Battlestar Galactica

by Jeffrey A. Carver

  “Vipers! Clear to launch,” Dualla said crisply.

  Now they could only wait, and do their best to steer the ship away from trouble if anything got past the Vipers.

  Behind a window overlooking the launch bay, Launch Officer Kelly ran quickly through the checklist. “Choker, this is Shooter. I have control—stand by.” On the far side of the window, a Viper Mark IV was lined up in the launch tube, fuming and ready to go. The pilot, Choker, glanced at him and gave a thumbs-up inside his closed cockpit. In two other launch tubes, the identical ritual was playing out.

  “Viper One-One-Zero-Four, clear forward.” Kelly verified that all systems were ready. “Nav-con green … interval check … mag-cat ready—”

  At those last words, a powerful piston slid forward and latched onto the Viper’s undercarriage, ready to catapult the fighter to launch speed. At the same time, a great steel door in front of the Viper dropped down, exposing the launch tube to open space.

  “—check door open … thrust positive, and … good luck.”

  The launch officer pressed the button that fired the electromagnetic catapult. The Viper pilot was slammed back in his seat as the fighter rocketed down a long, triangular tube.

  Outside Galactica, the Viper shot out of the launch port in the side of the ship, followed quickly by four more. They grouped up, waited a few moments for the sixth and last to appear, and when it didn’t, they got their clearance and lit their thrusters and fired off on an intercept course with the incoming enemy.

  In launch tube four, Kara “Starbuck” Thrace sat sealed in her cockpit, steaming as she waited for the launch officer to complete the checklist. She heard “Interval”—and raised a thumbs-up, eyes straight forward—“check”—every fiber of her body focused on the battle she was about to join, as the launch officer went through the items: “—thrusters positive … stand by.” Kara winced. What this time?

  Then she heard words she hated. “Thrusters fluctuating. Abort takeoff.”

  Frak!

  “Galactica, Viper Eight-Five-Four-Seven, throttle down to safe.” Making it sound like a curse, she powered the thrusters down.

  “Roger, Viper.”

  “Frak—get me out of here!” she shouted angrily.

  Outside the launch tube, the crew was in frantic motion. “Let’s go, let’s go!” Tyrol shouted. As soon as the exhaust cleared, the rear section of the launch tube opened, exposing the Viper, and the mechanical crews swarmed over her. “Let’s get her out of there. Cally! Prosna! Figure out what’s goin’ on!” The two specialists were already up on a service ladder, opening the engine compartment panels.

  When the cockpit canopy lifted, Kara ripped her helmet off and glared furiously at Tyrol. “Three frakkin’ aborts, Chief?”

  “We’re on it, sir. It’s the pressure-reg valve again.”

  “We should pull it!” Cally called, leaning in to look at the valve.

  “We can’t,” Prosna said. “We don’t have a spare.”

  Despite his words, Prosna and Cally quickly disconnected the valve and lifted it out. If they couldn’t fix this thing in minutes, Starbuck was going to be out of the fight—and maybe they all would be …

  As they worked, Starbuck could do nothing but listen to the wireless chatter coming in from the Vipers already out there. It didn’t sound good.

  “Inbound enemy contact … bearing two-four-seven … range one-one-five … closing …”

  Kara couldn’t take it anymore. “Let’s go!” she screamed at the deck crew.

  Tyrol was caught up, as well. “Come on, let’s go, let’s go!”

  Cally, up on top of the engine pod, called down, “We should just pull the valve and bypass the whole system.”

  “We can’t do that, the relay will blow,” Prosna said, struggling to loosen a connector.

  “It’ll hold! I’m telling you, I put that—”

  “Just pull the valve!” Chief Tyrol roared.

  Overhead, someone on the wireless was shouting, “Wedlock, you and Keyhole, over the top …” All those pilots out there were in combat for the first time in their lives. They need me out there!

  In the engine compartment, several pairs of hands worked furiously to bypass the faulty valve, while Starbuck came closer and closer to blowing her stack.

  In the CIC, Adama called out commands for the maneuvering of the ship, as he kept his ears tuned to the reports coming in from the Vipers. “Firing. Miss!”

  Adama winced. “Bow up half. Forward left … one quarter.” He was watching the attitude readouts with one eye, and position reports of the Vipers and the Cylon raiders with the other. “Stern right full.” The thruster controls, scattered from one end of the ship to the other, were all under manual control. “Engines all ahead full!” He had chosen his direction. Now he was going to try to get Galactica out of harm’s way, and let the Vipers do their jobs.

  “I can’t, I can’t get a lock! I can’t get a lock!”

  “Ahead full, sir,” reported Colonel Tigh. “Engines report full.”

  Overhead, the wireless had more reports from the Viper squadron. “Oh wait I’ve got it. Karen’s got him, Karen’s got him—no!”

  Adama turned away, grimacing, then looked back up.

  “I can’t get a shot! I can’t get a shot!”

  Adama fumed. Where was Starbuck? Why wasn’t his best pilot out there?

  “They’re comin’ on. Vipers, stay in formation! I can’t get a lock … ! Oh wait—I’ve got him. I’ve got him!”

  “Come on!” screamed Starbuck.

  “Ready! Ready!” shouted Prosna, slamming the engine access port shut.

  “Clear the tube, let’s go!” shouted Tyrol. “Get her in!”

  Starbuck smacked her helmet back on over her head and secured it. The crew was lowering the cockpit canopy, while the chief hollered, “Move—move!”

  About one minute later, flying a Viper that had “Raymond the Raygun” stenciled on its cockpit, Starbuck shot out of the side tube of Galactica, a tight grimace on her face. As soon as she was clear, she kicked in her thrusters and slammed herself into a sharp turn. She passed quickly alongside Galactica, then rocketed ahead, on her way to the battle.

  She didn’t have far to go. The sky ahead was crisscrossed by maneuvering Vipers … and by Cylons. It was her first look at a modern-day Cylon, and she hated them on sight. She had just enough time to think, Damn, I’ve never done this before, either, never had something actually trying to kill me. That thought vanished as she flew straight into the chaos of battle. Her gloved thumb was on the firing button on her stick, and as soon as she had a free-wheeling Cylon in her sights, she let loose with a volley. She missed. She looped around. These older Vipers were a little slower, and a little different handling in tight maneuvers, and their display screens were way more primitive. That’s all right, just focus on the other ships. A dogfight is the same, no matter what your instruments …

  Wheeling around, checking in with the rest of the squadron, Vipers flying every which way across her field of view, she found herself facing a Cylon raider, maybe the same one and maybe another. She got a good look at its red nose sensor, sweeping back and forth. And she got a look at something else, too, on her instruments.

  “Oh, frak me!” The thing was beaming an energy pulse at her. She checked her instruments again, and reported back to Galactica, “He’s radiating some sort of weapon at me, but it doesn’t seem to be having any effect.”

  And that sudden steadiness on the part of the Cylon gave her the opening she needed. She let loose a burst from her machine cannon, and the tracers fled out before her—and the Cylon exploded in a fireball. Her heart leapt. Her first kill! Galactica’s first kill.

  “All Vipers! Systems are go!” she called with a grin. Everything was still fully operational on her fighter. Whatever weapon the Cylons had used against the others, it wasn’t working now.

  The dogfight heated up. The Viper pilots, emboldened, flew closer and tighter. And the C
ylons, screaming among them, were no longer trying to shut them down, but were simply aiming to outfly and outshoot them. One got in a shot, and Kara saw a Viper disintegrate in a fireball. She couldn’t tell who it was, and didn’t have time to ask. “Hold it together, guys!” she shouted.

  She maneuvered hard and fast against the quick-reacting enemy. She didn’t get another shot, but something got a shot on her—there was a slam on her tail, and alarms started beeping furiously as she tried to dampen the sudden oscillations in her flight path. “I’m all right!” she shouted, trying to reassure the others, and maybe herself, too. It took a few seconds to get enough control back to reassure herself that she really was all right.

  As she swung herself around, trying and failing to turn fast enough to shoot at a Cylon passing close by overhead, she nevertheless got a good look at its underside. The exposed rack of missiles she saw sent chills down her spine …

  In the command center, Dualla turned and called a warning to the commander. “Radiological alarm!” A beeper was sounding the same warning.

  Beside Adama, Tigh stood close and said in a quiet, steely voice, “He’s got nukes.”

  In quick succession, three missiles streaked away from the Cylon. Kara saw it and reacted in fury. “Come on!” she screamed, and came around faster and sharper than she’d ever managed in her life. She opened fire on the Cylon, and it exploded. But its missiles were in flight. Kara didn’t even pause for breath, but continued her tight circle, following the arcs of the missiles.

  It was impossible, nobody could shoot a missile out of flight with a cannon. But that didn’t stop her from trying. She fired a continuous stream from her machine cannon, tiny rockets pouring out, a hail of fire chasing the missiles.

  One exploded. She swerved ever so slightly, flying with deadly precision. A second missile exploded.

  The third was too far away, and it was inbound at high speed toward Galactica. Another Viper streaked past going the other way; she nearly hit it with her cannon.

  “Galactica, you’ve got an inbound nuke! All Vipers, break break break!”

  There was nothing they could do for Galactica now except veer out of the way and try not to get caught in the explosion …

  “Right bow, left stern—emergency full power! Main thrust emergency full!” Commander Adama snapped the commands, doing the only thing he could to try to evade the missile. As he watched the screen, he knew it wasn’t enough. They were going to take a nuclear blast in the flank. Very softly he said to his old crewmate Tigh, “Brace for impact, my friend.”

  “I haven’t heard that in a while,” Tigh replied grimly.

  “Collision alarm!” Adama shouted. Klaxons started sounding throughout the ship. All any of them could do was brace, and pray.

  The missile struck the ship on the port side, and its nuclear warhead lit up the sky.

  CHAPTER 24

  GALACTICA, BURNING

  Starbuck winced in pain at the dazzling light from the nuclear explosion, but her Viper was far enough from Galactica to avoid sustaining further damage itself. She took a moment to regroup her thoughts, then made a fast scan to see if there were any more Cylons in the area. It seemed either she had destroyed the last one, or any others had left.

  “Vipers, set up a patrol around the ship,” she ordered the surviving members of the squadron. “I’m going in to inspect the damage.” She fired her thrusters and flew in toward the ship, passing the floating hulks of two dead Vipers on her way.

  There was no time to mourn them now; Galactica was burning. Kara flew alongside the port flight pod, close and slow enough to get a good look. “Galactica, Starbuck. If you’re reading me, the forward section of the port flight pod has sustained heavy damage.” It was a terrible sight, but it could have been a lot worse. She saw a lot of crumpled hull plating, and fire erupting from several compartments in the flight pod. Debris, smoke, and vapors were billowing into space. After a nuke, she was surprised the ship still had a port flight pod. “Galactica, you’ve got violent decompression all along the port flight pod. Do you read me? Galactica?”

  There was no answer, but that could mean anything from an antenna being knocked out of alignment to the whole crew being dead. Kara kept a tight control on her thoughts and her flying, and kept circling the ship, reporting in the blind. It was all she could do.

  GALACTICA, COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER

  The CIC was damaged but mostly intact. Crewmembers were moving quickly, tending to the injured, hoisting fallen equipment off the floor, and trying to get meaningful information out of partially damaged consoles. Ship-to-ship transmission was out, though they could just make out Starbuck’s scratchy reports. Adama was trusting to the remaining Vipers to protect the ship from outside dangers while they dealt with the emergencies on the inside.

  Adama’s neck was craned, as he squinted up through his glasses at one of the few working monitors, above the light table now being used for damage assessment. “Radiation levels within norms. The hull plating kept out most of the hard stuff.” Beside him, Tigh was using a grease pencil to correlate damage reports on a large transparent schematic of the ship.

  Gaeta called out more reports as they came in. “Sir, port stern thrusters are locked open. All bow thrusters unresponsive. We’re in an uncontrolled lateral counterclockwise spin.”

  “Send a DC party up to aux control,” Adama said, “and have them cut all the fuel lines to the stern thruster.”

  Tigh spoke as soon as he was finished. “Okay, we have got buckled supports all along the port flight pod, and chain reaction decompressions occurring everywhere forward of frame two”—he paused to check the printout in his hand—“two-fifty.”

  “That’s a problem,” Adama said grimly. It was a massive understatement; if that went unchecked, they could lose all launch and recovery capability, at the very least.

  “Kelly says he’s got three uncontrolled fires. That’s why he hasn’t been able to stop the decompressions.”

  Adama ran a finger along the diagram. “If the decomps continue along this axis, they could collapse the port pod.” He looked up at Tigh, his face grave. “Saul—take personal command of the DC units.”

  “Me?” Tigh asked, his face registering sudden appprehension.

  Gaeta interrupted at that moment with, “Sir, the stern thruster’s still locked open.” He gestured with a printout. “We need you.”

  And I need you, Saul. This is no time to frak around. Adama eyed his old friend, painfully aware of just how far he had fallen to the booze and self-pity. But he had to put his faith in the man now; he had no choice. In a low voice, he said, “You’re either the XO or you’re not.”

  At those words, Tigh stiffened, clearly struggling with his self-doubts. “Yes, sir,” he said. Adama turned and strode away with Gaeta, leaving Tigh to make up his mind.

  On the far side of the CIC, Chief Tyrol and Captain Kelly had arrived at a dead run from the hangar deck and were working furiously to coordinate the repair teams from the damage control station. Most of the remote videos were shorted out, but the alarm board was still functioning. A wall schematic of the ship, it used rows of indicator lights to display which sections were affected by decompression and fire.

  In the one functioning video display, they could see disaster unfolding on Port Deck D, Frame 32. The fire there was advancing rapidly, filling the compartment with smoke and toxic fumes. Something exploded with a bright flash, blowing out through the hull. Three more alarm lights lit up on the DC board. In the monitor, they could see that only two men in the crew of fifteen had breathing gear, and those two were frantically trying to herd the others out of the doomed compartment. One of the deck hands had grabbed a phone handset right next to the sending camera. He was choking in the smoke. “Chief! We’re losing pressure! The port pod—it’s buckling! We need help—!”

  The screen went white, and static filled the voice line. Tyrol cursed, just as Colonel Tigh stepped into view behind him. “Report,” demand
ed the XO.

  “Another compartment losing pressure,” said Kelly. “We just lost the monitor and comm.”

  Tyrol pointed to a line of pressure-alarm lights on the DC board. “There’s structural buckling all along this line! We’ve gotta get those fires out!”

  “I know! I know!” Kelly snapped.

  The phone rang, and Tyrol picked it up, covering his other ear to hear.

  Kelly continued, pointing for Tigh’s benefit. “Fire suppression’s down. Water mains are down. We’ve got gravity fluctuations all through the compartments. We’re trying to fight the fire with handheld gear, but—”

  Tyrol interrupted, relaying another report. “We’ve got another decompression on Deck D, close to the port pod!”

  Kelly turned to Colonel Tigh. “What are your orders, sir?” He waited for an answer. “Sir?”

  Tigh stood motionless, a hundred thoughts clamoring in his mind. Sweat broke out on his upper lip as he struggled to make a decision. He knew what needed to be done, but they’d never forgive him for it. He’d never forgive himself. He turned, without quite being aware of it, and across the CIC saw Bill Adama hunched over a table with Gaeta, planning whatever needed to be done to solve the thruster problem. Bill’s voice, harsh and unyielding, echoed in Tigh’s mind: You’re either the XO, or you’re not.

  Beside him, Kelly stopped waiting for an order from Tigh, and leaned in to Chief Tyrol. “All right, listen,” he said quietly, “I need you to take the rest of your DC teams down from the landing bay, to give them a hand …”

  Tigh turned back to them, suddenly realizing what Kelly was proposing. “There’s no time! Seal off everything forward of Frame Thirty and start an emergency vent of all compartments.”

  Tyrol lowered the phone in dismay. “But wait, I’ve got over a hundred people trapped up behind Frame Thirty-Four!” He pointed to the display on the board. “I just need a minute to get’em out!”