Grae burst into the quarantine unit on Bradshaw's heels, fearing the worst and finding something almost that bad. Dickins and Hummer were still alive and well, somewhat to his surprise, standing in front of their containment unit, staring them down. However, from the looks of things, Grae couldn't say the same for their guards. Blood stains covered their upper bodies, making it look as though they had been on the receiving end of a drive-by shooting with an automatic weapon. In addition, both prisoners were now armed and it was clear from their even more battered than usual appearance that they had recently been fighting for their lives.
"Get me the security feed on this!" Bradshaw called back to his men, waving them off to keep their distance. Two more of their fellow soldiers dead, the situation was too volatile, especially with two apparent execution attempts that he couldn't explain. But he'd bet that Mason could. "And notify the general!"
Grae stumbled to a stop, instinctively raising his hands to show he wasn't carrying. Beside him, Bradshaw did them same, cautiously holstering his weapon. "You're okay!" Grae blurted out. "Lord Thunderin' Jaysus, how'd you manage that?"
"Ryan?" Dickins said hesitantly, as if unable to believe his eyes. The 9 mm in his hand didn't waver. Beside him, Hummer's dropped innocuously to his side. The Beretta clattered to the floor.
"In the flesh," the WASA astronaut replied, aware he too looked a little worse for wear from his own fight. "Just barely."
"Thank Ama," Dickins said enigmatically, before adding to Ryan, "Your father would have kicked my ass halfway to Sunday if . . ." he broke off his sentence, swallowing convulsively as Hummer tugged at his arm insistently. The man spoke a few words in his own language. Dickins looked at him, then down at the bloodied guards before meeting Grae's eyes once again. "I shot the bastards. They tried to kill us, and I . . . I shot them."
"Emptied the magazine by the looks of it," Bradshaw murmured beside him. "All seventeen rounds."
"NO!" Hummer protested beside the old astronaut, pointing to his own chest. The man looked resigned to whatever would happen next. "Me do!"
"He doesn't even know what we're talking about," claimed Dickins. "Trust me, if it isn't orbital dynamics or transdimensional plasma physics, he's . . ."
"ME DO!" Hummer yelled again, grabbing the gun from Dickins' hand and holding it loosely in his grip. It wavered as he pointed it at the soldiers.
"Either way, it was self-defence," Grae told them, keeping his voice deliberately calm. How much had these two men already gone through? Was this the straw that would break the camel's back? "The security feed will show that."
"There is no security feed," General Roach announced from behind them, the clapping of his highly polished shoes echoing on the floor. "Against procedure, it was turned off. Sure as hell looks like another execution attempt to me, and I suddenly can't find Director Mason to top things off." He let out an exasperated breath. "As we all know . . . dead men tell no tales." He turned back to the soldiers still holding their positions at the door. "Wait for us outside. That's an order.
"General . . ." Bradshaw began as salutes were exchanged and the men filed out.
"At ease, Colonel," Roach inserted, waiting until the door had closed. He walked slowly and purposely towards the armed Hummer. "You can put that down, son. It's all over. We know you're our allies, not our enemies. The only explanation I have is that of ignorance." Dickins looked up at him, his eyes narrowing. "I know it's not much, Captain Dickins. But it's all I have. That and my abject apologies and regret. We've been a bunch of blind fools." He smiled humourlessly. "And to boot, I find myself in the awkward position of asking for your help, after our government has imprisoned you, humiliated you, and put you through a living Hell."
"Our . . . our help?" Dickins asked incredulously. "I'd just as soon punch you in the nose, mister . . ."
"I don't know if anyone explained it to you, Captain, but the reason you've been vilified is that the destruction of the ISS was linked by our government to terrorist involvement back in 2010. It was the beginning of the end of NASA, although some say the administration of the day had already crippled the program sufficiently to make an impact. Your entire Endeavour crew stood accused in absentia, but could never be tried due to the amendments upheld in our constitution."
"Yeah, someone mentioned it," Dickins said quietly while a nerve jumped in his clenched jaw. "Jackasses."
"Since the creation of WASA, repeated administrations have derided the program and anyone associated with it," Roach continued. "To get to the gist of the matter, the evidence that could prove that past politicians and officials knew all along that Cylons exist—despite the fact that we've been denying it for decades—is sitting in Groom Lake."
"Groom Lake?" Dickins asked. He let out a little breath of disbelief as he realized . . .
"Groom . .. lay-kuh?" said Hummer, making heavy weather of the English. "What be . . ."
"Area 51," Grae supplied excitedly. "He's talking about Roswell. Aren't you, General?"
Roach nodded. From his rigid posture and stony face, it was plain what this admission was costing the Chief of Staff. "I am."
"Holy crap," Grae said in surprise, "who slapped you in the face with the sudden epiphany, Roach?"
Roach scowled at him.
"What do you want from us this time?" Dickins asked, distrust etched into his features. He put a hand on Hummer's, gently pushing the barrel of the weapon down to the floor as the general drew even with them.
"I can answer that," Grae inserted, joining them. "Over thirty years ago, WASA was given access to classified information, technology and evidence that aliens had actually landed on Earth back in 1947. It accelerated our space program to where it is today."
"What?" Roach asked in surprise. A moment later, he held out an open hand for Hummer's weapon. After a nod from Dickins, the man slowly turned it over.
"Somehow, I didn't think you knew that, General. So we've known since 2025 that it was a cover up," Ryan replied. "Anyhow, the Cylon ship that crashed on the moon a couple months ago is virtually identical to the Roswell ship. If we can retrieve data from the Cylon flight recorder or possibly even one of the pilots, we could find out what actually happened back in 1947. How that ship came to be on Earth over a hundred years before the next one appeared. President Gibson would have to listen to us."
"Cylon?" asked Hummer, looking from one man to the other. "Raider Earth? Centurions?"
"Seems so, Hummer," said Dickins. "Well?" he asked of one and all.
"This is critical, Captain," Roach told Dickins. "Right now our Director of National Intelligence and Secretary of Defence have convinced the President to consider the possibility that these Cylons are actually our allies, and that this Colonial Warrior, Captain Starbucks, is some kind of insurgent from another galaxy sent to stir the pot."
"Starbuck?" Dickins head snapped up. "Starbuck's here? How the bloody hell . . .?" He chewed his lip, before whispering below his breath. "Mark? You actually found a way back. You old bugger . . ."
"Starbuck . . ." Hummer murmured hopefully, nodding.
"You know him," Roach said.
"I owe that kid my life," Dickins swore, his body suddenly tense again. "We all do."
"Starbuck great warrior!" stated Hummer.
"Well, at this point he's slated for execution in Kazakhstan as a gesture of our allegiance to the Cylon Alliance," the US Air Force Chief of Staff informed them.
"What?" scoffed Dickins.
"Yes. The intel is fresh. And solid."
"We can't let that happen, General," Dickins averred.
"And we won't," Roach promised him. "Bradshaw, I want a plane ready. Top priority. I'm taking these men to Groom Lake."
"Yes, sir."
"Flight crew, sir?"
"I'll be flying her myself, Bradshaw. With an F-22 Escort."
"Yes, sir." Bradshaw saluted and turned to go.
"One more thing, General," Dickins said.
"What's that, Captain?" said Roach, turning back to face the astronaut.
"This."
Roach didn't even see it coming. Quicker than a striking King Cobra, Dickins punched the four-star general in the face. The Chief of Staff reeled on his feet, recovering his balance as he wiped away a trickle of blood from his split lip. In an instant, Bradshaw was covering the old astronaut with his weapon again. Roach held up a hand, waving off the colonel, shaking his head as he snorted aloud. He turned back towards Dickins. The man was merely watching him, waiting for a reaction.
"Sir . . ." Bradshaw said.
"Go, Colonel," ordered Roach. The officer left to comply, although reluctantly.
"After all we've put you through," Roach said, looking at the streak of blood on his fingers and then back to Dickins, "I'll let you have that one, Captain. But I'll warn you . . . don't do it again."
Dickins nodded at the officer with a grudging respect. "Then don't give me cause to, General. Do we have an understanding?"
"I believe we do."
xxxxx
It was the second time that Lu had come across a small patrol of Cylon Raiders on her scanner as she backtracked towards the Endeavour, and the second time that her heart had sunk into her boots when her scanner hadn't identified them as being Colonial Hybrids. The increased range on the Wraith's scanners gave every indication that the increasing numbers of Cylon forces were rendezvousing, however, at least she could rest a little easier knowing that her own position exceeded the Raider's more limited scanners and that with the technologically advanced ECM on the Espridian recon ship, they probably wouldn't be able to detect her anyhow. The Earthlings certainly hadn't. Hopefully, she could make it within communications range of the Endeavour in time to get some much-needed backup. This "simple recon mission" had turned out to be anything but, and had blown itself all out of proportion . . . but wasn't that what usually happened when her and Starbuck flew together?
Meanwhile, where was the Cylon Base Ship that these fighters had launched from? Something that size tended to stand out. And had the Endeavour detected it yet, or vice versa? Was she going to end up in the middle of a battle as she sped across the star system trying to get help? Did the Endeavour with its smaller contingent of available fighters stand a chance against an unknown force of Cylon Raiders? It was a classic case of what her husband referred to as thinking too much . . .
Beep.
Her heart leapt into her throat as this time it appeared that an entire squadron of Raiders was heading this way. Full combat strength. However, they weren't on the same bearing as the others and—she checked her scanner again—her warbook was reading them as Hybrids! She whooped in joy, even knowing it would be another twenty to thirty centons before they'd be in communications range.
At least now Earth would have a chance.
xxxxx
It did not compute.
According to an internal chronometer, four point four centars had passed since their patrol had failed to capture the defenceless Earth vessel and were attacked by an unidentified fighter. These were centars that the centurion couldn't account for. One moment they were in combat, the next the Raider and other two centurions were deactivated in space, with no visual of the enemy or the rest of the patrol. Both Raiders were missing in action. It had taken ten point eight centons for an internal diagnostic to be completed, during which time the pilot and flight leader had also reinitialised their deactivated systems. Somehow the primitive humans had defeated the Cylon patrol.
It did not compute.
Five centons later all systems in the Raider were reported as nominal. There were no indications of their fellow Raiders on their scanners, nor any sign of the primitive Earth ship or the unidentified fighter. However, they did detect a signal from the surface that appeared to be a beacon. It was on a different frequency from other signals they were picking up. Centons later, telemetry indicated the other two Raiders had burnt up on uncontrolled atmospheric entry. A brief scan below them, at a distance of barely a thousand maxims, showed a planet teeming with human life.
"Set-new-course. Follow-the-aberrant-signal."
"By-your-command."
xxxxx
Ah, the Goddess of Luck, she was fickle. Point of fact, she was getting downright nasty. She had a way of tricking a guy into thinking that his fortunes had changed, only to moments later leave him standing still with the butt of a weapon pressed into his forehead, threatening to blow his brains out.
"Could we, uh . . . talk about this?" Starbuck asked, shifting the load over his shoulder as the female officer groaned, apparently regaining consciousness. Behind the threat of the weapon was a military man who comparatively made an angry Colonel Tigh look like an Aerian water nymph. Not that he'd actually ever met an Aerian water . . .
"Let us start with what you did to Colonel Katko," the officer replied, frowning deeply as another soldier stepped forward, easing the woman to the floor gently. From the way he began examining the woman, Starbuck surmised he must be a med tech of some sort.
Starbuck raised his hands, silently willing Katko to wake up. Against his will, a hacking cough burst out of him, and he instinctively wrapped an arm around his chest to splint it from a fiery fury. The Russians—with the sole exception of the officer holding his weapon—stepped two paces back. It seemed that his best defence at the moment was his virus. "I didn't do this. Borodin and Luci . . . the Cylon did."
"And where is Director Borodin?" the officer demanded, waving his weapon threateningly until Starbuck raised his hands again.
"Well . . . in the cell . . . uh, unconscious." Starbuck glanced at Baltar who actually shrugged. Apparently, undoing restraints was the extent of any supernatural abilities that this recently evolved Being of Light possessed, or at least was willing to flex. "Colonel General Surkov?" the Colonial Warrior asked anyway. Unfortunately, being discovered carrying the limp body of this officer's subordinate officer probably wasn't the best way to make his acquaintance. "I'm Captain Starbuck of the Colonial ship Endeavour."
"Senior Praporshchik Lobov . . .!" the officer snapped over his shoulder, the rest of the words unintelligible. Two men behind him headed down the corridor towards the containment cell. The officer's lips seemed to twitch in what either could be satisfaction or anger as he looked back at Starbuck . . . it was difficult to tell at this point.
"The President, Starbuck," Baltar reminded him. "Tell him his president is in danger."
"And I'm not?" Starbuck stated the obvious, reverting to his native tongue as the butt of the weapon regained its continuous pressure on his skull.
"Eh?" the Russian officer shook his head in confusion, obviously not understanding.
"Starbuck!" Baltar insisted. "This isn't about you!"
Which defied logic, somehow. After all, he couldn't do much to help Earth if he was dead. "I can't explain right now, Colonel General, but your president is in mortal danger," Starbuck warned the Russian. "There's a plot against his life."
The pressure of the gun receded ever so slightly as the man pulled back his pistol a few centimetrons. "How do you know this?" Surkov demanded.
"Intelligence," Starbuck replied, opting to not mention the guardian weevil standing to his right just now. "The same way we knew the Cylons were on their way to destroy Earth. It's the reason I'm here, for Sagan's sake! To save you all! To help!"
Surkov looked at him suspiciously, clearly weighing the incriminating circumstances against the critical information. He would either believe Starbuck . . . or pull the trigger. The heavy sound of footfalls drew their attention while on the floor behind them the med tech was helping Colonel Katko sit up. The two soldiers checking out Borodin had returned. More unintelligible words and information were exchanged between soldiers and commanding officer, before Surkov looked Starbuck up and down, snorting aloud.
"How does a restrained, beaten and obviously sick man overcome the Director of the GRU?" Surkov asked, his eyes narrowing.
"Hold your tongue, Starbuck," Baltar warned him, the sound somehow reverberating around the warrior's head. "Now is not the time for one of your patented braggart answers."
"Let's just say, it was one of the high points of my day," Starbuck replied, as Baltar made to smack him in the back of the head. The weevil's hand passed right through him. "Borodin's obviously not a warrior, Colonel General."
Surkov nodded, grunting softly. "A cloak and dagger knight."
"It matters not, Colonel General," Colonel Katko stressed, struggling to regain her feet. She looked pale, but determined as she brushed off any offer of assistance.
"Are you okay, Colonel?" Starbuck asked her.
"Yes." She nodded briefly, a bemused smile fleetingly resting on her lips as she gazed at the Colonial searchingly. "Despite being tasered by the Main Directorate of Intelligence." She drew herself erect beside Surkov. "The GRU are working against us, Colonel General. Not with us. Borodin spoke of executing Captain Starbuck, yet everything I learned from him leads me to believe that he is our ally."
Surkov studied her for a long moment, then looked to Starbuck and back to Katko. At last, he nodded, lowering his weapon and holstering it. He gestured to his men to stand down and look squarely at the warrior. "I am Colonel General Surkov, Russian Air Force Commander-in-Chief. Come with me, Captain, and tell me all you know."
"Well, that shouldn't take long," Baltar drawled.