PHD #065: EVENT - It Will Come When It Will Come
It Will Come When It Will Come
Summary: An explosion on the hangar deck reveals a sinister plot.
Date: 2 May 2041 AE
Related Logs: None
Bannik Bell Cadmus Cappella Kai Laskaris Matise Mika Rachel Sawyer Sitka Stavrian Tisiphone Villon NPC Polaris 
Port Hangar Deck — Battlestar Cerberus
The single largest rooms on the Cerberus are the hangar decks. Each flight pod consists of two stacked landing bays with adjoined decks and hangars, which along with computer-assisted landings results in a faster Viper recovery rate. Mirror images of each other, these two huge areas are located on the flight pods. The inboard sides of the deck, closest to the ship's main hull, are lined with parking and maintenance bays for Vipers and Raptors based aboard the battlestar. The outboard side of the deck contains the launch tubes used by the Vipers for standard deployment. Huge blast doors seal the deck into four sections, each one containing an elevator that leads up to the flight deck directly overhead. The fore-most section contains an elevator system that leads towards Aerospace Fabrication.
Post-Holocaust Day: #65

The klaxons blare once, twice, thrice, sending a sudden stillness over the crowded hangar as faces of all colors and uniforms of all stripes look up to discover the source of the commotion — like antelopes pausing mid-stride, perhaps, to pinpoint the lion's roar. It doesn't take more than a second for the answer to be found, and then — just like those graceful horned beasts — the perfectly-oiled machinery that is Battlestar Cerberus' deck crew spins into motion with remarkable simultaneity. "Walkdown, walkdown, walkdown!" comes the on-duty Chief's call, and a chorus of echoes from her well-trained minions accompanies the surge of orange that now converges upon the launch tubes and the deck.

Among the surge of orange is a figure in green, haphazardly covered with a reflective orange safety vest. The Professor lags a bit behind the Deck crew, inexperienced as he is at the task at hand, but he follows along dutifully, if not enthusiastically. As he passes one of the Petrels' craft, he runs his hands along the fuselage. "So close, and yet so far."

The echo of Lasher's steps across the deck is inaudible over the commotion. He's fully clad in his flightsuit, a taut, impatient expression on his face as he waits for the walkdown to be complete. The captain quickly steps off to the side, helmet tucked under his arm as he makes sure he's not in anyone's way. After all, the sooner they're finished, the sooner they can get him in the air.

[TAC3] Polaris says, "CAP, this is Cerberus Tactical, Deck has started its walkdown procedures. Start final airspace sweep beginning in sector Bravo-Four-Four-Niner, over."

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Cerberus, Broadside copies. Beginning final airspace sweep in sector Bravo-Four-Four-Niner. And tell Deck to hurry up — I've got a dinner date I really can't miss."

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Broadside, Cerberus, it'll get done when it gets done. Your right hand will wait for you, trust us. Cerberus out."

[TAC3] "Snag" Villon says, "Right hand?"

In contrast to the Black Knights' squad leader, the Petrels' Captain's looking about as mellow as ever, this afternoon. He's also in full flight gear, helmet tucked under one arm while he strides along after the taller, younger officer; coffee cup enroute to his mouth when they come to a halt at the outskirts of the 'action'. Walkdown. Great. More time to finish off his joe. "So I guess one of your pilots is starting up a pyramid league," he murmurs in an attempt at small talk.

[TAC3] Polaris says, "I'll tell you when you're older, Snag. Snap turn in three, two, one, mark."

"Shiv. Lasher." Crewman Tyr Bannik is used to the rumble of the Deck at this point — he's been aboard nearly three months! That makes him a veteran! Well, at least it does with so many petty officers dead in the latest attack. He just ignores the shouts, focused on his checklist. "You'll be in Petrel-Six-Four-Eight and BlackKnight-Eight-Five-Five. Sorry about that, but I've got your Snow Petal bird up on the table with a busted comms contact, Captain." He glances over to Lasher. He then looks to Sitka. "Shiv, as for what you've got, double-check on the safeties if you have to take them off. The tactile controls are a little shaky, so you'll need to confirm with the display they're off before you pull the trigger, all right?"

Last day of Light Duty — if Sickbay is merciful. Tisiphone has seemed passingly sad during her light duty hours here on the Deck. Maybe she's just sad at losing the chance to wear their fabulously bright orange. The goggles and earmuffs, though — well, she won't miss THOSE so much. She's sweeping a line along the deck near Professor Bell, eyes restlessly searching for debris.

"Mm," Lasher murmurs back to Shiv. The blond man isn't generally much for small talk, especially before a sortie. Doesn't mean he won't try, though. "Yeah. Not really my game, though. Got the arm for it, and not much else." The wireless gets a quick glance before Bannik calls for his attention. He nods brusquely at the young knuckledragger. "Managed to get my wings welded back on, then?" Referring, of course, to his rough landing on Praetorian that sheared them right off. In the meantime, though, he cranes his neck, eyes searching for his borrowed bird.

Sitka's blue eyes land on the avionics tech who's talking at him, and he lifts a gloved hand, palm up, to signify understanding. "No problem, Crewman. The musical vipers keeps things interesting." He offers a crooked smile, which fades a touch as he listens to the latter portion of the explanation. A slight nod. "You got it. After that last little misadventure, I'll be sure to triple-check. Is engine two's throttle lever still sticking?" Small talk's not his forte either, and is apparently discarded in light of shop talk.

The walkdown is proceeding apace — and though it's apparently going altogether too slowly for Broadside's liking, the chief in charge keeps the pace where it is for a reason. "Mayer, Kowalski, lug nut at your two. Look familiar?" she snaps, pointing a knobby finger at a tiny speck of metal somewhere on the right-hand side of the long orange line — something neither of the two crewmen in question had managed to see. "Stow it, one of you, and stay after, both of you."

"Awww, mom, do we have to?" That, from Kowalski, who bends down and retrieves the fallen bolt in a single smooth motion.

"Never mind, Mayer, you can go." The chief's green eyes flash in a stern sort of humor. "Kowalski'll just have to do your job too."

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Snag, Broadside, eyes sharp. Never know what'll be lurking out in this massive field of nothing."

"That one's yours?" Bannik peers over at Lasher, owlishly. "I thought your bird was the last one you took up on CAP. If so, well." The deck hand shakes his head. "Fabrication's going to need to take a look at her, when it's back online." He flips over his clipboard, looking at the octagonal piece of paper below his top sheet. "And oh, Shiv. I got an odd power spike on the last check of your electrics. Should be just because the insulation is worn through; if it gives you trouble during flight, let me know and — well, I used to say we'll see if we can get it moved up the queue, but right now all I can probably do is just cluck my tongue sympathetically." Bannik shrugs his shoulders helplessly in this 'what can you do?' sort of way.

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Broadside, Cerberus, we heard that. Stow the sarcasm."

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Just happy to be back in the cockpit, is all. No contacts, Cerberus, please verify."

[TAC3] Polaris says, "No contacts, CAP. Proceed to the next sector at your earliest convenience. Cerberus out."

Sleet-blue eyes sweep hither and yon, lingering on Bell's route for a moment. "Professor," Tisiphone calls to him, suddenly, detouring sharply from her path. A jerk of her earmuffed and begoggled head. "These cords get stowed differently. Twisted up double." She points her chin at a coil of rubber piping hung over a hook to dangle near the floor, reaches over to fold them over themselves to keep them up higher and out of the way. "They caught me for it twice before I remembered." A quick grin to him, before she's moving back to her own path.

Mika arrives from the Hangar Deck - Starboard.

Bell meanders along his route, eyes scanning the deck, yet failing to notice anything whatsoever. At Tisiphone's correction, Doc eyes the errant cabling, and shrugs somewhat. "Specialization of labor cuts both ways, Ms. Apostolos. I'm surprised they even let us down here, as more trouble than we're worth."

"Speak for yourself, Shiv. Personally, I'd prefer to be able to use the same fighter for longer'n a few weeks straight before trashing it," Lasher remarks in a deadpan. "Yeah, Crewman, that was my handiwork. I imagine your knuckledragging buddies love me these days, wot?" Laskaris' promotion doesn't seem to have dulled his sarcasm one whit. "Been on borrowed birds ever since the Praetorian." A pause, followed by another look at the Viper in question. He chucks a thumb over his shoulder at the fighter. "Anythin' I should know about this crate?"

Whatever vestige of a smile remained on Shiv's lips, it's pretty much gone by the time Bannik mentions the frayed insulation on his ship's wiring. He starts to say one thing, blows a breath out his nose, and then finishes off his coffee with a little less gusto than he'd started it. "If I see any sparks, I'll know why," he jokes back. "Thanks for the heads-up, though." As he's meandering away a few feet to drop off his empty cup, he claps the taller pilot across the shoulder. "It's called levity, Anton."

"It should be fine." Bannik reaffirms that for Shiv, arriving with the two pilots at their birds. He glances back at the top sheet. "Nothing on the run-down, Captain," he says. "So she should be in decent shape." He tosses his head to the cockpits. "Ready to do the pre-flight checklist?"

"Good catch, pilot." The chief's rough voice barks tepid approval as she sees Tisiphone make her move. Evidently, she's about as much a fan of employing pilots as deckhands as Professor Bell — which is to say, not terribly much a fan of that at all. "And you — hey, Tall Guy." That would be Doc she's talking to. "Eyes open. Debris kills your frakkin' people too, eh? Barker! Walk under a wing again and I'll make sure you're scrubbing off tools for a week, you hear?"

And it's in such a fashion that, slowly but surely, the orange line snakes past the first third of the Deck.

"Levity? You?" Lasher eyes Sitka with a raised brow and a thin almost-smile. "Never've guessed." It is, perhaps, a slight exaggeration. "Right," he says crisply to Bannik, suddenly all business as he shimmies up the ladder to his cockpit. Throwing himself into the chair, the pilots masquerading as deckhands get a quick, curious glance before Lasher turns his attention back to the controls.

"Aye, Chief," Bell agrees with the woman amicably. "Quite so." He meanders along, sweeping a foot from side to catch anything his eyes may have missed, and as such lets his eyes wander. Soon he's following along, deviating from his pre-set course towards Laskaris' Viper. "What in the blazes… Tisiphone? Did you see that?" He fails to elaborate on precisely what 'that' is, instead heading for the fighter at a brisk walk.

Sitka's amusement is limited to a little roll of his eyes and a slight twist of his lips as he peels off toward his own, smaller fighter. "Everyone's a critic," he mumbles while clambering up the ladder to the dinged and dented Mark II. After swinging into the open cockpit, he begins buckling his harness and tugging on his helmet; things that have become rote by now. Bell receives a curious glance as he's fastening the hardseal on his collar.

"Tall Guy!" Spoken by the chief in that harsh, commanding voice all NCOs learn when they get promoted to CPO. "Get back in line. Now!"

"Thanks, Chief." Tisiphone calls back to the deck chief, dipping her head in a nod before continuing on her sweep. She's been rather humble during her month of light duty here, never once trying to stand on her mighty and awe-inspiring rank of — cough — Ensign. She turns her head to look at Bell when her name's called, then gives a quick scan around. "See-? No, what?" She straightens up, giving her shoulders a roll, and starts to move after the Professor, lurching to a halt when the deck chief's voice cracks out.

"All right. Let's start with visual internal inspection. And we're at —" Bannik's calling off of the preflight checklist is interrupted by the distraction of Bell moving towards them, his brow screwing up in a confused look as the Chief shouts and Bell 'breaks formation.'

Bell, for his part, fails to heed the Chief's order. He waves off the bark, continuing apace. "Standby. Something's over here."

Lasher's hard seal is affixed to his neck, though the harnesses and helmet wait for a little bit as he starts preflight. At this point, he's been doing this so long doesn't even need to consult the clipboard or the checklist in his flightsuit's thigh pocket to know the procedure. "Flight controls are… good. Tanks — " He cuts himself off as the commotion from the FOD team ratchets up a notch. He cranes his head to see what's happening, a curious half-scowl on his face.

"Gods damn it. Standish, take over." And the barrel-chested woman, too, breaks formation, long strides taking her ever closer to where the impertinent pilot has chosen to go. That orange flight suit of hers flexes and ripples as she moves, looking far less baggy on her well-muscled frame than it probably should. "Pilot, I'm going to say this one more more time. Get the frak away from that godsdamned bird and back in line. Now." Though she's a full head shorter than the man she confronts, she's about one and a half times as wide. There's a reason the FOD crew is murmuring about 'Wrecking Ball Johnson' as they proceed apace down the deck.

With Bell barreling towards them, Bannik is naturally curious. "One second, sirs," says the Deck technician to the two pilots, stepping around to the front of Lasher's bird to inspect it, seeing if he can see what Bell sees. He holds up a finger, but seems unconcerned. Probably nothing.

Bell stands before the engine of Laskaris' Viper, setting hands to his hips and staring for a few long moments. Brows furrow. He borrows one hand to scratch at his goatee. The Chief is summarily ignored - what's she going to do, throw him off light duty? - until she arrives near to where he stands. At her approach, Doc levels an accusatory finger at the engine cowling. "I saw a flash, somewhere near here. Looks fine to me, but then, I'm just the pilot, no?"

Everyone's got their little idiosyncrasies. One of Shiv's is apparently having his helmet on before he starts pre-flight. Of course, as he spots the little commotion, he begins twisting it back off again, eyes following his squadmate toward Lasher's bird. After a few moments, he turns his attention back to checking his systems with a flip, flip, flip of switches.

"Step away from the ship or I will have you physically removed from the Deck, pilot. Your concerns are noted." Chief Johnson's wide mouth is set in a hard, tight line, one that accentuates her pulsing throat. "Crewman." That'd be Bannik. "This one's your bird. Thumbs up, thumbs down, your call." Her fingers snap loudly in the air; already, one of her minions is on his way to the comm unit on the wall.

As the attention seems to be focused on or near his plane, Laskaris half rises from the seat of his cockpit, his frown deepening. His forehead is creased as he looks down towards where Bell and the chief are standing. "Something, Lieutenant?" he asks curiously. Hey, if there's something going on with 'his' bird, he damn sure wants to know about it. Eyes pass from Bell, to Johnson, to Bannik.

[TAC3] Polaris says, "CIC, this is the Hangar. You're going to need to CAP out there a little longer, over."

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Hangar, CIC, say again, 'a little longer'?"

Bannik looks at Doc. Looks at the Chief. Looks back at Doc. "Sir. I." He seems pretty anxious to be the one choosing between the pilot and the Chief, but finally he says: "I'm taking a look at the cowling. It looks perfectly normal to me. And." He flips back to his checklist. "There are no anomalies on the pre-flight sheet. The Captain's bird is one of our better ones in the inventory at the moment."

[TAC3] Polaris says, "CIC — " There's an uncomfortable clearing of a throat as the deckhand on the other line weighs his option. "CIC, there has been a slight delay that is being handled, over.""

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Handle it quickly. Broadside, Cerberus, did you hear that?"

The moment the deck chief storms by, Tisiphone's continuing sweep falters back to a halt. She rakes her teeth across her bottom lip and shoots a quick glance around before taking a couple steps in the direction of the kerfuffle. "A flash? Shorting out? Maybe-" Her voice cuts off like a switch was flicked when the deck chief speaks again.

[TAC3] "Snag" Villon says, "Snag, Cerberus. A — a — a delay?" Villon's high soprano sounds worried, but she keeps her counsel to herself. "Roger," is the plaintive response."

"Don't go doing any favors on my account, Chief," comes the Professor's response with a wry smile as he raises both hands, and backs away slowly. Lasher gets a shrug and Bell motions towards Bannik and the Chief. "Don't ask me, sir. I only work here. But I did, beyond a shadow of a doubt, see a flash. Coming from there." He steps back far enough to placate the Chief, but doesn't return immediately to his patrol.

Sitka can likely only hear about half of what's being spoken between the clustering of pilots and deck hands, from where he's sitting. And since the patrol's to be delayed anyway, according to what he's hearing over tactical, the Captain unbuckles his seat harness and begins clambering back out of the cockpit. His boots hit the deck with a dull thunk, and he heads in closer to the kerfuffle. Including the pilot who happens to report to him.

Level green eyes bore into the front of Bannik's skull as Johnson acknowledges Bell's retreat with a short, quick nod — and then, with lightning speed, they've fixed on Tisiphone and Laskaris both. Get back and Sit down are the implied messages: the first to the former, the second to the latter. "Captain — " That'd be Sitka, who (as he's just exited said cockpit) earns a more obvious reprimand. "Get back in your bird. You're both clear to launch by the crew's say-so. Tow crews! Start moving them!"

Lasher turns his icy stare on the blocky chief. "Chief? It's 'Lieutenant' or 'sir', not 'pilot'." He's not normally the type to ride someone about military courtesy, but the chief's respectless abrasiveness is starting to grate on him. Regardless of whether or not it's currently her deck. There's a nod to Bannik, and Lasher sits the rest of the way back in the seat. He's still looking about with a frown, though, trying to figure out what's going on.

Bannik worries his lower lip as he stares at the cowling. Clearly, he's a bit nervous about that call, but. "I mean, the wiring issue is with Shiv's bird, not Lasher's. We'll just do the checklist good and slow, okay? Focus on the electricals." It's like he's convincing himself. "Let's go, all right? Right down the list." He tries to get back into the rhythm.

Ooo. Tow crews. Tisiphone's rather fascinated by the whole process, even though it's something she's So Not Allowed to participate in as an ersatz deckie. It's not something she'll gawk at when there's a crew chief breathing fire at her, however. Eyes down, back to her sweep, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth as she goes.

Bell folds his arms, standing behind the Deckies and staring intently at the engine cowling from his position, as if willing the light to reassert itself. To prove the Professor is Not Crazy. "To be fair, Chief, you /did/ direct me to keep my eyes open for anomalies," he chides gently.

Shiv isn't generally, by nature, an adversarial sort of man. But when Johnson turns her ire on him, he takes a step forward rather than back, eyes making direct contact with her own. "Chief, I've flown with the Lieutenant here — " That'd be Bell, whom he indicates with a nod. " — for about four years now. If he says he saw something, he saw something. Also, that's my wingman over there." And that'd be Lasher, also indicated with a nod. "It's my job to watch his six, down here or up there. Maybe he could be given a different bird?" His posture is habitually slouched rather than aggressive, his tone of voice mild.

"Anomalies on the godsdamned deck, not on the godsdamned birds. No such thing as a perfect plane, Shiv. You want a perfect glitch-free ride, you're going to be here all day, sir. And respectfully, Captain Laskaris? You can get back into your cockpit too." Johnson stalks away, throwing a perfunctory "Sir" behind her as she pushes past the burly men now removing the blocks from the two Vipers' skids. "On me, Tall Guy. Now."

Tisiphone shoots a sympathetic look toward Bell as the deck chief prepares to dispense justice, lips primmed into a tight line. Onward she paces, eyes sweeping — and then suddenly flicking up, widening behind the protective goggles. "Wait- Chief! Shiv-" And then it's HER turn to break line, long legs carrying her a few steps toward Sitka's Viper, pointing at a curling wisp of smoke and red blinkenlights that weren't there a moment before.

"By Athena's virgin sna — " The rest of that curse is bit off in a snarl as Chief Johnson sees another pilot break ranks, dashing forward as far as those long legs will take her — and then, her beefy head whipping around, she discovers she's got more pressing concerns than a disobedient pilot. "Everybody back!" she shouts, plowing forward through the crowd still staring for that glint of light, bowling past Bell and Bannik to the two men frozen in shock beneath the Viper's reserve tylium tanks —

Explosions don't happen in slow motion, not in real life, and so it is that Johnson skids to a stop by a will not her own, thrown backwards by steel-grey shrapnel that shreds her face and punctures her eyes — which now leak vitreous humour down newly-blackened skin as she screams and screams and screams. Her two men are less fortunate — or more fortunate, all things considered, as having taken the brunt of the blast, they're dead before they know it — snapped necks, pierced hearts, and everywhere the spray of blood. And the sound — Gods, the sound, a deafening roar that rings in quivering eardrums far longer than it has any right to ring, as if the heads of the unfortunate soldiers nearby have been struck by bolts of lightning forged by the Cyclopes themselves.

And of Sitka's Viper, only a broken husk remains — broken wings, mangled tailfin, and a cockpit through which canopy the ejection seat has smashed, its explosive fuses triggered by the host of subsidiary explosions now ripping through the bird: ammunition, no doubt, cooking off like firecrackers on a balmy summer night.

Bell used up his stupidity quota when he walked /toward/ the phantom light minutes earlier. When he follows Tisiphone's warning, it takes only a moment for him to find something substantial to put between him and the blinking Viper engine, and his self-preservation instinct takes over. One need not be a mechanic to recognize the inherent badness of Blinking Red.

'No point in showing me from all the way over there, pilot. Get over here.' Tisiphone has heard words along those lines during her time on the deck. Pointing from over yonder doesn't clarify much. Precision is good, wot? The flash and puff of smoke were small, what could possibly go- EXPLODO. Even finely-honed reflexes are only so much of a match against something of that magnitude. She manages to bring her arms up to shield her face before she's knocked ass over teakettle away from the blast toward one of the still-intact Vipers.

So much for tact and diplomacy. Sitka watches the Chief go with a mingling of irritation and apprehension, then scrapes his fingers back and forth a couple of times through his messy curls, and turns on his heel to head back to his viper. He hears Tisiphone call out to him on the second step, and sees the flash of light on the third. Somehow, Johnson's managed to jostle her way past him, and things do indeed happen almost quicker than the eye can follow. The brilliant flash of light, the thunderous roar that follows a second later, he hits the deck somewhere in the scrum of things ripping apart, and manages to scramble behind a stack of empty crates as shrapnel from the exploding Mark II pulverises several of them.

Well, if there is one thing Tyr Bannik will be eternally grateful for, it's personal protective equipment. That bright orange is not only stylish, but it is also protective against flame. It is perhaps a stroke of luck that allows him to hit the deck (literally) just in time for the debris from the blast to hit his back and cranial. It might bruise later, but for now the technician is on raw adrenalin. For lack of a Chief — she just got blown apart, but that hasn't quite registered yet — he's yelling. "On the horn! Fire! Fire! Fire on the Port-Side Hangar Deck!" He starts waving. "/Back/ from the bird! Secondary explosions could still happen! Get out the AFFF over here!"

Lasher is still half-standing in his cockpit when Sitka's fighter goes up in flames. It's far enough away that the captain luckily doesn't share the fate of Johnson or her men - but not so far that he gets off scot-free. He manages to get his arm up in time to protect his craggy face from any bits of flying shrapnel, though his moment of hesitation means he's still unprotected enough to take a couple minor hits. Pieces of Viper knife across his flightsuit, several of them cutting deep enough to slice into skin and draw a thin line of blood before he can duck down deep enough into his cockpit. "FRAK!" he yells, throwing himself out of his cockpit and running full tilt away from the exploded Viper.

Chief Johnson twitches on the ground, her muscular limbs throbbing as blood seeps from her face to pool on the ground. There are those soldiers who suffer pain in silence — but not this one, and certainly not after what's just happened. As the klaxons go off for the second time in minutes, she adds her voice to her own, wet screams calling out for a medic as loudly as she can muster. And on Bannik's order, the fire crews are already moving, hustling past those cables Tisiphone so kindly re-coiled to access the hoses and the extinguishers located on the bulkheads. And that wide-eyed crewman who's still by the phone now gets on said horn once more:

Announcement: Polaris shouts, "Fire, fire, fire in the portside hangar! Away Damage Control!"

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Broadside, this is Cerberus." The officer on duty's voice is taut with tension. "We're locking down the port hangar. Patrol pattern Gamma — away alert Vipers!""

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Snag, Broadside." There isn't even a hint of Captain Matise's usual good humor in that. "Weapons free, close on me. Turn and burn, now, now, now!"

Sitka is also on his feet as soon as he hears Bannik's shout, boots scuffing the deck as he hauls himself up and vacates the vicinity of the explosion. Never a moment of rest for the weary. "Jer, Apostolos, sound the frak off!" is called out in the approximate direction that he saw the two pilots last, whilst he checks the pistol still holstered at his thigh. His eyes are transfixed for a few seconds on Johnson's jerking body, but plowing back in there now would be pretty much suicide— so he stays put.

As non-essential personnel stream out of the explosion zone, the young crewman gets on the wireless once more — as morbidly fascinated by Johnson's twitching frame as Sitka appears to be. His voice is breathless and hoarse when he next speaks.

Announcement: Polaris shouts, "Medical team to the portside hangar! We've got casualties!"

Medics will get here when they get here. Bannik right now is running on pure instinct from Basic, all of the firefighting training he learned there being put into use for the first time. "Get me Purple K powder and CO2 on the ammo storage! Get that fire out before the whole mag cooks off!" It's the hand-held bottles that get used for spot relief while the AFFF is unfurled and the pumping station gets going; if they're lucky, the initial firefighting efforts can prevent an even bigger bang.

Laskaris skids to a stop after a short run, hoping he's put enough distance between himself and the explosion. He finds himself standing a few steps away from Sitka, a dully horrified expression on his face as he mutters a cavalcade of curses, eyes wildly twitching as he surveys the chaos. His eyes shoot over to Bannik, and this time Laskaris doesn't hesitate before dashing over to one of the equipment storage lockers and the firefighting equipment stored therein.

Tisiphone's in the process of staggering upright from underneath an undamaged Viper, having found her backwards roll stopped by its wheel and landing gear. It's Bowling For Ensigns night again. "Here," she shouts, voice cracking, when Sitka calls for the sound-off. "I'm- ow, frakdammit- I'm okay!" She stumbles forward, dazed, picking a small scrap of what used to be Shiv's Viper out of her arm. "Professor?!"

If not for the fact that the popping of exploding KEW rounds sounds like gunshots in the distance, the soldiers in the hangar might well be forgiven for assuming that Bannik and his men are simply making microwavable popcorn. The ammo has cooled considerably, now, but here and there a bullet or two will shoot forward from its coiled storage unit, clanging against reinforced titanium shielding that's burned but — miraculously — intact. Already other Vipers are being cleared away, pushed and stripped while the scream of engines rings out above the clamor: the alert Vipers, shooting out of the tubes on CIC's order. The grunts of straining men echo hollowly in the room, one of whom pushes Tisiphone aside with a rough and hairy arm — probably a Pyramid player in his past life, so powerful is he. "Move!" he shouts. "Who knows how many of these are — got — whatever they just got done got!" And that, madam, is why it's his job to Move Heavy Things.

Bannik's men move just as quickly. Hoses squeal as they're unrolled, pumped full of chemicals until they swell like constrictors after a meal; extinguishers clang as metal hits deck, set down for stability while safety pins are ripped from their heads. And still Chief Johnson twitches a yard or two away from the loud and smoking Viper. Having long since lost her voice, she can only whimper helplessly as she holds her hands to her face, applying what pressure she can to the myriad cuts on her face, neck, and so on. Her torn orange suit is covered with bits and pieces of Viper — and bits and pieces of people, too — half a ear, a severed hand, remnants of the two unfortunate souls pulped by the explosion.

Sitka seems to have caught a bit of shrapnel, himself. Superficial, by all appearances: the left shoulder of his flight suit is torn open a few inches, but either quick thinking or a generous helping of luck's saved him from the poor Chief's fate. For now, lacking a bird to fly on alert, and also lacking the equipment to get in and help with the chemical spraying efforts, he ditches his helmet and wades back in to 'fetch' Tisiphone. Which entails grabbing her fairly roughly by the arm, and attempting to guide her to relative safety. Might be the lack of response from his Lieutenant that has him looking vaguely agitated.

Tisiphone stumbles as she's shoved back by the anti-eloquent Mover Of Heavy Lourdes, and flicks the bloodied scrap of shrapnel at his retreating back. "I'm moving, you-" No time. Too chaotic. He's already gone. Then she's manhandled a second time — is it Grabby-Day for the deckies, or something? — and she tries to jerk her arm free with savage irritation. "I frakking SAID I'm-" Oh. It's Sitka. "-I'm fine," she finishes, less angrily. Over toward the wall she goes, never really stopping the wide-eyed scan for the rest of her fellow pilots.

Since Bannik is a mere E-2, it's hard to say that it's 'Bannik's men' that are being ordered around. But in a crisis, the person who yells the most and who can shake folks out of a shocked stupor can often be the one in control. "Get it totally covered in foam!" Bannik is shouting. "Frak. Get the other birds /away/. We need to keep the insides from cooking off too bad!"

Rachel comes in along with a med it and one other stolen from Sickbay. She looks for all the world like she just got out bed, her hair unbrushed and pulled back, eyes weary as she pulls on gloves and looks around, making a quick assessment of who needs her ost even as she asks anyone nearby, "What the frak happeed here?"

Rank tends to be forgotten in an emergency, which is how Lasher finds himself unwinding a hose for a party of crewmen and junior NCOs. He wipes a trickle of blood away from his forehead; apparently his arm hadn't protected him as much as he'd thought. With that accomplished, he grabs a mask and handheld extinguisher for himself, hastily donning the former and priming the latter.

Her footsteps are swift, percussion far from announcing Mika's arrival, given the chaos that encompasses the hanger. The last of her gear is yanked on as Mika catapults herself into the mess. Cat eyes are already taking in the scene: damage mitigation is the first she is looking for, and Bannik's efforts are not only to be commended… but thankfully assisted by Those Who React Well During Crises. Mika? Is shooting for a tug, to plant her ass and do exactly a Bannik shouted/recommended: get a plane away from the fires.

Cappella comes in with Mika both in work out clothes he heads immediatly to try to stop the fire, looks for equiment and trying to get a gauge on how much of the ship is in danger.

Well, it /was/ a relatively quiet day. The only projectile Stavrian had to deal with in the last few hours was someone's lunch on return visit. The emergency call packed him up running, kit in hand and boots thudding all the way up the stairs and into the sight of an exploded hell. Whoa, shit. His eyes flicker quickly to the people who look like they're still standing, quick count made of heads bleeding but still on their feet. And then the Vipers, and what looks like a body. Priority One, go. "One down by that Viper, sir!" He shouts to Rachel.

"Just stay back," Shiv explains, as if it needed to be repeated. "You're also bleeding. You might want to grab one of the medics when they come around here." He gives Tisiphone's shoulder a firm squeeze before finally releasing it, and strides off again to see if he can rustle up a Bell in this mess. The firefighting's left to Lasher and the numerous deck hands that've swarmed the area.

Bannik yells very loudly and NCOs listen. Streams of off-white foam pour onto the plane, whose sizzling metal skin hisses and steams at the chemicals' cool touch, and though the rattling of bullets has slowed rather significantly, every couple of seconds another will rattle in the fighter's charred innards, clattering about like a maraca before settling to a stop with its peers. But as the medics push towards the body on the floor, they're met by several burly deckhands whose sweat-stained faces wear expressions as pained as Johnson's — or what's left of it. "No! You can't!" one warns — "Go near that thing while its ammo is rock-n-rollin' and — you'll — and you'll end up like — " A quaver thrums through his surprisingly thin tenor; then, coughing, he falls to his knees, making this the second projectile Stavrian's seen over the last few hours. Acid burns his throat as he hacks and coughs, eyes still frozen on Johnson's shredded face: a face that's still very much alive.

Bell rises unsteadily from behind a pile of ammunition crates, taking a few shaky steps away from the nearest body of fire. He does a quick patdown of his person, finds everything mostly in order, and pinches at his temples for a long moment to relieve the sudden headache. A scan of the area, beside chaos, reveals his squadron leader, and he stumbles Shiv's way, staying low in the face of noxious fumes. "Abe! What did you do to your ship?"

Ah, the smell of burning flesh on a ship deck, like roses to Rachel's nose. The doctor quickly makes her way over to the viper as directed by Stavrian, only to be stopped by the men. "Shit," she mutters, shaking her head, "Right, as soon as we can get over there, she needs us. I want one medic on standby to get over ASAP once it's cleared, the rest on everyone else." She turns though to Tisiphone, a well recognised patient by now. Good thing Rachel's a cool head in a crisis, just moving on to whomeer she can.

"Oh, frak." It's perhaps now that Bannik realizes that the Chief's body is still close to the bird. "Dai!" cries out the technician to his fellow. "On me! We need to push the bird /back/ towards the wall." And so Bannik moves forward to the left side of Shiv's former bird, looking to start the push back. But in doing so, he has to move through what's left of his two colleagues, staining his slip-resistant boots and pants legs with blood and gore. It's not pretty. He tries not to think about it.

Sitka has heard Bell's voice enough times to be able to recognise it even across a raucous hangar bay, in the midst of a deck emergency. His head jerks toward the tall pilot who called out to him, and he turns and heads over briskly, shoulders sagging in rapid and visible relief. The question, to which he clearly doesn't have an answer, is ignored in favour of: "Are you all right?" And he too is grasped by the shoulder, a fistfull of flight suit in the Captain's hand. "Are you all right?" He starts moving, unless the pilot wrestles out of his grip. "Shit, Jer, don't you frakking do that to me." A glance is shot to what's left of his fighter, and the crew moving in to spray it down, but it doesn't linger.

Well, "FRAKKIN'!" She gets it, truly Dai does, but damned if Mika's not angry with herself. Direction changed, tug dismissed, the minute woman trogs after Bannik swiftly. "MEDICS COME GET THE FRAKKIN' CHIEF!" In case they aren't on their way. She? Busy doing exactly what Bannik specified: Move the damn ship a different route.

Mask on his face and extinguisher in hand, Lasher advances slowly towards the wrecked husk of Shiv's fighter. When he gets close enough, he immediately begins unloading foam into the thing, doing his best to coat the heated metal with the stuff. If he can manage to get close enough to the chief without being in the danger zone himself, he'll put the extinguisher down long enough to drag the chief's body away; his flightsuit does provide some manner of protection, at least.

"Fine, I think," comes Bell's response, moving along with Sitka such that he doesn't require much dragging. "Though I could do with an aspira and a glass of water. How long was I out for? Are you alright?" He breaks eye contact with the Petrels' fearless leader long enough to spot Laskaris engaging in firefighting operations. "What should we be doing?" Ah, the Reserves.

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Cerberus, Broadside. Alert Vipers are in the air and have completed their sweep." There's a hitch in his voice. "They've lost intership, tac channels, everything. We're blinking lights at each other out here — but at least we're the only ones doing the blinking.""

"Aye, sir," Stavrian calls to Rachel. The PO that came up with him hurries towards the removed line of wounded; the JG looks back at the Viper in question as the deckies begin shouting about moving it, gauging distances quickly in his head. He sprints for the area of the moving Viper, weighing timing of greatest hazard to greatest survival of wounded as the bird's shoved backwards, heading for the Chief's body. A carry's not going to be pleasant, but that's the option they have.

Cappella runs to where the chiefs body lies, he starts dragging it away from the heat of the fire, toward the incoming medics. As he puts it down, he then looks for more bodies.

Of all the people to be the Patron Saint of the Sickbay. Tisiphone stares after Sitka for a moment before making her way further back from from the chaos. She'll direct the onrushing Damage Control and Medical folk as best she can, but there's little need for her to point out where hell broke loose. The smell of burning things that were never meant to burn, leaking fuel, and charred blood do a far better job of it. She'll do her small and lighly-dazed part moving deckie-discarded equipment out of the way.

Rachel keeps looking back as well, knowing that soon enough she's going to be with the crash cart taking the Chief's body back to Sickbay. All Tisiphone gets right now is a quick glance over and a light shined in her eyes t make sure she's not in any immediate danger before she nod, calling out instructons for a medic to dress the wound, heading back to wait for the Chief herself.

Another orange jumpsuit is added to the mix, in all the hustle and bustle of the fray it might be easy to miss the word 'PRESS' lettered out in reflective tape on the back. Besides, Sawyer's careful to keep her back to the hull as she skulks around the outskirts of the hangar bay, mainly keeping out of the way and out of eyeline. Her features are pulled into a tight grimace at the smell permeating the air, the unmistakeable odor of Shit Gone Wrong (tm).

Fearless leader whut? Sitka's just a washed up viper stick cum glider instructor. His gloved hand is released from the Lieutenant's shoulder, and a faint, thin smile flickers briefly across his lips. "Just keep back for now. You might go talk to the specialist on the horn over there, make sure he's put a call in with the security hub. Otherwise, best we can do is to give them a hand if they need it, and otherwise stay out of the way." A brief glance to make sure Tisiphone's still on her feet, and then the Captain peels away to see about helping with any birds that need moving.

It'll take more than two people to move the Viper — which is why those growling deckhands now leave the medics alone, allowing them to do what they will while six strong hands (two of which are stained with vomit) and three strong backs put additional power into the move. They don't flinch, not even when more KEW bullets rattle in the belly of the beast, and though their gloves slip against the foam-covered fuselage, the Viper is — slowly — pushed back. White bubbles drip onto the ground in a beautiful slow-motion spray, every other pop accompanied by the sharp slam of metal against metal — metal which finally, finally breaks. A veritable clutch of bullets tumbles to the ground as the Viper is pushed back, brass and steel trailing behind her like the innards from a pig so recently stuck.

As for the chief? Her lips move softly as she writhes on the ground, her chest rising and falling as her heart pumps and pumps. Blood encrusts her lip — singular, as the upper one has been cloven in two — and teeth, the upper incisors of which have been smashed right out of her jaw. Red flesh — exposed to the elements — is peppered with bits of bloody steel, and there's a massive cut that runs down her forehead and through her left eye, which looks like it's just been popped like a grape. One hand scrabbles for the closest thing she can latch onto: that severed wrist, which she holds to her breast as she gasps in pain.

His extinguisher is shoved into the hands of one of the deckies scurrying about as Laskaris makes for the prone body of Chief Johnson. "Stay with me, Chief," he says rapid fire. "Goin' to get you outta here." He doesn't pay any mind to the progress Bannik and Mika are making with the Viper; in his mind, Johnson doesn't seem to have any more time. A little roughly, he grabs her under the shoulder, grunting as he tries to pull the woman's body out of harm's way. He looks about wildly, eyes settling on Stavrian. "Help me!" he shouts, nodding towards the chief.

As soon as the bird is back enough Rachel runs in, along with hopefully sme othrs and the crash cart. A quick gesture with her hand is all it takes to indicate that the chief needs to have a plank slid under her to lift her onto the cart. Rachel looks down at her, glancing down her face and then to her wrist. The eye is probably gone, but the wrist needs something now, "Right, Chief. I am going to give you a shot of morpha and then take a look at that wrist and then get you on the cart. We need to treat you in Sickbay."

Cappella kneels down to try to get the cheifs legs, as Lask grabs her up top, and Stav approaches to help. He looks up as the doc approaches though.

"Get the frak away! Bannik! Something's on the ship! Something's on the ship!" One hand closes like -steel- over Bannik's arm, Mika doing everything in her puny little power to pull the man away from the ship. "Green light, blinking, beneath the lower fuselage! Bannik, frakkin'!" Whether or not he's obeying? She's still going to tug at him. Get. Away. From. Potential. Explosive.

"What in the —?" Bannik is confused, but he allows himself to be yanked, scrambling away from the ship. He dodged one explosion today. He's not going to risk it with a second. "Back! Back! Everyone back! Foam on those hot shells! Cool them down! Don't let them bounce and trigger something!" His boots dig in against the blood and foam, propeling himself backwards on the Deck.

"Gods, whoa!" Stavrian shouts at Laskaris and Cappella, skidding to his knees by the woman's head. "Whoa, /stop/. Don't /pull/ her, she could have a spinal injury. Lasher, get her feet together, I'm going to stabilize her head while they get the plank." He stays out of Rachel's way with the morpha, tugging off his jacket and using that as a crude pillow to stop the woman's neck from moving.

Now that folks are looking for that little green light at the bottom of the Viper, it's almost impossible to miss: the lamp at the end of the dock, the 'go'-signal in one of Aerilon's famous car races, the blinking of a G4 detonator that's miraculously not gone off —

One of those things is not like the others.

Somewhere in the shadow of a Raptor, Sawyer has slipped a pad of paper from her pocket, her head is bent as she furiously scribbles notes, eyes flashing intermitantly to the scene. The cries for everyone to move back are sort of lost to her ears amidst the cacophony of other voices and shouts on the deck, as she tries to sort out what all the flailing and hub-bub is about. Explosives? What explosives?

Tisiphone snaps her cracked protective goggles up onto her forehead after tripping for the second time over an obstacle. Shatterproof plastic. Ri-i-ight. She watches the knot of people struggling to save the deck chief from the shattered remains of the nearby Viper for a few moments, her expression tense and drawn, then pointedly looks away. That obstacle she tripped on? Moving it out of harm's way. The last thing the chief needs is her medical crew tripping on the way out.

"Right." Lasher flushes slightly at the reprimand from the PA, but he doesn't hesitate in switching sides, releasing the Chief's shoulders gently. He moves to her feet, roughly shoving his way past the engineer as he does so — sometimes little things like courtesy must be abandoned in an emergency, after all. As ordered, he carefully pushes one burnt, bloody leg over to make contact with the other. Then, there's an expectant look back at Stavrian, the captain waiting to be told what to do next.

Sitka actually manages to run into Sawyer, quite literally, enroute to help out with the repositioning of equipment. He rounds the flank of the raptor, and she's greeted with an inadvertently rough shoulder, bearing the brunt of his one hundred eighty pounds or so in mid-stride. "Excuse me," he mumbles, eyes flickering up to find— "Miss Averies. You shouldn't be down here."

"Frak. -FRAK-." Trust the woman who rarely speaks to reduce her vocabulary to the darkest words of their vocabulary. "Bannik, Bannikwhoknowsbombs? Shit, who knows bombs?" Frozen for a second, Mika is back to movemovemoving - right towards the com. "Get the marines. We need the -FRAKKING- MARINES!" She's telling everyone! Except the com. That? That comes seconds later, her call in.

Cappella hears the word bombs, "I know a bit about demolitions. What are we dealing with?" He is not currently dressed in fire proof gear though.

Rachel gives the morpha then waits, waits for the Chief to be lifted on the cart. Once that's done, she can tourniquet the arm.

Sawyer isn't precisely flattened by the shoulder-check of the Captain, but there is a hiss and an unmistakeable, "Ow, Frak!" When she gets jostled, body rocking withe blow. She looks up to see the offender is none other then Sitka, and she gives him a quick stern look over. "Condition is still set at Three. I have clearances." Her eyes switchback from his head to boots and back again. Her pencil's eraser traces the gash in his suit, quickly. "Are you mortally injured? No? Then you're blocking my view…"

There's an audible sigh of relief from Chief Johnson as she finally — finally! — relaxes, the morpha that flows through her veins taking effect almost instantly. She tries to close her eyes and fails rather miserably, as she doesn't quite have a functioning eyelid any longer; bloodied translucent liquid seeps down her face, dripping onto Laskaris' hands. Just like when he dissected a cow's eye in high school biology, except — well, this isn't a cow, though it's certainly still an eye.

Plank found by some PO and laid next to the Chief's body, Stavrian looks up at Lasher. "Got her legs, sir? Pick up and move onto the board on three, then we get her the frak away." Because someone's yelling about marines and that's probably VERY BAD. "Ready?" He's got her upper half, including the base of her neck that he was so worried about. "One…two…three." Shift they go.

"Your touching concern for my well being aside, Miss Averies, you're going to have to get back." Sitka hitches his chin toward the rear section of the 'bay in indication, his eyes ticking thattaway before roving back to Sawyer. "Don't worry, I'm sure you can still get a pretty good scoop from over there." He manages a faint, though not altogether sincere smile, which drops away sharply when someone starts shouting about marines and demolitions. "Get back. Please. You're going to get hurt." The concern there is genuine, and he lingers but for a moment before striding off again to join the extrication crew. Or whatever this has become.

Lasher doesn't seem fazed by the chief's eye — or what's left of it — dripping onto his hands. If he is, he hides it well, anyway. His hands wrapped tightly around the chief's legs, he watches Stavrian like a hawk until the count gets to three, at which point he carefully lifts the woman's lower half in sync with the PA, carefully moving her towards the board.

The shief's arm is strapped and tightened, cutting off blood flow to the wrist. Rachel is already barking orders to get her out of there, and herself, no more non-marines than necessary with an active bomb there. "Let's get her going."

She's not engaged anymore, not in any real way, Mika's ear kept to the phone thanks to a rather persuasive (and higher up) man to whom she is reporting, minute by agonizing minute. She'd -much- rather be in the fray, but a frakkin' bomb? Nothankyou.

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Cerberus, Broadside. No dice. If there's Raiders out here, they're doing a damn good job staying invisible."

As Mika gets on the horn to get the Marines in, Bannik turns to Cappella, nodding. "All right, sir. We're calling in EOD folks, but I'm sure they might want someone else with some knowledge. I can go in and help with the Viper side." He then raises his voice: "If you're not currently putting out a fire or moving equipment away from the bent bird, the best thing you can do for me is stay the Hades back and get me a perimeter around this area!" It's some of Johnson's YellVoice transferred to him.

[TAC3] Polaris says, "CAP, Cerberus, roger that. Praetorian is deploying her Raptors to assist in the scans. Signal alert Vipers to take over your patrol pattern and move to escort."

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Cerberus, Broadside copies five-by-five."

[TAC3] "Snag" Villon says, "Is — is everything — I mean, I — I hope everything's okay."

Bell sticks to the outskirts, as per his Captain's orders, until such time as he has a task. Bannik conveniently provides just that, and so Bell taps Tisiphone on the shoulder and moves to position himself between the door and the goings-on. No one getting past the Professor without a stern lecture or talking-to.

[TAC3] Polaris says, "Mind on the mission, Snag." Matise's voice is cold. "And that's not how you signal 'S.'"

[TAC3] "Snag" Villon says, "S — sorry."

Sawyer has a whole heap of protest in her, you can damn well see it starting to bubble to the surface as Sitka tells her to back up her business and park it elsewhere. Something about the situation, however, has her actually minding him and she starts a slow retreat. "Be careful." She tells him as she back pedals to a safer distance, but it's spoken more like an order then any concern. Well. At least verbally. Before anyone can get too caught up in that Hallmark moment, though, she's turning to snag someone who's bristling past, asking them quietly whose ship that was that is now a heaping hull of twisted metal.

Ask a simple question, get a simple answer. A pale-faced woman points at Sitka's back before she brushes past the blonde and towards the stairwell.

Cappella bites his lip, as the medics take care of the Chief he kneels down, backing a little from the fire to get a good look at the charge, "Charge that big there won't be much left of the viper when it goes off, could take some other things with it.

Tisiphone finishes shoving a heavy coil of cording off to the side and straightens to wipe a thin trickle of blood off her hands. That handled, she dips a silent nod to Professor Bell and follows after him to help form the requested perimeter.

Just about the dumbest thing anyone can do in their entire professional career is to run towards explosives, yet that is precisely what Cadmus and Kai are in the process of doing. Still decked-out in their standard duty uniforms, they seem to have taken enough time to throw on flak jackets over the top, as well as grab a toolkit - carried by Kai - and some flashlights. "Out of the way, EOD!" Cadmus shouts at full volume, their feet banging against the metal hull as the charge toward the mess in the Port Hangar. One unfortunate naval looky-loo is unceremoniously body-checked out of the way - not roughly, but with enough force to ensure he just isn't standing there any more.

Rachel is in the process fo pushing the Chief out, fast as she can.

"Corporal. Private." Bannik is the man on the scene, walking next to the bomb squad, filling them in on the situation like a paramedic wheeling in a patient. "We have, it looks like, unexploded G-4 on the fuselage. The Lieutenant's taking a look, but we figured you guys should be here. If you have any questions on the Viper itself, let me know."

Calm. Absolutely placid are the lakes of Kai's features, despite the deadbolt run she's engaged with, two seconds shy of Cadmus' movement. Thankfully, she doesn't feel any need to body check - woman would probably check herself onto her ass instead. As soon as she's within a few feet the bag is dropped, and her body follows suit, newly enlisted Zaranj kneeling and yanking a few tools out. One slaps into the fold of her shirt at the neck, another at the edge of her pocket, and another… Pictured? Got it. "Get a second, Cadmus. Find out if that Cappella fellow is 'round." To Bannik her gaze slaps. "Any wiring inside the fuselage or near it that's not going to show but it can be wired into?" Her words continue as the direction of her gaze reverts to the green light. A cloth is taken out and Kai approaches the mechanism itself, dipping obviously again to get a good look.

Stavrian gives the Chief over to Rachel and some medics with a rolling gurney. His job's here, back behind the marine cordon where he can make sure everyone wounded can get out safely. His blue eyes flicker to Laskaris and he gives the man a very grateful nod. "Thanks, sir. Couldn't have gotten her out safely by myself. Are you hurt, yourself?"

Sawyer glances back in the direction of Sitka once she receives her answer, a little noise made in the back of her throat that's hard to discern the emotional origin of. She watches him a thick long moment, then turns her head back to her paper and makes a little notation in the margin, circling it once or twice for importance. Lucky for her, she was already in the Hangar bay by the time Bell decides to play security guard, so she remains in the cavernous room, though now further back from the fray thanks to the Petrel Captain.

The Capella person is actually right there, looking things over. He rises from where he was kneeling, wearing sweats as he was in the gym when it all broke out and turns to the Marines, "We got a decent sized charge."

As he slows his run to a job, jog slowing to a skid, and finally coming to stop before Bannik, Cadmus nods his head. He points first to Kai, then to the Viper. "Good, will do. Go, get Creman Bannik or one of the others to show you the spots," he says curtly. And then he just turns on a heel, sweeping the room for someone - anyone - who can help Kai with her job. "If you're Cappella, I need you to help Private Zaranj defuse the explosives. I'm not rated for EOD." he says in sudden surprise at his quarry's appearance - apparently rank and qualifications stick with him much better than faces. "Anyone not going to sick bay, putting out fires, or have the Gods themselves have told me you're cleared, do *not* leave this deck!" That last statement definitely sounded like a threat.

Lasher probably looks worse than he is. He's got a few shrapnel-induced cuts and scrapes, several of which have drawn blood, including one on his face; other than that, he doesn't seem much worse for wear. "'S nothin'," he replies distantly. The captain runs a hand through his hair, not realizing until it's too late it's still covered in Johnson's blood and eye remnants. He grimaces, shaking his head a moment later. "I'm all right."

She doesn't identify him on the spot, and if they've met, Kai doesn't remember it. She's bad like that. Remembers names. Remembers faces. But remembering names to faces? An art she has yet to master. "Well, -yes-, -we do-. If you have nothing to do with explosives, -GO AWAY- SIR." Never can be too careful about ordering someone you don't know about. -Carefully- some of the suds are cleared away so that she can see the work clearer, first hand. "-Nice-. I want to know about how this ship survived after I'm done, MC Cadmus. -This- is a piece of work that -should not- have survived, let alone the ship and pilot. And that makes you in Serious Mode, cuz whomever planted this is on the ship. Now get me that second."

Sitka has been busying himself helping the deck crew haul away a rack of raptor drones, and clearing away the tangled mess of firehoses and bags of chemicals that were used in spraying down his viper. His viper. That part probably hasn't quite sunk in yet. He's oblivious to Sawyer's watching of him, and rather occupied with taking orders from a specialist who could be his kid.

Stavrian looks over Lasher's face, critically, before he nods. "Be sure and get to sickbay for those, so we don't end up with you and an infected face, okay?" But he's got more pressing injuries to see to right now, and he casts a concerned glance at the marines before backing up. "Take care of yourself, sir!"

She doesn't identify him - Cappella that is - on the spot, and if they've met, Kai doesn't remember it. She's bad like that. Remembers names. Remembers faces. But remembering names to faces? An art she has yet to master. "Well, -yes-, -we do-. If you have nothing to do with explosives, -GO AWAY- SIR." Never can be too careful about ordering someone you don't know about. -Carefully- some of the suds are cleared away so that she can see the work clearer, first hand. "-Nice-. I want to know about how this ship survived after I'm done, MC Cadmus. -This- is a piece of work that -should not- have survived, let alone the ship and pilot. And that makes you in Serious Mode, cuz whomever planted this is on the ship. Now get me that second." A pause, and it almost comes in a whisper. "Stranger, go away whoever you are I don't care. My conversation is for the Lance Corporal only." She's quite serious, following up with, "Cadmus, screw the second. You and me - we need alone time."

Cappella looks at Kai and raises an eyebrow, "Lt. Capella, Private I think you were just asking for me, but if you really want me to go away…." He smiles a little but doesn't move.

Bell remains at the entrance with Tisiphone, duly turning away curious onlookers while admitting damage control teams and medical personnel.

Sawyer finds a convenient slice of hull to lean against, once more obscuring the lettering on her orange jumpsuit that Atreus commisioned for her. She'd probably fit in a little better if she were actually doing anything to help the situation, but as that stands she'd probably just get in the way and be a hinderance. So she's over there, dutifully taking notes on her pad of paper as the Marines now bustle in and take over the show. The murmurs of an explosive device have no doubt made it to her ears by now, but this is as far as she's retreating, and certainly isn't leaving. Dear Cadmus gave her an excuse to stay. Scribble scribble.

"Defuse that frakking charge first, Private. Second guess Engineering later. You don't want my hands on that, because I got *zero* training in EOD," Cadmus says, pointing at a Kai with the beginnings of a very angry frown on his face. But he looks between the Viper and Cappella, eyes shifting between the two every half second, until his internal cogs come to a halt. "Step away, el-tee. Let the Private do her work," he says in a much quieter tone. Apparently some measure of the sudden guess made sense, upstairs.

Lasher nods. "Wilco, LT." He shambles off towards the side, staying out of the way now that there doesn't seem to be anything left for him to do. He does, however, remain on the hangar deck per Cadmus' instructions. "Thanks. An' you, too." He watches the PA depart for more medical work before turning his eyes back on the scene. Particularly the wreck of the Viper. He'd thought he heard someone mention a bomb earlier. Oh, my.

Tisiphone, the other half of Team Cordon, absently wipes her hands against her hips again, curling and uncurling her fingers distastefully against the stickiness of drying blood. She turns a one-eighty from Bell to make sure both comings and goings are kept an eye on.

Nimble hands work, steady as they go, neither quick nor slow and certainly not unsure. Seconds flat it's removed from the ship, but the bomb parts themselves? Separated, also carefully, and put in several different parts of her suit. Not for eyes around her. "I want a few more minutes. I want to check the rest of the ship out, sir." And unless he says otherwise? Kai -is- going to inspect the ship, and with anything she finds, remove it and place it also in her suit. That's how she rolls.

Sitka's assistance with hauling things is no longer required, and so he ends up somewhere off to Lasher's right, while the marines and engineers squabble over the defusing of the bomb. His blue eyes are narrowed slightly, and a smudge of blood-tinged grease is swiped off an unshaven cheek with his gloved palm, then brushed off on a flight suited thigh in turn. "The frak do you make of all this?" he murmurs, finally. There's an odd tone in his voice, possibly just residual shock.

Already scribbling away on his notepad, Cadmus regards those assembled one by one, and begins marking down those he recognizes or knows. And one by one he proceeds around the room, inquiring each individual about their full name, rank, and duties in the hangar. Each time, he says exactly the same thing to them: "Your cooperation in this investigation would be much appreciated. The Military Police will need a full statement about today's events and your recollections of them." Just what everybody wants: police scrutiny.

Slowly, surely, normalcy returns. Expended rounds, covered in foam, are carted away by armored DC personnel; the Viper herself is stored for evidence after the G-4 is packed and stored. A wave of orange has started to filter back in through the stairwell, kept away from the smoking fighter by the makeshift cordon of pilots and deckhands. A few attempt to push their luck and are abruptly pressed back — that's the third time Tisiphone's been shoved, and the first time Bell has thus been confronted; the rest, still shellshocked, don't bother, milling about while pretending to busy themselves with whatever work must be done. The medics departing with the body of Chief Johnson receive quiet, solemn looks — as do Shiv and Lasher, who, stunned, might not notice the whispers flitting about their persons: they who today have cheated Hades himself. For as the Poet said,

"Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once."

And though death — that necessary end — will come when it will come, today — for these two men, at least — is not that day.

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