Chapter 3.
Battlestar Pacifica – Day of the Cylon Attack on the Colonies.
The buzzer sounded, putting an end to a wonderful dream. Mack sat up in his bunk trying to grab wisps of the dream that was slipping from his memory like water through his fingers. He was back on Gemenon, and he and Katie were riding through the countryside on two magnificent horses. He missed her greatly; it had been eight months since he kissed her goodbye to start his yearlong patrol at the farthest edge of the Colonies. The dream felt so real, and he was saddened as even the faintest memories of it was now gone.
He ran a straight edge razor over his face, taking care not to nick himself. Donning his duty uniform, he adjusted his collar insignia and stepped out of his quarters. Culverhouse took a short walk to the officer's mess hall to fill his mug with hot coffee, and perhaps some breakfast before he reported to the CIC to relieve Morlock. He came in right behind his CAG; Major Tamara Hawks; call sign Widow Maker.
"Good morning major!" greeted Culverhouse. The woman before him was just as tall as the Admiral; she was not an overly attractive woman, but far from ugly. Long jet-black hair with green eyes, and prominent cheekbones. Hawks graduated number one in her class at flight school and was every bit the professional. She was a very demanding officer, but fair. Her pilots liked her, but all knew that none would escape her wrath should a cluster frak-up occur. Mistakes were usually a one-time occurrence under Widow Maker. Culverhouse liked her very much and respected how she ran her air wing.
"Good morning sir!" replied Hawks crisply. Her uniform was immaculate, always cleaned, and always pressed, her long black hair tied tight into a ponytail. Her tray contained black coffee, juice and what passed for fresh fruit aboard a Battlestar. She was very physically fit and did not drink or smoke. She viewed her body and mind as a temple and treated them accordingly.
"What does Pacifica's CAG have on her agenda this morning?" asked Culverhouse as he poured himself a large mug of coffee. He took an extra-large portion of Bacon, which elicited a raised eyebrow from Hawks.
"Gamma and Omega squadrons have an exercise scheduled for 1030 hours," she began, "Beta squadron has the day off, and Alpha is the assigned alert viper squadron for today." Hawks drilled her pilots continuously; she demanded 100 % from every one of her pilots. While a stern CAG, she also believed in rewarding the men and women under her command when they performed well. Beta squadron scored highest on a combat drill against viper squadrons from the Battlestar Atlantia a week earlier, she was very pleased and decided to give the pilots of Beta a full day off.
"Excellent major, I expect our squadrons to take first place in the combat challenge on Caprica next month. It's about time someone knocked those self-absorbed Caprican pretty boys off their damned perch, am I right?" Hawks was Tauron by birth, and like most non-Capricans, had a slight dislike for Capricans, many who felt like they were the superior colony due to being the cultural and governmental hub of the twelve colonies of Kobol.
"I think we can produce a good old fashioned Caprican ass kicking, sir." Said Hawks quietly. Culverhouse smiled and grunted, he took his breakfast to go and headed for the CIC.
The Marine guard outside the CIC came to attention as the Admiral approached. Culverhouse nodded to him and entered. The helmsman was first to spot him. "Admiral on deck!" he shouted.
"As you were people!" instructed Culverhouse walking up to the main plotting table. Colonel Morlock was there sipping his mug of fresh Cancerian roast coffee provided by an ensign. Morlock slid a clipboard containing the night shift log across the table to Mack.
"Good morning Admiral!"
"Good morning Colonel…what is the status on the network?"
"Still down sir, but progress is being made, we're a full day out of Scorpion Fleet ship yard. The analysts feel confident that they can replace the components that are affecting the targeting computers once we reach the shipyard, they estimate a total of sixteen twenty-four hours offline."
"Colonel you tell those pencil-pushing twerps that I want that estimate cut in half, if they can't make it happen perhaps their services could be better appreciated aboard that antiquated wreck of a Battlestar that is soon going to be serving as a fraking school for God's sake." Said Culverhouse.
1030 hours: Attack exercise for Gamma and Omega squadrons; Battlestar Pacifica
"Omega 1 – Omega Leader, my dradis has you and Omega 6 positioned at 066 carom 214…30 minutes out."
"Omega Leader – Omega 1 that would be correct, we're holding position ready to ambush Gamma team."
"Roger that Omega 1, don't venture off too far from those coordinates unless you're planning to visit Scorpion shipyards." Omega squadron was tasked with attacking Gamma squadron, which was playing the part of patrol. The plan was for Omega 1 and 6 to attack the squadron and retreat, causing the patrol to pursue them straight into a trap set by the remainder of Omega squadron.
The dradis chirped contacts. "Omega 1 – Omega 6 I'm picking up contacts in sector two, these fraking guys are coming in from the entirely wrong vector."
"Normally I would just say 'frak it' and improvise, but these guys are now between us and the spot we're supposed to be ambushing them. Oh well…let's go get em!" replied Omega's squadron leader. The two Mk. VII vipers peeled off and took an intercept course on full speed towards their targets.
"Omega 1 I'm not picking up Colonial transponders." Said Omega 6 somewhat confused. Omega 1 peered at his console, the absence of Colonial transponders was not the only abnormality; there was sixteen contacts, not ten. Omega 6 was drifting further ahead, roughly 1 minute ahead of Omega 1. The pilot ran identification on the contacts they were now paralleling. War book was unable to identify the contacts from its extensive database of Colonial and Cylon spacecraft.
"War book coming up empty, skipper. I'm going to try and get some mark one eyeballs on the situation." Informed Omega 6 as he increased speed to close the distance. The closer he got, the more he felt uneasy. Something was very wrong.
Omega 1 had increased his speed to catch up with his impatient wing-mate. He was now 30 seconds away when Omega 6 called out. "Omega 1 I've got a visual…looks like a giant flying wing, 7 to 8 meters I'd have to guess from this distance."
"Flying wing?" repeated Omega 1, "Cylons?" Those pilots old enough to remember fighting them often described Cylon raiders as a flying wing. "Omega 6 – Omega 1 pull back immediately." Too late, one of the trailing raiders had spotted the Colonial Viper and gave chase.
"Omega 1 – Omega 6, I've been spotted and am being pursued." Two of the flying wings opened fire on the fleeing viper. "Oh frak, they're firing on me…request permission to go weapons free."
"Omega 6 you are cleared to return fire, I'm almost at your location." Omega 6 flipped end over end and armed his weapons. The attacking craft was almost upon him, as he was ready to return fire he noticed a portal sliding open on the incoming craft. A red light flashed side to side.
"What the frak? These things are Cylons skipper they're emitting some sort of red…" the receiver on Omega 1's comline went dead. Omega 6 was still on his dradis but had slowed considerably and was being overtaken by the Cylon craft. He was now in visual range when he saw the Cylons open fire on Omega 6. The explosion was blinding. Omega 1 reacted immediately by flipping end over end and kicking in his battle thrusters.
"Neptune – Omega 1 with an emergency transmission." Called out the pilot over a secure frequency. Neptune was the code name for the Pacifica.
Battlestar Pacifica – zero hour.
"Colonel Morlock, we're receiving an emergency transmission from Omega 1." Reported the communications officer.
"Put it on the loud speaker, lieutenant." Ordered Morlock.
"…Neptune – Omega 1…der attack! Cylon …ghters." The transmission was full of static, but the words attack and Cylons were unmistakable.
"Lieutenant, can you clean that up? Have Omega 1 repeat his last!" The loud speaker continued to crackle.
"…reported that a red light…than apparent…ower failure….ticed Omega 6 overtaken…destroyed!" All eyes had now turned towards Morlock who instructed a nearby officer to get Culverhouse up to the CIC.
"Launch the alert vipers immediately, contact Gamma squadron and alert them to the situation." Ordered the executive officer.
Omega 1 was now under full battle thrusters streaking across the stars, attempting to put as much distance between him and the Cylons as possible. He was already picking up Gamma squadron at the outer limits of his dradis and closing the gap. Unfortunately, the Cylons were gaining.
The lead raider opened its "eye," the red glow flashed side to side and systems started to shut down on the fleeing viper. Omega 1 was further ahead than Omega 6 when the Cylons disabled his viper. His engines and weapons systems shut down, and environmental controls and communications were on the fritz. His viper started to spin out of control. "His fingers raced across the keypad on his left side, out of the corner of his eye he saw the raiders, then the barrage of missiles heading his way. He hit the 'send' key and closed his eyes. Cylon missiles cut short his training exercise…and his life.
Culverhouse was now storming into the CIC. "Sit rep!" he barked as he made his way to the plotting table.
"The two Omega vipers tasked with ambushing Gamma squadron have fallen under attack themselves, allegedly by Cylon fighters. Omega 6 is reported destroyed by Omega 1, but we cannot confirm at this time."
"Admiral…flash transmission from Picon fleet headquarters…broadcast in the clear."
"In the clear?" repeated Culverhouse dumbfounded. Military transmissions were never broadcast in the clear; all transmissions were scrambled and on secure frequencies. "Read it!"
"Cylon attack under way…this is not a drill!" The news shocked everyone senseless; the Cylons had disappeared close to forty years earlier. "Sir, we're now getting multiple distress signals from Scorpion Fleet shipyards, I'm getting reports of nuclear detonations, power failures, and large numbers of Cylon attack craft."
"Tactical, set condition one throughout the ship. Helm, flank speed for Scorpion shipyards." Ordered Culverhouse, now assuming command of Pacifica. The Atlantia class Battlestar sprung to life as her main engines increased their output.
"Sir, incoming text message from Omega 1."
"Read it." Barked Culverhouse.
"Cylon fighters attacking….they emit optical scan that disrupts/disables systems…Omega 6 KIA …do not engage with vipers…my systems now down…Beware-"
"Is that it?"
"Affirmative sir, all transmissions with Omega 1 has now ended."
Morlock leaned in close to Culverhouse and spoke. "If Omega 1's report is accurate than Gamma squadron is walking right to their deaths. Somehow the Cylons are shutting down their systems remotely." Warned Culverhouse's ever-faithful XO.
"Communications…instruct Gamma squadron to break off and return to the ship immediately. Do not engage incoming Cylon forces!" It was too late; Gamma squadron was now within striking distance of the Cylon raiders. Like Omega 1 and 6 before them, their systems shorted out. It would not be known until much later the cause. Ten Mk. VII vipers careened out of control, the cream of Colonial strike fighters now dead hulks of metal, their pilots trapped within. Cylon raiders picked them off mercilessly.
One by one, the transponder identifiers that represented Gamma squadron disappeared from the dradis screen aboard Pacifica. Mack Culverhouse gritted his teeth and slammed his fist down hard on the plotting table. He turned to Morlock. "I want those damned birds aboard immediately, everyone Colonel." Pacifica recalled her alert vipers and the remainder of Omega squadron that were waiting at the ambush spot for their two comrades to lure the unsuspecting Gammas into the mock trap. Long-range batteries lit up the skies behind the retreating vipers to slow down their Cylon pursuers while the vipers made combat landings.
Scorpion Fleet Shipyards.
Nuclear detonations erupted throughout the shipyard, explosions rippled across the orbiting Colonial repair station as Cylon raiders and heavy raiders rained death and destruction down on the unsuspecting Colonial military. At least four Battlestars are docked during the attack, only one escaped in a daring, blind jump.
Battlestar Pacifica – One hour into the Cylon surprise attack.
"Admiral, long range scans indicate multiple nuclear detonations above Scorpia, all communications with the shipyards have failed." Reported Morlock.
The tactical officer spun in his chair. "Admiral, at least nine raiders have broken through the outer perimeter."
"We can't let them use those disabling systems, Admiral." Warned Morlock. "It is unknown if they can affect a Battlestar, or just smaller attack craft."
"Weapons, full defensive barrage, I want the flak so thick that a daggit couldn't squeeze their way in. Helm, bring us about on course 1-1-0, flank speed and spin up the FTL's."
"Admiral, the systems failure in the ship's network…a jump could be calamitous." warned Morlock.
"So, can one of those slit-eyed Cylons if they get in close enough to disable Pacifica's defenses. I'll take my chances." Replied Culverhouse. Retreating from battle was something that no military officer relished, but Mack Culverhouse needed some breathing room to reevaluate the situation in hand. Scorpion Fleet shipyards was now a nuclear wasteland, and long-range scanners were now picking up the unmistakable presence of the Cylon capital ships known as Basestars.
"Dradis contact off the port side…huge warship, and its launching fighters, at least 200 and counting." A vertical pylon connected the two Y-shaped hulls, a massive array of ship-to-ship missiles were now inbound. "Incoming ordinance!"
"Helm…jump us out of here now!"
"Admiral we're still configuring jump coordinates…"
"JUMP THIS SHIP RIGHT FRAKING NOW!" boomed Culverhouse. Pacifica disappeared in a blinding flash.
Battlestar Galactica – present day.
"All squadrons have launched and are on an intercept course for Cylon raiders." Reported Tigh.
"Fleet status?" inquired Adama. Tigh glanced at Digit who was keeping track of the civilian ships that were jumping away.
"Ten ships left, Admiral. Reported Digit. "Cylon Basestar now within our outermost security envelope sir and closing fast; our fighters should be in contact any moment."
Raptor 1 had now fully deployed its offensive array of weapons and was doing its best to keep up with Wizard and Roadkill. Alert vipers were four minutes out, and the remaining squadrons six minutes out. The three of them were going to have their hands full.
"Holy frak, I've got at least 50 raiders inbound." Said Roadkill over the comline.
"Where are the rest of them? A Basestar's raider compliment is much more than that." Said Nina.
"Wait…something's wrong here. Incoming attack craft is broadcasting Colonial transponders." Shouted racetrack.
"Roadkill – Betty, weapons hold…we're picking up Colonial transponders." Roadkill switched settings on his dradis and verified Racetrack's discovery." Raptor 1's dradis was correct; the incoming Cylon raiders were in fact broadcasting Colonial transponders.
"Are you fraking kidding me, this is like Pegasus part two." Joked Wizard referring to a similar encounter with the Battlestar Pegasus over a year earlier, long thought lost to Cylon treachery.
"Pipe down Wizard, I'm breaking radio silence, switching to Colonial frequency one." Lt. Dave Wright switched on one of several scrambled frequencies formerly used between Colonial military warships when the Colonial military existed.
"Attention incoming spacecraft, this is Colonial viper 2471 of the Battlestar Galactica…you are ordered to identify yourself immediately or you will be fired upon." It was not long before the hostile challenge was responded to.
"Attention Colonial vipers, this is Major Tamara Hawks of the Battlestar Pacifica, you are instructed to stand down until we can verify your identification." Ordered Pacifica's CAG.
"Widow Maker, Pacifica…you have inbound to your location, at least forty. We are identifying them as Colonial attack craft, can you verify?"
"Widow Maker to Pacifica, inform Actual that we have been issued hostile challenge by vipers claiming to be from Galactica…over."
Aboard Pacifica, Culverhouse and Morlock exchanged surprised glances. "Galactica? Billy Adama?" said Culverhouse. "Communications, instruct Widow Maker to go to weapons hold until we figure this out."
"Admiral, we're picking up a Colonial Battlestar on dradis, I've identified it as the Galactica." Reported Tactical.
"Verify that identification, Lieutenant!" ordered Morlock now at her side. The tactical officer ran two additional checks and looked up at her XO. The contact was positively identified as the Battlestar Galactica.
Lee Adama was listening to the back and forth between Roadkill and Widow Maker; he recognized the name of Pacifica's CAG, but had never met her. She was regular Colonial military prior to the Cylon attack, where he was in the Reserves.
"Roadkill – Apollo…I'm assuming command, standby until we sort this out." Lee's mind was swimming, he had been in Roadkill's exact place when Pegasus had returned from the dead and he was closing in on what he thought was a Cylon Basestar. "Widow Maker this is Apollo, Galactica's CAG. I've been ordered by Galactica Actual to stand down and hold position until he arrives."
"Apollo – Widow Maker…message received, I have received similar instructions and have ordered my strike team to stand down as well."
Two Battlestars faced each other for the first time, in their prime they each were assigned to separate Battlestar groups, one ship a battle-scarred boxy hulk well past its prime, the other more streamlined and modern.
Bill Adama lifted the handset when Dee informed him that Pacifica Actual was on the line. "Mack?" his voice was low; he stared deeply at the attached cord.
"Billy Adama you old war daggit, how the hell did you and that antiquated rust bucket survive the Cylon attack? Are there others?"
"Mack, I'd like you to join me aboard Galactica as my guest. We can catch up on everything that has happened then. I've already informed the President of the situation, and she will be joining us once we've jumped to the fleet's secure location."
"President, fleet? President Adar survived the attack, how many warships do you have under you command, Bill?"
"Laura Roslin is president, Mack…and the fleet is civilian craft housing what is left of humanity. Let's leave this until we can meet in person."
"You'll understand if I arrive with two Raptors of armed marines under viper escort, Commander?" said Culverhouse.
"Of course, and I believe the correct honorific would be 'Admiral." Replied Adama with a smile he knew could not be seen but would be understood by his old friend.
"Admiral Adama?" laughed Culverhouse. "Alright Admiral, I will be aboard at 1400 hours, I will expect a fine wine and long explanation on what the hell you've been doing for the last few years."
"It's a long story, Mack. See you at 1400 hours aboard Galactica."