| Fishing for Plans |
| Summary: | Gallagher has a meeting with Pewter about the skinjob and the Raptor. |
| Date: | 30 Apr 2042 AE |
| Related Logs: | And Eleven Makes Three & Sensitive Information |
| Players: |
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| Naval Deck |
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| The CO's quarters are as stately as can be expected. One of the few rooms on the ship to receive carpeting, it also possesses several other amenities that would be unthinkable anywhere else. On the port bulkhead, a small door opens up onto a personal bathroom with its own shower and sink. Two plush armchairs and a single handmade rocking chair surround a coffee table placed directly in front of the head, its glass surface perpetually covered in coffee grounds and a dusting of creamer. Nearby, a queen-sized mattress is recessed into the wall, capable of sliding out over the knotted tweed rug that lends a cozy touch to this makeshift sitting room. Above the mattress are four wall safes where the CO keeps his classified documents, private effects, and other things not meant for the public eye. Despite its creature comforts, however, this room remains a working office, and its current occupant evidently works best in an atmosphere of controlled chaos. The wide oaken table facing the exit is covered with reports, reconnaissance photographs, and internal memoranda all hours of the day, with islands of personal memorabilia scattered here and there to break up the monotony: a glass tumbler bearing the insignia of the frigate Corsair, a black-and-white photograph of a fishing boat, and — nailed to the front of the desk — a twelve-pound rainbow trout stuffed and mounted on a polished mahogany plaque. Only the Colonel's five bookshelves are organized in any semblance of order. Framed family photographs sit next to what must be the largest remaining collection of fine spirits and liquors remaining in the universe, each bottle strapped to the rear bulkhead by thick Velcro bands — to protect them in case of turbulence, no doubt. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #428 |
You'd think that getting fancy new pins would mean correspondingly less work. For Commander Pewter, the inverse is the case. His precious fifteen-minute blocks of time are full up as always with briefings and departmental meetings — blocks that tend to run late despite his yeoman's desperate attempts to keep everything on time. So it is that his latest visitor will be waiting in a conference room outside his personal quarters for more than twenty minutes with only Petty Officer Parry for company, until at last the buzzer rings and she's escorted to his hatch. "C'mon in," the big man booms, his voice carrying through the corridor.
Standing up, folders in hand, and giving a glance to Petty Officer Parry, Lieutenant Gallagher makes her way to the door. A deep breath in, she steps inside. As soon as her her eyes fall upon the commander, she offers him the customary salute, waiting for him to make the next move before doing, or saying, anything.
"Y'all deaf?" Pewter half-chuckles half-growls as he waves Parry out, his thick hand rising to his forehead in a relaxed salute. "Said c'mon in, uh." The man leans forward in his chair to readjust his reading glasses, scanning his list of appointments until he finds the relevant entry. "Lieutenant Gallagher. This is the briefin' on that Raptor that got stole by that skinjob, right? Just so we're on the same page."
Gallagher lowers her salute, walking father into the office, to the desk. "Yes sir. That would be what this briefing is for. I thought it prudent that you be the one in Command that I speak to about this, sir." She explains, though she probably doesn't have to.
"Most of the time people just write a godsdamned memo." Pewter waves a hand at his desk, covered by pages upon pages of documents he's marked up with highlighters and pens. "Don't think we want this sort of thing floatin' 'bout, though, do we. Shit leaks like a leaky frakkin' sieve round these parts, and I 'spect y'all's soon gonna get to some right sensitive business, so. Coffee?" The man jerks a thumb at the carafe on the coffee table. "Red's brew. So bitter it'll hit y'all harder than one of them salmon-fish gettin' plowed by a grizzly. And that's just how Navy likes it."
"Well, sir, sometimes nothing beats the good ol' human touch, does it?" Gallagher responds, shrugging. "And plus, it's like you says, don't want this stuff just hanging about, for people to see. They'll start talking. And the last thing we need when it comes to this is for people to start spreading rumours." She takes a deep breath in. She glances at the coffee and nods. "Thank you sir. That would be great. I think I need a good pick-me-up right about now." She shakes her head. "If it's not bitter, it's not doing it's job right, that's my coffee motto, sir."
"Y'all got hands," says Pewter, that grin of his widening. Translation: pour for yourself. "The mugs on that table y'all can feel free to use. Some of 'em might even be clean." And all of them are colorful and on the wrong side of kitschy. "Also, Red's gonna be breathin' down my collar in fourteen minutes so y'all best start talkin' quick, cause all them Lords of Kobol up there on their mountain ain't gonna stop that girl when she gets in a mood." While he speaks, he reaches for a legal pad and pen in case he needs to take notes.
Realizing what Pewter is saying, Gallagher tucks the folders under one arm and heads over to pour herself a mug of coffee. As she does so, she starts with her report. "As I'm sure you're aware, sir, there has been some speculation and question of how the skinjob was able to get the ship to our location. After all, we were under the assumption that they had no idea where we were and as far as we know…the skinjobs, and the cylons over all, don't have ways of tracking us." Finishing pouring her mug of coffee, she turns to actually face the Commander. "When we downloaded the system data and analyzed it, we found a transmission sent to the the Raptor from the Praetorian on the eighteenth."
"Praetorian." Pewter processes this juicy tidbit of information with furrowed brow, his avuncular manner dropping almost instantly. Large hands fold over his portly belly, fingers toying with the buttons of his duty blues as the woman speaks. "Y'all cracked that message yet? Know what it said and who sent it?"
Taking a sip of the coffee, Gallagher places the files she was carrying down on Pewter's desk. "At present, we're not entirely sure who sent it, or how they knew to send it to the Raptor's location. However, what we do know, is that the message contained the jump coordinates for the Fleet's position here in the Ouranos Belt. And we know that they jumped from our previous location. The location of the battle. This after they originally jumped away from that location." She takes another sip of the coffee. "We do have a few theories as to how the message was received by the Raptor."
Pewter sighs deeply, closing his eyes and leaning back in his chair until the back begins to creak under the strain. "I don't do y'all's egghead talk," he says when she's done, his tone more self-deprecating than anything else. "Don't need to know how the hell it got done. Just need to know whether we should be worried 'bout the guy who did it. And I got this feelin' in my gut we gotta be worried."
"With all do respect, sir, it may be important how it got done." Gallagher responds, tentatively. "If we can figure that out, we can try to prevent it from happening in the future." She pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath in. "Just catching the guy might not stop it, if someone else decides to take his place." She takes a sip of her coffee. "But, if we can find both how it was done and who did it, then we can be on the look out, to make sure it doesn't happen again in the future."
"Y'all didn't hear what I said," says Pewter, opening his eyes just enough to peer down the bridge of his nose at the woman and her coffee. "Ain't nobody sayin' it ain't important. Just sayin' if y'all snipes down there got a way to stop it, I don't need to know how yall's gonna do it to tell y'all to do it." This is a skill called delegation. "But what matters right now is that y'all think we've got another one of them frakkers on the inside chattin' up his Cylon buddy, if I understand y'all right." Cue another heavy sigh. "Gods damn. Ship's fuller up with 'em than a house packed tight with termites. Might explain how they found us when that swarm hit couple weeks back. Y'all been pointed at them logs?"
"We've got theories. Theories that we're wanting to check out, anyway, sir." Gallagher responds. "And one of them involves going back to the scene of the battle." She takes s deep breath in. "I'd, of course, volunteer myself for that mission, were it to be approved." She pauses, sipping her coffee, as she listens to Pewter. "We…we're not exactly sure if there is another one. There's a chance, of course. And that's what it's looking like, but there is also theory we have that might point away from that theories. But if I had to wager…it could be that they've got another one in the Fleet, and that's how they found us. But we'd have to check through the logs of the Praetorian."
"Termites, el-tee. Gods damn." Pewter's smile is just a little bit rueful. "Ain't no security check that picks these bugs up, not since Rudy blew his stack with that bullshit a couple weeks back. Gun made his ass crazy." His good leg kicks the cane that rests against his desk, which he still needs to use for walking. "Y'all know the CAG? Colonel Hahn. 'Toast' to her sticks. Get with her and her Raptor drivers and see if y'all can't rustle up a plan for me. They'll steer y'all straight on this one. And I'll get the Marines to clear y'all for the full logs from the missile boat. Think our master-at-arms has got both eyes on this CIC after Leonis hit the crapper, barkin' up some no-good transmissions like the one y'all found. He'll be pissed y'all's bringin' him more work, but ain't no one better chasin' this shit down."
Gallagher chuckles ever so slightly. "Too bad we're not able to pick 'em up, eh? But maybe we'll find a way some day." She shrugs. "And yeah, I think I know Colonel Hahn. I think we was the one who put me in charge of the DC team on the Raptor in the first place." She shrugs. "And it would be much appreciated, sir. Anything we can do to get this all cleared up, the better." She nods firmly.
"We-e-e-ll then." Pewter turns those two syllables into five, his chair creaking again as he rights himself behind his desk. "Sounds like y'all've got some work to do," he says. Jowls tighten in just a hint of amusement. "Sure y'all don't need it, but good work chasin' down this boy. Put a whole hell of brains at ease if y'all do nail the sumbitch, hey? Like this one here." A big fist raps against the side of his head that isn't scarred by a recent wound. "Got more for me, el-tee?"
"Oh, it's all in an engineer's workday, sir. Nothing to it." Gallagher's face has a hint of a smirk as she nods. "And there's nothing like putting the CO's brain at ease." Shaking her head, she says, "No sir. Got nothing else for ya. This was the most pressing matter for the time." She downs the rest of the coffee in one go.
"Well shit," the man drawls, glancing at the old-fashioned clock on his desk. "This one's gonna be early, too. Red's gonna have pups." Pewter chuckles as he gestures toward the hatch. "Don't let that hit y'all on the way — and don't bother cleanin' that mug. We just toss 'em all in the washer when they get stacked up too high."
Placing the mug with the seemingly dirty ones, Gallagher smiles, looking back at the Commander. "Well, sir, gotta say, it's better to be prompt and get to the point, sometimes." She grins and shakes her head, giving the Commander a little salute again, heading toward the hatch. Before she leaves, however, she looks back with a look of contemplativeness on her face. "Umm, sir? There is one thing. It's not exactly official business but…with all the high stress levels that people have been feeling, it would be nice to have a bit of shore leave apportioned." She pauses. "On a planet, that is. If we find one. And…well, I know I've never been fishing, but I've wanted to try. And I hear that fishing is really relaxing. So maybe…you know, fishing might be a good way to help people to relax?" She shrugs. "Anyway, it's just a thought, sir. Have a good day."
Pewter's already broad grin widens some more. "Well, ain't that somethin', Miss Gallagher, 'cause I just heard that them bass-fish are a-nibblin' down by the river." For a moment, a mischievous twinkle appears in his age-worn eyes. "That's all, el-tee. Dismissed."