BSG04: William Adama, 094. Independence
Title: The Impossible Maneuver
Author: Karihan
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '04
Character: William Adama
Prompt: 094. Independence
Word Count: 858
Rating: G
Summary: Captain Bill Adama is a little bit too independent for the military's taste.
Notes: None. This is a trip into the Wayback Machine.
"Husker ... what the hell was that?!" Major Rich "Thrasher" Crandall, Atlantia's CAG, wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose before turning his disapproving gaze on the young officer before him.
"What got the job done, sir." Captain William Adama stood at a very aggressive species of attention in front of his desk, still wearing his flight suit. Crandall could practically smell the post-combat adrenalin rush radiating off of him.
"Oh, for frak's sake. At ease." Adama's taut posture shifted to parade rest. "And sit down." He pulled a chair up and sat. Thrasher raked fingers through his not-quite-a-buzz cut, picturing the gray hairs that kids like this one had put there of late. Gods, when had he started thinking of them as kids?
"So running your bird down a maze of mile-deep canyons-- unmapped canyons, I might add, on an unexplored asteroid --and directly onto a Cylon installation entrenched enough to have anti-aircraft guns in place is your idea of getting the job done?"
"The composition of the rock walls was confusing the DRADIS, sir." Blue eyes gleamed with certainty and sparked with alertness. "Mark-one eyeball was the only way to locate the nest."
True. The Cylon War might be two years over, but every so often they would still find enclaves of centurions, raiders and what have you that for some reason had never gotten the order to disengage and withdraw. Whether they'd been left behind deliberately to harass their supposedly former enemies or simply abandoned and written off as acceptable losses was a matter for conjecture, but each "nest" posed a threat to safe space travel, if not to the Colonies themselves. Since they were on the Colonial side of the armistice line, they were fair game, but this batch had been cleverer than most at hiding themselves.
But Crandall wasn't done yet. "You ordered your wingman to stay behind. You never leave your wingman."
That at least drew a fidget from the young officer. "I had to, Major. Waybo's a good pilot, and getting better, but he wasn't up to following me in there."
Also true. Out of all the Viper jocks Crandall had seen in his years of service, Bill Adama easily ranked in the top five. Currently his roster didn't boast of any pilot who could have followed Husker down those canyons. But dammit--
Thrasher heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Right, Adama. By all cosmic good sense you should have wound up a smear on the landscape down there, but you've pulled the impossible out of your ass yet again. The brass upstairs refuse to argue with results, so you'll be getting your usual combination of a commendation and a citation on your record. Add 'em both to the pile and consider yourself dismissed. But Bill--" Adama, who'd just gotten to his feet, paused in the act of turning for the exit. "--you have got to clean up your act. Pretty flying stunts won't keep you in good odor with the higher-ups forever."
The breezy grin on the kid's face told him he didn't believe a word of it, frak it all. "You up for a game later, Thrasher?"
"Mm. Maybe. We'll see how long it takes to get through all the paperwork you made for me. Now scram." Crandall sat back, his brow furrowing in real worry as Adama flicked him a salute and left.
He didn't get it, and Thrasher couldn't seem to get it through to him. The war was over, and the Cylon nests were nearly all cleared out. The need for Husker Adama's particular brand of virtuosity with a Viper stick decreased every day. And Crandall himself wouldn't be on Atlantia much longer; he'd just about made the decision to give in to his aging reflexes and take up a teaching position on Picon Base. When the next wave of demobs hit, next year or the year after, it would be up to his replacement whether one Captain William Adama stayed in or got chucked out. Crandall already had the odds figured as to which it would be.
Another sigh. If there were still a war on, the problem wouldn't exist. In wartime he'd name Adama as his replacement for CAG and be sure of the brass' blessing. Adama had something beyond his skills as a pilot, a sure touch at connecting with his fellow crew members and an easy way of inspiring confidence. Crandall always assigned the newest and most uncertain rooks to Adama's wing because they always wound up far better pilots for it.
But the war was over. Bill was a damn fine pilot and a good officer over all, but his documented tendency to flex the rules just past the breaking point would get his ass booted regardless. Hell, given his complete lack of military background and connections, he'd be on thin ice even if he'd kept his nose squeaky-clean.
Thrasher reluctantly dragged the folder full of reports toward him, a glum expression on his face. Keeping himself in the military looked to be the one impossible maneuver that even Bill Adama couldn't pull off.
FIN
Author: Karihan
Fandom: Battlestar Galactica '04
Character: William Adama
Prompt: 094. Independence
Word Count: 858
Rating: G
Summary: Captain Bill Adama is a little bit too independent for the military's taste.
Notes: None. This is a trip into the Wayback Machine.
"Husker ... what the hell was that?!" Major Rich "Thrasher" Crandall, Atlantia's CAG, wearily rubbed the bridge of his nose before turning his disapproving gaze on the young officer before him.
"What got the job done, sir." Captain William Adama stood at a very aggressive species of attention in front of his desk, still wearing his flight suit. Crandall could practically smell the post-combat adrenalin rush radiating off of him.
"Oh, for frak's sake. At ease." Adama's taut posture shifted to parade rest. "And sit down." He pulled a chair up and sat. Thrasher raked fingers through his not-quite-a-buzz cut, picturing the gray hairs that kids like this one had put there of late. Gods, when had he started thinking of them as kids?
"So running your bird down a maze of mile-deep canyons-- unmapped canyons, I might add, on an unexplored asteroid --and directly onto a Cylon installation entrenched enough to have anti-aircraft guns in place is your idea of getting the job done?"
"The composition of the rock walls was confusing the DRADIS, sir." Blue eyes gleamed with certainty and sparked with alertness. "Mark-one eyeball was the only way to locate the nest."
True. The Cylon War might be two years over, but every so often they would still find enclaves of centurions, raiders and what have you that for some reason had never gotten the order to disengage and withdraw. Whether they'd been left behind deliberately to harass their supposedly former enemies or simply abandoned and written off as acceptable losses was a matter for conjecture, but each "nest" posed a threat to safe space travel, if not to the Colonies themselves. Since they were on the Colonial side of the armistice line, they were fair game, but this batch had been cleverer than most at hiding themselves.
But Crandall wasn't done yet. "You ordered your wingman to stay behind. You never leave your wingman."
That at least drew a fidget from the young officer. "I had to, Major. Waybo's a good pilot, and getting better, but he wasn't up to following me in there."
Also true. Out of all the Viper jocks Crandall had seen in his years of service, Bill Adama easily ranked in the top five. Currently his roster didn't boast of any pilot who could have followed Husker down those canyons. But dammit--
Thrasher heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Right, Adama. By all cosmic good sense you should have wound up a smear on the landscape down there, but you've pulled the impossible out of your ass yet again. The brass upstairs refuse to argue with results, so you'll be getting your usual combination of a commendation and a citation on your record. Add 'em both to the pile and consider yourself dismissed. But Bill--" Adama, who'd just gotten to his feet, paused in the act of turning for the exit. "--you have got to clean up your act. Pretty flying stunts won't keep you in good odor with the higher-ups forever."
The breezy grin on the kid's face told him he didn't believe a word of it, frak it all. "You up for a game later, Thrasher?"
"Mm. Maybe. We'll see how long it takes to get through all the paperwork you made for me. Now scram." Crandall sat back, his brow furrowing in real worry as Adama flicked him a salute and left.
He didn't get it, and Thrasher couldn't seem to get it through to him. The war was over, and the Cylon nests were nearly all cleared out. The need for Husker Adama's particular brand of virtuosity with a Viper stick decreased every day. And Crandall himself wouldn't be on Atlantia much longer; he'd just about made the decision to give in to his aging reflexes and take up a teaching position on Picon Base. When the next wave of demobs hit, next year or the year after, it would be up to his replacement whether one Captain William Adama stayed in or got chucked out. Crandall already had the odds figured as to which it would be.
Another sigh. If there were still a war on, the problem wouldn't exist. In wartime he'd name Adama as his replacement for CAG and be sure of the brass' blessing. Adama had something beyond his skills as a pilot, a sure touch at connecting with his fellow crew members and an easy way of inspiring confidence. Crandall always assigned the newest and most uncertain rooks to Adama's wing because they always wound up far better pilots for it.
But the war was over. Bill was a damn fine pilot and a good officer over all, but his documented tendency to flex the rules just past the breaking point would get his ass booted regardless. Hell, given his complete lack of military background and connections, he'd be on thin ice even if he'd kept his nose squeaky-clean.
Thrasher reluctantly dragged the folder full of reports toward him, a glum expression on his face. Keeping himself in the military looked to be the one impossible maneuver that even Bill Adama couldn't pull off.
FIN