01 - Battlestar Galactica (20 page)

On the hangar deck, everyone was scrambling to find a seat for the Jump—not
because the transition would be bumpy or jerky, but because it could be so
disorienting. Chief Tyrol clapped his hands, trying to get everyone moving.
Specialist Cally sat uneasily on a toolbox right next to the nose of a Viper.
She winced with each second of the countdown. As the count reached two, she murmured to
anyone listening, “I hate this part!” No one answered; no one needed to.

In the CIC, Adama and Colonel Tigh stood ramrod straight, facing each other
across the plotting table.

As Gaeta’s count reached zero, the room surrounding them seemed to flex, all
the angles changing at once, like a four-sided prism distorting and flattening,
and finally folding in upon itself. The moment itself seemed to stretch out, as
the fabric of space-time bent and folded…

If an outside eye had been looking closely and quickly enough, it might have
seen the ship twisting in upon itself, for a fraction of an instant—before it
vanished with a diamond flash…

And half a solar system away, it reappeared in the same way, and unfolded
into the sky above the gas giant planet of Ragnar. Directly below, in the upper
atmosphere of the planet, was the whirlpool of a massive storm, a reddish-tinged
mark against the dreary olive green of the rest of the clouds.

Adama looked around at the monitors, but the information he needed was not
there. “Report,” he called quietly.

Gaeta ran quickly from the FTL console to the nav, where he worked with the
nav officer. “Taking a bearing now.” Frowning at the readouts, he finally
straightened. His face was sober, but by the time he had finished delivering his
report, he was grinning. “We appear to be in synchronous orbit, directly above
the Ragnar Anchorage.”

Shouts and hand-clapping broke out around the CIC. Gaeta raised a hand in
salute, and reached out to shake the hands of his nearest fellow officers.

At the plotting table, Adama actually smiled.
Unbelievable.
He glanced
at his XO. “The old girl’s got some life in her still.”

Tigh laughed briefly. “I never doubted it for a moment.”

Nodding, Adama called out, “Lieutenant Gaeta—secure the FTL drive and bring
the sublight engines to full power.” He turned back to his XO. “Colonel Tigh—”

“Sir.”

“Let’s update your chart for a course… right down into the eye of the
storm.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Tigh began happily rearranging the transparent charts on the plotting
table, the voice on the PA called: “Attention, Magazine Safety Officers, report
to the CIC…”

Preparations were underway for the rearming of
Galactica.

In her bunkroom, Kara Thrace was finally getting out of her flight-suit, and
trying not to come unglued at the news of the shocking losses of this very young
war. Most especially, the loss of Lee Adama. It was like being hit with Zak’s
death all over again. As she opened her locker, revealing a small mirror on the
inside of the locker door, her gaze fell on a photo she’d kept stuck in the
mirror’s frame—a photo of herself with Zak, laughing and hugging, taken just a
couple of weeks before Zak’s death. Though he was a shy man, laughing was always
easy for Zak to do; he had eyes that just naturally seemed joyous, full of life.
It was one of the reasons she loved him.

Kara let out a long breath. She stretched the picture out to its full
original length, revealing the third person who had been folded out of view: Lee Adama, the serious one, the born pilot and ace
student. For all their bickering, she’d loved Lee like the brother he’d almost
become to her, and maybe a little more. The ache this picture produced in her
heart was doubled, now.

Blinking back tears, she gazed at picture, blurry to her now, and murmured
softly, “Lords of Kobol, hear my prayer. Take the souls of your sons and
daughters lost this day…” She paused, swallowing back the lump in her throat,
and continued, “…especially that of Lee Adama, into your hands…”

Hangar Bay B was a quiet place now, and somber. The bodies of sixty-some
fallen crewmembers were stretched out in neat rows on the floor, zipped into
ticketed white body bags. They weren’t all there, of course; many had not been
recovered—the pilots lost in battle, and the crewmen swept out into space during
the emergency vent. But those who were here served as a sobering reminder of the
price this ship, this crew, had paid already.

Launch Officer Kelly walked down the rows, carrying a fistful of dog tags, a
grave expression on his face. He had not forgotten, nor would he ever forget,
that many of those lying here might yet be alive if the XO and Chief Tyrol—and
he—had not killed eighty-five people in the process of saving the ship. The fact
that it was necessary did not take away the burning pain and anger.

More victims were being carried in past him. And he was certain this was not
the end. He hoped there would be enough room in here for all those who would die
before it was over.

Colonial One

President Laura Roslin came to, groggily, and pushed herself painfully to a
sitting position.
Where am I?
It took a moment to realize that she’d been
sprawled on the deck of the cockpit. The two pilots were in their seats shaking
their heads and rubbing their necks—they must have blacked out, as well. Power
was just coming back on, the console lights flickering to life.
What the
devil
just happened? Two Cylon missiles coming at us
… She last
remembered having about three seconds left to live—three seconds to regret her
foolish stubbornness in forbidding a Jump to safety.
Because of the other
ship. We would have left them to die. Instead, I stupidly decided we should all
die…

Except they hadn’t.

“Captain Russo,” she said, struggling to her feet, her voice a raspy croak.
“Why are we still here?” She steadied herself on the back of the pilot’s seat,
squinting over Captain Russo’s shoulder.

The captain’s voice wasn’t much stronger than hers. “I’m not sure. I think
the missiles’ warheads went off prematurely. Maybe Captain Adama can explain. Do you know where he—?”

Laura suddenly remembered. “He said he was heading below. You don’t suppose—”

Russo cast a sharp glance over his shoulder. “We’d better get down there.
Eduardo, you have the controls.”

Racing down the staircase to the cargo deck, Laura was first to see Lee Adama
sprawled on the deck unconscious, near some very large coils that had been
offloaded from
Galactica.
Captain Russo grabbed a first-aid kit and was
right behind her as she ran to Lee and crouched at his side. “Captain Apollo!”

He stirred and blinked his eyes open. With Captain Russo helping from the
opposite side, she brought him to a sitting position. Lee’s eyes slowly came
back into focus. “That was fun,” he croaked.

Laura and Russo looked at each other, and suddenly began laughing, even
though they had no idea what they were laughing about.

“I think it worked,” Lee said woozily as he struggled to get up.

“What exactly did you
do?”
Laura asked.

Blinking, he said, “I basically just used… the energy coils to manipulate
the p-power of the hyperdrive.” Breathing hard, he continued, “Captain, you…
spun up the hyperdrive… before the president ordered you to stay. I used the
coils to h-harness that energy and p-p”—he struggled to speak—“put out a big
pulse of electro… mag-magnetic energy that must have… disabled the
warheads. Ohhhh—” He started to collapse, but Laura and Russo caught him and
supported him until he could stand again. “I’m—I’m hoping—that it looked like a
nuclear explosion.”

Laura’s heart leaped. “So that’s what that was!” She felt hope for the first
time in what seemed like a very long while.

He nodded. “So, uh—”

“Will it fool the Cylons?”

His face darkened. “I don’t know. But, if—if they weren’t fooled, then they’d
be on top of us by now.”

Laura involuntarily looked up, as though she might see through the walls and
the hull, to confirm that there were no Cylons on top of them.

Captain Russo spoke for the first time. “Does the rest of the fleet know
about this trick?”

Lee grimaced. “I doubt it. It was just a theory we toyed with at war college,
but”—he shook his head—“it never used to work during war games. In the
simulations, the Cylons would see right through it and destroy their targets
anyway.” He chuckled painfully.

Laura absorbed that for a moment. “The lesson here,” she said with a glance
at Captain Russo, “is not to ask follow-up questions, but to say,
thank
you, Captain Apollo, for saving our collective asses.”

Lee nodded and grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“I’ll thank you, too,” said Captain Russo. “And now, I’d better get back to
the cockpit and check on the other ship.”

As they made their way back toward the staircase Lee began, “Now, if I could
suggest—”

“Evacuate the passenger liner,” Laura interrupted, “and get the hell out of
here before the Cylons realize their mistake? I’m right with you, Captain.”

Lee chuckled, falling back to let her go up the stairs ahead of him.

As she climbed the stairs, though, Laura’s thoughts were very much on the
need for tough choices ahead. She’d
thought
she was being tough by
determining to stand by the passenger liner when the Cylon appeared. But only
luck, providence, and the ingenuity of Captain Apollo had saved them. She had to
assume that next time they would not be so fortunate.

Galactica,
at Ragnar

The great ship was gliding slowly down toward the dark immensity of the
Ragnar atmospheric storm. It was harder than it looked: Bringing a ship down
from synchronous orbit to the point directly below it was not like riding an
elevator. It required careful orbital calculations, precise application of
power, and a fair amount of brute force if you were in a hurry.
Galactica
was in a hurry.

In the CIC, Colonel Tigh was calling out instructions: “Five seconds to turn
three.”

“Five seconds, aye, sir,” answered Gaeta.

“And turn.”

Gaeta took over: “Bow pitch positive one-half. Stern pitch negative
one-quarter. Bow yaw negative three-quarters…”

They were in the outer atmosphere now, dropping closer and closer to the
swirling storm.

* * *

“Passing into the ionosphere,” Petty Officer Dualla called, relaying the
latest readings. Even as she said it, the ship was starting to vibrate from the
buffeting of high winds in Ragnar’s atmosphere.

Commander Adama picked up the phone and addressed the ship: “All hands. Be
ready for some chop.”

As the ship continued to descend, crews from the engineering and hangar decks
were gathering equipment and tools near the main D Level airlock. They moved
without undue rush, but with grim determination.

And outside the ship, the clouds darkened, and the winds grew stronger,
threatening to blow the ship off her course down into the eye of the storm.
Lightning flashed, illuminating and occasionally connecting with her hull. And
far down in the mists of the turbulent atmosphere, a shape slowly emerged from
the foreboding gloom—the long spindle of Ragnar Station, with three wheellike
rings counter-rotating about its lower end.

Galactica
approached slowly, bucking the ever-shifting winds. Dropping
cautiously past the length of the station, she approached from beneath, like a
submarine rising to dock with an underwater station. This was the most difficult
part of the docking procedure. Tricky enough in space, without gravity or
buffeting winds, it was ten times more difficult here.

And yet, still they drew nearer, closing on the docking module that protruded
from the bottom end of the spindle. The great
Galactica
was the size of a
toy truck compared to the immensity of the Ragnar Station. There was some final
jockeying at the end, and then the magnetic locks pulled the ship’s hull and the
docking collar firmly together. Once soft-seal was achieved, large mechanical
latches secured the two vessels with a series of
thunks
that reverberated
throughout the ship.

In the CIC, Lieutenant Gaeta slid a single control lever on the airlock
panel, pressurizing the join between the two airlocks. A small mechanical gauge beside the control lever rotated into the green, and
Gaeta looked up and reported, “Hard seal.” He followed that with several other
atmosphere and pressure checks, and reported them positive. “Cleared for
boarding, sir,” he said to Adama.

On Level D, in front of the airlock, Specialist Cally checked a similar
gauge. She turned to Chief Tyrol. “Hard seal secured, sir.”

Tyrol, speaking into the phone handset, reported, “We confirm, sir.”

“Go find me some bullets, Chief,” Adama ordered.

“Understood,” Tyrol replied. He hung up the phone. “All right! Let’s move
out.”

His men were already spinning the wheels to undog the hatch. The large port
swung open, and the crew moved quickly through the airlock into the Ragnar
Station.

The ammunition depot, inside the station, was guarded by huge, rusty doors
that would not have looked out of place as castle gates. The crew forced them
open on their creaking hinges, then moved in quickly with searchlights and
weapons at the ready. The cavernous space within was dark except for the lights
they brought with them, and it echoed with every move they made.

“All right, people, let’s be quick about this,” Tyrol called. “Cally, find
the switches and generators and get some lights on in here.” Without waiting for
the lights, they moved in through the great warehouse. Crates and larger
containers were stacked everywhere, in an apparently random and hurried fashion.
The crewmen flashed their beams around, finding munitions symbols and caution
messages in large letters on most of the containers and caged storage areas.
They were going to have to be fast but thorough, sorting out the ordnance that could be used on
Galactica
from that which couldn’t.