In the CIC, Commander Adama stood under the main bank of monitors, listening to the XO’s report. He had a lot of information on the pieces of paper spread out on the planning table, but he wanted to hear it directly from Tigh. The bottom line was that the ship was safe—for now. Hull breaches were being repaired, buckled supports could be straightened or replaced, and the landing bay would soon be able to receive the returning Vipers.
What he hadn’t heard yet was the cost in human life. He put on his glasses. “What was the final count?”
“Twenty-six walked out,” Tigh said grimly. “Eighty-five didn’t.” And that didn’t include the three Viper pilots lost in this battle—or the CAG’s entire squadron wiped out before it could return to them. Tigh took a breath and, hefting the munitions-supply notebook, continued, “There’s a munitions depot in the Ragnar Anchorage.”
Ragnar. Deep in a storm cell in the atmosphere of a gas giant planet. “Boy, it’s a super-bitch to anchor a ship there,” Adama said.
Tigh was undeterred. “Well, the book says that there are fifty pallets of class-D warheads in storage there. They should also have all the missiles and small-arms munitions we nee—”
“Go verify that.”
Tigh straightened. “Sir.” He handed the munitions-supply book to Adama and strode away.
If we can verify anything it’ll be a miracle, Adama thought, hefting the book in his hand. But a miracle is just what we need. That and some ammunition.
Tyrol continued his walk-through, knowing that he probably hadn’t seen the worst yet. He was right. It was confirmed when he stepped through a bulkhead door and found Specialist Cally in her yellow firefighting suit, slumped against a wall, cradling Specialist Prosna’s burned and blackened body. She was weeping, unable to speak. Tyrol didn’t try to speak to her, didn’t know what to say. Cally and Prosna, besides being his two best crewmembers and friends, had been a close-knit couple. He knelt in front of her, laying a hand on her arm, trying to give comfort where none could be given.
Cally looked at him beseechingly, for just one moment her eyes asking him to make it different somehow. In that moment, his thoughts fled to the other battle, the one none of them had seen, but had only heard through Sharon’s garbled transmission: an entire Viper squadron destroyed. And then the ominous silence following Sharon’s report that she too was under attack. He held no hope for changing that outcome or this one.
Finally, he lifted Prosna’s lifeless weight from Cally, and let her get to her feet. Weeping with nearly silent shudders, Cally helped him lower Prosna to the deck and lay him straight. There he would have to lie, until the stretcher teams came to remove him with the rest of the fallen.
Tyrol gave her shoulder a tight squeeze, then urged her out with him. She needed to be somewhere else, and he needed to make his report to Commander Adama.
Tyrol’s voice was hoarse as he said to the commander, “Do you know how many we lost?”
Adama’s response was abrupt. “Yes.” No emotion showed on his face, as he studied the planetary maps laid out on the strategy table. “Set up a temporary morgue in Hangar Bay B.”
Tyrol stood trembling, trying to form the words of protest. Finally he managed, “Forty seconds … sir. All I needed was … forty seconds.” He drew a ragged breath. “Eighty-five of my … people … and I told …” He swallowed and tried to control himself but couldn’t. “I told that sonofabitch …”
Adama swung around to face him straight on, eye to eye. In a low, iron-hard voice he said, “He’s the XO on this ship. Don’t you dare forget that.”
Trembling, Tyrol nodded.
Adama continued, his voice low and hard. “Now, he made a tough decision. Had it been me, we would have made the same one.”
Tyrol struggled to keep from shaking. In a nearwhisper, he implored, “Forty seconds … sir.”
Adama held his gaze a heartbeat longer. “Resume your post, Chief,” he said, and walked past Tyrol and on across the CIC.
Tyrol stood in shocked disbelief for a fraction of a second, then strode away to return to the cleanup. On his way out of the CIC, he passed Colonel Tigh just entering. He swerved around him with a dark, silent look and hurried on to make himself as busy as possible.
Adama watched as Tyrol departed. Sympathy would have to wait. They had something more important to worry about, which was defending their civilization against catastrophe. He needed Chief Tyrol as much as he needed Tigh, and he had confidence in the man—hell, he had brought Tyrol onto the ship at a time when no other skipper would, because of a single mistake in the past that had cost lives. He’d brought him aboard because Tyrol was the best spacecraft mechanic he had ever met, and a good leader. But right now there was no room for anything but absolute respect for authority. Saul Tigh was facing a similar test—and appeared to be passing it.
Tigh was standing across the table from him, giving him the latest information. Adama brought his attention back. “Munitions depot confirmed, but we have two problems,” Tigh said. “One, the Ragnar station is at least three days away at best speed. Two, the entire Cylon fleet is between here and there.” Tigh shook his head.
Adama absorbed that for a moment, then called out into the quietly bustling center, “Specialist!”
“Sir,” answered the voice of Navigation Specialist Johnson, behind him.
“Bring me our position.”
“Yes sir.” Johnson appeared at his side, laying a sheet of paper in front of him.
Adama picked it up and studied it. Across the table, Tigh was eyeing him, and starting to shake his head. He had guessed what Adama was thinking. “You don’t want to do this,” Tigh said.
“I know I don’t.”
“Because any sane man wouldn’t. It’s been, what—twenty, twenty-two years?”
Adama placed the piece of paper on top of the chart, studying the figures. “We train for this,” he said without looking up.
“Training is one thing,” Tigh said, leaning over the table toward him, and continuing in a low voice, “but … if we’re off on our calculations by even a few degrees, we could end up in the middle of the sun!”
Adama finally looked up. “No choice. Colonel Tigh, please plot a hyperlight Jump from our position to the orbit of Ragnar.”
Tigh capitulated, but not happily. “Yes sir.” And he moved off to plot the Jump. Adama watched him, with a twitch of a smile.
No sooner was Tigh gone than Petty Officer Dualla was at his side, delivering yet another printout. Her eyes were wide, her face tense, her usually melodic voice hoarse. “Priority message, sir.” She stood at attention, waiting, as he read it. Lords of Kobol. He felt the blood drain from his face. He pulled off his glasses, working through the implications in his mind.
At another station, he could hear the XO giving orders, “Engineering—spin up FTL drives one and two.” As the engineering officer acknowledged, Colonel Tigh continued, “Lieutenant Gaeta, break out the FTL tables and warm up the computers.” To the CIC at large, he announced, “We are making a Jump!”
The crew had barely begun to absorb that when Adama raised his voice to make his own announcement. “Admiral Nagala is dead. Battlestar Atlantia has been destroyed. So has the Triton, Solaria, Columbia … the list goes on.” He lowered his head.
Tigh walked toward him. “The senior officer. Who’s in command?”
By way of answering, Adama turned to Dualla. “Send a message … to all the Colonial military units, Priority Channel One.” Dualla wrote on a clipboard. “Message begins: Am taking command of fleet … .”
CHAPTER 28
COLONIAL ONE
President Laura Roslin peered over Captain Russo’s shoulder as he called, “Geminon liner Seventeen-Oh-One, this is Colonial Heavy Seven-Niner-Eight.” Captain Russo looked back over his shoulder at the newly sworn-in president and amended his call. “No, strike that. This is Colonial One.” Laura registered that with a slightly stunned expression. Clearly, this was going to take some getting u
sed to.
“Go ahead, Colonial One.”
“We have you in sight, and will approach your starboard docking hatch.”
“Copy Colonial One. Thank the Lords of Kobol you’re here. We’ve been without main power for over two hours now.”
Lee Adama, meanwhile, was bent over the secure message console, watching something come in. He tore it off and read it silently. He pursed his lips thoughtfully.
“What is it?” Laura asked.
Lee held it out and read dryly, “To all Colonial Units, am taking command of fleet. All units ordered to rendezvous at Ragnar Anchorage for a regroup and counterattack. Acknowledge by same encryption protocol.” Lee hesitated, mouth half open, then concluded, “Adama.”
Laura pulled the printout from his hand and looked at it soberly. She thought a moment, then lifted her chin and turned to Lee. “Captain Apollo. Please inform Commander Adama that we are involved in rescue operations and we require his assistance.” She felt a smile twitching on her lips. This was going to be interesting. Would he obey his new commander-in-chief? “Ask him how many hospital beds they have available, and how long it will take him to get here.”
Lee looked stunned once more. “I, uh—”
“Yes,” she said.
After taking a long time to consider her words, Lee said, “I’m not sure he’s going to respond very well to that request.” A smile touched his lips, too, matching hers.
“Then tell him,” she said, “it comes directly from the President of the Twelve Colonies, and it’s not a request.” She let her voice sharpen ever so slightly on the last words.
The two transport pilots swiveled their heads in surprise, then went studiously right back to what they were doing.
“Yes sir,” said Lee. As she started to leave the cockpit, he continued, “And sir?” She paused to listen. “Apollo’s just my call sign. My name’s Lee Adama.”
“I know who you are.” She smiled, this time letting a moment of genuine warmth come through. “But Captain Apollo has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” Without waiting for an answer, she headed back to the passenger cabin.
GALACTICA, COMBAT INFORMATION CENTER
Throughout the CIC, tension was growing as the enlisted crew ran through checklists and startup procedures for the FTL Jump, with Gaeta and Tigh overseeing their work. Commander Adama was sidetracked from his study of the planetary and tactical charts by Petty Officer Dualla handing him a printout. “It’s from Colonial One, sir,” she said.
“Colonial One? What the hell ship is Colonial One? The president’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes sir,” said Dualla evenly. “The new president, by succession, is former Education Secretary Laura Roslin. That’s the first part of the message.”
“The first part? What’s the second part?” Adama put his glasses back on and read the printout. He squinted at the message in disbelief, and as he reread it, his jaw tightened with anger. “Is this a joke?” He looked at Dualla. “Are they within voice range?”
“Yes sir,” said Dualla. She already had her headset on, and she sidled around a corner of the console to the transmission panel. “Colonial One, this is Galactica …”
Lee Adama was sitting in the copilot’s seat in the transport cockpit, awaiting the call from Galactica. He knew it wouldn’t take long. Of all the conversations in the universe he could imagine, this was probably the one he least wanted to have. The thought of it was crowding all other thoughts from his mind, including ones that kept trying to come back, such as, were all his friends on Caprica dead now, and what about his mother and her fiancé? These things weighed heavily on the back of his mind—and yet, the scratchy voice on the wireless drove them once more out of his thoughts.
“Colonial One, Galactica … Galactica Actual wishes to speak with Apollo.”
He had to struggle to get his breath. What was his father going to say? As if he didn’t know. “This is Apollo. Go ahead, Actual.” He pursed his lips and waited for a reply.
It was a minute or so in coming. Captain Russo fiddled with the wireless tuning, as if worried that they were missing the signal. Finally they heard Commander Adama’s voice:
“How are you”—they could hear the commander clearing his throat—“is the ship all right?”
Lee could not keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “We’re both fine. Thanks for asking.” Captain Russo glanced over at him, but said nothing.
“Is your ship’s FTL functioning?”
Lee glanced at Russo, who nodded. “That’s affirmative.”
“Then you’re ordered to bring yourself … and all your ship’s passengers … to the rendezvous point.” Pause. “Acknowledge.”
Lee hesitated. “Acknowledge … receipt of message .”
“What the hell does that mean?” the distant voice thundered.
“It means, ‘I heard you,’” Lee said impatiently.
His father’s voice sharpened. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that, Captain.”
“We’re engaged in rescue operations. By order of the president.” Your commander-in-chief.
“You are to abort your mission immediately.”
Lee winced. “The president has given me a direct order.”
“You’re talking about the secretary of education. We’re in the middle of a war! And you’re taking orders from a schoolteacher!” Adama’s voice shook the little wireless speaker; his anger practically jumped out into the cockpit of the transport.
Lee was aware of the president coming back into the cockpit, and listening to the conversation. But before he could either gauge her reaction or reply to his father, a beeping sound from the dradis display interrupted the argument.
“We’ve got trouble,” Captain Russo said.
“Uh, stand by, Galactica.” He leaned toward Captain Russo. “What?”
Russo tapped the dradis screen. “Inbound Cylon fighters.” He reached and pressed a series of switches. “Spinning up FTL. We have no defense against the fighters. Eduardo, give me a plot.”
At that, President Laura Roslin came forward, putting her glasses on. “How long till they get here?”
Russo look startled at her reappearance. “ETA, two minutes.”
“He’s right,” said Lee. “We have to go. Now.”
“No,” said Laura, shaking her head.
“Madame President, we can’t defend this ship—”
“We’re not going to abandon all these people.”
“But sir—if we stay—”
“I’ve made my decision, Captain.” She spoke clearly and unemotionally, her eyes focused outside the cockpit, searching for the Cylons.
He stared at her in disbelief for a moment. She was as pig-headed and irrational as his father. “You’re the president,” he said, peeling off his headset and climbing out of his seat to squeeze past her.
She looked startled at his sudden departure. Eduardo moved quickly from the jump seat back into the copilot’s seat. “All right, then,” she said.
“Permission to go below?” Lee asked, on his way out. He didn’t wait for an answer. He had less than two minutes to act before the Cylons would destroy them. She might think that he was jumping to his Viper-probably even hoping that—but he had another idea. A ridiculously long shot, but what other choice did they have?
He made his way at a run, down to the cargo deck.
He had seen a small control panel down there …
In the CIC, an enlisted man darted from the remote sensor console over to where Lieutenant Gaeta was working on the FTL solution. After a hurried conference, Gaeta darted just as quickly to Commander Adama’s side. Tigh followed his movement with concern. “Sir,” said Gaeta, “we have remote sensor telemetry from Captain Apollo’s position, and two enemy fighters are closing in on her port …”
Oh frak no. Adama grabbed the headset he had torn off in disgust a minute ago, and tried to reach Colonial One. “Colonial One—this is Galactica! Apollo—you have inbound enemy f
ighters coming toward you! Get out of there! Apollo! Lee—get—Lee—!”
The bloom on the dradis screen told him he was too late.
In the cockpit of the transport, Laura saw and felt a blinding blast that hurled her against the back door of the compartment and took the world away.
In the CIC, the dradis display flickered, sorting through static, then went clear, showing no signal returns from the area where a minute ago there had been two civilian craft and two hostiles. Then the screen went dark, as the remote sensors were caught by the blast. They were all gone. Sensors, ships, everything.
Adama watched in disbelief, and finally bowed his head. He could say nothing. He could only fight to keep the pain from showing on his face. Lee. Gone. Why? Why Lee? He stood that way for a very long time.
Finally he heard Gaeta’s voice through the inner static of the pain: “Estimate a fifty-kiloton thermonuclear detonation.”
Nuke. Fusion bomb. Your only hope was to Jump out of there. Why didn’t you? Adama’s face creased with pain. But he could not, dared not, show any more emotion in front of the crew. Not now.
Gaeta’s voice continued, “Cylons moving off. Sir.”
Around him, everyone was silent. Everyone wishing they could help, wishing they could change it, wishing they could just say something. Eventually Tigh came up behind him and rested his hands on Adama’s shoulders. And stood with him. Just stood.
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