March/April ’22 Challenge. - Tales of the USS Bluefin: “Where Angels Fear to Tread"
Stardate 53501.2 (2 July 2376)
Star Station Echo
Office of the Commander - 7th Border Service Squadron
Captain Joseph Barabbas Akinola, C.O. of the Federation Border Cutter, USS Bluefin, paused outside the office of the Squadron Commander, Rear Admiral Morgan Bateson. He sighed.
“Time to man up and take your medicine,” he thought, while stepping in range of the biometric scanner, the double doors sliding quietly open.
The anteroom of the office was spare, save for a few chairs, a painting of USS Bozeman, Admiral Bateson’s former command, and a desk occupied by Bateson’s aide, Lt. V’nosh.
The normally poker-face Andorian looked up and actually favored Akinola with an expression of sympathy.
“Is the old man in?” queried the Nigerian captain.
“Oh, yes,” replied V’nosh.
“I take it, he’s in a mood?”
A pensive look crossed the Andorran’s face. “As the Admiral might put it, ‘the glass has dropped like a stone and the winds are at full gale.’”
To his credit, Akinola didn’t wince. “That bad?”
V’nosh tilted his head. “I believe you Terrans have an expression . . . You’re in deep ch’vush.”
“Close enough,” muttered the Captain. “Is it safe to go on in?”
“Hardly,” retorted the aide, who nonetheless tapped his screen. “Captain Akinola is here, per your order, Admiral.”
“Send in the sorry son of a bitch,” came the guttural reply.
“The Admiral will see you now,” said V’nosh, with no hint of irony.
Akinola shook his head and stepped forward. The door slid open, allowing access to Bateson’s inner sanctum.
The office was familiar to the Bluefin’s C.O. He had been here many times, often during informal bull sessions that generally involved samples from Bateson’s legendary liquor cabinet.
The outer wall provided a spectacular view of the stars, courtesy of a large transparent aluminum viewport. There were two sofas, a coffee table, plush carpeting, and a magnificent desk that Akinola suspected was constructed of real Terran Oak. The flags of the Federation and the Border Service bracketed the viewport. Ensconced in a highjack leather chair was the Admiral himself.
Glowering.
Akinola approached the desk, came to attention, and announced, “Captain Akinola reporting as ordered, sir.”
Bateson continued the silent treatment for a few moments before taking a healthy swig of a dark amber liquid in a cut crystal tumbler.
“Sit, dammit.”
Akinola sat. He kept his expression neutral and waited.
The Admiral swirled the contents of the tumbler with a bit too much exuberance, sloshing a few precious drops on his tunic. He pretended not to notice.
“Joseph, what the hell were you thinking?”
Akinola noticed the PADD softly glowing on Bateson’s desk. Gesturing to it, he replied, “It’s all there in my report, sir.”
Bateson backhanded the PADD, sending it spinning across the desk. Fortunately, the desk was large enough to preclude Akinola's need to rescue it before it hit the deck.
“I’ve read it, Captain. Three times.” His voice was subdued, indicating he was extremely pissed off. “Now, I want to hear if from the damned fool who submitted it!”
Akiinola went out on a limb. “Any chance the condemned could have a drink first?”
The Admiral snorted derisively but rose and made his way to the liquor cabinet. He took a bottle, squinted at the label, shrugged, then poured two fingers in a tumbler. Turning, he handed the glass to Akinola.
“Pappy Van Winkle’s Private Reserve,” he remarked. “Best enjoy it; your next drink may very well be the water they serve with bread in the brig.”
Akinola accepted the bourbon. They touched glasses without a verbal toast. The bourbon was very smooth.
Bateson returned to his chair. He seemed more tired than angry, the initial tirade given way to resigned disappointment. He gestured to the Captain. “Let’s hear it Joseph . . . and it had better be an improvement over this so-called after action report.”
“Honestly, there’s not much to add. All the facts are there.”
“Screw the facts. Tell me what possessed you to take your ship and 147 souls into the Doldrums. . . against long-standing orders.”
Akinola’s brow furrowed. “It was a rescue mission, Admiral, just like I stated in the report. For God's sake, sir, it's why the Border Service exists."
Bateson waved a hand dismissively. “Captain, there are but a few inviolate rules carved in stone we all must follow without exception . . . the Prime Directive, stay off Talos IV, don’t cross the Romulan Neutral Zone, and never ever take a ship into the Doldrums.”
The Doldrums, also known as the Grey Nebula or Ghost Cloud, was located away from regular space lanes, on the edge of the Molari Sector. The Doldrums was a deceptively calm region of space. However, once a vessel entered, all sensors and navigational equipment became useless within a few thousand kilometers of ingress. Dead reckoning was impossible, because there were no points of reference in the nebula. Ships would go in, never to return.
Starfleet sent in numerous unmanned probes over the span of two centuries. None were recovered and what little telemetry received before the probes vanished shed little light on the mysterious nebula.
Thus, Starfleet deemed the Doldrums a restricted zone, placing numerous warning buoys around the vast nebula, with severe penalties placed on anyone foolish enough to attempt even a shallow incursion.
Akinola continued. “Morgan, these were kids joy riding in a stolen Starwind Swift. They got in over their heads, panicked, and ran when we hailed them. We had an edge in speed, but they had a head start.”
The Captain paused, replaying the events in his mind. “It soon became apparent that they were headed toward the Doldrums. We broadcast warnings time after time, but they just kept running. From the sensor logs we received from Forward Station 12, we learned the perps were Zaydon Hart, age 22, an Academy drop-out, and Haley Marcon, aka “Vixen,” an 18 year old hacker. Kids, Morgan . . . just two stupid kids who were about to disappear forever if we didn’t rescue them.”
Bateson remained quiet, his expression neutral. Akinola continued.
“Time was running out. We came up with several ideas . . . use the tractor beam, but we were too far out of range . . . launch a Mark 22 to destabilize their warp field . . . but a small civilian ship could easily be destroyed, especially since they were already at maximum warp. That left only one option.”
“No, Captain,” interrupted Bateson. “You could have broken off pursuit and reported in, once it was apparent they were hell-bent on suicide.”
“Really? With respect, Admiral, I thought our credo was, ‘we have to go out; we don’t have to come back.’”
Bateson stood. Akinola figured he had stepped way over a line. But though Bateson’s features remained wooden, the Admiral did not reply. Instead, he moved to the viewport, hands clasped behind him as he peered out at the starfield.
“Please continue, Captain.”
Akinola shrugged. “Like I said, it’s all there in the report.”
“Humor me, Joseph.”
“As I reported, their ship entered the Doldrums, effectively disappearing from our sensors. I knew if we entered without some sort of plan to find our way out, we would become another statistic. That’s when our XO, Commander McBride, said two words . . . ‘bread crumbs.’”
The Captain drained the remains of the bourbon. He figured it would be the last drink he would have as a free man.
“Dale's plan was bold but simple . . . we would establish a set of sensor relay points, the ‘bread crumbs,’ that would allow us to find our way out of the Doldrums. We knew that sensor effectiveness degraded quickly beyond 50 thousand klicks, so we had little margin for error.”
“And a limited supply of bread crumbs,” noted the Admiral.
“True enough, sir. Time and distance were against us. But I figured it was a chance worth taking. To cut to the chase, we used one of our Star Stallions as an anchor point, loitering just outside the boundary of the Doldrums. At 40 thousand klick intervals, we dropped a class 1 probe. We had eight in the inventory. We laid down four, launched the second Star Stallion at station keeping, then continued on.”
Akinola fixed his gaze on the stars beyond the Admiral’s form. “Lt. T’Ser recalibrated the sensors to operate as sonar, using sound waves to . . .”
“I’m familiar with the principles behind sonar, Captain,” Bateson responded dryly.
“Right. Sorry. It was a one-in-a-million chance, but fortune favored us. With only one probe left before we would have called off the search, we located the stolen ship. Thankfully, they had dropped out of warp, apparently trying to gain their bearings. If they had continued on, well . . .
“Just so.” Bateson turned to face Akinola. “You got lucky.”
The Captain returned his gaze without flinching. “Hell yes, we were lucky! But luck is a factor in most of our search and rescue missions. We’ve done this countless times in the badlands, in the midst of class IV ion storms, wondering if the ship would hold together. On this one, we suffered zero casualties, we captured the perps alive, salvaged the stolen ship . . . Hell, we didn't event scratch the paint on Bluefin.”
“By violating a statute that applies to ALL space-faring vessels, including your own ship!”
The two old friends glared at one another for a few seconds. Akinola broke the silence.
“What would you have done, Morgan, if you faced the same circumstances?”
For a moment, Bateson simply glowered. Then, he admitted, “Probably the same thing you did.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“And,” continued Bateson, “I would have expected to face the consequences for my actions.”
“Of course,” replied Akinola. “As do I.”
The Admiral exhaled slowly and moved back to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself more bourbon. He raised an eyebrow and gestured toward Akinola’s glass.
“No thank you sir, I’m good.”
“Hardly,” responded Bateson, with a soft chuckle. He settled into his chair and rubbed his eyes.
“I am going to have one hell of a time explaining this in my report to She Who Must Not Be Named,” the Admiral remarked, referencing their Service head, Admiral Bouvier. Bateson and Bouvier had a bitter history, each holding the other in deep contempt.
Akinola remained silent.
“As for you, Captain Akinola, you have exceeded the pain threshold of my ass. Consider this meeting a verbal reprimand. If I see your ugly face again before I recover from this oncoming and epic hangover, I’ll have you keelhauled. Clear?”
“As crystal, sir.”
Bateson made a shooing gesture. “Go away.”
Akinola rose. “Aye sir. And thanks.”
The Admiral ignored him, turning his attention to the PADD on his desk. Captain Akinola, relieved and a bit surprised that he wasn’t being escorted to the brig, made a dignified, albeit hasty, retreat.
As Akinola departed, Bateson gazed at a scale model of his old cutter, the Bozeman, situated prominently on a shelf. He hoisted his glass and murmured, “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
END
Stardate 53501.2 (2 July 2376)
Star Station Echo
Office of the Commander - 7th Border Service Squadron
Captain Joseph Barabbas Akinola, C.O. of the Federation Border Cutter, USS Bluefin, paused outside the office of the Squadron Commander, Rear Admiral Morgan Bateson. He sighed.
“Time to man up and take your medicine,” he thought, while stepping in range of the biometric scanner, the double doors sliding quietly open.
The anteroom of the office was spare, save for a few chairs, a painting of USS Bozeman, Admiral Bateson’s former command, and a desk occupied by Bateson’s aide, Lt. V’nosh.
The normally poker-face Andorian looked up and actually favored Akinola with an expression of sympathy.
“Is the old man in?” queried the Nigerian captain.
“Oh, yes,” replied V’nosh.
“I take it, he’s in a mood?”
A pensive look crossed the Andorran’s face. “As the Admiral might put it, ‘the glass has dropped like a stone and the winds are at full gale.’”
To his credit, Akinola didn’t wince. “That bad?”
V’nosh tilted his head. “I believe you Terrans have an expression . . . You’re in deep ch’vush.”
“Close enough,” muttered the Captain. “Is it safe to go on in?”
“Hardly,” retorted the aide, who nonetheless tapped his screen. “Captain Akinola is here, per your order, Admiral.”
“Send in the sorry son of a bitch,” came the guttural reply.
“The Admiral will see you now,” said V’nosh, with no hint of irony.
Akinola shook his head and stepped forward. The door slid open, allowing access to Bateson’s inner sanctum.
The office was familiar to the Bluefin’s C.O. He had been here many times, often during informal bull sessions that generally involved samples from Bateson’s legendary liquor cabinet.
The outer wall provided a spectacular view of the stars, courtesy of a large transparent aluminum viewport. There were two sofas, a coffee table, plush carpeting, and a magnificent desk that Akinola suspected was constructed of real Terran Oak. The flags of the Federation and the Border Service bracketed the viewport. Ensconced in a highjack leather chair was the Admiral himself.
Glowering.
Akinola approached the desk, came to attention, and announced, “Captain Akinola reporting as ordered, sir.”
Bateson continued the silent treatment for a few moments before taking a healthy swig of a dark amber liquid in a cut crystal tumbler.
“Sit, dammit.”
Akinola sat. He kept his expression neutral and waited.
The Admiral swirled the contents of the tumbler with a bit too much exuberance, sloshing a few precious drops on his tunic. He pretended not to notice.
“Joseph, what the hell were you thinking?”
Akinola noticed the PADD softly glowing on Bateson’s desk. Gesturing to it, he replied, “It’s all there in my report, sir.”
Bateson backhanded the PADD, sending it spinning across the desk. Fortunately, the desk was large enough to preclude Akinola's need to rescue it before it hit the deck.
“I’ve read it, Captain. Three times.” His voice was subdued, indicating he was extremely pissed off. “Now, I want to hear if from the damned fool who submitted it!”
Akiinola went out on a limb. “Any chance the condemned could have a drink first?”
The Admiral snorted derisively but rose and made his way to the liquor cabinet. He took a bottle, squinted at the label, shrugged, then poured two fingers in a tumbler. Turning, he handed the glass to Akinola.
“Pappy Van Winkle’s Private Reserve,” he remarked. “Best enjoy it; your next drink may very well be the water they serve with bread in the brig.”
Akinola accepted the bourbon. They touched glasses without a verbal toast. The bourbon was very smooth.
Bateson returned to his chair. He seemed more tired than angry, the initial tirade given way to resigned disappointment. He gestured to the Captain. “Let’s hear it Joseph . . . and it had better be an improvement over this so-called after action report.”
“Honestly, there’s not much to add. All the facts are there.”
“Screw the facts. Tell me what possessed you to take your ship and 147 souls into the Doldrums. . . against long-standing orders.”
Akinola’s brow furrowed. “It was a rescue mission, Admiral, just like I stated in the report. For God's sake, sir, it's why the Border Service exists."
Bateson waved a hand dismissively. “Captain, there are but a few inviolate rules carved in stone we all must follow without exception . . . the Prime Directive, stay off Talos IV, don’t cross the Romulan Neutral Zone, and never ever take a ship into the Doldrums.”
The Doldrums, also known as the Grey Nebula or Ghost Cloud, was located away from regular space lanes, on the edge of the Molari Sector. The Doldrums was a deceptively calm region of space. However, once a vessel entered, all sensors and navigational equipment became useless within a few thousand kilometers of ingress. Dead reckoning was impossible, because there were no points of reference in the nebula. Ships would go in, never to return.
Starfleet sent in numerous unmanned probes over the span of two centuries. None were recovered and what little telemetry received before the probes vanished shed little light on the mysterious nebula.
Thus, Starfleet deemed the Doldrums a restricted zone, placing numerous warning buoys around the vast nebula, with severe penalties placed on anyone foolish enough to attempt even a shallow incursion.
Akinola continued. “Morgan, these were kids joy riding in a stolen Starwind Swift. They got in over their heads, panicked, and ran when we hailed them. We had an edge in speed, but they had a head start.”
The Captain paused, replaying the events in his mind. “It soon became apparent that they were headed toward the Doldrums. We broadcast warnings time after time, but they just kept running. From the sensor logs we received from Forward Station 12, we learned the perps were Zaydon Hart, age 22, an Academy drop-out, and Haley Marcon, aka “Vixen,” an 18 year old hacker. Kids, Morgan . . . just two stupid kids who were about to disappear forever if we didn’t rescue them.”
Bateson remained quiet, his expression neutral. Akinola continued.
“Time was running out. We came up with several ideas . . . use the tractor beam, but we were too far out of range . . . launch a Mark 22 to destabilize their warp field . . . but a small civilian ship could easily be destroyed, especially since they were already at maximum warp. That left only one option.”
“No, Captain,” interrupted Bateson. “You could have broken off pursuit and reported in, once it was apparent they were hell-bent on suicide.”
“Really? With respect, Admiral, I thought our credo was, ‘we have to go out; we don’t have to come back.’”
Bateson stood. Akinola figured he had stepped way over a line. But though Bateson’s features remained wooden, the Admiral did not reply. Instead, he moved to the viewport, hands clasped behind him as he peered out at the starfield.
“Please continue, Captain.”
Akinola shrugged. “Like I said, it’s all there in the report.”
“Humor me, Joseph.”
“As I reported, their ship entered the Doldrums, effectively disappearing from our sensors. I knew if we entered without some sort of plan to find our way out, we would become another statistic. That’s when our XO, Commander McBride, said two words . . . ‘bread crumbs.’”
The Captain drained the remains of the bourbon. He figured it would be the last drink he would have as a free man.
“Dale's plan was bold but simple . . . we would establish a set of sensor relay points, the ‘bread crumbs,’ that would allow us to find our way out of the Doldrums. We knew that sensor effectiveness degraded quickly beyond 50 thousand klicks, so we had little margin for error.”
“And a limited supply of bread crumbs,” noted the Admiral.
“True enough, sir. Time and distance were against us. But I figured it was a chance worth taking. To cut to the chase, we used one of our Star Stallions as an anchor point, loitering just outside the boundary of the Doldrums. At 40 thousand klick intervals, we dropped a class 1 probe. We had eight in the inventory. We laid down four, launched the second Star Stallion at station keeping, then continued on.”
Akinola fixed his gaze on the stars beyond the Admiral’s form. “Lt. T’Ser recalibrated the sensors to operate as sonar, using sound waves to . . .”
“I’m familiar with the principles behind sonar, Captain,” Bateson responded dryly.
“Right. Sorry. It was a one-in-a-million chance, but fortune favored us. With only one probe left before we would have called off the search, we located the stolen ship. Thankfully, they had dropped out of warp, apparently trying to gain their bearings. If they had continued on, well . . .
“Just so.” Bateson turned to face Akinola. “You got lucky.”
The Captain returned his gaze without flinching. “Hell yes, we were lucky! But luck is a factor in most of our search and rescue missions. We’ve done this countless times in the badlands, in the midst of class IV ion storms, wondering if the ship would hold together. On this one, we suffered zero casualties, we captured the perps alive, salvaged the stolen ship . . . Hell, we didn't event scratch the paint on Bluefin.”
“By violating a statute that applies to ALL space-faring vessels, including your own ship!”
The two old friends glared at one another for a few seconds. Akinola broke the silence.
“What would you have done, Morgan, if you faced the same circumstances?”
For a moment, Bateson simply glowered. Then, he admitted, “Probably the same thing you did.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“And,” continued Bateson, “I would have expected to face the consequences for my actions.”
“Of course,” replied Akinola. “As do I.”
The Admiral exhaled slowly and moved back to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself more bourbon. He raised an eyebrow and gestured toward Akinola’s glass.
“No thank you sir, I’m good.”
“Hardly,” responded Bateson, with a soft chuckle. He settled into his chair and rubbed his eyes.
“I am going to have one hell of a time explaining this in my report to She Who Must Not Be Named,” the Admiral remarked, referencing their Service head, Admiral Bouvier. Bateson and Bouvier had a bitter history, each holding the other in deep contempt.
Akinola remained silent.
“As for you, Captain Akinola, you have exceeded the pain threshold of my ass. Consider this meeting a verbal reprimand. If I see your ugly face again before I recover from this oncoming and epic hangover, I’ll have you keelhauled. Clear?”
“As crystal, sir.”
Bateson made a shooing gesture. “Go away.”
Akinola rose. “Aye sir. And thanks.”
The Admiral ignored him, turning his attention to the PADD on his desk. Captain Akinola, relieved and a bit surprised that he wasn’t being escorted to the brig, made a dignified, albeit hasty, retreat.
As Akinola departed, Bateson gazed at a scale model of his old cutter, the Bozeman, situated prominently on a shelf. He hoisted his glass and murmured, “Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”
END
