Chapter 20

Battlestar Agrippa

Greer glanced sideways at Adama, sitting across from him in his cabin. "This isn't what I had in mind when I sent Commander Adama in."

"If there's even a faint chance, we should take it." Adama replied. "There's nowhere else for us to go anyway, so why not?"

"Why not... Well, annihilation for one." Greer said sarcastically. "Now, you do have a point. We don't know that the whole Cylon fleet is in orbit of Earth. But does that mean there won't be enough there to pretty much ruin our day?"

"A few Raptor flights would answer that easily. Jump in and out, they won't know where we are. We have to try though, for their sake as much as ours."

Greer got to his feet and walked slowly around the room. "The recon's one thing, but we must be careful about taking any action. This is all we've got, we lose these ships we lose everything. But you haven't answered one question: how?"

"How?"

Greer nodded and resumed pacing. "We show up and attack the ships... Then what? We need something concrete that we can aim for. Fuzzy goals won't do us any good. We need to know what we're doing once we're there, and an exit strategy if things go to Hades."

"Remus is calling himself God of the Cylons now, right?" Adama pointed out. "But he's not really one. What if we captured him? Dead or alive, it would be a huge blow to the Cylons on the planet."

Greer snapped his fingers. "You're right! Take him out, and they won't know what to do. Well, maybe... There's always the risk of them going nuts upon losing their God. And that wouldn't be pleasant for us."

"But it's worth a shot. The problem is finding him."

"Chief Tyrol was with him at the time, and Remus seemed to consider him some kind of brother. He also mentioned your former XO..."

"Saul's not a Cylon." Adama snapped. "He's too old to be one, for instance. And he's aged since I've met him. Does that sound like a Cylon to you?"

"What about Tyrol? Can you say the same for him? You've served with him for a long time..."

Adama sighed. "I seriously doubt Tyrol is a Cylon. He's probably just trying to frak with our heads, nothing more."

"If Tyrol can be one, then maybe so can Tigh."

"I won't act on a suspicion planted by a deranged Cylon pretending to be a god!"

"Best lead we've got." said Greer. "There's no way you'll find Remus without offering him something. He's got a whole frakkin' planet to hide on. And he doesn't exactly have a GPS tag anywhere on him."

Adama said nothing. Greer pressed on. "Bill, whether Saul is or is not a Cylon, Remus thinks he is. We've got to use him."

"And if it's a trap?"

"If it were a trap, one of us would be more logical don't you think?"

Adama grimaced. "I don't like it, but if it's our only option..."

"It is. Whether you like it or not Saul Tigh may be the only answer."

Richmond, Virginia

Tatiana Beria fumed. Quite simply, she was isolated from her country, now more than ever. The satellites were being blown up one by one over their heads, and communications on the surface were becoming more and more restricted to hard lines and radio. Given the world's dependency on satellites, this was more of a problem than it would have been a century before.

It was one particular place that Beria wanted to communicate, so she figured the best place to go would be the new American command centre (such as it was) in Richmond.

Air attacks had severed a few major highways, and marauding Cylon fighters made travel by day hazardous. Beria had considered an armoured car, but had dismissed it as too obvious. Stealth seemed preferable, as the Cylons seemed to have more control of American airspace than America herself. With their FTLs, they could appear and disappear from radar screens, making any interception difficult. They were vulnerable to American fighters, but the American planes were more often than not either out of position or on the ground when the Raiders appeared.

So Beria had opted instead for a black volvo station wagon, something less obtrusive yet solidly built. Traffic on the roads had decreased, but was not gone entirely. Only two raiders were spotted on the drive from Washington to Richmond, neither of which made any hostile action. Beria's choice of vehicle seemed to have protected them.

Once in Richmond, she simply had to follow the concentration of soldiers and equipment. This led her straight to the command tent in which President Warren now resided.

"And you picked a most inopportune moment to arrive..." said Warren.

"And why would that be?" Beria snapped. "The world's coming to pieces, I think every moment is inopportune according to you. Now, if you please, I would like to know how my country is. You have requisitioned most of the communication lines that still function, you are probably the only people in this country who could know."

"Moscow's gone, Kiev and Pskov are also under attack, as are Murmansk and Vladivostok. Happy now?"

"Your cavalier attitude shocks me, General." Beria said.

Warren grimaced. "Madame President, we're about launch a nuclear strike against the orbiting warships. We've pulled our remaining forces away from orbit."

"If you allow me to contact Russia, I can order another attack simultaneously." She paused for a second, but only a second, before continuing. "Our space station, in the Van Allen belt. It is armed with experimental high yield explosives."

General Trent stared in shock at her. "Mr. President, they had them all along."

"You are referring to antimatter warheads?" Warren asked Beria, ignoring his defense chief.

"Correct. I assume then that you possess them as well. Your space station, Van Allen, is the likeliest probability."

Warren nodded, almost embarrassed. "Yes."

"Mr. President," Trent said, clearly agitated. "This is an intelligence leak of-" He was cut off when Beria, positively furious, turned and slapped him across the face. Warren motioned at the secret service guards in the shadows, as their weapons were now extended and aiming at the russian president.

"Americans!" Beria spat. "Have you no sense or perspective?" Composing herself, she stood erect. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, I did not imply all Americans."

"No problem." said Warren. "We're preparing to launch our own antimatter warheads now. As well as a full nuclear strike."

"Very well." said Beria. "I need a commlink."

Trent silently pointed towards a console, massaging his stinging cheek.

USS Nautilus, SSBN-854

"Proceeding at seven-zero-zero feet, speed, twelve knots."

Commander Richard Hackett nodded approvingly and began pacing the cramped control deck, being sure to stay out of the way.

The Nautilus was one of the latest ballistic missile submarines of the Wyoming-class, slightly less massive than her predecessors, the Ohio II. Nautilus was currently on a depth exercise, on a round trip from Groton to New London, most of which was submerged. So far she had spent three days submerged, and was finishing her fourth and final day before surfacing. Being nuclear powered she could theoretically stay submerged for months, and four days below the surface was no issue for the Nautilus.

"Conn, sonar, surface contact!" came the voice of Archie Weir, the sonar operator.

Hackett suddenly stopped pacing. "A little more specific, please, whatcha got Archie?"

"It's tiny, sounds like an outboard motor, very weak... Correction, four contacts!"

"Conn, take us to periscope depth. Up scope."

Nuclear submarines operate differently from the old diesel boats of the World Wars. Instead of venting ballast all at once, they have their engines drive them to the surface, and then vent ballast to put them on surface. Once underwater, they function similar to an aircraft.

Hackett felt the deck incline as the nose of the submarine pointed to the surface for the first time in three and a half days. Soon the diving officer was calling out periscope depth, and Hackett put his eye to the viewfinder. In reality he was looking at a high-resolution digital screen, with the 'periscope' in fact being a mast with various digital sensors. The terminology stuck, though.

"American launches!" he exclaimed, catching sight of the bright orange rafts and small motorboats almost instantly. "Escape rafts!"

He quickly made up his mind. "Get a diver in the hatch, stand by to surface and pick up survivors. Diving control! Blow one!"

There was a low rumbling noise from amidships.

"Blow three, five, and seven!" he finished. The rumbling sound grew louder, and the submarine breached the surface, rising above the sea. "Stand by to pick up survivors!"

Moving at less than one knot in mercilessly calm seas, the Nautilus moved closer to the flotilla of survivors. There were four orange life rafts and two three per raft, and four in each boat, there were twenty all together.

It took two hours to have all the survivors taken aboard. In one of the orange life-rafts was found the unconscious form of an officer wearing captain's stripes. He, along with seven other crewmen, were immediately taken to the sickbay.

Around the same time that the rescue missions started, Commander Hackett was approached by the puzzled seaman manning the comm system. "Skipper, I can't raise anyone."

"What do you mean? Is the satellite backed up or something?"

"No, sir, the satellite's simply not there."

"Not there, eh?" Hackett muttered calmly. "Okay, let's take a look."

He followed the crewman to the communications console and did a quick check. "Run a diagnostic?"

"Yes sir, everything checks out. The satellite is simply not there."

Hackett looked closer. He was right.

"I'll be damned..." he muttered. "Okey dokey, call up SUBLANT on the radio then. I want to know if there are any ships missing."

"Aye aye, skipper."

Hackett watched as he tried establishing contact. "Sir, I'm not getting anything. SUBLANT, COMLANFLT, Joint Chiefs... We're off the air."

"Radio mast fail to extend?"

"No sir, they're simply not there."

"Okay, continue monitoring those frequencies. I'm going down to sickbay, maybe some of the guys we picked up know something about this." Hackett turned and left the control room, proceeding down the corridor towards the ladder. "Down ladder, make a hole!" he called before jogging down the stairs. Officers and crewmen parted before him as he passed through the companionways.

In sickbay, he first looked at the highest ranking officer, evident by the eagle insignia on the collar of his sun-bleached shirt.

"Doc, how is he?" Hackett called over to the doctor, Hendrickson.

"Keep it down a bit, please, we've got some people sleeping here, most suffering from exposure." Hendrickson murmured. "Actually, he can tell you himself."

"Are you the skipper of this boat?" asked the officer.

"Yes, that's me, sir. Commander Hackett, USS Nautilus."

"Thank God, an American boat... My name is Bryson, skipper of the Sioux."

"Captain Bryson? I've heard of the Sioux, she was a good ship. What happened?"

Bryson sighed, a faraway look in his eyes. "Attacked. We'd just lost radio and satellite contact beforehand, then they hit. Squadrons of these flying saucers, fired at us with air-to-ground missiles and autocannons. We lasted maybe ten minutes before they holed us, then we abandoned ship. I lost over three quarters of my crew, I only survived because one of the midshipmen pulled me out. Personally I think I should've gone down with the ship..."

"Lost radio contact, you say?"

"Aye, all contact was dead as a post, nobody was transmitting. Just a few shortwave radio calls, all microwave communication was dead."

"We've lost contact as well." Hackett said. "Have you made contact with any other surface ships?"

"No, we were detached from our battlegroup, heading back to the coast."

Hackett was interrupted as the intercom crackled. "Skipper, we've got bogeys bearing in, intercept course! Aircraft, multiple contacts!"

"Shit!" Hackett cursed. "Captain, if you'll excuse me!"

No need to debate the fact. Hackett knew what they were.

"Diving station, crash-dive! Emergency flood!" he shouted into the control room. "All hands, prepare for crash-dive!"

"Contacts closing, two minutes to intercept!"

Hackett gritted his teeth. A large sub like the Nautilus took around three minutes to reach periscope depth from the surface.

"Acknowledged! Diving stations, flood queue! Helm, bowplanes down ten degrees! Engine room, secure from natural circulation and prepare for full power!"

There was a muffled roar as the forward ballast tanks opened to the sea and the water flowed in. The deck started to incline, the rate increasing as the bowplanes sliced into the surface of the sea.

"Time to intercept?" Hackett called.

"Radar offline for dive, sir! All masts retracted!"

Hackett nodded. The dive was proceeding well, ahead of schedule. There was a ring from the intercom, and the chief engineer reported full power available.

"Helm, ahead full! Get us under! Go to fifteen degrees on the planes!"

"Helm answering all ahead full! Fifteen degrees down aye!" The deck plunged down more quickly.

"Skipper, we're passing PD!"

"Continue diving! Take us to five-zero-zero feet!"

"Five-zero-zero aye. Diving."

The control room was tense as the rumbling hum of full power continued. No sounds of gunfire were heard, and Hackett assumed the worst over when they arrived at 500 feet. "Helm, all ahead one-half, engine room, rig for natural circulation." He sighed with relief.

There was silence in the control room, broken only by the decreasing hum of the reactor and main engines. Hackett was aware of the eyes of his XO, Commander Carolyn Deckard.

"XO, with me please." he said. She briskly followed him to his cabin as they both left the control deck.

Battlestar Valkyrie

Breakfast was the usual.

Colonel Naslund, skipper of the late starship Activity, had been stuck on the Valkyrie for over a week now. Originally intended to act as a sort of liaison, he now felt like a parasite, almost a non-qual on the Colonial vessel serving no useful purpose.

Baked potato slices, but no french fries? They had never discovered french fries? Naslund salivated at the thought, but with over half a dozen Cylon warships laying siege to Earth, french fries were probably the last thing anyone was thinking about there.

Fortunately hamburgers had been conceived of, and Naslund heartily attacked one of them. One of the few pleasures he still enjoyed. But since his ship was now so much wreckage, he had nowhere else to go.

It was a fascinating ship. Of that there was no doubt. But after seeing the same insides for several weeks he was growing tired of them. And the Cylon invasion of Earth wasn't helping matters.

"Mind if I join you?" said a voice tinged with a mild accent.

Naslund glanced up to see an officer with a maple leaf on his shoulder looking down at him. "Please do, I'll be glad to talk to another Earthling."

With a laugh, the canadian took his seat. "I feel the same way. Je m'appele Leonard Perrier, callsign Lemons, Panthalassa CAG."

Naslund shook the offered hand. "Hell of nickname, pallie. Colonel Naslund, CO USS Activity." He sighed. "Or I was, until she got blown up."

Lemons' eyes widened. "THE Activity? The mission to Tau Ceti?"

"One and only."

"Wow, I had not even been born when vous avez departé..."

Naslund blinked at the french, but guessed the meaning. "I may not look it, but I'm on the far side of fifty. And not one gray hair."

Lemons shrugged. "Oui, but you'll be the oldest Colonel in history."

Naslund nodded. "Yeah, you're right. So what're you doing out here? What's the Panthalassa?"

"Experimental spacecraft carrier, or as your friends put it, battlestar. Reverse engineered from the database of a crashed Viper recovered from northern Canada."

"And it's Canadian? Do any other countries have them?"

"Non, just Canada. The others are continuing to pursue vessels around the strike-first tactic. Alors, we escaped with the Valkyrie when the Cylons showed up in orbit. I don't know what happened to the others."

"Sounds like things are pretty screwed up back home."

"Oui, things are tellement shitty." Lemons laughed at his own words. "It is not over yet though. We will fight back."

"We better."

Yaroslyl, SSR

Lavochkin took a look around the hall the Cylons had set up as their headquarters near the town centre. One or two holes had been blown in the roof by Russian artillery, debris littered and floor, and tables and chairs had hurriedly been organized. Lavochkin could see how close the Cylons had been to collapsing, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that they might not have been saved by the timely appearance of their brethren.

"Yes, we were close to having our clocks cleaned by you." said a Cavil, surveying the damage. "Does that make you feel any better, perhaps?"

"Not really, given the circumstances." Lavochkin became silent again.

Cavil grunted and sat down in one of the haphazard chairs beside the First Tank Army commander, General Levin. "So now what? I suppose asking 'how's life' is a bit redundant, seeing as how it might be ending in a bit."

"Is he always this pessimistic?" Lavochkin nodded to one of the two Eights in the room, who nodded in return.

"Glad to know who's on my side." Cavil responded. "So, instead, I'll ask this: What now?"

"First thing to do is to survive." said General Levin. "We've got supplies to hold out for a while, but he's right. We need some kind of objective."

After he finished speaking, one could almost hear cartoonish crickets chirping in the silence.

"Okay, then," the general continued, "What do we know about our situation?"

"Not a lot." said Cavil. "We know as much as you. We're pinned down in the city, they can come and go at will, they outnumber us, and have supply lines when we're pocketed."

"Are we pinned down?" asked Colonel Veslovsky, standing behind Lavochkin. "They haven't put down any troops, they just stage random air attacks. We could leave when we like, now that we have the ground support. So what's stopping us?"

"Getting caught out in the open wouldn't be as nice, not to mention not having the luxury of supply lines." said Levin. "We've got what's left in the city."

"He's got a point there." said Cavil. "That's been our problem all along, remember. Since bully boys showed up, we've had no resupply ships from above. You've been squeezing us dry."

"At least your soldiers don't need to eat as much." said Lavochkin.

"No, they don't."

"What's the situation like beyond here?" Veslovsky asked.

"Last I heard both sides of the Front were under attack," reported Levin, "What's left of the Air Force is being overwhelmed, and the modern Cylons packed up and left. Even if we got a message out, we'd probably still be on our own."

"They've got us beaten, no two ways about it." said Lavochkin, laughing. "I'd love to see how the yanks are holding up. I hope they're getting smashed as much as we are, the cowards."

"Maybe we're looking at this the wrong way." said the second Eight.

"What's that?" Veslosky asked.

"When we were on Caprica, we'd completely flattened the entire planet's military. Yet there were still some survivors who continued to be a thorn in our sides the whole time we were there. We found that usually the most organized forces were the easiest to combat once we became stronger."

"What are you suggesting?"

"Forget the tanks, rockets, and stuff. Bring only what we need, hide in the woods, find our way back to centers of strength using maps and compasses."

"And if they find us, we're dead." said Levin. "Still, the plan is a plan, I'll take it under consideration. Any other ideas?" Again the room fell into silence.

"Okay, well no reason to keep you all here. I'll have my boys man the missile batteries. I'm ordering strict radio silence from now on. That's it."

Clearing his throat, he turned and walked out, Veslovsky right behind him. Cavil headed in the direction of the storeroom, likely for some food. Lavochkin shrugged his shoulders and turned to leave. He sidestepped quickly to avoid walking into the Eight who had proposed one of the plans.

"I think you might be right," said Lavochkin, when she looked at him.

"I think it's the only likely way." she responded, smiling slightly. "If we go quietly they may not find us. If we go in force we know they will definitely find us, and if we stay they know where we are." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We can hold out here for a while. Then what? We run out of missiles, bullets, or more importantly, food. Then we start dying. And that's if they don't send in ground troops, and that would make our stay a very unpleasant one. Worst-case scenario, they nuke the city and everyone in it."

"Would they do that?" Lavochkin suddenly realized how vulnerable they could be to that kind of attack and how likely it may be. Machines didn't need to fear radiation to the same extent humans did, they could function at much higher levels.

"No, no, they won't do that first." said the Eight, clearly sensing his trepidation. "We're safe, for now. It's when they come back that I'll be worried."

"Okay..." he sighed. "One thing I never figured out, what's your name?"

The Eight seemed a bit surprised. "My name?"

"Da, like what are you called? You can't all be called Eight, you must have some kind of name."

"Most of us go by Eight, only a few Cylons choose to use names, and only one has ever been given a real one."

"So what do you do when someone cries out 'Eight?' How do they tell you all apart?"

Eight seemed a bit puzzled. "You know, we never figured that out ourselves... It just works."

"And what should I call you?"

"Eight is my desig-"

"No, no, you."

"Um... If you really want some of us go by Sharon, that's the most common name."

"Alright then. Sharon. Hope to talk to you again sometime."

Sharon raised an eyebrow. "You'd want to talk to me again? Most people seem to regard as mass murderers."

"I don't know, are you one? I've been in the army awhile, and I've learned not to typecast on first looks. Way I see it we're going to be working together for the forseeable future, and I don't want us to hate each other the whole time, it won't translate into an efficient working environment. So despite my feelings I'm going to be nice, got it?"

Sharon didn't move. "Got it. And no, I'm not front-line material. I'm what the Colonials refer to as an REMF."

Lavochkin laughed. "We have the same thing, scary."

"Rear-echelon mother-frakker?"

"Eh, no..." Lavochkin sighed. "Not exactly the same I guess. For all the similarities, I'll never get over how profanity can evolve so differently."

"Nice to know you're a linguist."

Lavochkin rolled his eyes. "Political science. I tried, okay? Got me to officer level fast enough." He split off and exited the building onto the street. "See you around."

Eight watched him go. "About frakkin' time I met a human who didn't call me toaster every second sentence," she muttered under her breath. But not with hostility.

Richmond, Virginia

Warren paced back and forth inside the mobile command centre. "General, are we online yet?"

"It's taking some time, sir. we've lost 60% of our satellites and losing more as we speak. Last report had the Enterprise destroyed, spacedock is under heavy fire. They seem to be ignoring Van Allen for now."

"Good to know." said Warren.

President Beria was occupying a chair at the briefing table in the next room, waiting for the commnications network to be reliably established. Re-routing everything to avoid as many satellites as possible was taking a while. General MacLean of the Air and Space Force had three communications zeppelins and two AWACS up covering the losses, with two more zeppelins expected to fill in. It would take five minutes for them to arrive on station, and Warren was getting anxious.

"Understood." Patton said, causing the tense Warren to jump slightly. He saw Patton speaking into a phone receiver. "Mr. President, the Zepps are in position. Networks established."

"Right." Warren said. "And have Florida contact Van Allen, I want a simultaneous launch. Madam President!" he called out. "We're online!"

Beria was seen to leap from her seat, before bursting through the door. "I need a terminal."

"Right here, Madam President." Patton gestured. "We've gotten a hold on Pskov, that's all we can find."

"That's all you're going to get a hold of." Beria said. "We're not in such mint condition as you are." she added, adding in a glare. The connotation was obvious, as most Russians viewed the American withdrawal as cowardly.

She continued, "Give me a timeline. When do we launch?"

"Ten minutes from 4:00 Greenwich mean time."

"Understood." She began firing off rapid phrases of Russian which Warren couldn't follow.

"When are we launching, Mr. Trent?" Warren asked.

General Trent, on the far side of the bank of consoles, checked his watch. "The ten-minute cycle begins in five minutes."

"I've sent the message." said Beria. "We should be able to monitor it from here."

"Five minutes, people!" Patton ordered to the surrounding officers. "Stand by to initiate!"

"Getting confirmation signals."

"New York is online. California is online. Oregon is online."

"Incoming from Pskov, Black sea online. Ural Station, online."

"Montana, online. Texas, online."

"Station one, online."

"Van Allen, online."

"All units coordinated." said Patton. "Sixty seconds to cycle."

"This may sound like a bad time, but how many antimatter warheads do you have?" asked Beria.

"Ten." said Warren. "That's all we've managed."

"Really? We only have eight."

"Nice to know we'll be giving them something to think about then." said Warren under his breath.

"Cycle has started, ten minutes to launch." reported Patton.

"Why the long cycle?" Beria asked. "You're capable of snapshots, retaliation, right?"

"We want to be absolutely instantaneous, not to mention the experimental nature of these warheads. I don't want one of them going off prematurely, if, say, we missed checking the safeties. You could be a lot more rough with a nuke, but if the magnetic fields in these warheads collapses, it will go off and destroy everything for thirty miles."

"I know about that. We have them too, remember." Beria pointed out.

"Five minutes."

Warren began rocking nervously on his feet. "I hope to God this works." he muttered.

"We will see."

USS Nautilus

"Up scope!" ordered Captain Hackett. "Try to establish contact with the continent again, Comm."

The affirmative came back, as Hackett peered through the scope. Everything was clear, but he wasn't going to take a chance and surface fully. He would run at periscope depth for now.

"Sir, you're not going to believe this! We've just intercepted verified American anti-matter release codes!"

Hackett snapped to alertness, slamming the periscope handles up. "Verify that!"

"Verified and confirmed sir! We're looking at five minutes to launch!"

"Let me see that..." he moved swiftly over to the plot table. "You can't be serious..."

"Think it's the damn russkies getting pissed at us for cutting out?"

"No, they'll just think these codes are gibberish." Hackett muttered. "No nuclear codes though. That's odd."

"So no action for us?"

"No. No action for us." Hackett muttered. "Damn good thing, too. I wouldn't want to touch these suckers off unless I had to. Let's just wait for the fireworks to start. Looks like the shit just hit the fan."

Richmond, Virginia

"Mr. President, we just launched the initial EMP." said Patton. "Five missiles, high orbit. They should coincide with the launch."

Warren nodded. The Cylons wouldn't intercept the missiles that were streaking away from them. But once their radar was blinded, they would be helpless. And with eight warheads per missile, they'd be blinded for a solid hour. Worse, if they weren't shielded. The next wave would then have a helpless target.

Ottawa, Canada

Inside a landed Raider, Remus listened to the Cylon comm traffic. "Your friends are up to something, bro." he said. Then he burst out laughing. "They're going nuclear! They must be!"

"What?" Tyrol hissed. "Are they insane? That'll kill them and us!"

"Oh, showing a little concern for me, are we? I never thought I'd see the day." Remus said histrionically. "But of course having to force your own family to accept you, that kinda sucks. I think we're working it out though, eh?"

Tyrol glared at him. "Can't you stop it?"

"Normally I'd jump at the opportunity, but they've adapted..." Remus continued. "It's a closed circuit, I can't get into it. All that's being transmitted are a bunch of codes, there's nothing to take control of."

"So all we can do is wait until we get blown to bits or start glowing."

Remus scratched his head and nodded. "Pretty much, yeah. So how about getting out of this dump?"

Remus motioned to one of the Cylon Praetorians, who began warming the Raider for takeoff. "I need a new capitol, Tyrol. Wanna go touring?"

"Not particularly." said Tyrol.

Suddenly the sky lit up, a huge fireball igniting silently on the horizon. Remus shielded his eyes from the glow, as did Tyrol. But Tyrol had studied his surroundings, and although shocked by the light in the sky, recovered quickly and began sprinting towards cover. There were some trees at the edge of the field Remus' Raider was parked in, on what had once been a schoolyard. He was already under cover by the time the glow started abating, and leaving Remus behind fast.

"Frak," Remus muttered, as he squinted through the artificial brightness. "Praetorians, can you track him?"

"No, my Lord," the lead one replied in a grating voice. "All sensors are down. Only optics are functioning."

"What?" Remus scrambled into the Raider. Sure enough, all non-shielded electronics were dead, and all sensors were filled with static. The Americans had launched high altitude nuclear weapons, produced an EMP, and blinded all his sensors for a good half hour at least. They were hiding something, and they had plenty of time to do it.

"Maybe they're as tough as the Russians after all," he muttered.

On cue, as soon as the warheads detonated high in the atmosphere, seven missiles burst out from various sites in the US, Russia, and in orbit. Both the so-far ignored russian space station and the American station Van Allen launched missiles, three apiece, instantly vectoring in on the orbiting Cylon warships. The orbiting ships immediately tasked their launched fighters into a defense formation, attempting to intercept the nukes, as anti-missile batteries opened up on each basestar. Only three missiles got through the cover, obliterating two basestars in seconds. The experimental explosives shredded through the armour plating and vapourized the starships. The other basestars then realized the barrage coming at them from the surface of Earth, out of the scrambled blind spot created by the EMP moments before. But it was too late for them to do anything. Six basetars met their end, with two more damaged in the explosions. The only thing preventing the annihilation of the Cylon Fleet was the lack of coordination between the American and Russian missiles. Time and again, they targeted the same ship.

The Cylon Fleet was now reduced to seven basestars.

Richmond

"Direct hit!" Trent shouted. "Another down! They're dropping like flies! Didn't see it coming!"

Even the usually stoic Patton was punching the air. "Not so toothless now!"

"Hold on," said Warren. "We're not out of the woods yet. There's still a sizable strike force up there. What's more, if they're capable of it, they'll be hopping mad. We know those ships carry nukes. I want us to be ready for them. Arm all surface-to-air batteries, General." Warren gritted his teeth. "It's only just beginning."