| Junk Calculations |
| Summary: | Bannik enlists Trask to calculate the strategic placement of camera-laden space debris. |
| Date: | 20 Jul 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | Bannik might know |
| Players: |
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| Repair Bay - Hangar Deck - Battlestar Cerberus |
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| Post-Holocaust Day: #144 |
| When engines need to be rebuilt or other heavy but short-term work needs to be done, this is where it happens. Large, red hand-mobile cranes are situated along the wall beside stacks of toolchests. Carts with various computers and electronics are dispersed around the area for quick access. A very conspicuous yellow locker at the rear holds a sizable amount of firefighting gear, as well. Sturdy metal stands are available to hold all sorts of parts from gun systems to the FTL drives of a Raptor. Big enough to accommodate quite a few Vipers and Raptors at once, this area sees extensive use and is usually attended by at least one crew at all hours of the day and night. |
| Condition Level: 3 - All Clear |
Bannik has his cranial off, since he's in the Repair Bay, not the Deck proper, and is standing over a large work bench where several large — it looks like space rocks — have been laid out. He has, next to them, some scrap metal and various electronics. "Bootstrap!" calls out the Specialist, raising his hand. "Over here!"
Being a workaholic has both its good points and its bad points. Even more so when that work ethic also encompasses a need to perform high-quality work. All things considered, Trask is doing an admiral job shouldering the load. He still looks like he needs more sleep than he's been getting. That's what Deck coffee is for. "Bannik," he simply greets, upon wandering within earshot level. Dressed in his flight suit, he either is scheduled to commence, or has recently concluded, yet another double-CAP shift. Either way, he's here, as was requested of him.
"Sorry to call you in on this, sir," says Bannik, gesturing to his set-up. He then makes his way over to a side table where he has rolled up a tactical map of the area, which he is in the process of unrolling. "But Command has a sort of crazy idea that they want implemented and I've been asked to put it into action. But I needed a Raptor consult for part of it …" The prefaces aside, he leads into it. "All right. So Command wants us to install cameras into this space junk." He gestures at his bigger work bench. "Which I had the morning CAP lasso for us. And then they want us to send this mess out on a certain path." He gestures, making an arc along the tactical map. "Where it should record video and feed and then can be picked up on the other end of things."
A vague, dismissive wave of his right hand expresses Bootstrap's opinion of the apology. The left is holding a large thermos that is already open and subsequently brought to the man's lips. Mmm. Caffeine. Lip licking good. That done, those large brown eyes of his, attentive despite seeming a tad tired, regard the array of rocks. "Good to see the dumpster diving wasn't to simply check for used condoms in an ex-girlfriend's waste bin." The electronics are given a cursory examination, noted by the canting of Kal's head. "I'm surmising that you don't need me for the fun stuff, Specialist, so wassup?"
"It's how we're going to put it in the field, sir," explains Bannik, standing now over his chart, frowning down at it skeptically. "I can't put thrusters on the debris — well, for a few different reasons — starting with it'll fry the cameras and ending with it'll give away our position to the Cylons, which is what we're trying to avoid. So — I think we'll just have to give it a push, and those sorts of calculations aren't exactly what I learned in mechanic school." This is where Trask comes in, apparently.
"Funny how they don't teach ECO type stuff to non-ECOs," is deadpanned. "Probably too busy teaching mechanics how to be mechanics." Evidently, part of being an ECO is to start picking up stuff from Bannik's careful arrangement. This way and that, a piece of debris is studied. "You got measurements? Unlike swallows, this stuff ain't uniform in weight or size. Can't do the necessary number crunching until I know what the numbers are."
"I knew a lack of a liberal education in favor of rigid specialization would be the downfall of our society." See? Bannik can bring the funny. Sort of. He takes a sheet off his clipboard and hands it over: "I had to make do with the rocks that CAP could find, but I tried to drill into them a bit so I could implant the cameras and keep there from being too much electronic gear sticking out."
"Nonsense. That's just liberal propaganda." Bad jokes discarded like jetsam, and the rock set back down, Trask takes the sheet. Faintly, his lips move in silent rumination. "Carry the seven," he murmurs, mentally calculating. After a moment, he concludes, "Well, they should fit in the swallows bay. Since they're not uniform in weight, though, we'll have to document the order in which they've been loaded. Primary difference is that we're workin' with different numbers."
"Yeah? Think there'll be a problem because they're not uniformly smooth surfaces?" Bannik takes his clipboard and marks something down on it — some sort of note to the ordinance handlers or something, perhaps. "But if we can launch from there, that shouldn't be too bad."
Another sip of coffee, eyes still on the numbers. "Drag is always an issue. But, yeah. It'll be more so. No way the launches will be as on the cubit as with a swallow, but we should be able to get them within suitable proximity of where they need to be." Bootstrap turns his attention to the map. "Even taking that into consideration and making the necessary adjustments…" A mild, one-shoulder shrug ensues. "Still ain't gonna soar like a swallow." Unperturbed, he adds, "We'll make do. When's the deployment scheduled, an' how many Raptors are you gonna need? I'll adjust the shift assignments to make sure the best people for the job are on it."
Bannik considers this. "I've got about a half dozen of these loaded up. They're fixed at different distances so that we can get a variety of different takes on the target area, which Command hasn't told me what it consists of." Bannik has a wry sound. "We want to try to keep it clumped together, to look like a convincing small debris field, so if we did two sets of launches, say, three Raptors?" This is the very back of the envelope math.
"Yeah… I'm not thinkin' there's a lack of debris," is the wry response. "Need to take into account movement speeds and currents. Does us no good if the view is obscured by a hunk of junk ready for its close-up." Eyes back on Bannik, Trask says, "Get me the dimensions and I'll get you the people to get the job done." He's still holding that sheet of paper, perhaps assuming that it's his for the taking. "Until I have the details for each of 'em, can't compare 'em to the environmental readings, which means I can't determine which ones should go where, which means there will be no calculations for launch."
"Will do, sir," confirms Bannik. Apparently, the sheet is for Trask's taking, because he doesn't ask for it back. Or perhaps he's just intimidated. "I'll get it to you ASAP and we can coordinate on the staging. I appreciate you coming down, but —" He gestures at his workbench. "I ought to get back to installing some cameras in rocks."