Chapter 1. Small craft advisory
Armistice Line, Territorial Boundary of Colonial Space
The Escort Cruiser Odin silently glided through the suffocating blackness of space, a cloud of Viper attack craft buzzing around her like a swarm of insects. Bristling with anti-aircraft emplacements and armed with multiple heavy electro-magnetic rail guns the Berzerk Class was introduced during the Cylon War to augment the considerable firepower of the revered Colonial Battlestars. Their design was honed by years of brutal warfare; these were the ships that turned the war in the Colonial's favor. Whether operating in small groups or in large fleet actions, the Berzerks had one purpose; to hunt and kill Cylon Basestars.
Launched roughly ten years after the war's conclusion, the Odin had spent her undistinguished career marking the edge of Colonial territory. Constrained by her peace time role, she plied her days crushing the occasional pirates, chasing smugglers, and rescuing both disabled merchantmen and fool-hardy explorers. Operating on her own, the rest of Battlestar Group 43 was spread throughout this small sector of space, all of whom were futilely scanning the stars beyond for any indication of trouble.
Combat Information Center (C.I.C) Escort Cruiser Odin
Commander Grayson stood patiently at the command table located in the center of the compartment. To the uninitiated, the constant chirping and calling of various crewmen, sensors, and computer monitors would seem to indicate a hive of activity and action. In reality nothing was happening; the quiet and unceasing calls filling the room confirmed that all stations and systems were working as expected. This was the part of the service not advertised by the recruiters, the constant and oppressive weight of boredom that dominated the routine while serving in the fleet.
"Commander," The soft voice of the communication's officer summoned him. The young woman waited for her C.O. to look up, "Incoming wireless transmission from Ajax Actual sir."
Of course, routine and boredom is generally preferred over the alternative, he rationalized as he looked towards the com station. "Patch it through, Lieutenant." he called back, clicking on a headset which had been resting on the table into place. "Admiral Farsheen, this is Commander Grayson."
"Commander, what is your status?" The Admiral's heavily accented voice sounded through the distortion caused by the distance between their vessels.
Looking up at the overhead screens, Commander Grayson quickly reviewed their mission status before answering. "We are on schedule sir. All scans thus far have been clear, nothing of note to this point. I expect to complete our current sweep within the next 7 hours."
"Good. I have new orders for you." He paused a moment, "Colonel Wakefield, the Courier Officer sent to Armistice Station, has not made contact with Picon Command and is overdue. Your orders, which I will send to you momentarily, are to assist and retrieve the officer."
"Very good sir, I will see to it right away." the Commander quickly replied.
"Thank you Michael. Handle this as you see fit, but be sure to keep the Odin as close to her assigned patrol schedule as possible, Farsheen out."
"Yes sir; Odin out." It was generally assumed because of his circumspect and proper demeanor that Mike Grayson was from Caprica or Virgon. Born and raised on Aerilon, he most definitely was not the stereotypical ill-tempered farmer associated with the "Breadbasket of the Colonies". His father a librarian and his mother a geneticist for a large agricultural conglomerate had molded his contemplative nature and instilled in him a love for science. Yearning for a more cosmopolitan life, he was accepted to the Colonial Fleet Academy on Picon, his studies concentrating in Math and Physics, where he excelled. After a successful stint as a Viper Pilot, he had been promoted through the ranks, where ultimately he had been offered command of the Odin. Now fading into the twilight of his career, he savored each remaining day in the field with the knowledge that a desk and retirement shortly afterwards awaited him.
He carefully removed the headset, sighing quietly; he walked to the navigation station. "Mr. Wills, please meet me at the Plotting Table with the charts for Armistice Station." Turning away from the young Caprican, he headed towards the Communications officer, "Lt. Sampson, please send for Colonel Petrakis and Captain Robinaux."
Commander Air Group - Office.
Captain Derek Robinaux sat at his dull metallic grey desk; to his left was a neat stack of manila folders containing completed performance reviews. To his right several piles were neatly arranged, each of which detailed the results of a specific test, flight audits, and other relevant information for each pilot under his command. Directly in front of him, his monitor displayed the performance review for Lieutenant (junior grade), Tara "Nails" DeShield, which he was almost finished with. The ship-wide intercom sounded, stealing his attention from the piles.
"Attention. Pass the word, CAG report to the C.I.C. Repeat, Pass the word, CAG report to the C.I.C."
He looked down at the phone on the wall next to his desk, shrugged, pushed his chair out, and headed through the tall A-Framed hatch towards the command section of the ship.
Five minutes and 15 decks later, he had arrived at the Combat Information Center. In the shape of an octagon, the dark, low ceilinged room seemed both spacious and claustrophobic at the same time. Three steps led down to the command console in the center. Large monitors hung from the ceiling on all sides just above and behind the console. Behind the monitors a raised gallery of manned duty stations surrounded the perimeter. Three stairways similar to the one in front of the Captain were positioned at alternating corners. Presently, the command console was unmanned. A quick look around the C.I.C. revealed Commander Grayson standing at the plotting table in the back of the compartment. The commander was surveying a large star chart, talking quietly to Col. Petrakis and Lt. Wills. Lt. Sampson, the communication's officer, stood to the side, carefully taking notes for the ship's log.
Derek was behind in his year-end reports, and though it was no one's fault but his own, he couldn't help but being slightly annoyed at this unexpected summoning to the bridge. Spurred by his aggravation, he headed directly to the plotting table, hoping that his meeting would not take long. "Captain Robinaux, reporting sir," he brusquely addressed his commanding officer.
"At ease, Derek." the Commander replied.
Taking the small printout from the Commander, Derek began to scan it while his superior quickly briefed him.
"The officer over at Armistice Station hasn't reported in. We have been ordered to investigate." The Commander was a slight man, in his mid-50's and with thinning gray hair. He looked up directly at Derek. Gesturing to the chart, "The Admiral has made it clear that we are to maintain our patrol schedule, unfortunately, Armistice Station is nearly a day away at best speed."
Frowning, the navigator looked at the chart spread before them, using a pen; he drew a line extending the Odin's course along their current vector, marking an X at the end of the line. Returning back to the Odin's current position, he drew a new course, the first part of which went from the Odin to the station, and the second part from the station back to the X marking the Odin's terminal position. Entering the data into the desktop computer, the three officers waited for the machine to quantify the projected flight paths.
The Commander frowned as the crude drawing on the screen cleared and was replaced with a much more detailed course projection on the table. Turning to face Derek he asked cautiously, "Derek, are your pilots up for a Faster-Than-Light mission?"
Derek immediately recognized that his C.O. was not asking. "Yes sir. With your permission, this sounds like the perfect milk-run for Bucket." He assured his Commanding Officer.
"They're your pilots, Captain. Assign them as you see fit," he reminded his Senior Pilot. Turning his attention back to rest of the officers at the table he continued, "Now then, I want two Raptors to check out this overdue officer, find out what is going on, and then escort him back here." He looked over to the navigator, "We will maintain course and speed, and the Raptors will meet us after attending to the wayward Colonel. Carry on."
Derek remained with the Navigator and the Executive Officer as the three refined the course and the mission parameters. Satisfied with their final calculations, he inserted a flash drive into the computer, quickly copying the mission details. Derek returned to his bridge station where he transferred the data to his computer. He cycled thru the various menus on his screen combining the mission profile with the available Raptors and pilots from the duty roster into a pre-flight report. He reviewed the completed mission one last time, and then with the push of a button, he transmitted the data packet to Chief Jung in the Hangar.
Heading to the Communication Center, Derek waited for the Commander to finish dictating his report to Lt. Sampson. The Commander nodded to him a few moments later, and then quietly stepped aside. Derek turned to the young officer, "Candice, please page Lt.'s Atkins, Jackson, Puchelli, and Cementes, have them meet me in the Hangar." Derek turned back towards Commander Grayson, "Sir, if there is nothing else, I have a briefing to conduct."
"Thank you, Derek." Commander Grayson responded, already heading back to the command console.
Derek was in one of the main corridor's that ran the length of the ship. He paced the bright corridor; bypassing the lift, instead descending 2 levels down a service ladder. The ladder well ended in front of a heavy gray hatch, at eye level a green LED light glowed dimly, and just below that a black placard with white type read;
Caution: Check Pressure Before Opening
Deck 1 Starboard Hangar Access 1
Authorized Personnel Only
A scanner on the latch instantly read his thumbprint before unlocking. With a grunt, Derek pulled the bulky door open, and stepped into the brightly lit Hangar Bay. He passed two Raptors, one Shuttle, and six Vipers which stretched the hangar bay from fore to aft on his way to Chief Jung's office. Furrowed eyebrows peaked just over the top of her monitor through the large window in her office. He raised his hand to rap on the frame next to the open door.
"Good morning, sir." The Chief greeted him without looking up from her computer. "Raptors Three and Four are already pulled out, fueled and prepped. Branson should be done with final checks momentarily." She rattled off brusquely.
"Uh, great." With a coy smile, he sarcastically quipped, "I figured you'd be out there prepping our birds personally for an FTL flight."
"It's not the ship's first FTL mission sir, I'm sure Chuck can muddle thru without me." She responded humorlessly.
"Everything all right Chief?" he asked.
She looked up at him, a meek smile on her face "Sorry, sir. Yes, everything is fine." The smile quickly twisted into a scowl, "It's these end of year reports. Assholes at HQ have come up with yet another efficiency chart." Looking down briefly, she nervously added "Sorry, sir".
He watched her turn back to the work in front of her, her eyes darting from the printouts on her desk to the screen on her monitor and back again. "You're doing great work, Chief! Inspirational, I believe is what the Secretary said!" patronizing her.
"Get out of here, sir," she growled in response. She squeezed her lips tight; snorting as she unsuccessfully tried to suppress her amusement.
He turned to leave, calling "Thanks, Chief!" over his shoulder as he strode toward the two Raptors which had been pulled out of their stalls on the port side of the hangar. The pilots were carefully making their way across the deck when he arrived at Raptor 3's wing tip. He nodded at the young technician who was focused upon the diagnostic pad connected to the ship's exterior data port. Like most of Odin's birds, Raptor 3 was a near end of service model and required constant maintenance. New craft were reserved for Battlestar's and other more glamorous posts. "Everything all right, Chuck?"
The stout sandy haired man looked up briefly, "Yes, sir. Just getting a variable reading on a sensor test," he paused for a second, "Nothing critical, and within spec's, just trying to tweak it a little." Derek looked back in the direction of the approaching flight crews and watched with satisfaction as the pilots immediately snapped to attention upon reaching him.
"Raptor teams 3 and 4 reporting for duty, Sir" announced Lt. Cementes, who had the distinction of being the most junior member of Odin's Air wing.
"At ease," Derek responded automatically before quickly briefing the crew. When he finished he paused to watch the pilots turn toward their planes and enter the large side hatch before turning himself and making his way to the Landing Signal Officer's (L.S.O) station.
Next to the main Hangar Deck, the L.S.O. station was a small room with two workstations, of which only one was presently manned. Derek sat down at the vacant station, picking up a headset as he nodded to the controller. "CAG to Raptors"
"This is Fly Girl. What's up boss?"
"One change, Bucket, I want you to lead this op. You've been following Fly's or Hambone's lead for nearly 3 months. It's time to see if you've been paying attention. Now don't screw up." Derek paused for a moment before continuing, "Fly Girl, if he does screw up, it's your ass, understood."
As he looked over at the control officer with a malicious grin, the speaker sputtered to life. "Fly Girl to CAG, you owe me Ambrosia when we get back, and none of that shit from Caprica neither, Tauron, or better yet, Canceron, something to help picture myself at the beach with."
"It's a deal Fly Girl, now get out of here." Derek replied.
"All right Nugget. Show us Vets' how it's done." Lt. Margot "Fly Girl" Atkins goaded the junior pilot.
His first lead and a rare FTL mission at that, he had dreamt about this moment since he was six years old. LTJG Max "Bucket" Cementes checked his system board quickly before toggling his mic; "Raptor 1374 to Control. Pre-flight complete, all systems go, standing by for departure clearance."
"Control to Raptors 1374 and 2643 you are cleared for departure from the flight deck. Proceed to minimum distance of 50 km before engaging FTL drive for transit to Armistice Station. Good Hunting, Control Out."
"Roger that Control, Raptor 1374 and 2643 departing for Armistice Station now." Max disengaged the electromagnets which held his craft to the deck, fired the main thrusters, and then led his wingman out of the ship towards the jump position. "Bucket to Fly Girl, we are outside of FTL exclusion, are all systems go on your end?"
"This is Fly Girl, my board is green, we are go for jump, and don't get used to leading Rook."
Checking his board one last time and receiving a thumb's up from his Electronic Systems Officer he toggled the mic for his final clearance. "Raptor 1374 to Control, we are jumping to Armistice Station on my mark, 5, 4, 3, 2, Mark". As he engaged the FTL Drive, Max felt the nausea inducing sensation of his body both expanding and contracting simultaneously as his craft seemed to be sucked in and then instantly spat back out into reality. The two Raptors hung motionless in space, as the two crews recovered from the effects of the faster-then-light jump.