Chapter Eighteen
"Range to Ravager?" Dayton demanded.
"Two hundred and twenty-nine kilometrons, Commander," Sagaris replied, "and closing."
"Get me a firing solution, Sagaris. Now."
"Yes, sir."
"Weaponry one hundred percent, Commander," Dorado reported. "All systems are back on line."
"Ready all forward lasers," Dayton ordered. "Load all torpedo tubes."
"Aye, sir."
"Colonel Apollo reports Triton and Phoenix squadrons ready to launch, sir."
Dayton turned. "Didn't I say . . .?"
"Kick the tires and light the fires. Yes, sir." The cadet spoke into her headset. "Triton Squadron, launch when ready. Phoenix Squadron, launch when ready."
"Commander, do you want them to engage the Ravager or pursue the Raiders attacking Earth?" Dorado asked.
"The Raiders. The Ravager is ours."
"But those cadets aboard the Ravager, Commander . . ."
"Probably dead, Dorado."
"But if they're not . . ."
"Ensign Luana requesting permission to join Phoenix Squadron, Commander," Pierus reported.
"Tell her . . ."
"Commander!" Dorado interrupted.
Dayton paused, looking at the other. "Captain?"
"I have an idea, sir"
xxxxx
"Target-acquired," the centurion reported.
"Excellent. Fire as we come dead centre, Centurion."
"By-your-command."
They had changed position, targeting another location where ancient pyramids dotted the landscape. If correlating scans were correct, this city was the most populated on the continent.
"Prepare to fire lower mega-pulsar," Syphax ordered, turning to regard his four human prisoners, all of them stubbornly silent about how they managed to be flying Raiders that had been retrofitted with Colonial technology. It was perplexing, to say the least, that they had infiltrated his Base Ship by pretending to be Cylon. Meanwhile, Syphax gathered, the Harrower was out there pretending to do the same. Curiously, all it had done so far was hail them repeatedly. He was also unfamiliar with technology that could make it suddenly arrive here. So many perplexing questions unanswered. His linear comprehension sought explanations. "We have ways of making you talk."
"Do your worst, Cylon," Ensign Trevanian said scornfully.
"Instead, I shall do my best. Take them to the Brig. Use the brain probe," Syphax ordered, watching the human vermin leave. After being in their presence, he felt the sudden need for a reconditioning session and a change of robe.
"Raiders-approaching-striking-distance-on-Earth, Commander," a centurion reported.
"Good. Emit electromagnetic pulses, Centurion. That should take care of their paltry missiles. They will rue the day they thought they could triumph against the Cylon Alliance. Fire mega-pulsar."
"Firing."
xxxxx
They were partially blind, their defensive satellite grid neutralized by Cylon fire or the current electromagnetic pulses the Base Ship was emitting towards Earth. Satellite after satellite either exploded into scrap or had its guts burned out, as the Ravagerstripped them of every orbital defence within her sights. Even Airborne Early Warning and Control aircraft would be having problems picking up hostiles on their radar under the onslaught of the magnetic fields. Surface-to-air missiles were standing by, but with the Cylon EMPs turning their guidance systems into useless garbage, it seemed the tables had turned on the Earthers once again. With the next attack wave, Earth fighters would engage Cylon Raiders, determining which craft was superior in an atmospheric fight. Meanwhile, as far as she could tell without the tactical eyes of satellite technology, the Colonials hadn't done much to defend Earth as Starbuck had promised.
Jess gritted her teeth together, wondering if she'd been made a fool of. Was her father truly up there on that Base Ship, or had it all been lies? But what possibly could be Starbuck's motivation? He had seemed so sincere. She wanted to believe him . . . she needed to believe him. She looked over at Surkov searchingly.
"At this rate it will be every country for themselves, lapochka. From our last reports, it appears they will start with North America," Surkov told her gently, uncharacteristically using his nickname for her in the presence of others. Obviously, he thought they were all about to die . . . .
"I know," Jess replied. Mexico City, Las Vegas, New York City, Los Angeles, Chicago, Toronto . . . The worst part was standing there impotently, feeling useless. She looked at Orlov. "We need some eyes up there, Sergei."
He nodded in complete agreement. "What are you thinking?"
"The Venture and the Quest." The two Guardian class space shuttles were idly sitting on the tarmac at the Baikonur Space Centre. "We still have somecommunication satellites in place. We can get above the electromagnetic garbage and triangulate the signals, getting back in touch with NORAD. If push comes to shove, we can even use the space shuttles to liase with the Endeavour."
"But they have no defences!" Orlov argued. "It will be like . . . uh, shooting turkeys in water-cooler if they find you, how you Americans say."
"I'm well aware of that, Sergei," she replied, trying not to smile at the mangled idioms. "That's why I'm going myself and asking for volunteers for this mission. You'll be in charge in my stead."
"I volunteer," Carter said, stepping forward from the background. The Venture pilot had been quietly monitoring the situation. "Seems to me we're running out of options and I for one would rather be up there trying something, than down here waiting to get vaporized. And I'm not alone in that. In fact," he paused dramatically, "I believe Quest and Venture are on the tarmac and ready for countdown."
"Carter, I think I love you." Dayton grinned broadly.
"I'll take that over a raise any day of the week, Director," Carter replied.
"Very good." Surkov nodded his approval at the astronaut before turning a grim face on the WASA director. "But Jessica . . ."
"This is my show, Alexei. Remember that," she replied evenly. "Step on my toes one more time and I'll bloody well go bear hunting!"
The colonel-general grunted, a faint smile on his stern features. "Then, as you say, good luck."
"The Unity is still at Kennedy Air Force Base along with most of the crew," Orlov reminded them
"Taylor can fly her. He's logged almost as many hours as Grae Ryan," Jess replied. "But we need to get word to them . . ."
"Which we can do just as soon as we reach low-Earth orbit," Carter replied.
"Then let's get suited up."
"If you need any help, Director . . ."
"Carter."
xxxxx
On July 4rth, 2055, the dawn air was so thick with electromagnetic impulses that Earth's first line of defence—her surface-to-air missiles—had been neutralized. Now it was up to the squadrons of F-35s near New York, Los Angeles and Chicago to defend the United States against the next wave of Cylons. Hades Hole, more like all of North America. The Canadian and Mexican Air Forces were scrambling as well, but they were smaller, somewhat less advanced in the Mexican's case, and further away. The problem was that with all the interference, Starbuck was getting a bad feeling about how well this Earth equivalent of a Colonial attack computer was going to work.
He pressed his finger against the touch-screen display. At this point he should have been viewing a much clearer, close up image of the Cylons that were out ahead of them. It wasn't happening. As much as the Multi-Mission Active Electronically Scanned Array and Electro-Optical Targeting were supposed to be the latest and greatest in long-range and visual targeting technology on Earth, it was appearing they would be totally useless for locking on Cylons in this swamp of electro-magnetic soup.
"Attention Eighty-Seventh Air Base Wing, this is Captain Starbuck. My electronic targeting looks more likely to lock on the Statue of Liberty than a Cylon in all this interference."
"Affirmative, Starbuck," replied Grae Ryan, also situating himself into an F-35 through his previous experience in the Canadian Air Force. "I'm getting the same. Complete sludge."
"That's what I thought." Starbuck nodded. "Looks like we're going to have to do this the old-fashioned way, boys and girls. Switch to manual targeting."
"Er . . . manual targeting, sir?" came a startled reply through his helmet from his wingman. "You mean as opposed to visual targeting?"
"You mean visually with an Electro-Optical Targeting System, Stossel?" Starbuck paused, getting a sinking feeling. "Yes, it's different. You, uh . . . you do have manual targeting in these birds, don't you?" Admittedly, he had just assumed . . .
"As a last resort, Captain, but . . . "
"But what?" Starbuck asked.
"With most nations on Earth using Joint Strike Fighters now, the majority of our air combat is done through long-range targeting, miles before we even make visual contact. We don't get as much experience at the short-range stuff," Stossel admitted, "and we never need to use manual targeting in combat. It's a bit of a lost art."
"But you've practiced it?" Starbuck asked. Please God, let him tell me they've practiced it!
"In simulated combat. Yes."
"That's good enough for me." Starbuck smiled grimly, while shaking his head. Oh Lords of Kobol! "Listen up. One of the advantages we have over the Cylons is our instinct, not to mention our hand-eye coordination. We can adapt better to atypical situations. Sagan's sake, some of us thrive on them. Cylons ritualistically use an attack computer and have trouble thinking outside their group. Anything unfamiliar causes them to automatically refer to their data banks for analogues and possible solutions. Creativity and the unexpected belong to us. Also, atmospherically, they're going to be slower and less manoeuvrable than we are. The only unknown at this point is how effective our cannon will be against them. What I do know is that Colonel Katko of the Russian Air Force shot one down over Kazakhstan flying her PAK-FA. If our armaments are comparable. . ."
"They're better, Captain," Stossel replied.
"Long a bone of contention," Grae Ryan inserted.
"Still, good to know, and we appreciate the advice, Captain," Stossel continued. "Hey, if this works I'll treat you to the new Colonial Capitano at Starbuckswhen we get back."
Starbuck groaned quietly at the reference as a collective titter of laughter filled the frequency. Lucky him; a whole new generation of Starbucks jokes was about to come his way.
xxxxx
Finally, the Colonial Covert Operations Ship was ready to do something other than just sit there in orbit, looking repulsive. And it was about bloody time.
"Fire!" ordered Dayton from the Control Centre of the Endeavouras a red beam of light shot towards the enemy ship, dead centre.
A blink of an eye later, real-time telemetry showed debris exploding from a point near the top of the enemy Base Ship, the eerie red glow of destruction replacing the decks that used to house the powerful mega-pulsar. A few seconds later, a secondary explosion erupted and more debris belched into space as hull plating peeled back, flying violently away from the Ravager.
"Nice shooting!" Baker exclaimed as the astounded crew cheered.
"Somehow, I don't think that was us," Dayton replied, stroking his stubbly chin thoughtfully. By the looks of it several decks were destroyed, mangled pieces of debris floating into space. Massive electrical sparking and flailing junk could clearly be seen at hi-mag, leaving a trail behind as the Ravager's orbital momentum carried her forward.
"The cadets?" Ryan asked. "Maybe they did it."
Dayton nodded. "Looks like a couple of them got lucky, Paddy."
"Luck does seem to be back on our side," Coxcoxtli ventured. "Lords of Kobol be praised."
"Yeah. The trouble is that her ugly sister is never far away."
"Commander!" shouted Sagaris. "Detecting target lock! Incoming fire!"
xxxxx
They had barely escaped being sealed in one of the compartments that had automatically shut when the mega-pulsar had exploded. Still, a narrow escape, as well as the triumph of destroying the most powerful weapon known to Cylon was heady stuff, even to a battle-scarred medically discharged Colonial Warrior recreating herself as an unassuming cadet this time around.
The Base Ship shuddered as further explosions rocked her and klaxons blared. As Acastus suddenly reached out and steadied her, Xenia wasn't sure if it was repercussions of the destroyed pulsar weapon or if it was the Colonial capital ship finally battering the Cylons. Either way, they were running out of time.
"We have to find the others," Acastus reminded her earnestly. "We don'tleave our squadron mates behind."
Xenia sucked in a breath. The truth was she was sorely tempted to do just that. They had already given their commander the tactical advantage. TheRavager was hurt and down one of her main batteries. At this point, if they made it out alive, they'd be decorated for their heroic efforts. And if they didn't . . . well, death had a finality to it that need not be dwelt on.
"Hey," Acastus said, suddenly standing right in front of her and taking her by the shoulders. As always, there was an enthusiasm about him that she had left behind yahrens before. "Didn't Starbuck tell us that if we're ever caught in a corner that we should go out fighting? Hmm? Didn't he?"
"Yeah, he did," she replied dourly, trying to reconcile herself to the fact that she would probably die here. Still, Acastus was right. In her heart she knew it. They had to at least tryto rescue the others. "Remind me to smack him the next time we see him. Hmm? Would ya?"
"You don't like him much, do you?" He looked at her in bemusement.
She shrugged. "Let's just say I have a better memory than he does."
"You've lost me."
"That's just as well," she replied. "It's ancient history. I don't want to talk about it."
They moved down the so-far empty corridor, coming to a ladderwell. Looking down it, they saw several centurions scrambling back and forth. They were either damage control parties or gunners on the way to their action stations. Either way, the young warriors needed to foul things up a bit . . .
"Acastus?" asked Xenia, as he withdrew a solenite charge from his satchel.
"Just helping out our shipmates," he said with a grin, setting it. Then, he dumped it down the ladderwell.
"Halt!" came a voice. They turned . . .
And the whole bulkhead blossomed into an orange fireball.
xxxxx
It was almost too easy, and that was coming from a guy who didn't like to work too hard. For whatever reason, the EMPs that the Ravager had been emitting abruptly stopped before Earth and Cylon forces engaged. A moment later, an indication of a potential target popped up on the F-35s multifunction display in Starbuck's bird. He altered course, flying towards the area of interest, pressing his finger against the touch-screen display as he'd been taught. This time, unlike the other, a magnified image of a Raider appeared. He pressed his screen again, and both target designation and weapons status imagery appeared on the visor of his helmet-mounted display. It was just like the war book in his Viper! However, what happened next was pure magic. Automatically, the F-35 began tracking the target, the crosshairs in the visor locking on to the Raider. While firing missiles, his position in relation to his target wasn't crucial, as it was in a Colonial or Cylon fighters. He switched from his heads-down to heads-up display in his visor, marvelling at the split imagery. Checking range, closure and velocity of the oncoming Raider, he fired his missile, watching as it followed a laser beam to its destination. Moments later, he checked his multifunction display again to verify that the medium-range target had been destroyed.
Then he did it twice more. Lords' sake, it was idiot proof!
"Yeehaw!"
"There's so many of them!" Stossel cried.
"Only three squadrons, all told. We destroyed the other one over Kazakhstan," Starbuck replied. But the kid had a point. Two of the Ravager's three squadrons seemed to be here! Of all the possible targets to pick over Earth, it didn't make sense. Why concentrate their forces . . .?
He checked his sensors again, verifying that even more Raiders had joined the attack formation. All around him Raider lasers and Lightning missiles were cutting pathways of death and destruction through the sky. Fortunately, they'd engaged the enemy forces over the Atlantic Ocean, so at least anything that fell prey to gravity would hopefully land in the drink rather than in the heart of New York City, unless Cylons broke through their task force. Yeah, he'd been in this position more than once in his all too brief but illustrious career, outnumbered and outgunned; he was still alive to tell the slightly embellished tales.
"Stossel, just keep asking yourself, 'Self, am I still alive?' If the answer is 'yes', then keep fighting," Ryan offered.
"Stossel, break . . ." Starbuck started to warn him.
With the sudden flash of a laser, Stossel's bird exploded. Starbuck rolled to his left as his radar-warning receiver simultaneously alarmed, the tone telling him someone was painting his bird. Yeah, there was a Cylon on his tail! His ship automatically fired off chaff and flares, creating false radar and tracking signature to throw the enemy off his trail. Not accustomed to these kinds of countermeasures, the Cylons would be looking for explanations as to what the frack was happening.
Starbuck rolled, starting a hard turn into the Cylon's flight path at maximum G. He glanced at his threat indicator, seeing his strategy was working, as he felt his body reacting to the physical duress of violent high-G manoeuvring. No doubt that Dr. Paye would have something to say, if he ever found out . . . not that Starbuck planned on telling him, actually. Regardless, unable to match the turn radius, the less manoeuvrable Cylon was moving out in front of him, falling prey to the superior basic fighter manoeuvres of the Colonial Warrior. Once again Starbuck activated his targeting systems. Moments later, his fourth and last missile was away and his computer confirmed the kill hundreds of metrons away.
All the same, it kinda made a simple guy like Starbuck miss things blowing up in an impressive, noisy, fiery ball of destruction. After all, these days there was no "up close and personal" boom . . .
"Too bad you're not here, Boomer," he murmured to himself in Colonial Standard, adroitly manoeuvring his fighter to intercept a Raider on someone else's tail. Down a wingman he'd known for all of a centar, about now he'd like to have an old buddy watching his back the way Boomer used to instead of engaging in a frenzied free-for-all. Hey, one Hades of a time to get nostalgic, Bucko . . .
A blue pencil of light seared across the sky, buttoning the Raider dead centre. It exploded spectacularly, then his headset crackled . . .
"If he was, Boomer would tell you to stop yammering on this frequency and that he was at least one Cylon ahead of you in kills!" a jubilant and familiar voice announced.
"And he'd be lying . . . Apollo?" Starbuck asked, checking his sensors once again. The additional Raiders on his radar weren't Cylon! They were Hybrids! "Lords, buddy, am I ever glad to hear your voice!"
"Yours too, Starbuck," Apollo returned, an emotional timbre to the tone that Starbuck couldn't quite place. "More than you know, buddy."
"The Endeavour . . .?" Starbuck started to ask.
"Engaging the Ravager," Apollo replied. "Commander Dayton sent us down to help out."
"About time. So he got my message?"
"He did, although I believe Pierus gave him a sterilized version of the original, Bucko."
"And Lu's alright?"
"She was landing on the Endeavour when I was taking off."
Starbuck nodded in relief, checking his radar again. Oh oh . . ."Of course, this does raise a slight problem, Apollo . . ."
"What's that?"
"On my sensors, you read as Cylon. Just now I have a whole planet of Earth fighters picking you up on a pre-programmed target detection system that will boggle your mind and fry your astrum."
"Frack." Apollo only paused a moment. "Starbuck, I just activated our auto tracking beacon. Can you read it?"
He checked his equipment once again, smiling at his friend's quick thinking. There it was! Lords, but it was good to have Apollo back with him! "Got ya, buddy!"
Quickly, both warriors relayed the critical information to both of their squadrons. Suddenly, something burst outside Starbuck's canopy. He flinched as pieces of a Raider flew past him. It was getting dangerous out here!
"Three of them broke through!" an anxious voice announced over the unicom. "They're heading for New York City!"
Starbuck broke right, adjusting his course to intercept. On his sensors, he could see his fellow Earth pilots responding to the situation with a skill and professionalism that made him proud to be among them. Microns later their missiles were in pursuit. He reduced throttle, realizing the targeting killers could do the job far better than his cannons. It was only a matter of time now . . .
His sensors suddenly fizzled out, as a slough of electromagnetic pulses began anew. As before, the screens turned to mud. "Frack!" he cursed.
The entire squadron was back to resorting to manual targeting and using their cannons. Not only were there three Cylon Raiders heading for the most populous city centre in the United States, but suddenly there were also three rogue missiles, that had most probably lost their guidance systems, screaming across the sky. Could things actually get any worse?
Full throttle, he raced in their direction. He was coming up below them from the rear, and they were already preoccupied taking evasive manoeuvres from an attack on their other side. An F-35 opened fire and its target rolled, breaking left . . . straight towards him.
The Cylon screamed across his canopy and he banked hard to follow. He fired, idly noting there was no tone on the frequency that would ID a Hybrid. It felt weird, the vibration from something as archaic as. . . bulletsspewing from his ship. Several of his rounds seemed to bounce off the Cylon's hull, his worst nightmare coming true regarding his secondary weapons. Then he smiled, as one flew right into the Raider's port thruster. The engine flashed, then erupted in a waft of smoke and light as the cowling blew off. The Cylon began to wobble badly. She was trailing smoke and flame, and loosing speed fast. Starbuck closed in for the kill, his finger pausing as he caught the glint of what could be a missile. It was too damn close to his next kill!
He slammed the stick forward.
The Cylon's ship exploded violently, ripping it to shreds. Pieces of wreckage from the destroyed Cylon flew straight at him. He tried to roll, but his ship shuddered as bits of the enemy craft ripped into his engine. His right wing exploded, belching flame and debris. Lights and alarms went off across his panels as his ship screamed towards the ocean.
"Starbuck!" Ryan yelled in his ear. "Eject!"