Chapter 8
Raptor 473, SSR
Margaret Edmondson slowly opened her eyes. Then she realized that she was hanging upside-down from her seat restraints. The bubble canopy of the ship was broken, and cool air drifted in through a crack in her helmet.
She tried to move, and found she had a pounding headache.
This is gonna hurt in the morning. Oh what the frak...
She released the glorified seat belt and dropped a meter onto what was now the ground. Her helmet absorbed most of the fall, as did her neck. She writhed on the floor, trying to get her aching limbs to function again.
She was lucky she wasn't injured worse than she was...
She pulled off her helmet, and breathed. There was smoke in the air, but miraculously the fuel hadn't caught fire. She looked out the shattered viewport and saw why.
They were in what could only be described as a dismal swamp. The sun was starting to set, as the sky that was visible was streaked with bright red, orange, and magenta, with clouds starting further up in the sky. The air was humid, and it was raining.
Lovely.
Her thoughts were still coming back to her, when she realized where she was.
This is Earth.
Then she remembered what she had been doing, and what had happened.
They shot at us!
And her bleary thoughts finally meandered to something very important...
The President!
She groaned as she hauled herself to her feet, slightly unsteady. Sure enough, President Roslin was hanging from her chair in the rear of the Raptor. Her scalp was bleeding, and she had a dark bruise on her forehead. She'd clearly hit herself hard. There might even be a fracture.
Edmondsonshook the President, who swayed slowly. "Madam President?! Can you hear me?! Madam President?!"
Getting not even a twitch as a response, Racetrack looked around for something to cushion the president's fall. Unfortunately large, soft pillows were not standard issue on Raptors, and the survival blanket was designed to keep people warm while being as small as possible. Useless.
"The things I do for the uniform," she muttered as the positioned herself below the president. She reached up, and unbuckled the strap.
She was knocked right over, but managed to cushion the fall, with only some pain. She lay Roslin down and checked her over, the medkit handy. She put a gauze on the scalp, which was still bleeding, and then saw Roslin's arm, although wished she hadn't. Arms weren't supposed to bend that way.
A splint at least restored normalcy to Roslin's appearance, and Racetrack draped one of the emergency blankets from the survival kit over her. With that chore out of the way, she turned her attention to the radio.
"Valkyrie, this is Racetrack, come in Valkyrie. Kryptor, kryptor, this is Racetrack, we have crash-landed, repeat, we have crash landed."
There was nothing. Not even static. The Raptor had come to rest on the side of the hull, and perhaps the outside had crumpled in, gutting the avionics. Either way, it didn't work.
Racetrack picked up the emergency disaster beacon from the survival kit. It would lead any amateur with a pocket radio to her location, but she would rather be found by the enemy than abandoned in a swamp. And on an inhabited planet like Earth, someone was bound to be looking for her.
They had been lucky. If they had fallen anywhere else, they would have been dashed to pieces. The swamp had absorbed enough of the impact to soften the landing, but the ship would never fly again, that was for sure.
Time crawled by in aeons, and the sun lowered below the horizon.
Battlestar Valkyrie
"Commander, you'll take command while I'm on the surface. See if you can scan the area where the Raptor went down and try and locate survivors.Otherwise just make sure nobody steals my ship."
"Aye, sir," said Nelson. "Good luck."
"I hope I don't need it." said Adama.
He left CIC and traversed the ship, moving into the starboard flight pod. It was a strange novelty to command a battlestar with two operating flight pods. Galactica only had one operating flight pod. Even though the starboard pod had been converted back to a proper pod (something which had given crewmen in the year on New Caprica something to do), it was so crowded with refugees that it couldn't be used.
The Raptor was fueled and waiting on the hangar deck. The pilot was one of the original Valkyrie crewmembers, though Adama didn't remember his name.
He sat in the rear compartment, strapping himself to the chair.
"You all buckled in there, sir?" asked the pilot, to which Adama nodded.
The Raptor this time had a Viper escort down to the atmosphere, but no satellites activated this time. When they entered the atmosphere, the Vipers broke off, to be replaced with the American stealth aircraft flying at their maximum ceiling. They kept up with the Raptor (though remaining undetected the entire time), and led the shuttle down to the surface.
The port at which the Raptor landed was a large airport, filled with civilian aircraft of many sizes, most of them jet fueled. The hatch to the Raptor opened, letting in a blast of warm humid air. It was only then that Adama thought about having dressed for the weather.
Outside on the tarmac were four black cars, something Adama hadn't seen since the Cylon attacks.
"Admiral Adama?" asked a man who leapt out of the second car. He looked uncomfortable in his suit, due to either the heat or the humidity. When Adama nodded, he said, "I'm Dennis Morgan, and I'll be escorting you to the White House. If you'll follow me, sir."
He ushered Adama into the vehicle, which Adama found to his relief to be air conditioned. Once everyone was secure, the car started moving silently.
Adama commented on this, and Morgan grinned. "Hydrogen engine," he explained. "We've had them for about thirty years. The air still gets beastly hot from the hydrocarbons we threw up there already."
"Global warming?" Adama asked.
"You got it. That a problem where you come from, too?"
"Not as much. We use processed hydrocarbons for smaller vehicles only because it's cheap. We were converting them to use tylium instead, which is much less polluting."
"Never heard of tylium before," said Morgan.
"It forms on smaller asteroids. I expect your asteroid belt to be full of it."
"We just got out there, maybe forty-two years ago." said Morgan. "Hell, we might've found some tylium and never known it."
The trip was uneventful after that, with Adama making small talk with the Terran escorts and learning about the United States. What he was hearing made the country sound like a modified and shrunken version of Caprica dropped in the middle of the planet. Nothing about Russian or any of the other powers was said, and he didn't raise the question.
The motorcade pulled into a large driveway, passing through gardens and clouds of mist thrown up by an irrigation system. Adama couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a proper garden. New Caprica had been to harsh to grow anything, including many types of food.
The entrance hall was covered in a thick red carpet, and lined with wooden tables covered in busts and other artifacts. The walls were white as well, with ornate metal lighting fixtures giving an older feeling to the place. It was still well lit.
"If you'll follow me, sir." said Morgan. "Since this isn't a negotiation session, the President will see you in his office."
"Very well," said Adama. So the President had kept his word. This wasn't all a gambit to force him under their negotiation table. Yet.
They turned a corridor into what Adama assumed was the western part of the building (at least that's what one of the plaques said, presumably for tourist groups).
After reaching what appeared to be an antechamber, Adama saw a single Presidential Security guard, or their Terran equivalent. Adama secretly wondered how they could stand wearing sunglasses all the time, if these were anything like their Colonial counterparts.
But since the President was inside a secure location, he only needed one to be around him, and when Adama was led into the President's office, he remained outside.
"Mr President," said Adama. "I'm Admiral William Adama of the battlestar Valkyrie, representing the Twelve Colonies of Kobol."
"I'm President Andrew Warren," said the President. "Sit down, Admiral. We have some things to discuss involving the Russians."
Tau Ceti II
"What's the deal, Captain?" asked Patterson. He had his helmet in his hands, and he was decked out in digital camouflage fatigues.
"This is our first recce into the afflicted area." said Hollingsworth, hauling his combat knapsack on his back. "Just a simple excursion beyond the quarter klick perimeter."
"Why the Stinger?" asked private Lockwood.
"Because the period we're dealing with is known for having large reptiles, and as you know reptiles are a little tougher than mammals when it comes to armour. If the creatures become hostile I want a way to take 'em out fast."
"By blowing them up with a rocket?" Lockwood asked. "We've got several grenade launchers."
"Rockets have a little more penetrating force. And besides, we're hoping they don't resist. If they do, you sure bet our standard armament will be less effective."
"What about the Colonials?" Patterson asked.
"They're going on the next team. We're going out first. If they get some units down here first, great. If not, then we move out.
"Sounds like a plan." said Patterson. "Who else is coming?"
"Segeant Hammond, Corporal Kowalski, Wellesley, and Moore."
"That should do fine." said Patterson. "When do we move out?"
Hollingsworth took out his rifle and opened the bolt. "As soon as I'm done cleaning this. Pack your things."
Patterson quickly collapsed his multifaceted tent and stowed it away. Along with it he threw his mess kit and extra clips of ammo. He included a first aid kit, and an extra pistol.
After shrugging on his combat vest and making sure the pockets were all holding something, he slung his rifle over his head and clipped his utility belt, making sure his sidearm was secure.
All the other members of the team had done the same, and they reported to Hollingsworth at the edge of Base Camp.
"All right, men." Hollingsworth announced. "We're going to be doing a lot of marching, so drink lots of water and remember your training. It's bright, so use your sun goggles, but don't worry about sunscreen too much."
"You know what we're really wondering, sir." said Kowalski.
Holligsworth nodded. "The animals we'll be encountering are most likely to be reptilian in nature. That type of animal is the one prevalent in the era the anomaly links to. So don't expect your weapons to work the first time. It will take concentrated fire and coordination to bring them down, if we find any that are hostile. Do not fire unless threatened. Make no aggressive moves. I want all you people back here, savvy? No more questions? Alright, let's go!"
Hollingsworth was right about one thing: the heat. It rose off the sand in waves, and although it was dry heat (thankfully) it still got a little toasty.
Patterson sat under a sparse tree and unscrewed his canteen. "How long have we been out here now?"
"Two hours," said Kowalski. "Seen a few neat lizards, though."
"They're somewhat like what we've got on Earth," said Hollingsworth. "An extra pair of limbs does do a lot to make them interesting."
"And the eye couldn't have been good for depth perception."
Patterson laughed. "Not much to see here, though. Desert, sand, scrubs, few, if any clouds."
"Two moons, though." said Wellesley. "Reminds you that we're not in Kansas any more."
"Quite right," said Hollingsworth. "Okay, should we get moving again?"
"You're in charge, skipper," said Kowalski. "Lead the way."
Washington, D.C.
Adama walked down one of the many streets of Washington, looking at the sky. It had been a long time since he had seen a sky... New Caprica. And that sky hadn't been too pleasant.
If he didn't look too closely, he could swear he was on Caprica. People walked back and forth, cars drove maniacally down the street, some of them honking at each other when the drivers disagreed on whose turn it was to switch lanes. Even the cars were faintly reminiscent of Colonial vehicles, only more streamlined and burning hydrogen instead of gasoline or refined tylium.
Casting a sidelong glance at his secret service escort (two guys in sunglasses and suits, despite the warm weather), Adama crossed the street.
He checked his watch, and saw he had fifteen minutes left. He had asked for some time to explore the city, but hadn't wanted to keep his ship waiting to long. And he had wanted some time to think about the situation with the Russians.
He turned down a side street, starting to head in the general direction of Pennsylvania Avenue. The cars would probably be arriving now, and he didn't want to keep them waiting to long.
He browsed the windows of shops, looking at the merchandise displayed, marveling at the similarities between the products of the two planet. Some of them were genuinely useful gadgets. Some of them were mugs and what must be sports equipment. He passed a bicycle shop, recognizing the general shape.
A strange rising whine distracted him, although he snapped back to reality when one of the escorts roughly shoved him behind a stone bench.
He was protesting when one of the cars exploded in a spectacular fireball.
There were some popping noises too. Adama realized that it was gunfire. The two guards had .45s in their hands, and were scanning the area for the location. Adama saw a flash, and apparently so did the escorts. They opened fire, the roar of the pistols loud in his ear.
One of the assailants was hit, as was one of Adama's escort personnel. Adama reached for the gun and opened fire himself. The gunfire weakened and then stopped.
"They're gone." said Adama, handing the pistol to the remaining guard. The man nodded, and called in for medical and police on his radio.
Captain Wallace massaged his forehead. "Do we have any idea who might've done this?" he asked again.
"We have only one option, but you might not like it." said Gordon, one of the police sergeants under Wallace's jurisdiction. "They call themselves the NKVD, and seem to have ties to Russian interests. However the Russians have no knowledge of them, at least officially."
"Let me guess, you had to go to the Feds on this one, right? That's all I need."
Adama, sitting to the side, said, "They were after me, weren't they?"
"There's nothing else of value there, and that grenade went right over you. If your escort hadn't been on top of their game, you wouldn't be sitting here."
"So it wasn't a car bomb?"
"No, a car bomb explodes differently. This was a grenade fired from a launcher such as the type mounted on rifles. It wasn't rocket propelled, meaning it was silent except for the airflow, which is what you heard."
"I'm familiar with these weapons, we have some similar concepts." said Adama. "When I get back to my ship, I'm going to send your government a list of seven individuals and pictures of them. They are known... criminals who have escaped and could possible be on Earth. They know who I am, and possibly are responsible."
"Thank you, Admiral." said Wallace. "We have some suspected members of the organization here. These four here are responsible for founding the group. We believe them to be homegrown." He slid over a folder containing pictures.
After looking through the file, Adama could only say one thing. "This isn't homegrown. What are the names of these four?"
Wallace, looking surprised, took out a list. "Taniel Arson, Clyde Worthy, Duke Ellis, and Aaron Doral."
Adama nodded. "Not homegrown at all."
Raptor 473, SSR
Racetrack opened her eyes and groaned, pain shooting through her limbs. The sun was just rising, and the President was still asleep, or unconscious, she couldn't tell.
There was knocking and shouting outside, no doubt about it. That was probably what had woken her up.
"Hello?" she shouted. "In here!"
She peered painfully under the shattered cockpit canopy, trying to get the attention of the rescue party. She pounded her hand on the bulkhead.
"Переедьте от переборки!" shouted one of the men outside.
"What?" she shouted. "I don't speak... that. Try Caprican, or what was it... English, try English!"
There was some understanding outside, when a voice shouted "Get clear from wall!"
She jumped backwards, and heard a blowtorch starting up. They were trying to cut through the hatch.
She watched the flame pierce the metal plates and trace a molten trail through the bulkhead.
"Move away!" the voice shouted again. Racetrack jumped out of the way as the plate was kicked into the compartment. A ladder was then dropped in.
"We have wounded here!" Racetrack called up. An acknowledgment came down through the hole, and Racetrack climbed up the ladder.
The land surrounding the Raptor was bathed in a golden morning light, with mist clinging to everything. An tracked vehicle, probably an armoured personnel carrier, sat at the edge of the swamp so it wouldn't get stuck. The rescue team had set up beside it, and a few soldiers were stowing a welding torch.
"Gut Afternoon." said the man who had been shouting. "Commandant this path." He gestured towards the camp.
Fortunately for her the commandant spoke much better English than the hapless soldier did. "I am Colonel Gorbanova of the NKGB." she said. "You seem to have had a little difficulty on your landing. An investigation is underway. We will get you and your passenger medical attention as soon as possible."
"Can I have a way of informing my ship that we've landed intact?" Racetrack asked.
"Nichevo." Gorbanova said. "We'll inform them, you should get some medical attention. What is the frequency for your ship?"
Racetrack gave it to her, and she wrote it down. "We'll contact someone as soon as possible. The medics are in that tent there." She gestured towards the entrance.
After Racetrack had left, Gorbanova copied down the frequency three times, to make sure she didn't lose it, and then turned on her radio. "Base, this is Rescue Mission. No survivors to report, repeat, no survivors to report. Returning to base." She then switched frequencies. "This is Colonel Gorbanova. Have the convoy meet us, we have found some survivors. And I have the radio frequency for their ship, too."
Battlestar Valkyrie
"An attempt on your life..." said Nelson. "Sounds like you've had a busy day."
"I'm getting to old for this," said Adama. "And we've got a bigger problem than just a terrorist attack."
"We just got word from the Russian government. There initial result gives no survivors of the downed Raptor."
Adama grimaced. "Body count?"
"Didn't say. The report was unusually vague. But they were certain that the on-site commander reported no survivors."
"No, our problems are worse than that," said Adama, as he turned down the corridor containing his quarters.
"What could be worse than that?"
"One of the founders of the terrorist group is Aaron Doral, one of the Cylon models we've identified. Apparently Earth has survived because the Cylons have infiltrated it."
"How long have they been around, do you suppose?"
"Almost no time at all, I'd assume." said Adama. "They hadn't a clue where Earth was a month ago, and it took forty years before they attack us."
"In that time they were developing the model. They could've infiltrated us in a matter of weeks, for all we know."
"That may well be true," said Adama, swiping his access card through the reader to unlock his quarters. "I gave all of our intel regarding the Cylon agents to the United States. I haven't told them about the Cylons yet, though. They may try to get rid of us to protect themselves, I wouldn't put it past Warren."
"Adar would've done the same thing. It's a self defense issue." said Nelson.
"The point is, I'm hoping we caught them early enough to not have done any irreparable damage. But if they're stuck founding terrorist groups, clearly the security on Earth is much more secure, or from I've seen, paranoid. It's like they got everything but Martial Law. And from what I hear, the catalyst happened over fifty years ago. They've gotten better from what I've heard it used to be like. They complained about something called the Patriot Act, but it's nothing I'd ever want a government to do."
"We had our own problems." admitted Nelson. "The Cylon Act. That was a mistake."
"They're machines. But you're right, it did touch off a war."
"I think it's time we flew down to Moscow." said Nelson.
"Nope." said Adama. "I'm going to bed. Wake me when it's time."
Tau Ceti II
"Captain!" hissed Kowalski. "We've got a metallic contact up ahead!"
"What?" Hollingsworth exclaimed. He snatched a pair of binoculars from his vest and focused on the object ahead, making sure to stay concealed behind a rock.
"What the hell is it?" Patterson insisted.
"A ship of some sort. Looks like a troop carrier of some sort, but there aren't any soldiers."
The ship was low, with two small prongs on the front flanking a six-barelled machine-gun or cannon assembly. The rear was also two prongs, flanking the ramp which led into the belly of the machine. It wasn't American, and it wasn't Colonial either.
"Whatever it is, the soldiers guarding it are gone. Unless there are some inside..." Hollingsworth stowed the binoculars and chambered his assault rifle. "Three teams, let's go!" he hissed.
There were sounds of bolts being drawn back and then silence, as three groups of soldiers advanced on the shuttlecraft. They was silence except for the clicking of straps on metal and the crunch of boots on rock.
Two teams flanked the entrance, and quickly spun around to switch into a firing position. The teams flashed thumbs-up to each other: the ship was empty.
"Patterson!" Hollingsworth called. "Get Base Camp on the line, tell 'em what we found. Have Yeager secure the camp."
"Sir, I can't raise Base Camp." said Patterson.
Kowalski walked over, making his rifle safe and slinging over his shoulder. "Static?"
"Nope. Nothing. They're simply not there."
Hollingsworth slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Clearly whatever disembarked from this craft is there already. See if you can get any of the starships on the line, have them start landing troops."
"What about us?" asked Kowalski.
"We're going back right now!"