Bastille Day

A/N: I have purposely skipped 33 and Water because I could not stretch the plot to include the Marines at all. Ah, Bastille Day. This was actually one of my favorites from the first season, despite its tempts of action and failure to deliver. Little bit of modification here. Ahem. This is set, I think, seven days after the miniseries, and the day after Sharon Valerii detonated the explosives in Galactica. The Marines are looking for clues to the bomber, with no success, and Capt. Adama has just left with his party to convince the prisoners to assist in refining the ice found at the end of Water.

Corporal Joe Pike combed the arms locker for Deck 12 for the 47th time, searching for some clue as to who had detonated the six G-4 charges in the water tank two days ago. After hours of dusting, printing, and laser-sweeping the tiny storage room. Three lockers to the right, PFC Cameron Sykes was engaged in the same process. To the left, PFC John Macintyre and L/Cpl. Mark Henick. They were filling in for Dubois and Franco, who had both been wounded in some manner.

The blasts had sent shockwaves through the ship, both literally and metaphorically. People were accusing each other of planting the bombs, the fleet was now facing a water shortage, and the task of finding the culprit fell to the Colonial Marines, whose crime-scene investigatory techniques were somewhat nonexistent.

Nothing. Again. No hairs, no finger prints, no leads. SSgt. Hadrian would probably have them do it again anyway; she took her job very seriously. As the Galacica's Master-At-Arms, Hadrian was in charge of internal security. She probably took the loss of the water tanks as personal.

"You got anything?" he asked.

"Nope," Sykes answered. "Not a frakking thing."

"What about you?"

Macintyre grunted. That was most likely a no. Henick pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. "Nothin. Nothin at all. I tell you we're never going to find anything."

"You can all quiet your griping," a voice from behind said. "You'll have plenty of time to do this later. Let's go."

Staff Sergeant Hadrian entered the small arms storeroom. Instead of the beige duty fatigues of a Master-at-Arms, however, Hadrian was wearing standard-issue black ones and a SPIDER III assault vest. She had a quiet presence about her that made the Marines, with the exception of Macintyre who really wanted to get back in a fight, want to search the lockers 40 more times.

Despite the Staff Sergeant's aura, the four men were outranked by her. Pike buttoned up his open jacket and rolled down the sleeves. They would need to head to an armory if this was going where he thought it was. Calling this a small-arms locker was a bit of a misnomer; G-4 plastique, M-1162 ETAP rounds, and other explosives were stored here. The rifles, pistols, machine-pistols, and carbines that normally were stored here had been placed rather randomly in other lockers, the Marine's briefing room, and in the armory located well inside knuckle dragger territory.

"There's been a situation on the Astral Queen," Hadrian explained on the way.

"The prison barge?" Pike asked.

"Yes. The prisoners are holding several VIPs hostage, demanding that President Rosalin step down from the Presidency. They're being lead by Zarek."

Sykes almost stopped in his tracks. He, like Tom Zarek was a Sagittaron. Pike watched him closely. The man was on his fire team, and a good Marine, but sometimes people put their beliefs ahead of all else.

"That a problem, PFC?"

"No, Cpl. Pike. It's fine. I haven't seen Mr. Zarek in a while, that's all," Sykes said. A little oddly, perhaps, but he looked normal again.

"Good."

The small group went from Deck 12 to 9, where, amongst other things, the ready room was, and where sixteen other Marines sat or stood, watching as Gunnery Sergeant Burrell was mapping out the Queen on a whiteboard. Sgt. Omar Fischer, Pike's squad leader, nodded at the newcomers.

"Marines," Burrell said. "No time for a welcome. I'm sure SSgt. Hadrian has filled you in to the...situation, if not providing the specifics. The Queen is a short-term prison hauler, with a crew of 21, and currently has 1500 prisoner's in her cells."

"Fifteen minutes ago, Zarek and a few other rabble-rousers staged a riot, and captured Capt. Adama, along with two Galactica crew members and a presidential aide. We suspect that they are armed with only three pistols, but desperate men are innovative men. Expect improv weapons."

"Now, I had devised and drawn out a plan of attack, but since Lt. Ming was killed, there are no officers to lead you boys into battle." Burrell said that somewhat sarcastically. He fully trusted his Marines to use their own wits, instead of being micro-managed by a pilot without any boarding or ground combat experience. "So Col. Tigh has attached Lt. Thrace to this mission. You will follow her orders TO THE LETTER. Lieutenant."

Burrell bowed out of the way, letting Lt. Kara "Starbuck" Thrace take the central area to address the Marines.

"Alright boys. We know that the hostages are going to be executed if we try to do a snatch and grab. Specialist Cally Henderson, Lt. Anastasia Dualla, and a civilian, Billy Keikeya, are being held in separate cells from each other. I'm fairly certain that Capt. Adama and Zarek are together."

"These are cons, not troops. If we kill their leader, it might set them off on a killing frenzy, and we need both them and our people alive to get that water. However, if we kill their leader and breach at the same time, it would probably stun them into submission."

"Squads 1 and 2, you will be the assault force, Wolf. Stand by to breach in here," Burrell said, indicating to a floor-level bulkhead. "And here, behind them. Shultz, Porthos. You will be with the sniper team, Handler, that's fire team two from 3rd Squad."

L/Cpl. John Collishaw raised his hand. "Sir, who's going to be the marksman?"

"I will," Thrace said stepping forward. "I'm the best shot, in or out of the cockpit."

Pike was certain that his jaw hit the floor at that moment. The Marine Corps had always prided itself on its marksmanship and accurate rifle fire. To hear from a pilot, one who had probably never fired anything bigger than her issue sidearm, that she was the best shot on the ship was the closest thing to blasphemy that the corporal could think of.

It was Profile who said what everyone else was thinking. "Sir, I don't think that's right."

"What?"

"I'm pretty sure that Sgt. Fisher is the best shot out of the cockpit, el-tee. He always wins the annual shooting competitions."

"Shooting a target on the range is different than picking off a hostile target before he can shoot you or his hostage."

"All due respect, sir, but shooting a Viper's guns and firing a precision rifle are different matters entirely," Profile pointed out. Thrace was starting to look angry, but then grinned at him.

"I like your style, Marine. Straightforward and honest. You'll just have to trust me."

Profile glared at Starbuck (or perhaps he didn't. Those damn sunglasses.), but seemed slightly more contented. Pike on the other hand, still felt that putting their only sniper rifle in her hands was a huge mistake.

Thrace left the room, leaving only the twenty-man boarding party and their gunnery sergeant. SSgt. Hadrian had left at some point during the briefing. Burrell waiting until the bulkhead sealed shut, then crossed his arms.

"Listen up, and listen close. These aren't a bunch of college kids being held hostage by an over-stressed professor. These are Colonial Fleet crewmen, at gunpoint by a large group of hard-cons, some of whom are in there for murder. But we do need them. That ice ain't gonna mine itself, so keep the killcount to a minimum. I don't want any frak ups. Clear?"

"Ooh-rah!" the Marines replied.

"Good. Lock and load. And good luck."

Cpl. Pike stood, literally shoulder to shoulder with his squad inside the Raptor's tiny bay. The Raptor's pilot, Lt. Emmitt "Sweetness" Jones, Emma to her friends, finished her pre-flight checks and asked if the Marines wanted to listen to anything during the flight.

"I've got a great selection of tunes. 'Caprican Woman', 'Light my Fire', '20 Minutes to Live'. Anything?"

"'Kill Pill'!. Get's us psyched up," Lance Corporal Ryan Collins called. Collins was relatively green, only 19 years old. He'd been promoted to lance shortly before the attack.

Sweetness grinned and nodded. The heart pounding, thumping beat of Kill Pill pulsed from the speaker. Collins rocked with the music, banging his head, and bumping into everyone around him.

"Ow! Knock it off, dammit! Collins!" Pike growled after his and Collins' helmet connected. They had been waiting in the Raptor for twenty minutes to launch, and Collins' clumsy dance was not improving his mood.

"Copy, flight control," Sweetness said. Hopefully into her mike. "Green to launch. Raptor 6 is away, over. Raptors 1 and 275, you are clear."

Pike reached up and grabbed a handhold as the Raptor whooshed out of the flight pod. They were built with functionality in mind, not comfort, so launches always jarred you a bit. Sweetness guided the multi-purpose ship through the fleet and through space, slowing down when a ship shaped rather like a large, misshapen frying pan filled the canopy. The Raptor rotated until it's belly was lined up with the Queen.

Sweetness extended the docking skirt, locking it onto the Queen's hull. A few minutes later, she used the skirt's plasma torches to cut through the hull, and gave the Marines a thumbs up. Sgt. Fisher hit the belly hatch release and dropped into the Queen, followed closely by Pike and L/Cpls. Wenzler and Collins.

Pike swept the corridor in front of him with his C-3. The first thing that struck him, besides the lack of contact, was how dimly lit the ship was. What light there was, was harsh and gave off a very institutional feel.

"Clear," he whispered. Wenzler and Collins echoed him. The rest of the boarders jumped down, and Fischer tapped Pike on the shoulder. He radioed the other teams on a secure radio channel.

"Wolf 2 Actual, this is Wolf 1-2. Wolf 1 is in." Pike didn't think anyone was listening, but it never hurt to be careful. "Sitrep, over?"

"Wolf 1-2, Wolf 2 Actual. Wolf 2 in position. Two hostiles, incapacitated and restrained," SSgt. Mathias said.

"Copy, Wolf 2 Actual. Wolf 1-2 to Handler. The dogs are in the kennel, over."

"Copy that, Wolf 1-2," Starbuck responded. "Handler moving into position, over."

"Copy. Over and out."

"Let's move it, Marines," Fischer ordered. "Don't want to get beat to the punch. Wenzler, you're on point."

The blonde haired poster-boy Wenzler nodded. He crept down the corridor, his rubber boots making next to no noise on the metal deck. Wenzler leaned slightly around each corner, scanning for potential threats.

Wolf 1 was fortunate, almost making it to the entry point without seeing any prisoners. Pike was just beginning to thank the Lords of Kobol when Collins, who was the rearguard, made a low, but still audible fffft! noise.

"Hostiles!" Collins whispered sharply. The squad pressed up against the wall, bayonets sliding out of their sheaths. Collins held up two fingers, indicating two prisoners, then tapped his arm once. No firearms, then.

Sykes, who was closed to Collins, slid next to him, and waited for the tell-tale red jump suits of Colonial inmates. As soon as they saw the red swinging sleeves of the prisoners, Sykes and Collins sprang, covering the prisoners' mouths and pressing their bayonets against their throats. Pike ripped two pieces of tape from a roll in his gear and put one over each of the prisoners mouths while Varrick secured their hands with a zip strip, a plastic set of disposable handcuffs with notches for easy locking and almost impossible opening.

"All clear, Sarge," Wenzler said. Fischer left PFC Alex to guard the prisoners, and ordered his squad to move out. Wolf 1 proceeded the rest of the way to the bulkhead that they would breach though, stacking up against it and waiting for the orders that would never come.

Lt. Emma "Sweetness" Jones sat, bored to tears in the seat of her Raptor. She had dropped a squad of Marines to free Capt. Adama and other hostages from Tom Zarek. So far, the most exiting part of this mission had been weaving through the other ships in the fleet. Sweetness tried to remind herself that hostage situations weren't supposed to be fun, but still, she wished there was something to do besides sit and listen to radio chatter.

"Wolf 1 is in position, Handler. Awaiting your go, over."

"Sure likes like a lot of em down there, Wolf 2 Actual."

"Check out that chick, Twinam! She's even more butch than you are! Glory be, I didn't think it was possible."

"Can it, Profile, you needle-dicked asshole."

"Handler confirms, Wolf 1 Actual. Ready to take the shot."

Sweetness wished that her ECO, Crashdown, wasn't such a dull prick. It would have been better to bring a Cylon then him. At least they talked.

"This is Wolf 2-4. Got a 74-niner developing. Specialist Henderson is down, repeat Henderson is down."

A 749? That was Colonial code for a friendly being shot. This just got serious.

"Shit! Handler, we need to move in before the situation escalates."

"Wolf 2 Actual, Wolf 2-2. Captain Adama has just disarmed and shot prisoner. He's got Zarek by the balls, if I may say."

"Come on Lee, take out that son of a bitch." Sweetness actually recognized that voice, the only one that wasn't a Marine. Starbuck. "Gods frak it, he's not going to. Starbuck to all Wolves. Stand by to enter on my mark. 4-3-2..."

There was a muffled shot on the comm channel, followed by a colorful outburst from Starbuck.

"Dammit Lee! What are you doing!?!"

Wenzler planted a small G-4 charge on the hatch, while Collins stood by with two flashbang grenades. When the door blew off it's heavy hinges, Collins would toss in the flashbangs, as would someone from Wolf 2. The Marines would then enter and disarm or kill as many prisoners as necessary before they surrendered. It was called a "Shock n' Rock", textbook room clearing maneuver.

"Ready to go, Sgt. Fischer," Pike said. He readied himself to run into the room in a blaze of 10mm gunfire.

Three levels above them, Starbuck fired a single shot at Zarek.

"Dammit Lee! What are you doing!?!"

"Frak!" Fischer said angrily. "She frakking missed! Wenzler, blow that frakking door, now! Wolf 1 Actual to Wolf 2, go go go!"

The charge exploded the hatch inward, and 1st Squad poured through it. Pike snapped up his C-3. "Don't move! Nobody move! Colonial Marines!" One prisoner swung a shoe (Of all the bloody things! Pike thought) and was rewarded with a love tap from Pike's carbine. The woman clutched her nose, which was bleeding profusely.

Capt. Adama held up a hand; the other was holding a pistol on Zarek, the 5.7x28mm M-6. "Marines! Don't shoot. The situation is under control. Do you still have a death wish, Zarek? Ready to leave this world?"

Zarek looked defiantly at Apollo. "Yes."

"Too bad. Cause this is what you're gonna do. You're gonna tell your men to help us get that water off the moon. They're gonna work for their points. And they're gonna earn their freedom. And then, then you're gonna get your elections. You were right abou democracy and consent of the people. I believe in those things. And We're going to have em. And you can have em too. Or you can have this bullet. Your call."

Pike had no idea what Adama was talking about, and could only conclude that the Captain had gone quite mad. Still, he did outrank all of them, and Pike lowered his carbine when Adama told him to.

"Control of the ship will be given to the prisoners," Apollo explained loudly enough for all the Marines to hear him. "We're going back to Galactica. All of us."

"Are you effing kidding me?" Profile shouted from his balcony. "After all this planning, that cramped flight over here, and the beautiful execution of said plan, we're just going leave? Just like that? With bloody convicts in command of their own ship? Are you FRAKKING kidding me?!?" SSgt. Mathias said something to him, and he calmed down, but not before kicking a prisoner in the shin, hard.

Sykes and Collins picked up the wounded Spc. Henderson, after checking to make sure that the wound wasn't serious. Pike felt a pang of grief for his sister, Sam. Henderson reminded him of her a lot, with her round face and long hair. Satisfied that she wouldn't die on the ride back to the ship, Sykes and Collins hauled her to Raptor 1. They were followed by Captain Adama and 1st Squad.

The flight back to the last battlestar was less than enjoyable. Pike felt a growing feeling of distrust in Adama, one that was sure to be in the other men as well. He had once respected the man as a good pilot and a good leader, but now he couldn't help but feeling like Adama was a pushover. Maybe he'd done it to stop a bloodbath. But didn't he think that the Marines were able to understand the Fleet's desperate need for water? Nah. Everyone assumed that all jarheads were idiots.

As Pike stepped out off the Raptor's troop bay, he figured he could always visit Franco in Sickbay. He'd complain and milk his wound for all it was worth, but Franco usually cracked jokes at the right time. Pike barely felt the tap on his shoulder. It was the pilot, Sweetness.

"Hey, Marine," she said, cutting a grin. "I'm off rotation in a couple of hours. Care to by me a drink?"

Franco forgotten, Pike couldn't help but grin back. "As a matter of fact, I'm probably going to get some R and R soon. Meet you here?"

"Two hours?"

"Sounds good."

For Cpl. Joe Pike, things were starting to look up.

A/N: Kudos to Wes for reviewing, So say we all. Anyway, later chapters should actually deliver in terms of action...we all know that first season was mostly space combat and Cylon conspiracies.