| To Run or Fight |
| Summary: | Vandenberg and Justinian have a discussion on tactics at the Shooting Range. |
| Date: | 12 Nov 2041 AE |
| Related Logs: | None |
| Players: |
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| Shooting Range |
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| This nearly soundproof room has ten shooting booths in a straight line that face the target field. The ranges move out to thirty yards, each booth using its own track to take targets out to the desired distance vial a simple dial at the booth. Behind the firing line is a long bench that runs the width of the room where crewmembers can load magazines and compare targets. At one end is a huge stack of paper targets that has either Cylons or a few different types of human targets on them. A large sign hangs from the ceiling that details out the rules such as wearing eye and ear protection and watching where weapons are pointed at all times. |
| Post-Holocaust Day: #259 |
Justinian must be just off duty, because he's still wearing his blues when he enters the shooting range. He moves immediately to the bench with the practice ammo and safety measures, selecting a pair of glasses and ear protection. The former are slipped on and the latter hung around his neck. He nods to another junior CIC officer just departing, then draws the sidearm from its holster at his belt. The magazine comes out and is tucked away, the slide racked to ensure that the weapon is actually empty, and then he moves to collect the necessary target ammo.
Vandenberg looks like she just got out of bed. She's tossed a t-shirt over her tanktops and trudges in wearing her sweatpants and PT shoes. She's turning her hair up into a loose, disorganized bun when Justinian is heading for the ammo locker. The woman stifles a yawn and nods while she waits. "Mornin..I think. Afternoon?"
Justinian punches in his personal code, collects two magazines and a box of rubber ammunition, then glances over to the yawning woman. His own jaw muscles flex as he fights down the impulse not to respond to that yawn in kind. After a struggle, he succeeds — until he tries to speak, and then his jaws crack and he lifts one elbow to cover his mouth, his hands being full of pistol, magazines, and ammo. Once the yawn has taken its inevitable course, he responds, "Still morning, but just."
The woman reaches in and pulls out five boxes of rifle ammo plus a GMAR and two magazines. She's got her hands full as she walks straight over to a booth and sets it all down. "No shit. Wish it wasn't. I could use a day off to sleep in. I was up until zero-five hundred working on a bunch of paperwork. You'd think they could find time to holocaust that part of our jobs given the situation. Can't find a better use for paper?" She glances up to him before gesturing towards the paper targets in front of them, her hands working in practiced motions to load the mags. Natalie is quick.
Justinian probably should protest someone else piggybacking on his keycode, but since he's fired almost that many rounds through a GMAR in a sitting himself, the difference probably won't be noticed. He closes the locker, and moves over to one of the stations, setting down his pistol and the box of ammo and beginning to feed rubber bullets into the two magazines he drew. "Real question that I've been wondering, is how long before paper is an endangered resource? I mean, we can't keep doing paperwork if there's no paper, right?" He may not be a Marine, but the JG certainly knows his way around firearms, his fingers moving quickly and surely through the loading motions. "So. Are you shredding toasters, skinjobs, Sillouettes, or generic targets today?"
"Everything's an endangered resource. Paper, fuel, ammo, food. Figure when things get bad enough I'll ask a Raptor jockey to deposit me on Caprica or something so I can live out my days under the sun. See what all the rich people are talkin about." Natalie snorts, chuckling as she tops off a magazine and starts another. She only pauses to rub some of the sleep from her eyes. "Eh. They all die the same. Put enough rounds in the head or chest and its a similar result. Always preferred to blow up tech. Killing sons and daughters isn't my idea of fun. You?"
Justinian chuckles at the first statement, "From what I heard, that's a one-way trip to Toaster-ville. And a -real- fast rad-tan." Still, he shrugs off those complaints, "Could be nice to not have to worry for a bit though." Her query, however, draws a boyish grin onto his lips. He sets down the mags, and withdraws a roll of paperwork from his back pocket with a triumphant flourish, "Req forms. Already submitted and returned pre-Warday." He triggers the target return, then clips one of the forms to the hanger with great relish, "I'm going to dot all the 'i's and blast all the 't's."
The Marine shrugs. "From I've seen of the recon, Caprica wasn't hit too badly. Figure if the toasters can call it home, I could for a little bit. Knock a few down. Beats drifting aimlessly and starving out in a few years." She's still not awake yet and another yawn crosses her, her hand coming to her mouth. "Nice choice of target. Wouldn't mind killing a few of those myself. So what do you do on this here ship?" she asks lightly, reaching into her pocket for some earplugs and popping them in. Next a hand slinks into her shirt and gets a set of tan-tinted range glasses.
Justinian offers a couple of the sheets of paper around the partition, and has to struggle against another yawn — although this time he manages to hold it in. He pulls up his ear protection, raising his quiet voice to compensate, "Willem Justinian, Junior TACCO." He pronounces it 'Tack-oh,' avoiding the oft-joking 'taco.' He sends his own form scooting back down the range, going out to a nice solid range — nothing extreme, but not quite point blank. "Means a lot of paperwork, and standing watches in CIC when I'm not hitting the books to help plan the next mission."
"Mm," is the only response from the Marine for a few moments. She slides the mag into the GMAR and taps it with the palm of her hand to ensure seating. She runs the charging handle lazily. "I don't know how anyone does that job. Standing around in CIC would drive me nuts. Its bad enough for me being confined to a ship. Natalie Vandenberg, Marine S-Three." She shoulders the rifle and flicks the rifle from Safe to Three Round Burst. "So what made you go with the Navy, then?" The woman lets off a quick burst at the circular range target at the eother end of the lane.
Justinian slips home the magazine in his own Five-seveN, given it a tap, then racking the slide to load a round. He takes up a two-handed firing stance, very professional, very calm, and puts an aimed shot into the sheet of paper down-range. "S-3? Surprised we haven't run into each other then." He chuckles softly, the sound probably lost due to mutual ear protection, "You've probably read some of my work, even if it came down through other hands." His pistol barks again, his shots neatly aimed for all his words, "Joined the Navy to piss off my mom." He flashes a smile even if the partition probably hides it from his fellow shooter. "And when we're in action… I never feel like I'm 'just' in CIC. Feels like I'm out in space, watching the ships move, seeing the fight first-hand." Until something falls on him, or he falls on something, or his board shorts out, or whatever other way Cerberus has decided to hurt him that battle.
"I'm new. Don't know what happened to the former S-Three. I don't care to ask. They snagged me off Aerilon a few weeks back. Myself and a fireteam. Don't think I've seen anything of yours, though. Only thing I've seen from a Junior was from a Stephen Kulko. Crazy little bastard. Could just chalk that up to my being new." Natalie fires off another three round burst. She's little so the recoil tends to knock at her shoulder a little more but the woman seems to be used to compensating. "Yeah, that's what I mean. I can see stuff in my mind but I feel too detached if I'm not on the ground or on scene. I get a better sense of things. Read people's expressions, smell the air, listen to the surroundings. Pissing off your mom, though? People usually join the Corps to do that. Hell, I did."
Justinian blinks behind his protective eyewear, "That would explain it indeed, sir." Another rubber round rockets down-range, and another hole appears in the requisition form. "With the plots and the maps and the Dradis, I can usually see the battle developing in my head clear as day." There's a pause as he puts another shot into the poor paper — there's an odd sort of rough pattern emerging, not perfect, but sort of like the five spots on a die. "No sir… that's what Mom expected. Everyone did, really. Figured I'd enlist in the Corps on my 18th. Everyone else in the family did." One more shot, completing the ragged five-spot, "I'd have been fourth gen."
Natalie fires off a pair of bursts. She's not shooting for a particular pattern but the paper doesn't seem to be faring too well under her punishment. Large holes are already being shot around the center. The rifle looks large for her but she's pretty well considering. "I don't like little bits of tech and all that stuff. satellite guidance systems are pretty neat but beyond that I'd rather just do the job with as little complicated stuff as possible. Keep it simple, less junk can go wrong." Another burst kicks out. "Shoulda stuck with it. Sounds like it would have been in your blood. Four generations down there is something to be said for genetics, I'd think."
Justinian fires another shot, down below the other five, and another — is he trying to shoot a smiley-face in the paper? If so, it's exceptionally ragged and only really visible if one squints — and tilts their head to one side. "You know how teenagers are, sir." He gives another chuckle, "Besides, I wanted to go to the Academy, get an education, and that would have fried Mom almost as much as going Fleet." He clears his throat, then puts on the stereotypical bark of a Marine noncom, tempered with a bit of a lighter tone, almost a nice alto, "Justinians are grunts, Willem. We've got as much mud in our veins as blood." For all the annoyance in the tone, he smiles afterward, evidently amused by his own impression. The smile fades slowly, however, and the pistol lowers, a slow sigh drifting up from his throat.
"Nothin says you couldn't have gone Marines and still gotten an education. I got my own degree. Did ROTC. Spent my career in infantry. Best choice I ever made, especially considering it has me here now." Vandenberg fires off one more burst and the rifle clicks empty. The magazine drops out before the initial bang of the rifle fades, a new one slapped home. She hits the forward assist on the side and the rifle charges out another burst. "I've got fifteen years in the mud, Mister Justinian. I can understand your mother's viewpoint and there's something to be said for it. Couldn't get me in Navy blue's for all the cubits on Caprica - when they meant something. Ever regret going Navy?" She fires once more, the pace picking up as her own body starts to shake off the sleep.
Justinian fires off three quick shots into the center of the paper, punching three holes close to what might — if one had a good imagination — be the nose of the smily face. "Justinians go straight into the service at their majority. Before if you're my mother or great-grandfather. No time for college." He shakes his head, lowering the pistol once more, this time with the slide locked back empty. "Never regretted it once, sir. Not even when I got earfuls from my grandfather, uncle, and mother one after another. I respect what the CMC does, sir, but the Fleet's where I want to be."
"Makes sense. I figure if you had to deal with that you probably would have resolved yourself to it quite some time ago. Considering the alternative of where you'd be if you hadn't gone Fleet?" A quick crosses her face before she fires off another burst. Most of the paper's center is torn out and most of the rounds aren't even cutting new holes. Natalie is just shooting at air at this point. "I'm with you, though. I respect what the fleet does obviously. Lords know the fire support has been handy during my time in. But hey, we are where we are."
Justinian safes his pistol, sets it down, and runs the now-ragged req form back up the range toward him, "After I made the choice, I never even looked back. If I hadn't gone Fleet, I probably would have just enlisted in the CMC like my family wanted. And now I'd either be dead, hiding in the back woods somewhere, or wearing blacks instead of blues here on this ship." He studies the paper a moment, then tugs it down, setting it aside and hooking another one up. There's a moment of silence from the J-TACCO, and then he grins around the partition, "Besides the fact that we can get you the frak away from basestars and nukes, and give you a nice clean bunk to sleep in every night?"
"Not the best alternatives, like I was suggesting. Then again, I spent eight months on the surface of Aerilon. Fighting through the fields and woods. Spent four months with a town that escaped the blasts. Some of the best people I've ever dealt with. Soared the spirits." Vandenberg fires off another burst, another quick to follow. The rifle clicks empty and she sets it down after dropping out the magazine. She flickers a smirk at Justinian when he leans around the partition. "After the canners abandoned Aerilon we didn't have a problem. They weren't throwing nukes after Day One. It wasn't too bad. Besides, I like the outdoors. Sure its nice to have a warm bunk and showers, but you'd be surprised what you can learn to appreciate and love down there. Winter wasn't a fun prospect but we'd have managed. Only reason I'm really glad for a pickup is that we'd run the course of our mission. With the Cylons gone, we weren't finding any more survivors. What then? Rebuild with the five of us down there?" She shakes her head. The alternative of that scenario doesn't seem to settle well with her.
Justinian shakes his head in apparent amusement, "With all due respect, sir, I've -been- on the Marines' idea of an outdoor excursion. Mom liked to go camping when she was on leave. I'll take a warm bunk and showers over 8 months of camping." He pulls out a red marker from his pocket, draws a vague circle in the midst of the paper, then sends it zipping back down-range. Tucking away the pen, he shakes his head, "I'm no biologist, but from everything I've read, three-K isn't much better for the race. Gonna be a whole lot of six-toed kids if we don't find more survivors." For all the forced humor in his quiet words, there's a somber worry underlying them.
"Everyone's a critic," she jests lightly. "Live down there for eight months and you get a different perspective. Things like warm beds stop mattering. Catching enough fish or bagging a deer becomes cause for celebration. Finding a bed of pine needles becomes a nice luxury." Natalie keeps smiling throughout until hementions the last and she looks back to the magazines while loading them. "Aerilon wasn't badly hit, either. From what I know, it was one of the lightest attacked because there wasn't much there worth targeting. Rad levels are still pretty low across most of the planet. Sure we've got an elevated risk of cancer, but worrying about twenty years from now is a concern that I just can't bring myself to consider. Other than me, yeah. I'm sure some of the younger women have concerns about children. I'm not exactly a primary candidate." She finishes loading another mag and begins another.
Justinian slips home the second mag, lets the slide free, and takes up his firing stance again. "Finding the key to a successful engagement plan, coming through a fight with minimal casualties…" He shrugs, aims, fires into the center of the req form, and then continues, "If we're still alive in 20 years, sir, I'll consider that at least a tie." Another shot wings down-range, clipping the paper closer to an edge, and he frowns, "We're still human, and civilized, so I don't think you'll be seeing any procreation orders come down from Command, but if we don't find a lot more civvies and soon, we might need every man and every woman doing what they can if there's even a chance."
"If we're still alive in twenty years? It ain't a tie for me until every last one of them is turned to slag or ash. I couldn't accept otherwise after Aerilon. I might have been sated with survival, but not after that slaughter. I owe it to them. So does my fireteam." Van must really believe in what she does. All the joking and relaxed demeanor seems to have drifted away as she reshoulders the GMAR. "Good luck giving me orders for that. Or a lot of the other women on this ship. Command might have a full-blown mutiny on their hands. Orders mean doing things you would otherwise be unwilling to do. That's a dangerous slope, Mister Justinian, and I think you know what I mean. People want to work on humanity's future, that's fine. I won't protest a bit. But I signed-up for the Marines to defend that choice. Even the urgings and pressure from the outside is something I'm not fond of." She flips it to full auto and blasts away with half her magazine.
Justinian lowers his pistol, nodding his head, "Lotta men would protest too, sir. Like I said, I doubt you'll see any orders like that, and if you do, I think you might see some pretty nasty responses." He lets out another sigh, then shrugs, "Seriously though, sir, I'd love to add every toaster out there to the junk heap, but I'm more concerned right now with trying to figure out how we're going to keep the human race alive."
"Better believe it. You might have the entire Marine Corps staring down Command. We don't put our asses on the line to get orders for rape. I can understand the viewpoint but what we do with our bodies and lives is our own business. That's not just for women, that goes for men, too. They would have the same obligation to potential children. Meanwhile all pregnant women would be taken off the line from service, cutting this ship's combat power effectively in half." Natalie turns her eyes towards the other booth but doesn't move her head. "The larger future of humanity is going to have to wait until this war is cut and dry done." She looks back towards the target and unloads the rest of the magazine. "Say you had a kid with a woman, Mister Justinian. Beautiful little girl. Bright blue eyes and rosy red cheeks." The Marine drops out the mag and reloads it, slapping the magazine home. "The mother has been off duty for a couple months, minimum. Suddenly the fleet has to provide healthcare and food for the child as well as devote manpower to care for the child while both you and mom are at work. Not only that, you going to house families in the berthings? Crying kids going all night keeping the entire crew awake?" The woman sighs, shaking her head. "Saving humanity will have to wait. Our future is right now. If we don't survive the present then we won't even need to worry about the future."
Justinian nods his agreement, "And not just the Marines." He listens to the arguments without further comment, and without the interruption of further pistol shots. In fact, he even stays silent for several moments after the argument is made. "Sir… I may not have the facts, but it seems to me that unless we find a whole lot more Areions, or another fleet out there, this war's already godsdamned lost." He safes his pistol and sets it down, turning away from the range, "That's not being defeatist, either, sir. I can think of a dozen ways to keep striking the toasters despite their numerical supremecy, but eventually, we'll get worn down to the nub, run out of Vipers, run out of ammo, whatever. When that happens, what becomes of the poor frakkers down on the Colonies, just like you were, who haven't got a hope in the world except a ship picks them up? What happens to the civvies we've picked up along the way? At some point, we have to stop fighting hthe last war and start fighting the next one."
"This war isn't over until we roll over and give up. I will bet that yeah, there are more people on the ground fighting right now. There probably will be long after we think its done." Vandenberg lets off another prattle of automatic fire. She's started shooting off the edges of the paper now. "What happens to them is their concern. Just like the men I was with were my concern. What happens to the civilians is Command's concern. I'm a Marine. I fight. I don't pretend to be a diplomat to these problems. But I can tell you that the Marines aren't about to quit. If Command's intention is to consider this war lost, I'd like to schedule a meeting with Colonel Pewter so I can get dropped off with some of my men so we can fight."
Justinian might have been about to fire another round down-range, but he stops, safing the pistol again and pulling off one ear cover so he can hear better, "You really want to just get down on the ground somewhere and keep shooting Toasters until one of them gets you?" He sounds somewhat incredulous, but shakes it off, "I'm not speaking for Command. I'm just a Lieutenant JG. But I can tell you that we're facing insurmountable odds, and there's a whole lot more on the line than revenge. We all swore oaths to protect the people of the Twelve Colonies, sir. Not to kill toasters."
"No. I want to get down to business and kill the enemy. I have no intention of dying in the process, but given the current options and my job? Sometimes that's what happens." Natalie lowers the rifle a bit and looks over at him. "Nobody gets anywhere in the Marines without putting their ass on the line. And if you aren't speaking for command, then you might want to let people know that. I was under the impression that's what the TACCO's did." She glances towards the target and then back to Justinian. "I know the odds. I've read the intel. Funny, what you said. I thought they were one and the same. Less canners there are, the better our odds improve."
Justinian draws in a long, slow breath, then lets it out with a hiss. He turns back to the bench, removing the magazine from and clearing the action of his pistol. He tucks the training round back into the box of ammo, "I'm an officer of the watch, but the Colonel commands the ship, sir. The COs decide strategy, I just suggest it." As he speaks, he reloads his pistol with live rounds, makes sure the chamber is clear and the safety is on, and then slips it back into his holster. "If we take the fight to the Cylons forever, sir, we -will- die. And so will everyone under our protection. Within a few generations, unless there's some big collection of humans somewhere that we don't know about yet, we're all dead. It's my opinion that we already lost the war that started on Warday. What we need to do is worry about winning the one that ends with the survival or death of the human race." He shakes his head slowly, "But like I said, sir, that's just my opinion."
Vandenberg settles the rifle down on the bench at the booth and turns to look at him. Her face takes on something inscrutible. Maybe even a little dark. Exactly what she's thinking is probably tough to guess. Its a long few moments before she speaks. "If we don't fight the Cylons, we are also guaranteed to die. They nuked our homes, Mister Justinian. They aren't going to settle for letting us get away from them in a number like ours. Trapped on Colonies, we can be hunted down like vermin. In space, we are free to go where we please. That is a threat to them. Our future is null and void unless we can either convince them to leave us the hell alone or take them out ourselves. I'm open to either one but I wouldn't trust the first option. Things might be quiet now but I will promise you that these things will not quit. Not as long as we are still breathing." Her voice is low and serious. She does not look angry, but her tone is one of calculation and resolve.
Justinian begins unloading the remaining training rounds from his second magazine, tucking each back into the box of ammo he drew. "In space, we are free to go where we please, sir. That means we can run. We can't beat the Cylons head on. I don't think we can even beat them in a guerilla fight. There's just too many of them, we're too few, and they don't show many signs of hanging around in bite-sized pieces for long. But maybe, just maybe, if we string them along, we can cut off some pieces that aren't too hard to swallow, lose the ones we don't destroy, and still be alive." His usually-boyish expression is sober now, his hands gesturing along with his words in short, sharp motions. He takes a breath then, "You've heard my thoughts though, sir. If you've got a better plan of action, I'd love to hear it."
"We conducted successful guerrilla operations against the Cylons for more than five months until they left Aerilon. That town that we joined? Four months. It was only because they got too ambitious that it fell." Natalie keeps the same mask and tone, her words chosen carefully. "You cut them up little by little. Hurt the humanoids. They seem like they can feel pain. Convince them that it just is not worth the fight. As for a better plan?" Vandenberg crosses her arms. "Marine Corps Boot. They teach a simple tactic that applies across a vast number of scenarios: Divide and conquer. When you have an enemy that big, you don't fight it. You point your operations into getting them to fight themselves. The entire point of terrorism and guerrilla warfare is to get the controlling body to overreact and commit to actions that over-extend themselves. Morally, politically, and logistically."
Justinian's mouth drops open incredulously, "'Divide and Conquer' sir? They're frakking robots. I know you mean more than politically, but…" He stops himself then, running his hands back through his hair. Based on the intensity of the motion, if he keeps doing that for another couple of years, he's going to lose some of that thick dark hair. The motion does, however, seem to calm him, and let him get control of his expression. "I guess we're going to have to agree to disagree, sir. I hope to the gods that you're right if we keep up this course of action, because if you're wrong, we're frakked." He pauses, then adds, "And wish respect, sir, I know the point of terrorism and guerilla warfare."
"Right. They're robots. And from the records of interviews I've read, it would seem that these robots have personalities dependent to the model. And if some can be believed, a few have even turned against their own race. One of them indicated that, as Miss Averies reported, that we were responsible for the attacks on our homes due to our own actions and that even then the vote was divided. Personally I'd like to find the biggest wedge I can and shove it into that potential crack." The Lieutenant's somber expression holds fast, even when she turns back to unload the rifle and eject the chambered round. "We're frakked if we run. They will wait until we settle someplace and in a generation or two they'll land and wipe us out after we've committed our own resources to staying. Its exactly what I would do. If we fight, we die standing up for ourselves with the full weight of our lives and firepower behind us."
Justinian arches an eyebrow, "You agree then that we're dead if we fight, sir?" He closes up the ammo case, then turns back to the Marine in PJs, "If that's the case, then if we even suspect that we're the largest group of humans surviving, we can't fight. If we do, we lose." He shrugs slightly, "But like I said before, sir, it sounds like something we're never going to agree on." He's doing really well thus far, he hasn't even cursed her out for a 'stupid stubborn jarhead,' but then again, she is a superior officer.
Natalie shakes her head. "I don't believe we will lose if we fight. I believe that we have a chance to survive as a race if we fight. Running would simply trade time. Running will ensure our deaths. You never ever turn your back on an enemy. You confront him with your sword to his throat or fight until you get there. If we disagree on it, then so be it. As Marine S-Three, my job is to plan actions that both offend and defend against the Cylons. I prefer the offending part, personally. We keep the momentum and force them to react to us, they are left behind to keep up. At that point we control them." She takes the rifle over to the locker and puts it away with the partially used boxes of ammo.
Justinian speaks up immediately after the S-3's first sentence, "But you just said…" He subsides, however, shaking his head and taking in another deep breath. He listens without further immediate comment, moving over to replace his own remaining ammo and the two empty magazines, "We've been reacting to the Cylons since Warday, sir." Still, he doesn't seem like he's going to keep trying to make the same point, "I plan the ops I'm assigned to plan, sir, and I'll keep doing that, because it's my duty. Just like it's my duty to suggest a survivalist strategy to Command."
"What I said is that if we die fighting, we die standing up. I didn't say we -will- die if we fight. We are presented with an opportunity to survive if we do. Reacting to them is exactly why I am saying that we have to take the initiative." The Marine closes up the locker and leans against the table with her hip, removing her glasses. "Suggest the strategies that you feel apply, Mister Justinian. If we run, just remember that you might have a portion of the crew requesting to stay behind and fight. I won't pretend to speak for everyone. But I will speak for myself. I know a few Marines would agree."
Justinian steps back from the arms locker and draws himself up to his relatively average height and clasps his hands behind his back, "I would hope that if Command chose a strategy of survival over direct combat, the remainder of the Fleet would follow their orders, sir, just as I will if Command chooses a strategy of direct combat over survival. If not… I'm sure a suitable location could be chosen for a rearguard action."
"Take whatever angle you want, Mister Justinian." Natalie shakes her head, smiling a touch. "As long as I am a member of the Marines, I will follow my orders. The fleet can remain intact and move on without me. I'll resign and simply request a rifle, some ammunition, and a sleeping bag. The uniform does not make the Marine. The attitude and commitment to duty makes the Marine. Call it a rear-guard if you like but I would request to stay behind and fight them any way I could. It wouldn't buy you all a lot of time, but that all depends on who came with me and what I was given to work with." Natalie crosses her arms, folding the glasses and hanging them from the front of her t-shirt.
Justinian shakes his head, "My apologies, Lieutenant. I wasn't intending that to be pejorative in any way. No angle intended either." He offers up a smile, but it's small, and dies quickly enough as he continues, "I suppose that only time — and Command — will tell what will happen."
Vandenberg smirks and moves off the table. "It will." The woman seems utterly confident in herself and what she is saying. "The only way to win a war is to fight. We can't afford to lose this one and its not over yet. Keep your mind and your eyes open, Lieutenant. You never know what can happen. Watch your ass out there." She cuts him a wink and heads off for the hatch.
Justinian tightens his lips at the 'truism,' but doesn't verbally protest. He nods his head, "Good hunting, sir." Just because he disagrees with someone's strategic ideas is no reason not to be polite, nor to honestly wish them well in killing Cylons.