Chapter 13. Battening the Hatches

Galactica – Pilot Ready Room

Derek stood there, watching uneasily as his pilots quietly left the briefing room after the squadron meeting. He had asked them to remain, if for no other reason than to put a name to the faces on his squadron roster. The meeting was short and awkward. The entire crew was still in shock, the pilots didn't know him and they weren't ready to follow him into combat. Not yet at least. He had hoped to get some time on the simulators, but they had been shipped off to the Picon Flight Academy before the Galactica's decommissioning. Now standing in the ready room by himself, he cursed quietly before heading through the hatch towards his rack.

Freighter Bill Thurston 12- Hold 5

Rebecca stood in the Control Room, watching the frantic activity below her. Commander Adama had sent over an engineering team just after the Fleet Organization Meeting an hour earlier. The room had been cleared of the deceased and the life pods. The crew's first task, sealing the hold so that it could no longer open to space, had fundamentally changed the purpose of the compartment. Currently, the service men and women were scrambling to convert the cargo hold into living quarters. Four teams were setting up large green canvas tents throughout the hold, each designed to hold nine small cots. In the middle of the room, a team was preparing a large assembly area, complete with bench seating and several large screen monitors. Just aft of the assembly area large plastic wall panels were being connected to enclose a temporary bath and shower house for the refugees whom would soon be calling this compartment home. The aft third of the former hold was now filled with hastily organized stacks of various construction materials. Plumbing materials and cobbled together appliances in one area, aluminum braces and all forms of plastic, wood, cloth, and metal sheeting in another, and at the far wall, the largest stack of cots and flimsy mattresses that she had ever seen. She let her eyes sweep across the vast cargo bay one last time, whistling quietly in awe at the pace of progress on her ship. Finally relenting to her duties on the bridge, she pushed open the heavy door and turned to leave.

Battlestar Galactica - Pilot Quarters

Derek returned to find his bunk, the top one in a column of three, in the same condition that he left it. Opening his locker, he transferred the few personal items he had from the small bag on his cot and into the shelf below the hanging duty uniforms and off duty clothes. He opened the last item, a thin manila folder on his bed and carefully pulled out one copy of the two pictures he had printed out since arriving on the Galactica. Holding the pictures gingerly, he looked around for a tape dispenser. Finding one, he climbed into his rack and with the lightest of touches, posted the pictures to wall adjacent to the lone LED light. He lay down on the bed and looked at them. Closing his eyes, he tentatively reached towards one. His eyes opened as his fingers softly brushed the first photograph. Staring at it peacefully, he began to slowly trace the outline of his daughter, then his wife. He traced it a few times before moving to the second picture. It was an old photograph, on it a scrawny and awkward pre-adolescent kid had his arms wrapped around a massive Southern White Bulldog. Smiling slightly as he poked the image of the dog, he quietly said to the picture, "I'll never get away from you, will I?"

After spending a few moments pondering how to spend his time, he hopped off the bed in one smooth motion. Reaching into the shelf in his locker, he removed his small tablet computer and headed towards one of the desks in the back. Sitting down at the small chair, he connected the device to the computer built into the wall. He opened his newly created personal account on the ship and spent the next thirty minutes reviewing and transferring various files onto the ship's mainframe. When he was finished, he reviewed the slideshow of 30 or so pictures that he arranged in a separate file. Satisfied with the results, he picked up his tablet and headed out of the bunk room to print them out.

Battlestar Galactica – Crew Assembly Area

Airman First Class John Taylor stood uncomfortably at attention with the ninety or so other misplaced soldiers in the large assembly area. The ship's X.O., a tall balding man, was barking at them angrily. He suspected that Col. Tigh was like the other mercurial blowhards that he had had to suffer through in previous years. They were all the same, incompetent marionettes trying to cover their insecurity thru yelling and bluster. After a few minutes, the X.O.'s tirade ended and the soldiers were ordered to stand at ease. As Col. Tigh stormed out of the compartment, a young lieutenant replaced the Executive Officer. She was in her twenties and pretty, with light brunette locks arranged in a frisky pixie cut. She placed a list on the podium and began assigning soldiers within the group to vacancies on the ship by department. John had let his attention slip as the list of names was mechanically read aloud; consequently, he almost missed it when the Lieutenant had assigned him to a post in the Gunnery section.

Turning to his left, he carefully made his way through the crowd towards the assembly area off the side of the room. He approached the N.C.O. in charge, an intimidating dark skinned man, and immediately came to attention. "John Taylor, sir. Permission to speak freely, sir."

"At ease," the Petty Officer fixed him with an aggravated expression. "And what is your problem with this posting, Airman?"

John swallowed nervously, and nearly braced to attention in response to the sarcastic rebuke from his new C.O. "Ughh, no problem, sir," he paused slightly, "It's just that I'm a cook, sir."

His new C.O. cracked a smile at his nervousness. "Good, I know who to call when I'm hungry." His smile faded and the Petty Officer responded with a soft and nasally accent that he couldn't place. "You're a Gunnery Tech, now. I suppose Galactica's got plenty of cooks, seeing that it's a museum ship. If that's all, why don't you go stand with the others."

"Yes, sir," John responded before turning towards the small group of soldiers standing against the wall. While waiting silently with his fellow Gunnery recruits, his face froze in shock as he heard four of his crewmates called to fill vacancies in the Battlestar's kitchens. He looked over at his new C.O., who returned his look of confusion with a shake of his head and a sarcastic grin. Within a few minutes the Lieutenant had finished assigning the rest of the Promptus's survivors to their new posts, dismissing them to their barracks and then to attend to their new duties.

Cylon Basestar J529 – High Orbit, Planet Ragnar

Alexei remained in the stream as his brothers and sisters scurried around him. He was much less concerned about the battle yet to come than he was about the circumstances which had led the Colonial fleet, and ultimately these two Basestars, to this remote end of the star system. Foremost on his mind was determining what had happened to Leoben Conoy, a fellow Two whom had been stationed at the space station they were now blockading.

It had taken the collective a painstaking long time to confirm that his brother had died. The transmission sent by the agent at the time of his passing had been damaged by the radiation generated by the planet. Ultimately, the resurrection process had been aborted. Alexei, mourned the loss of his brother. What a waste, he silently lamented.

The Cylons had only discovered this station within the last three years and had hurried to get an agent on board. When the first agent returned to the collective she had reported that the station was abandoned. The others, his model included, were relieved to determine that the station had been decommissioned, but had overlooked the fact that their agent had returned sick from radiation poisoning. It was decided a month before the attack, that a new agent should be sent to monitor the station. A sister of the first agent, an Eight, reminded the collective of the danger posed by the radiation, and that they should more carefully study it's affects before sending one of their brothers or sisters into harm's way. The Two's had agreed with the Eight's. Although they had argued passionately, the others led by the boorish One's, had out voted them. Leoben had been assigned the mission, likely out of spite for defying the majority in the vote. As the final attack neared, the collective began receiving reports from every one of their agents spread throughout the colonies; everyone except for the Two which had been assigned to Ragnar Anchorage. Overwhelmed by the number and detail of the reports which they were receiving, the collective did not notice the absence from the long abandoned space station at the edge of the Colonies. Indeed, the collective had forgotten both Ragnar Anchorage and the agent assigned there.

It was ironic, Alexei thought, that the Cylon's had discovered the Colonial's refuge, not through one of the hundreds of agents that they deployed throughout their enemies homes, but through the careful and painful examination of a few prisoners that they collected after the battle. It took quite a few prisoners, but finally, after carefully examining a well-placed prisoner from the Battlestar Triton, the Cylons became convinced that the Galactica was attempting to reorganize the Colonials shattered forces at the old fortress. A message had been sent to their agent at the station, it went unanswered, a second message was sent. When this message too, went unanswered, the collective began scanning the system more carefully. It was during this period that they detected a weak signal from their agent.

Alexei refocused on the small and disjointed pieces that he had collected within the stream. He had been tasked with combing the stream for any corroborative evidence on the size and disposition on the forces hiding in the planet's atmosphere. Ultimately, he realized it was useless. Any transmissions from the now deceased agent had been so corrupted that they were now unintelligible. His siblings commanding this task force would only be able to rely upon the intelligence extracted from the tortured prisoners. Intelligence which was contradictory at best and more than likely, misleading. Slowly, he organized all the reports together, carefully assembling the data into a single coherent portrait. Finally complete he gingerly left the stream to join the others at the control center.

Alexei closed his eyes and took a steadying breath as his consciousness returned to his physical body. His mind and body settled, he opened his eyes to find a One staring at him.

"Well?" the One barked at him aggressively, contempt dripping off his weathered face.

Alexei paused briefly, and took a moment to scan the room. Members of each model were gathered and waiting quietly.

"Whenever you're ready, Two" a platinum blonde Model Three with hard and bitter eyes snarled at him.

Alexei responded to his impetuous sister with a forced smile before addressing the small cabal of human form Cylons in the room. "I'm afraid I was unable to glean any new information from the agent assigned to this station. Intelligence gathered from the captured prisoners suggests that as many as six Battlestars, including the Pegasus, the Mercury and the Atlas, with the majority of her battlegroup, joined the Galactica at Ragnar. However, intercepted Colonial transmissions report that all named ships, with the exception of the Galactica were destroyed in our initial assault. My analysis of the combined intelligence suggests that at most two Battlestars, accompanied by a few support vessels were able to regroup with the Galactica at the station."

"That's it?!" an enraged One lashed out, angry droplets of spittle flew freely from his thin lips. "Three hours in the stream! Three hours we have been sitting here on our asses while the Colonials have no doubt been preparing. And all you have is worthless guesses!"

Alexei turned to face the irate One, he fixed him with a pleasant, paternal expression, "The radiation generated by the planet caused irreparable damage to not only the agent assigned to the station, but to any transmission sent as well. There is no way to positively determine the number and condition of ships which have joined with the Galactica."

The One stood there, glaring at the smug Model Two. He scoffed loudly, before turning to the others in the room. "Well, I think we have wasted enough time here." He focused his attention on the angry Model Three, "Launch the Raiders, it's time we ended this."

The Three smiled viciously as she turned away from the group and slid her hands into a small basin on the wall.

"Wait", the deep voice of a tall Model 4 called out. He focused on the Three and waited for her to withdraw her hands from the basin. "There is no reason to attack now, we have the Colonials trapped. All that is needed is to keep them pinned in the upper atmosphere and wait for reinforcements, if they are even needed." His thoughts now shared, he quietly stepped back to the periphery of the room, softly melting into the smooth dark surfaces at the edge.

"I agree," a sharp and confident voice called out from a smartly dressed Model Eight. "Those in favor of attacking the Colonials at this outpost, vote now."

The One turned his head back and forth menacingly as he surveyed his fellow Cylon brothers and sisters. To his aggravation, only the arrogant Model Three had joined with him to attack the human plague immediately. "Fine; have it your way," he snarled at the group. "But there will be hell to pay, if any of those bastards gets away." The meeting concluded and the angry One turned on his heel and stormed out of the command center.

Battlestar Galactica - Air Wing Recreation Area

Derek sat down at the table with a glass of iced tea while he waited for a hand of cards to be dealt to him. He looked across the table at his new wingman, a tall and broad shouldered man of Tauron descent. He found Joel Ortega looking back at him, his dark brown eyes measuring his new C.O.

"Glad you could join us, Captain," he called across the table.

Derek nodded his head in acknowledgement, "No ranks' here." He looked at his hand and quickly shuffled the six hexagon shaped cards from highest to lowest. "Don't worry; I won't make a habit of it."

"Afraid we'll take all your money, sir?" A small enlisted woman with striking red hair offered mockingly.

He sat his cards face down, before responding, "I don't have money anymore." He paused as a vision of Chief Jung flashed in his mind, "I don't think any of us do, now," he finished soberly.

"Don't worry about money, we'll find something to take from you, sir," one of the other players offered. With that, he slid over a small bag of loose rivets. "These will have to do for now," he said.

Derek emptied the bag next to his cards and thanked him. He was also young and enlisted.

"Captain, since your new here, why don't you start?" A cool voice appealed to him from his left side, it belonged to one of his pilots.

"I thought we dropped ranks here," he looked down at his hand, it was pretty shabby. He swapped two cards from the deck. He sighed slightly as he sorted them into his hand, they weren't much better than his previous cards. "The bet is three," he announced as he slid three rivets to the center of the table.

"So what do we call you?" asked the young enlisted woman.

"Derek, or Green-Bean," he replied.

The rest of the players, now studying their cards all grunted in acknowledgment. The game was fast, and before long Derek was nearly out of rivets. He was more concerned about getting a feel for the ship and her crew than he was about the game in front of him. Derek had assumed that Adama, over-bearing and focused earlier in his career, would have run his ship as the stern task master that he remembered. Instead, he found the crew loose and collegial in their interactions, there seemed to be little distinction between the officers and the crew.

"Hey Green-Bean, you awake?" A woman's voice called out from his right side.

"Racetrack, right?" he responded.

"Yup," she paused, staring him down, "Now, can you just fold so we can get on with the game, please?"

He looked down at his cards again, grunting quietly, he selected one and dumped it into the discard pile. He tried not to react as he slid the new face card into the fold. Knowing that he had already tipped his hand, he tried a different tact. With a smug expression on his face, he looked up at his fellow pilot, "Sorry, Racetrack. I think I'm going to play this hand out." He matched the previous bet of three rivets, then after a dramatic pause, he continued, "In fact, I think I will rise by five."

A chorus of cat-calls came from the other players, and several folded on the spot. Joel stared across the table at Derek, "Alright, Green – Bean" he said, drawing out the Captain's call-sign, "I'll match, and I call." He deliberately slid five rivets into the pot. He pushed himself back, flipping his cards over for all to see as he sat up straight. "Read 'em and weep! Prince High Red!" he called out confidently.

"I got nothing," Racetrack announced, flipping over six random cards.

Derek sat up straight, mockingly tilting his head up towards the young man. "Oh, to be young and cocky," he beamed. He held his cards up for a moment before flipping them over one by one. When his hand was revealed, he smugly announced, "And that gentleman, is known as Full Colors." He reached forward to grab his pile of worthless rivets, when suddenly the speakers exploded in sound above him.

A man's voice called out, "All pilots report to the Squadron Ready room; repeat, all pilots report to the Squadron Ready room."

Leaving his rivets at the center of the table, Derek abruptly stood up. "Racetrack, Ace, Red-Bird, let's go," he ordered. Reaching the hatch first, he held it open as the three pilots passed through before following them to the squadron briefing.

Freighter Bill Thurston 12; Bridge

"Captain, I have an incoming laser transmission from the Galactica," Marel called across the cramped bridge.

"Put it on speaker," Rebecca replied, casually spinning her chair to face her young second mate.

"Can't do, Skipper. Message is coded your eyes only."

"Patch it through to my station," she answered dryly. Rebecca spun her chair to face her monitor. She only had to wait a moment for the message to come through. Her confusion deepened as she read the text in front of her, finishing it, she shook her head and read it a second time. Sighing loudly, she transferred the data packet to the Navigation Table in the aft portion of the compartment. Pushing herself out of her seat, she stomped to the station where she brought the message up. Gripping the tabletop tightly, she braced herself and leaned over the glass counter-top to read the message a third time.

Captain Davenport:

Please calculate jump coordinates for the indicated system on the attached chart. When complete, return the coordinates to me personally by laser transmission. This communication, the chart, and any coordinates which you determine are classified as top secret and are not to be shared with anyone until you are directed to do so by me personally.

William Adama, Commander

Commanding Officer, Battlestar Galactica, BSG-75

She was about to open the star charts, when she felt a presence hovering just behind her. She whirled to her left, locking her sharp brown eyes with the dull blue ones of her first mate.

"What's this about, Captain?" Parah asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

"Do you mind?" she asked with an incredulous tone in her voice.

"Well, I figured, that I should know whatever, uh," he stammered as he wilted under her fierce expression. Attempting to recover, he stiffened briefly, "Well, I am the first officer, dammit!" he insisted.

Rebecca admonished him with an exasperated voice, "Parah, go down to Hold Five and try to keep those Sea-Bees from making too big of a mess down there."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded. Spinning on his heel, he made his way through the small hatch at the back of the compartment.

Rebecca grimaced slightly as she stared at the closed hatch for a few moments. Slowly turning her attention back to the Navigation Table, she brought the star charts up for examination. She stared blankly at the charts for several seconds, initially trying to get her bearing on the map, and after that, confirming the positions of the stars in front of her. This has to be a fracking joke, she thought, looking at the star chart for the fifth time. The point indicated on the map was located deep in the Prolmar Sector. An unexplored region of space; and well beyond the safe range for any existing Faster-Than-Light Navigation systems. Cursing to herself, she quietly grabbed several transparencies and began calculating the coordinates for the impossibly far away system highlighted on the map. It took her an hour to determine an initial set of coordinates. She then spent another twenty minutes refining the variables in her equations before she was satisfied with the solution which lay on the transparency in front of her. Gritting her teeth, she set the Nav-Computer to simulation mode, and carefully typed in the coordinates which she had developed. She nervously waited, tapping her thumb on the smooth surface of the table as she waited for the station to complete its own tabulations. Then to her relief, she watched as the screen revealed a star chart complete with a bright blinking circle indicating the same target system which had been sent by the Galactica earlier. Smiling, she stretched her back and neck, "Marel, get me a laser transmission to the Galactica." With a hop in her step, she made her way to her chair and lightly sat down while clipping her headset on.

Battlestar Galactica – Squadron Ready Room

The four pilots arrived to find the Ready Room about one third full. Starbuck, whose face and hair was covered in a sheen of sweat and grease had also just arrived from her recon flight. She was in the forward corner of the room, quietly conferring with Lee, Hotshot, Cat-Bird, and Duck at a computer station. Derek paused at the hatch just long enough to catch the attention of Captain Adama, who quickly motioned for him to join them.

He quietly greeted the four officers as he approached them at the station, "Captain, Lieutenants," before cursorily scanning the screen in front of him.

"Derek," Lee returned with an anxious tone. Turning to face the new arrival, the Captain looked him over before hastily returning his attention to the screen.

Derek focused on the screen which was displaying a tactical view of the immediate space just outside the planet's atmosphere. Two Cylon Basestars and what looked like an infinite number of Cylon Raiders were swarming the space just above the planet. "Oh shit," Derek muttered upon examining the data screen.

Lee chose to ignore the Captain's remarks; instead he turned to face his senior pilots. "Well as you can see, the Cylons have found us," he stated plainly. "Currently, two Basestars and an estimated 600 Raiders are maintaining a blockade formation 10,000 km above the planet's Thermosphere." Lee waited as the pilots studied the data on the screen in front of them, all quietly cursing their fate as they contemplated the overwhelming odds waiting above them.

It was Kara who broke the silence, with a hint of impatience she asked, "So what's the plan, Captain?"

Lee took a quick breath, "The plan is simple, we're leaving and we are going to take the civilians with us." He held his hands up to silence any comments from the pilots surrounding him. Turning back to the screen, he grabbed a light pen and started a simulation of the planned armed retreat. "Galactica will lead the civilians through the storm to this point, where they will wait for a signal. Tapping the highlighted course with the pen, he continued, "The Galactica will press through the storm to this point, 5 klicks above the electromagnetic interference from the planet, here she will calculate a start point for an FTL jump. When the Galactica has completed the computations for the jump, she will signal the civilian ships to emerge from the storm and jump away. The Galactica will provide cover for the civilian ships as they break out of the atmosphere and jump to the rally point. Our mission is to provide air support for the Galactica and the civilian fleet. Galactica will establish a flack perimeter at 5000 km, we will engage any Cylon Raiders between 5,500 km and 7000 km while the civilian ships escape. After the last civilian ship has jumped we will be recalled for immediate combat landings. The flight pod is going to be a hot mess; we will have very little time so make sure your pilots get back to the ship as fast as they can and to expect a crowded deck. Once the landing bays are secure the Galactica will jump." His presentation finished, he paused to take a look at his sober-faced pilots. "Any questions?" he asked.

Hot-Shot nervously raised his hand, "Sir, how are 54 Vipers supposed to hold off over 600 Raiders?"

Lee looked up at the man. Meeting Hot-Shots eyes, he could see the fear in his expression. Grimly, the young Captain replied, "Bravely, Lieutenant."

The meeting had taken on the air of a funeral, and Derek knew he had to break the malevolent cloud that hung over the five officers. He coughed quietly to get their attention, "The better question is how long do we have to hold off the Raiders?"

Silently thanking Derek for the change in direction, Lee immediately picked up where he let off. "Five minutes, ten at the most. Plus, the Galactica's guns have full magazines; they will be able to cut down the number of Raiders significantly before we clear the flack screen." He looked over his pilots one last time, their moods buoyed compared to a few moments before. "Any last questions?" he asked.

It was Duck who spoke up this time, "Yeah, boss. Where are we going?" he asked, almost casually.

"That's classified. Just make sure you get your ass back in the barn before she jumps," Lee replied easily. "Alright, grab your seats."

Derek turned with the other pilots and headed towards the now full briefing room. Pausing to look at the crowd, he saw his wingman indicate an empty seat next to him. He crossed the space between them, "Thanks, Ace," he grunted as he sat down. The briefing went quickly, and Derek spent the time gauging the reactions of his pilots to the sobering challenge they were about to take up. His pilots on the Odin had an almost maniacal need to be the first to fight at Virgon, to get retribution for the atrocities committed earlier that day. A desire for revenge that he had both felt and had stoked into a fiery passion. A passion which had consumed his pilots before their lost battle. This briefing was different, the pilots were confident and up to the task, but their rage had been tempered by their previous battle, by the losses suffered earlier. And now, their fury had been replaced with the grim knowledge that many of them would be joining their lost loved ones. Lastly, he noted, he felt the change in him to.