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True and hopefully we will be finding out shortly.

“Commander,” Danis answered holding one hand to he comm link she wore on one ear.  “The station is hailing us.”

“On speaker.”

“Battlestar Scorpia, Cerberus Anchorage.   Halt your attack immediately—this is a direct order from the person of Rear Admiral Carson Trahn.  Authentication codes follow,” the loudspeaker broadcast, just as Tom walked back into CIC.

“What the frack?  Admiral Trahn?” he asked Mathias and the Commander nodded his own unease.  Carson Trahn was on the board of the Fleet Advanced Projects Bureau—he wasn’t a line officer and he certainly should not be out here.

“Admiral Trahn’s personal codes are confirmed and authenticated, Commander,” reported Danis.

“Cerberus, Scorpia Actual—we have not yet begun to attack, Cerberus.  Your guardship launched an ill-advised attack upon us.  The crew aboard Aurora should be grateful that we resolved that illegal and unwarranted attack in a non-lethal manner.”

“Scorpia Actual, Cerberus Actual,” the loudspeaker said after a few moments.  “I believe that matters have nearly gotten out of hand—what is your clearance from Picon Fleet Headquarters?”

“Cerberus Actual—seven months ago the Cylons launched an attack on the Colonies.  Picon Fleet Headquarters was destroyed.  Every Colony was struck with hundreds of nuclear warheads—the Fleet is gone.  Scorpia is escorting survivors in an attempt to link up with other Fleet elements.”

There was a long pause.  “I . . . see,” the Admiral on the far end of the line said slowly.  “Perhaps it would be for the best, Commander, if you were to come aboard and brief me in person.  Proceed with your Battlestar to Docking Bay three—all other ships to keep their distance or they will be fired upon.”

“Cerberus Actual, Scorpia Actual.  Do you mean to suggest that I should halt recovery operations on Aurora and her pilots in order to dock this ship?  I am officially and for the record requesting permission to take a Raptor across instead.”  Mathias asked the question with a frown on his face and a small shake of his head.

Once again there was a pause and then the Admiral sighed.  “Very well.  Complete your recovery efforts and then dock.  We will be expecting your Raptor while Scorpia completes the recovery operation.  Cerberus out.”

Mathias racked the phone, and Tom swore.  “I don’t like this, Commander,” he whispered.  “We nearly blow away a Fleet ship and crew, and he doesn’t seem the least bit concerned?  Not about our intentions or the lives of the people aboard, but he wants us to hard-dock?  Where if we were hostile we could tear out the bowels of that station from point-blank range.  And he was just going to leave the people on Aurora and in the Vipers out there to die?”

He sighed and nodded.  “Agreed, Tom.  Still, he’s an Admiral—I’m a Commander.  You have the conn—and stay on full alert,” Mathias added.

“At least ta-. . .,” Tom began, but Mathias chuckled as he unracked the phone.

“Flight Operations, CIC.  Have Prince spin up a Raptor for transport—with his guard detachement onboard,” the Commander ordered and then racked the phone.

“My pilot is the monarch of Virgon—and well, Virgon law, enshrined in the Articles of Colonization, requires that he have armed guards at all times, in all locations.  Even if Trahn objects, he hasn’t a leg to stand legally to order them back to the ship.”

Tom smiled and he nodded.  “Good hunting, Commander,” he said with a salute.

“You have the conn, Colonel,” Mathias answered before returning the salute and exiting CIC.

“Captain Malcolm reporting to the Flight Deck as ordered, Commander!” the pilot snapped with a brisk salute—and Mathias shook his head. 

“As you were, Prince,” the Battlestar Commander said as Chief Sinclair and the deck gang readied a Raptor for the short flight.  “You can fly that thing, right?”

“Sir.  I can fly it quite well,” Hamish answered with a broad grin. 

“Technically, he can fly, Gremlin,” added another voice—that of the Raptor Squadron XO, Jester, Lieutenant Andrew Martens.  “But he isn’t combat qualified yet—are you, Prince?”

“Not yet, Jester,” Hamish replied in a clipped voice.  “Not to worry, I will meet my qualifications within the month.”

“He has been working on it hard in the simulators, Gremlin,” Jester added with a grin.  “And he’s not a bad pilot—that I can say.”

“You plan on riding along, Jester?” Mathias asked, taking in the flight suit and holstered sidearm.

“Prince doesn’t have an assigned EWO yet, and since I’m his check officer, that means I pulling that job for the moment.  So, yes Sir, Gremlin, Sir, I’m riding along.  Your grunts are already loaded.”

“Well, then,” said Mathias.  “Time to get moving.”

****************************************************

Prince eased the Raptor into the docking bay aboard Cerberus and he gently sat down the Raptor and engaged the magnetic clamps in one smooth motion.  Hamish turned his head—encased in the helmet and he nodded.  “Precision is very important for Search and Rescue Operations, Commander—I might not yet be combat qualified, but I know how to set down a Raptor very precisely indeed.”

“That you do, Prince,” the Commander said as the elevator began to lower to the hanger bay located beneath the flight deck.  Unlike his previous excursion in a Raptor, this time the Commander wore his duty uniform—not a flight suit.  And today, he wasn’t hands-on-stick as the copilot either.  Of course, the transfer had taken just two minutes from leaving Scorpia’s deck to landing here, so it wasn’t as if the pilot had needed a second.  “Nice landing.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Hamish answered.

Mathias unstrapped himself and walked back into the troop compartment.  “Jester briefed you two?” he asked.

“Sir,” answered Colour Sergeant Haast, with Walsh giving a nod as well.  “We are here in case things go south—an event to be determined by you, Sir.”

“Exactly, gentle-. . .,” but for the second time in two days a subordinate interrupted Mathias.

“Colour Sergeant, soldier, or troop, Sir, if you please.  I am no damned gentleman with a commission from the Crown or the Quorum.”

The Commander glared at the man for a moment, but then he snorted.  “I stand corrected, Colour Sergeant Haast.  I don’t like this situation and if things do . . .,” Mathias snorted as he repeated the NCOs words back, “go south, then I want good men at my back.  Until then, however, keep your mouths shut and your weapons holstered and slung but ready.  That goes for you and Jester as well, Prince.”

“Understood, Commander,” the pilot answered as Jester just nodded his acknowledgement.  The Raptor jerked as the elevator came to a halt in the hanger deck.  “Open her up,” Mathias ordered and Jester unsealed the hatch and swung it open.

A deck crew were already rushing forward with a mounting ladder, but Mathias ignored them and he jumped down from the stubby wing. 

“Commander Lorne?” asked the officer of the deck as he came over saluted.  “Lieutenant Spence, Officer of the Deck, Cerberus Anchorage.  If you will come with me—your crew will be escorted to the pilot’s ready room.”

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid,” Mathias said as he fell in step with the young man.  “Captain Malcolm is my aide at the moment, and the remainder of the detail is his personal security detachement—Virgon law, I hate to say.”

The officer paused and then he sucked in a deep breath as he saw the Prince standing there.  “I . . . see,” he said.  “Admiral Trahn wanted to speak with you alone, Sir.”

“Well, I cannot violate the law, Lieutenant—nor can the Admiral—simply because it presents an inconvenience.  Now, either escort us to the Admiral, or I and my people will return to my ship and the Admiral can pay me a visit onboard her.”

The young man blinked and then he nodded.  “This way, Sir.”

“What the . . .,” Jester whispered as they passed through a set of almost sealed bulkhead en route to the ladders up.  Mathias echoed that thought himself.  The hanger bay was filled with fighters—a very different fighter from the normal Vipers.

Two very large and powerful engines were separated from each other, each capped by a forward assembly ending in a nose cone with cannon muzzles protruding from the four cardinal points—for a total of eight.  A lifting body connected the two engine pods with a cockpit—two cockpits, Mathias noted.  And outboard of the engine pods, she carried a two pairs of wings—one sharply canted delta wing above and longer straighter wing below.

Lieutenant Spence grinned.  “You are the first outside of Cerberus Anchorage to see her, Commander.  This is the new Thunder Mk I heavy strike fighter—ready for final acceptance trials as soon as Aurora’s replacement arrives on station and she returns to the Colonies.  Do you have word on that?  They are overdue.”

Mathias and his men stopped and stared at the officer of the deck.  Damn, he thought.  They haven’t been told.  “Lieutenant,” he said gently, “there will be no replacement from the Colonies—the Cylons attacked in force and destroyed the Fleet . . . and all twelve Colonies.”

Spence blinked.  “That is not a very amusing joke, Commander,” he said after working his jaw.

“Son,” Mathias said as he laid a hand on his shoulder.  “That wasn’t a joke—those ships of mine out there?  They carry all the survivors I could save.  I am en route to rendezvous with other survivors—but the Colonies are lost.”

The young man swayed and the blood drained from his face, but Mathias’s strong hand kept him upright.  He stared into the Commander’s eyes, hoping that he could see that Mathias was lying—but the eyes filled with sorrow and rage told him it was true.  Spence swallowed.

And then he ran over to a refuse can and vomited up his morning meal.

Mathias waited until the young Lieutenant recovered and wiped his mouth—discarding the small handkerchief in the refuse bin in the process—walking back over to the man he was supposed to be guiding.

“My apologies, Commander,” he began, but Mathias cut him off.

“None needed, Lieutenant—trust me,” he said with a smile, “I know the feeling of receiving it suddenly.  These fighters,” he said with an appreciative grin, “are they ready for service?”

“Trials, Commander.  They have been flight-tested, their avionics are installed, and all weapons are functional—but until Picon Command completes a one-year testing program, they won’t enter the Fl-. . .,” he grimaced.  “That is to say, they still may have glitches in their systems that haven’t been found yet.”

“Lot of firepower,” commented Jester, “but with two engines they’ve gotta a lot slower to accelerate than a Viper.”

“Not as much as you might think, Lieutenant,” Spence replied.  “The Thunders engines are larger and more powerful than those on a Viper—she can’t match a Viper for acceleration, but she’s got plenty of power and she is maneuverable.  Eight guns forward and she carries the same ammo load as a Mark VII Viper for each of them.  She’s got a longer range—bigger tanks, and having two engines eats less fuel than three—and she is equipped with four recessed hardpoints for standard Viper and Raptor ordnance,” he knelt and smiled.  “Or each of those wells can hold a full sized Hydra.”

Mathias whistled as he crouched as well.  “That gives her some options, all right.  Why two cockpits?  Vipers have always had one pilot—except for trainers.”

“The second cockpit is for an EWO, Commander.  She carries a larger and more robust DRADIS system than even the Mark VII—not as long-ranged or capable as the one on a Raptor, but better than anything on any Viper in service.  And she has the full jamming system of a Raptor.  The EWO controls both and is responsible for DRADIS-guided long-missile locks,” he shook his head, “and the counter-measures pod.”

He stood and walked to the back of the fighter and nestled between the engines was an series of jettison ports.  “She carries chaff pods, decoys, and flares, Commander.  Damn shame she won’t ever get to the Fleet.”

“I don’t know about that, Lieutenant,” Mathias said as he laid his hand on the cold metal skin of the fighter.  “You have crews for these aboard station?”

“Yes, sir.  They sent out pilots and EWOs to learn how to handle these for the upcoming trials—a lot of it is simulator time though.”

“Good,” Mathias whispered.  “I think we can find a use for these aboard Scorpia—work out those glitches and bugs, while we are it, Lieutenant.”

Spence looked down and then he shook his head.  “I don’t think Admiral Trahn will let you take them—you aren’t on the list for them, Commander.  And he is just a little bit,” Spence paused and he sighed, “a little bit set in his ways.”

“We will see, Lieutenant,” Mathias said with a sudden nod.  “What is the complement of the Anchorage?”

“Three hundred Fleet personnel and two hundred civilians working for the government,” he answered promptly. 

“That few?”

“Well, we are a classified research station, Commander,” the Lieutenant answered lightly.  “I’ve kept you here too long; if you would follow me, I am certain that the Admiral is waiting.”

And following the Lieutenant, the five officers and men from Scorpia began to ascend the ladders.

****************************************************

A stout man dressed in the uniform of Colonial Fleet was ushered into CIC by the Marines.  Colonel Jayne glared at the newcomer, who returned his gaze with fury in his own eyes.

“What the frack did you do to my ship!?” he bellowed.

“We prevented you from making a major mistake, Colonel Foeswan,” Tom said in a measured tone.  “I am glad that it worked, because otherwise your ship would be a pile of expanding debris and five hundred eighty-three Colonial officers and crew would have lost their lives.”

Tom ignored the Colonel for a moment and he turned back to Marius Tyche.  “Have the engineers reported any problems with removing the CNP and replacing it with the pre-update program?”

“No, sir.  It should be completed in one hour and then the ship can power back up—her batteries are good for that long, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Mister Tyche,” Tom said as he turned around and planted both hands on the central console.  “And now, Colonel Foeswan, why the Hells didn’t you get authorization from the station before you attacked us?”

The other ship commander blinked and then he sighed.  “What makes you think I didn’t, Colonel?  By all the Gods and Goddesses, this whole situation is just so fracked up,” he swore, running one hand through his thinning hair.

Tom inclined his head to one side.  “The station ordered you to attack?”

“Admiral Trahn ordered me to disregard what you said about the Colonies and destroy you—with authenticated confirmation of that order, Colonel,” Foeswan said quietly.  “What you said about the Colonies—is it true?”

Tom just nodded.  “I thought as much,” the commander of Aurora said in a whisper.  “Our relief is two months overdue, but the Admiral refused to even let us send a Raptor back to find out why.  The man is a fanatic about security over his projects, Colonel.  I’ll wager a hundred cubits that he is giving your Commander orders right now that this ship has now just joined the Cerberus Defense Fleet,” he finished in a sour tone.

“Like hell,” Tom snorted.  “We’ve got Cylons on our ass in pursuit, Colonel—five Basestars.  They will at least check this system,” he snorted.  “The radiation takes time to work, and they don’t need that long to kill us.”

Mark Foeswan looked up, and his eyes were squinted.  “Trahn isn’t going to let you go—he won’t authorize it.”

“So?  He’s a pencil pusher, Colonel—never had a field command in his life.  I looked up his record.  He might have the rank to order us to stay, but you know the first thing I learned at the Academy a long time ago?  Never give an order that will not be obeyed.  Colonel, Scorpia and the ships we are riding herd will not be staying.  It’s up to you if Aurora wants to come along—or stay here and wait on the Cylons.”

“He’s an Admiral,” Mark said through gritted teeth.

“Yeah, he is.  But you know what?  Putting a star on someone’s shoulder doesn’t make them as wise as Athena or as courageous as Herakles.  I’ll trust Commander Lorne long before I trust this Trahn.  And you’ve got a choice to make, Colonel.  Come with us—where you and your ship might make a difference—or stay.”

Tom stood straight and he nodded to the Marines, who removed the shackles.  “Either way, I think you need to get that ship back in fighting condition, Colonel.  If you aren’t planning on attacking us again.”

“No.  Not again, Colonel,” he lowered his head and he swore.  “There are five hundred people on that station—forty percent of them civilians.”

Tom nodded.  “How many can you accommodate?”

The man blinked.  “Aurora can load almost all of them—but Trahn . . .,” and Tom cut him off.

“Don’t worry about Trahn, Colonel.  Just get your ship fixed and ready to load those civilians—and any supplies we need.”

Foeswan nodded and then he came to attention and saluted—a gesture which Tom returned with equal gravity.  And then he left, trailed by his Marine escort.

Tom picked up the phone.  “Captain Aisne, CIC,” he said.

“Go, CIC,” the Marine answered after a moment.

“How long to draw up a plan to take that station by force, if it comes to it?” he asked.

“Thirty minutes?”

“You’ve got ten,” and he racked the phone.  “Captain Danis.  Inform Cerberus we have completed recovery operations and are moving to dock as ordered.  Major Tyche, set a leisurely course—ten minutes should be adequate.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” both officers answered.

And Tom Jayne put his hands behind his back and stared at the DRADIS display.

Time to zap another admiral... is there a 6 handy?

Oh crap... This cannot end well... 

Anxiously waiting the next installment, MA! (very anxiously...  )

“Commander, Captain Aisne,” the wireless crackled.  “I’ve got Centurions coming out of the woodwork down here!”  The bark of automatic weapons fire resounded in the background, followed by the whoosh and boom of a heavy rocket.  “We are holding Primary Life Support—but they keep on coming.”

Mathias cursed.  Sinclair and his men were emptying the Ordnance Locker quickly—but it was still taking too long.  “Understood, Captain.  Destroy the controls in Primary Life Support and fall back on the ship,” he ordered.  “Lieutenant Spence, just where are they coming from?”  The ‘and how the fracking hells did they get aboard?’ went unsaid.

He pulled up a schematic of the Anchorage on a portable monitor.  “The lower twelve decks are restricted areas—isolated from the normal crew and accessed only by the Admiral and hand-picked research personnel.  Most of them were on duty when you came aboard, Commander,” the young reported.  “That section has their own Raptor hanger—the Admiral must have ferried them across a few at a time.”

Mathias looked at the schematic and then he blanched.  “Is that an industrial fabrication complex?”

“Yes, sir.  We are equipped to produce our own parts.”

“How long has that area been restricted?” he asked with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Over half a year, Commander,” Spence said, his face turning a pasty white.  “You don’t think . . .?”

“Can we pull up the security footage from the recorders in that area?”

“I’ll have to override the Admiral’s codes,” the Lieutenant said as he frowned and began to access different files.  “Got it, Commander.”

“Oh frack all of us,” Mathias whispered as the camera began to transmit.  “That bloody madman allowed the Centurions to build a Cylon construction complex down there!”  And the camera suddenly jerked and went dead.

Mathias picked up the wireless again.  “All personnel, this is the Commander!  We are leaving!  Get aboard ship ASAP!”

Daniel Sinclair nodded and he barked orders.  “We’ve got all of the nukes, Commander—there are still plenty of shells and missiles in there, though.”

“No time, Chief,” Mathias answered.  “Is that the last warhead?”

“Yes, sir—waiting on a pallet for it.”

“Go ahead and get the rest back to Scorpia and stand by to separate from the station, Chief—leave that one here with me.”

“With you?  Commander, the Colonel will have my hide if I leave you behind.”

“I’ll be right behind you, Chief.  First thought, I need to arm this warhead for detonation.”

Senior Chief Petty Officer Daniel Sinclair sucked in a deep breath and then he nodded.  “Holmes!  Give the Commander your tools—everyone else move!  See you onboard, Sir.”

“Arm it?” asked Spence.  “Commander we don’t have the codes to arm it—only the Admiral had those.”

“The codes are a fail-safe, Lieutenant.  But if you know how the weapon is designed, you can,” Mathias grunted as he triggered the auto-wrench and ratcheted off the bolts that held the access panel in place, “bypass the entire lock system and arm it manually.”

“The thing is, you still need codes only Battlestar Commanders have access to override the normal arming procedure—any mistakes, any at all, and the system locks down and the weapon won’t initiate fission upon detonation.”

Mathias peeled of the cover and he took out a pair of heavy wire cutters.  “Here goes,” he said as he cut three wires and pulled free the code box.  Underneath the box lay another panel, a covered key-pad, and a count-down timer which flickered on, showing 0:30, then 0:29, and 0:28.  And three red lights slowly pulsed to the side.

“Is it supposed to do that?” Spence asked as he held a light shining down on the access port.

“Thirty seconds from removing the code box until lockdown, Lieutenant,” Mathias said as he pried up the key cover and tapped in a fourteen digit code then hit enter.  One light turned green.  He tapped in a second code, and the second of the three lights turned green.  And then a third one—and the countdown timer suddenly blanked.

Mathias sat back and sighed.  “Colonel Jayne, I’m setting the self-destruct on ten minutes—we need to be aboard ship and clear of the station by the end of that time.  Make it happen.”

Without waiting for an answer, the Commander reached back in and pressed delay, one, zero, zero, zero, and arm.  And the counter display spooled up to read 10:00, and then 9:59, 9:58, 9:57, as the green lights started to strobe.

“Time to go,” Mathias ordered as he stood.