Chapter 11. Storm Stories

Grappler BT 12 – 2

"Grappler BT 12–2 to Galactica Control, requesting landing instructions," Marsha called into her com system. She was struggling to keep the awed excitement she was felt restrained. At just under a kilometer and a half in length, the Battlestar dwarfed her utility craft. With a wrecked Viper in the forward claw, the pilot smoothly sailed over the dorsal spine of the warship. She flew slower than normal as her mind was occupied with controlling her unwieldy craft while trying to take in every detail of the mammoth starship below. Marsha had passed over the sloping forward section. With her neck craning down uncomfortably, Marsha intently cataloged the numbers and types of cannons and missile emplacements stretching the long mid-section of the ship.

"Galactica Control to Grappler BT-12-2, you are cleared for Hands-On-Approach. Port Flight Pod, Speed One-Zero-Zero, Elevator Blue Stripes, Deck Controllers will relay final taxi instructions. Call the ball."

Marsha had passed over the dorsal engine pods and with the Galactica now behind her she gently slowed her craft and nudged her control stick down and to the left. Heeling over on its lateral axis, Marsha's Grappler gracefully spun down and 180 degrees so that she was now facing the stern of the Battlestar. She quickly repeated the landing instructions back to the traffic controller as she brought her craft on the prescribed flight path for a safe landing. "I have the ball," she called, and with a flare from her main thrusters, the Grappler leapt towards the pill-shaped flight pod, which hung slightly below and off the side of the main body of the ship. She passed through the tall triangular opening. With a small triangular patch of space visible at the distant forward edge of the pod, it felt like flying through a tunnel to the young pilot, she thought, as she sped above the long flight line. She carefully checked her speed and altitude before scanning for the correct elevator pad. She found it half way down on the port side of the landing deck. Two crewmen dressed in bright yellow pressure suits waited off to the side. Marsha slowed her craft as she approached the scratched white pad with blue stripes. One of the deck hands stepped out from against the wall, a small glowing stick in each hand. Following the controller's directions she gently settled her craft above the landing point. Waiting for his signal, she tapped her control thrusters, softly bringing her plane to the deck with a comfortable thud.

The tired voice of the L.S.O. popped through her headset, "Grappler BT-12-2 Skids down, mag locks secured. Deck crew, begin Viper retrieval."

Activating her claw controls, she released the dorsal arm, which quickly folded back along its length before flipping over and settling flat against the dorsum of her craft. She watched as the tractor carefully pushed the tracked lifting trailer underneath the Viper which she was carrying. Feeling her plane lift back and up slightly as the trailer below her took the weight of the Viper she released and retracted the two remaining lateral arms flat against the fuselage of her craft. Moments later, she watched with relief as the tractor slowly pulled away from her, lowering the Viper so that it rode flush on the top of the trailer. Once clear of her Grappler, the tractor paused momentarily, allowing the deck controller to climb into the passenger seat next to the driver, before starting again towards the next closest elevator pad. She blankly stared at the tractor and Viper which were now descending into the hangar below, wistfully wondering what secrets were hidden inside the great ship.

Marsha was shaken out of her reverie as her speakers called out suddenly, "Galactica Control to Grappler BT-12-2. You are cleared for departure from the flight deck. Safe trip and thanks."

Marsha briefly checked her engines and seeing that her board was green, she reached forward to release the magnetic locks holding her to the flight deck. Just as she reached the release, she stopped, her gloved fingers hanging inches in front of the large yellow switch. She shook her head dismissively before briefly cursing silently, "Frack that." Her whole life she had dreamed to fly Vipers, but through a lack of luck and effort on her part, she had never had that chance. Now, she found herself attached to the flight deck of a Battlestar, likely filled with scores of the sleek fighters that she had coveted for as long as she could remember. "Frack that," she said again stridently. Turning her headset mic on, she took a quick breath before speaking, "Grappler BT-12-2 to Control, Check that. Permission to come below and use the head." The brief delay in response seemed to drag out and spell certain denial for her seemingly innocent request.

"Permission granted; an escort will meet you in the hangar, Control out."

Grinning from ear to ear, Marsha let out a startled yelp as her ship shuddered suddenly before slowly lowering into the bowels of the ship.

Hangar Bay Compartment B, Port Flight Pod

Derek looked at the row of Vipers which stretched along the length of the hangar in confusion. The compartment was absolutely electric with activity, with four technicians swarming over every Viper in each of the twenty stalls lining the outside walls. The only exception was a lone unattended Mark VII Viper suspended from above by three thick smart cables. That lone hanging Viper was the source of Derek's confusion, as every other plane in the compartment belonged to older, retired versions of the current fighter. In fact, the majority of the planes were Mark II's, the same vintage fighter that fought the Cylons in the first war, 40 years earlier. It was as if he had walked into a museum instead of a Viper repair bay on a modern active Battlestar. Coming to a stop, his mouth hanging slightly open, he reconsidered the last thought. The Galactica wasn't exactly modern, and in fact, it was one of the oldest existing ships in the fleet. It was, he remembered, the only remaining original Battlestar which had served in the first war.

Captain Adama had stopped to watch Derek's reaction as he took in the collection of antique fighters. "Galactica lost her remaining active squadron of Mark VII's to the Cylons yesterday. Kara led the remaining pilots in combat and they were able to successfully engage two squadrons of enemy fighters with these older models."

Derek turned to face the brash pilot, a thousand questions jockeying to be the first asked. He nearly stuttered, his mind still reeling from the scene in the hangar bay and the thought of taking these relic fighters into combat. "The Cylons did something to our Vipers. They all just shut down, and from what I heard, our Capital ships did, too." He paused again, a hint of skepticism in his voice, "The Galactica and these old Vipers, they weren't affected by whatever the Cylons did to us? How did their performance compare to a modern Raider?" he asked.

Kara had Lee and Derek's full attention now, "The Cylons used a computer virus to shut down any ship which had the Command Navigation Program installed. These Vipers were all retired before the C.N.P. was developed, so they were unaffected." She paused for a moment, a cocky grin pulling at the corners of her mouth as she casually jerked her thumb at a nearby Mark II. "As for performance, well, I managed to splash six of those bastards in that bucket over there."

Derek stood there numbly, his mind feverishly sorting through the clutter of questions buzzing for his attention. "And the Galactica? How did she survive?"

Lee spoke this time, "Commander Adama did not allow the computers on the Galactica to be networked, therefore the C.N.P. was never installed into her systems." His eyes hardened slightly, and he seemed to turn away from Kara without moving his head, "Luck, really. My father's stubbornness aside, if the Galactica had met a Basestar instead of a fighter recon, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

Kara was glaring at Lee. She shook her head angrily. "Why don't you cut your father some slack, Lee?"

Derek watched as the CAG faced his borderline insubordinate officer, he shook his head dismissively, "Thank you, Lieutenant, is that all."

"Yes, sir," she replied coldly.

"Good," Lee responded. He drifted away from the officers towards one of the starboard side service bays. He came out of the bay a moment later, a barrel chested man wearing grease stained orange coveralls trailing him.

Lee addressed Derek now, "This is Chief Petty Officer Galen Tyrol, Galactica's Deck Chief."

The brown haired man turned to Derek, raising a dirty hand in a salute, "Sir."

"At ease, Chief. How's my plane?"

The Chief's face blanched at that. Gesturing towards the Viper hanging from the gantry above, the four soldiers began heading towards it. "I'm afraid you're going to need a new one sir, at least until we can fix it."

They arrived at Derek's Viper moments later. The entire undercarriage of his plane lay on the deck off to the side. Derek watched quietly as the Chief picked through various components in the pile. He pushed one of the landing skids to the side and quickly rummaged through a tangle of ruined wiring and other pieces before pulling out a charred and warped piece of armor plating. Bringing it to the Captain, he held it up for the officers to look at. "This armor sat directly above your main tylium tank." He jabbed a finger at a blackened divot in the armor, "Right here, you were about 2/10's from burn through. You're damn lucky, sir."

Derek picked gingerly at the charred indentation, shuddering slightly as he realized just how close he had been to dying. "Thanks, Chief," he sighed somberly.

Lee coughed slightly, getting the others attention, "So this man still needs a plane. What do you have for him?"

The Chief grimaced. "This way," he said before turning to cross to the port side of the compartment. "We're getting short on planes at this point, Captain, and I was hoping to hold this one in reserve," he continued hesitantly.

"Out with it Chief," The younger Captain directed the reluctant mechanic.

Stepping into the stall, Derek couldn't help but smile as he looked up at the stern of the matte black fighter in front of him. The smooth lines and baffled thrusters of the three main engines immediately identified it as a Mark VI. "Excellent," Derek breathed out in excitement. With a satisfied smile, he looked over at the Chief, only to find him scowling.

The three pilots walked around the Viper, carefully examining the seamless lines of the fighter in the stall. The Mark VI, also known as the Stealth Viper, was supposed to revolutionize the Colonial Fleet. Developed in secrecy, the black coloration of the Mark VI made it nearly impossible to see in space by the naked eye. Its lines were smooth and soft, the guns were hidden internally in the wing roots, external hard points underneath had been replaced with internal bays, and even the forward sensor array was covered with a polarized shield. Lastly, the entire plane was covered with DRADIS-absorbing compounds, making it nearly invisible to DRADIS scanners.

The Mark VI proved far more difficult and expensive to design and produce than expected. Eventually, a few active squadrons were built and dispersed to Special Forces units and the Colonial Demonstration team. The military had hoped that the expected brilliant performance by the new plane would win over the public and the politicians. As it turned out, excessive maintenance needs and costs coupled with a few very public accidents led to the plane being dubbed "The Great Boon-Doggle" by the press. Ultimately, the plane was deemed too expensive and technically demanding, and all future production runs were canceled. In short time, the Mark VII was designed as an effective and more affordable replacement for both the aging Mark V's and the still born Mark VI's.

"Damn, Chief! You had this the whole time, and then gave me a Mark II!" Kara exclaimed, not entirely kidding.

Standing rooted to the deck, the Chief seemed to growl in frustration before answering the excited pilot. "You said you wanted a plane that would fly, Lieutenant."

Chuckling quietly at the Chief's exasperated comment, Lee looked over at the plane one more time. "I assume this one has checked out?"

With an air of defeat, the Chief answered dully, "Yes, sir, there's no practical reason why this plane shouldn't fly." He paused for a second, a sheepish grin on his face, "That being said, it is a Six."

Derek was half listening to the conversation as he carefully studied the plane. Sensing that the other pilots were watching him, he turned to them as a group, "Where exactly did you get all these?"

The Chief looked slightly confused for a second. Realizing the Captain's confusion a moment later, he easily answered; "These planes were set up in the starboard flight pod as exhibits for the museum. We brought these Vipers over and began to prep them after we lost our Mark VII's near Caprica. The speed and maneuverability of these old birds are similar, and we were able to upgrade the sensor and DRADIS packages as well. The biggest difference, of course, is that the DRADIS return on a Mark VII is a lot smaller than it is for the older planes, well, except for the Mark VI's, that is."

"Captain? Still here?" Lee asked.

Derek stood in front of the plane dumbstruck, his mind reeling from the incredible story that he had just heard. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." He took a moment to collect his thoughts before giving his full attention to the others.

"Well, I think we are done here," Lee replied. "Derek, I want to get this plane set up for you now. Chief, I know you're busy, but I want this done right away."

"Not a problem, Captain, I can take care of this myself," The Chief responded immediately.

"Thanks," Lee said to the mechanic. Lee redirected his attention to Derek now, "After you're done here, report to Sick Bay and then to your rack." He looked at Kara quickly and then back to Derek, "Air Wing Briefing is at twelve-hundred. I expect the both of you and the other team leaders in the briefing room by eleven-thirty."

"Yes, sir," Derek responded automatically. He waited as Lee and Kara turned away, watching as they exited the hangar. He and the Chief turned towards the plane, "Alright, ready when you are."

Tyrol had already crossed under the plane's nose and was about to climb the starboard crew ladder when he responded, a mixture of amusement and resignation in his voice, "Yes, sir, no time like the present."

Smiling, Derek vaulted up the pilot ladder, "Call me Derek."