close to the edge to allow for any pushing. I need your help if we're going to get this under control. First of all, I want you to learn your crews, and do it quickly. Some of you are new to your positions, coming in on the heels of those we've lost. I understand if you aren't familiar with everyone under your command. Find someone who is, and listen to them. For others, you just have too damned many people to lead to be able to watch them all. Assign others if you need to, but we must be sure that none of our men have the opportunity or the desperation to end their lives. It's selfish, but this ship needs them. Not only are they the only hope for our future, but they're also the only hope for this ship. Every man is essential." The Commander cleared his throat, then put his glasses back on. "We are currently taking an inventory of all individuals with any counseling experience either here or on other ships in the fleet. Unfortunately, even those individuals are undergoing the same stress that our crew is. You will be our first line of defense against this threat. Take any mention of suicide seriously, be on the lookout for behavior that seems more abnormal than the rest of the crew, and report anyone you feel is in imminent danger to Colonel Tigh.
"We are in the process of trying to fill the more gaping vacancies in the crew. A general call has been put throughout the fleet for those that have experience with our more urgent needs. We are seeking pilots, electricians, mechanics, welders, and dozens of other miscellaneous jobs that are currently in demand both here on the Galactica and on a number of other ships within the fleet. This inventory of individuals will take time, and I know that isn't what you want to hear. It's the best we can do.
"I'm sure many of you have individual needs within your squads that should be attended to immediately. Colonel Tigh and myself will remain here to speak with you. If you have no further questions, then you can feel free to leave. If you have concerns, then by all means stay and we'll see what we can come up with. That is all."
Murmurs finally began around the room, Tyrol watched as those around him, at least thirty or forty people, gradually stood and either individually or in groups moved towards the podium or moved towards the doors at the rear of the room. Colonel Kelly placed a hand on his shoulder as he stood to leave, but he never spoke. Tyrol didn't mind; there was nothing to say. Soon the room was down to only about fifteen people, most of them looking more haggard than he did. It wasn't reassuring. Seated as close as he was, Tyrol heard the vast majority of what was said, both by the Commander and also by the XO.
Most everyone was waiting to speak with the Commander. In fact, aside from taking notes and otherwise looking damned useless, Tigh really didn't do much of anything. At least Tyrol wasn't the only person who seemed to think that the XO wasn't worth talking to.
Not really able to think of anything pressing, and remembering his promise to return as soon as possible, the Chief had begun to stand in order to leave. There was nothing he had to say to the Commander that hadn't already been said, but he had received a pointed look and a gesture from Adama to sit back down. Impatiently now, Tyrol watched as person after person went to the Commander with requests that were perfectly reasonable, and no more likely to be met because of it.
"Thanks for waiting, Chief," Adama said when the last of the other personnel had left. "I wanted to speak to you about the repairs on the port landing deck. How soon will it be operational again?"
"It's functional now," he said shortly. "It just looks like hell. We'll take care of the cosmetics when we have the time and manpower to do it."
The look on the Commander's face told him that he had been brief to the point of being rude, but he really didn't care. So long as Colonel Tigh was standing there, Tyrol had nothing to say. He had expressed his opinions once, and all it had gotten him was a slap in the face — or on the wrist, as the case might be.
"I see," the Commander said softly. "How is your crew holding out?"
"Those that are left are surviving," Tyrol told him as he deliberately ignored the XO who had turned to pay some attention to the conversation.
"Chief, I realize that you lost a large portion of your crew," the Commander began, but Tyrol just couldn't listen to it.
"Yes, I did. May I please get back to those that are left? We have a job to do, and very few men to manage it."
William Adama sighed, and then reached out to put a hand on the Chief's arm. He wanted to brush it off, but there were certain lines one did not cross with a battleship commander. Blatant disrespect, for better or worse, was one of them. "I know you don't agree with the decisions that were made," the Commander said, and his voice was both low and wavering slightly. "But don't forget that they were my men, too. All of them; each and every one. So were the pilots, and the bridge crew, and the maintenance workers, and the galley personnel, and the medics. Three hundred and six people, Chief Tyrol, and nine by their own hand. I have another sixty-one in serious to critical condition and very few medical personnel left to care for them. Each and every one of them were my responsibility, Chief. Three hundred and six of my men."
Closing his eyes, Tyrol absorbed what had not been said. The battlestar had lost far more than eighty-five deck hands. As bitter as he was about the way those lives had been lost, the bottom line was that they were a mere fraction of the total tragedy. All of it would be borne by this one man, not because it was his fault, but because their lives had been his responsibility.
"I understand, Sir," the Chief said softly.
With a nod, the Commander dismissed him and turned to speak with his XO. While understanding did not relieve the pain of losing his team, he couldn't find it in him to hold it against a man who had lost far more than he had. "Commander?"
Adama finished speaking, then he turned back to him. "Yes, Chief?"
"Who do we contact if we have personnel on the edge?" he asked, remembering the face of a deckhand who had lost everything she had and had been sitting in a launch tube by herself. Cally was only one, of course. There were others who had the same dead look in their eyes that she did. Too many others.
"Give Colonel Tigh the names of any that you feel are in urgent need of attention. We're still in the process of prioritizing needs."
Tyrol took a deep breath and faced Tigh, doing his best to keep anger and blame from his voice, but not doing a very good job of it. "Team four," he told the Colonel. "Out of fifty, there are only nine left. All of them are kids, and none of them have family now. Some of them" He cleared his throat. "All of them are going to need help."
"I'll get back to you as soon as we have psych personnel available," Tigh told him mechanically. Then, looking up from the clipboard where he had made a note, he added, "They'll be first priority. I can send a priest down this evening if you can get them together."
Tyrol released a breath he'd been holding, accepting the words as the only apology he would receive. "Yes, Sir." Then turning back to Adama, "Commander?"
"Yes?"
"I'd like permission to move my crews into two quarters," he requested. "I think they'll do better together, and that way they can keep a closer eye one another."
"Make it one," the Commander suggested. "Bring in some portable units if you need to, but try to get them into one central quarters. We'll be doing a lot of rearranging with the living quarters to accommodate the survivors that have lost their ships. Let the crew know that we are consolidating space."
"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir."
"Get some rest," the Commander told him. "You're no good to your men if you make yourself sick."
"Someone should tell you the same," the Chief said, and was even able to manage a weak smile. The Commander acknowledged the effort with his own softened expression, then released him with another nod and no argument.
Chief Tyrol's walk back to the bays was done in slow motion. Whether it was the suggestion of rest, or merely the last few days catching up with him, he didn't feel as though he could do any more than put one foot in front of the other. Stepping onto the primary bay, he was stunned by quantity of work that had been accomplished with so few people. It didn't look like anyone was sleeping today. Pilots, support personnel, and what was left of his crews were swarming over spacecraft. He wanted to go to bed — to forget — but he needed to relieve Cally first. She had looked worse than he'd felt when he'd last seen her.
It took him more than a few minutes to locate her. She had lain down her clipboard to climb up on a high-lift to assist with an engine mounting. Up to her elbows in grease, she looked like a child who had been playing in a mud puddle. Why in hell hadn't he realized how young they all were? He called her name, and she acknowledged him with a nod before she finished what she was doing. He was pleased that she didn't stop in the middle, even for him; at least his team was still remembering their responsibilities.
When she came down the stairway of the lift, he saw that her face was wet. She had been crying. It was no surprise; many of them were crying, off and on, even as they worked.
"Any problems?" he asked her as she offered him his clipboard.
"Yes, Sir," she answered.
"What is it?" he asked, wondering what had broken or who had gotten hurt this time.
"Specialist Kayman," she said simply. "One of his bunkmates found him in the shower with his wrists cut. The medics did all they could, but it was too late. Baker was looking for you — to tell you — but I told him he could go to bed and I'd pass on the message. He looked pretty bad."
Ten, Tyrol thought. Now they had lost ten to something worse than the Cylon threat. He bowed his head in quiet acknowledgement of their loss, then went back to business. "Your shift has been over for hours," he reminded her. "Hell, it wasn't even your shift in the first place. Try to get some sleep, Cally," he told her softly. "And remember."
"Remember?" She looked as confused as she sounded.
He nodded, knowing there were probably tears in his own eyes, but not able to do a damn thing about it. Maybe they were just watering from fatigue. That was it; he was just tired. "Remember how much this hurts," he told the girl. "Because sooner or later we'll all think about it. Remember what it does to those around you."
Cally nodded, and from the flash in her eyes he saw that he'd been right. It hadn't been much of a gamble. They had all lost everything; it wasn't far from losing everything to wanting to end it all. "Yes, Sir," she said softly.
He didn't say any more, but he watched as she walked away from him. The Chief took a moment to realize just how lucky he was in comparison to those around him. He had part of his crew, a few people he called friends, and he still had Sharon.
And sometime soon, he would try to get some sleep. Sometime, but not now. Now he had work to get done, and no one that he was prepared to leave it with. He was as tired as he'd ever been, but he was alive. He reminded himself that life was supposed to be a good thing. And he also reminded himself that until they got the bays cleared up and the Vipers operational, none of them were safe. Not him, not his crew, not his friends, and not Sharon.