STAR TREK: HAVEN
“End of the Tunnel”
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On May 30, 2283, Klingon
forces invaded the Federation
for the first time since the
Four Years War.
Later dubbed the Taal Tan
Offensive, this six month conflict
would go on to cause thousands
of deaths and the destruction
of several dozen Federation
starships.
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Somewhere near Star Station Indus
16 October 2283
Lieutenant Commander Kieran Forester was quickly learning why the captain’s chair was the loneliest place on a starship. He was trapped in an eternity of waiting. Waiting, watching, listening. Stars streaked by on the viewscreen as the bridge crew, conspicuously silent, worked with hushed urgency.
Klingon bastards. It was the only coherent thought among what seemed like thousands rushing through his mind. They had suckered him. The first attack group had been a ruse to draw off the Astrad from Star Station Indus. With the Enterprise-class cruiser distracted, a second squadron warped in a few minutes later and attacked Indus, who had sent a panicked distress call to its protector. Kieran had fought off an attempt by his quarry to double back and delay his return, then ordered an immediate course reversal, but it likely wouldn’t matter. The station had nothing else that could hold off a Klingon assault, and its own defense systems were nothing special. Most of the motley arrangement of ships still docked at the station were damaged, and those that weren’t had no business in fleet combat.
Captain Shekev had been on-station when the initial attackers appeared. Their conversation still burned in his mind. ”The station’s raised her shields, Commander, I can’t beam aboard,” he’d said. “You’ve got command. You can handle this, Kieran. Just keep those damned Klingons away from the station.” He’d done that, if nothing else. After a swift exchange of fire, damaging the station’s shields and several of the surrounding ships, the Klingon ships had suddenly disengaged, as though they’d lost their stomach for a fight when Astrad entered the fray.
Forester had had no intentions of letting them off that easy. This conflict had been one Starfleet loss after another No, he was going to follow them until they stopped to fight him or until they led him back to their base. At least, until they received the static-filled distress call from the station.
”Astrad, this is Indus… A second Klingon force… come out of warp… attacked …. Shields holding, but… fluctuating… Tamerlane and …. damaged... our... can’t hold out … longer..."
Upon hearing mention of a second group of attackers, Forester’s face had whitened in horror as he realized with blazing clarity how he'd been had. His suddenly weak knees kept him standing just long enough for him to order Lieutenant Fox at the helm to reverse course to the station, maximum warp. Thanks to his own foolish arrogance and itchy trigger finger, he'd left thousands of innocents and Starfleet personnel vulnerable, prostate before a rapacious Klingon attack force.
“Sir, we’re approaching the station.” Lieutenant Fox’s announcement sounded like a gunshot on the deathly quiet bridge. Kieran’s heart immediately started pounding in his ears.
“Bring us out of warp, Lieutenant. Mister Nirkami, ready all weapons. Be ready to lock onto any targets of opportunity.” The voice was his, but he couldn’t remember his lips forming the words. Odd. At least he’d kept his voice from cracking. The last thing he needed now was for his crew to sense the fear that had gripped his mind. He hadn't been on Astrad long - he'd transferred over from Menahga only a few short weeks ago. The crew didn't know him yet, which meant they didn't trust him yet, and like dogs, crews had an uncanny nose for fear in those who commanded them.
"Sir, I'm reading eight Klingon vessels of various types attacking the station and surrounding ships." To Forester's right sounded a new voice - Lieutenant Leskat, Astrad's science officer. "Wait... Sir, the Klingons are coming about. Looks like they're withdrawing, Commander."
Withdrawing? What? You can't do that. Stay and fight me, you god damned Klingon cowards! "And the base, Lieutenant?" The commander's voice had fallen into a hushed monologue, as though he didn't really want to know the answer, but knew he had to ask the question. "The other ships?" The answer to that question he dreaded even more than the answer to the first.
The viewscreen blinked, and an image of the base and its surrounding crowd of ships appeared on the screen. The station itself had been heavily scarred by disruptor fire, and it appeared to be leaning slightly off kilter. "The station's shields are holding at thirty-nine percent; they've taken several hits to the hull. Main power is fluctuating, and it appears several of the station's stabilizers are offline." She looked from her instruments to the image on the screen. “The bastards sure did a number on her, Commander.”
"Don't editorialize, Leskat," Kieran growled. This time, he couldn't keep a slight tremor out of his voice as he chastised the younger officer. He certainly didn’t need to be reminded of the obvious… and the barely discernable edge of recrimination in the lieutenant’s voice reminded him what had permitted the attackers to do said number on the station in the first place. Finally “Ensign Makoan--” - this to the communications officer - “--get me the station.” To himself, he added sotto voce, “See how badly the turtleheads’ve hurt us now.”
"A moment, sir..." rumbled the tri-limbed Edoan. "There's a lot of interference from other transmissions..."
"Then use the priority channel," snapped Commander Forester. "That's what it's bloody well there for." His face flushed with guilt as soon as the words escaped his lips; the current chaos certainly wasn't Makoan's fault. He sighed, but made no apology as he waited.
"Sir, I have the station commander on priority channel. On screen." Makoan spoke again, after a long silence. On the viewscreen appeared the image of a haggard looking Starfleet captain, his grey hair streaked with soot and blood dripping from a cut on his face. His dull features spoke wordlessly to the furious destruction and carnage he had witnessed within the space of only a few minutes.
"Commander Forester, glad to see you back." His tone matched his expression - dull and exhausted. "Good thing you showed up when you did... we couldn't take much more."
Looking at the smoky metallic hell that provided the background, Kieran had trouble finding his voice. He stood, silently, in front of the chair - after what he'd done, he couldn't bring himself to call it his chair - for several moments before he found words. "Captain Jansen, I-- If I'd known they would--" The jumbled sentences spilled from his mouth, to be replaced just as quickly by shamed silence.
"They made fools of both of us, Lieutenant Commander. Neither Captain Shekev or myself ordered you not to pursue." It wasn't a It's not your fault, but Kieran wouldn't have believed Jansen anyway, had he said as much. "It's a moot point anyway... there's nothing to be done about it now. At least we kept the base in one piece." He sighed. "Although we could use your assistance in search and rescue, Commander."
"Aye, sir. If I may, though, Captain, speak with Captain Shekev?"
Captain Jensen raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Apologies, Commander, I forgot you wouldn't have known. Captain Shekev was wounded during the battle." Kieran sighed, and his head slumped resignedly. "He was in a shuttle bay when a torpedo strike caused an explosive decompression in the bay. He made it to a shuttle, but he took several pieces of shrapnel and nearly suffocated. He's in our infirmary now. The prognosis isn't good, but our doctors are the best in the sector. If he's to be saved, they'll do it."
"Thank you, Captain," Kieran replied grimly. "I'll have Astrad join search and rescue operations."
"Very well, Commander. Indus, out."
As Jensen described the incident that had nearly claimed the captain, a soft murmur slowly rose among the bridge crew, and they passed uneasy looks amongst each other. Most of them, notably, had studiously avoided turning their gaze in the direction of the center seat. The ones that had had quickly glanced at him; the emotions poorly disguised in their expressions were varied, but none of them could have been called sympathetic or supportive. Mostly, though, Forester saw little save the backs of each bridge crewman.
I've lost them.
The realization turned Kieran's stomach, but he had other things even closer to his heart to deal with. "Mister Leskat... I believe you were halfway through a report."
"Yes sir," came the flat, monotonous reply. "I'm not detecting Mohawk in the area; there's a debris cloud five thousand kilometers off the port side of the station that would be consistent with the remains of a Renner-class corvette. Dunkerque is a wreck; she's missing a nacelle and I'm reading flames and hull breaches on several decks. Ianar and Tamerlane are heavily damaged-- Ianar's lost her shields and sensors, and I'm reading fluctuations in Tamerlane's power grid-- but they remain under their own power."
"Get me Tamerlane, Makoan. Now." Another smoke and spark filled ruin filled the viewscreen, this time with a leonine Efrosian wearing lieutenant's insignia in the foreground.
"Tamerlane, Lieutenant Ra-kamnaa. What is it,Astrad, we're up to our heads here-- "
"Lieutenant, I need to speak with Katrin. Now." He spoke with an urgency born of panic, as his searching eyes saw no sign of a familiar face among the officers working in the background. He stood, taking several steps toward the viewscreen, and frantically looked for anyone that might have been her.
Confusion warred with exhaustion on the alien's face. "Sir?"
"Lieutenant Heidrich. My wife. I need to speak with her. Please, Lieutenant."
"I-- I'm sorry, Commander. She was in auxiliary control when we were hit amidships by a Klingon disruptor volley. There were no survivors in that section.
"She's dead, sir."
Kieran never felt his knees buckle. He never felt himself falling backward-- until a sickly detached corner of his mind noted he was again seated, badly shaking hands trying and failing to grip his armrests. His terror-stricken mind whirled as his life, in one horribly surreal moment, came crashing down around him.
Käthe…
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THREE YEARS LATER
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Nothing was the same after that day.
When Katrin died, it seemed like the best parts of me went with her. For the first time, I began to doubt myself, something I'd never experienced before... and it nearly destroyed me. It's an ugly realization, that you're not as invincible as you'd always thought yourself to be, and that particular revelation did not sit well with me.
I was wounded not long after the incident, and spent several months in physical therapy and then administrative limbo back on Earth while they decided what to do with me. It gave me plenty of time to drown my sorrows and lament my uselessness. Evidently, no captain was comfortable having me on their ship after hearing about my actions during the incident and my emotional problems afterwards. And as much as I hated to admit it, I couldn't blame them. I wouldn't have wanted an officer with all of my baggage, either.
So I eventually ended up here, in a comfortable job teaching tactics at Starfleet Academy. The official line the admirals gave me was to keep my tactical and command expertise from going to waste, but I knew the real reason I was there. I was too valuable to simply cut loose, but too much of a liability to put back on a starship. It was actually a rather neat, tidy solution; teaching assignments were nominally considered quite prestigious. It was no secret, though, that this was a purgatory I was not likely to escape in the near future. Every day spent lecturing or grading papers is a constant reminder of that, and everything else I've been through for almost three years.
And every day, I curse myself for letting it happen.
-- Commander Kieran Forester
2286 A.D.
Cobaryn Hall, Room 2406
Starfleet Academy
May 27, 2286
"...And thus, while Cadet Berenger's team did manage to achieve the primary objectives... his overconfident choice of strategy, or lack thereof, was found wanting. Had this been real, and not a simulation, Starfleet would have been left with a negligible presence in the sector, thanks to 'Admiral' Berenger's losses, and the Battle of Thranstor would have gone down a Pyrrhic victory with no real benefit to either side, instead of our most important victory of the Four Years War." The instructor paused, watching as half the cadets in the room, including the cadet in question, looked at each other uneasily. This debriefing hadn't gone as they'd expected.
"Your initial positioning was good, Cadet, but you managed to squander any advantage it might have given you during the battle. As such, Mister Berenger, your team's grade for the final examination is a D minus." The expressions on the cadets' faces quickly went from unease to astonishment, and hushed whispers spread indistinctly across the classroom. Frowning, the instructor stepped forward and raised his voice, quickly regaining his students' attention. "Let this be a reminder to you all in the future. While I have tried to show you that Starfleet doctrine works best as a tactical guideline rather than a set of hard and fast rules, it exists for a reason - to maximize your strengths and minimize those of your enemies. Doctrine and textbook tactics may not apply to every combat situation, but that does not mean they are inapplicable to most. They would not be textbook reading otherwise."
The chime sounding the end of class rang overhead, and the instructor watched as the assembled cadets immediately stood and proceeded to the door with varying degrees of enthusiasm. "Very well, you're dismissed. Don't forget, the final drafts of your course dissertations are due to me no later than nineteen hundred hours tomorrow. Don't wait until the last minute; I will immediately mark as failing anything that comes on my desk at nineteen-oh-one onwards." He turned back to his desk and began picking up the assorted PADDs strewn about its surface.
"Commander Forester?"
The instructor smiled. He didn't even have to look up to know who the speaker was.
"Yes, Mister Berenger? You'll have to walk with me if you want to talk, I'm rather in a hurry."
Kieran exited the room, the sandy-haired cadet close behind, trying to stay with him in the crowded halls. "Well, Cadet?"
The young man obviously wasn't sure what to say. Forester recognized the expression on Berenger's face - indignant, self-righteous frustration warring with the cadet's obvious reluctance to tell off his professor - as one Kieran himself had borne far too often during his Academy years. "Sir," he finally got out, "I... I don't understand it. We beat the Klingons, we achieved all the objectives. Cadet Kirkpatrick's group couldn't even destroy Klanek's flagship, but they still got a C midrange. A D on the final... I mean... if I don't get an A in this class, that puts me out of the running for class valedictorian. I don't... it isn't..."
"Fair?" Kieran snorted. "Let me give you a piece of advice one of my own instructors gave me once upon a time... Life, Mister Berenger, is not fair. Get used to it, because that will never change." Berenger pushed his way through a throng of cadets to keep up with Forester; normally, his fourth-year insignia was enough to clear a path, but in this case his fellow cadets were far more impressed with the full commander insignia on the older man's red-striped white shoulder strap. "The only reason you recieved a passing grade at all, Cadet, is because as you pointed out, you did manage to somehow achieve the listed objectives. However, the bottom line is that you were lucky."
"Sir?"
Kieran sighed. "The simulations are dynamic, Mister Berenger. The computer will both act and react in accordance to the action the trainee takes, and each simulation is programmed to generate random effects within the framework of the program. In your case, the computer decided that in this instance, Admiral Klanek would wait to consolidate his forces until after securing the Thranstor system. You outnumbered him during every phase of the battle, although you seemed to be giving him every chance to pull out a victory near the end. Thus... you were lucky. And when you're forced to rely on luck to win the battle--"
"--You've already lost the battle." Berenger interrupted, a sarcastic lilt in his voice, only to look away nervously when Forester shot him a piercing glare. "Well, I do pay attention in class, sir," he mumbled defensively.
"Sometimes," Kieran noted dryly. "In any case, you did, after all, enter a point blank slugging match with a Klingon fleet... something I certainly never taught you. You played their game - allowed them to take advantage of their ships' higher maneuverability and greater knife-fighting ability. In addition, you panicked when Klanek's advance force arrived before you were ready to engage, thus violating two of the cardinal rules of tactical command. Never let your enemy dictate your tactics and never give in to fear." Finally, after making his way through a series of side hallways, Kieran came to a halt in front of a door, the placard alongside proclaiming it to be the office of one CMDR. K. FORESTER. "The grade stands, Mister Berenger. Let this be a lesson to you in the future; here you were lucky to escape the simulation with a passing grade, but out there you'll be lucky to escape with your life and the lives of your crew." The door swished aside to admit him. He took one step, but then turned back to regard the cadet with a raised eyebrow. "Something else, Cadet?"
Berenger shook his head. "No, sir." Taking the hint, he quickly left Kieran's office.
Kieran waited until the door was shut to sigh and slump down into his desk chair. He tore at his shoulder strap and tossed his uniform top onto one of the other chairs across from the desk. Yawning, he pulled out a small package from his desk drawer and withdrew a small, white cylindrical tube. Putting one end in his mouth, he lit the other end and inhaled. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke filled the room as he leaned back in his seat, propping his feet up on the desk...
...only to start forward with a curse as his comm panel chimed. Staring at it with an expression half disgust and half weariness, he let it beep insistently for a moment before answering. On his screen appeared the face of his attache, Ensign Kasabian. Kieran scowled at the pretty, dusky-skinned young woman. "This is the only free time I get all day, Ensign... this had better be important."
One of her most redeeming qualities, aside from the visually obvious, in Kieran's opinion - and the reason she'd lasted this long as his secretary where others hadn't - was her ability to shrug off his increasingly frequent bouts of temper. She'd put up with his... idiosyncracies... better than most, and in fact the two had developed a certain understanding and a good working relationship with each other over the past year she'd served as his aide. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Commander, but I have an external communication for you coming in on subspace."
Kieran sighed. Of course Kasabian would have known these were his only free minutes until the end of the day; she knew well enough not to disturb him had it not been important. "Sorry, Sharon, didn't mean to bite your head off. Who's calling, please?"
"Captain Ostlund of the USS Haven, sir."
Kieran raised his eyebrow. He had been assigned to the Haven as her weapons officer for several years until his transfer to the battlecruiser Menahga five years ago. Petra Ostlund, then a lieutenant commander, had served as chief engineer and later as the second officer - a post he himself had coveted at the time, and for which he'd been the only other serious candidate. To say the two of them were hardly friends during his stint on the Belknap-class ship would have been quite an understatement; they'd at least respected each other's abilities, but it always seemed to be noticeably colder in any room the two of them had happened to occupy at the same time. What the hell does she want? I can't think of any reason Petra would need to talk to me... which should make this doubly interesting. "All right, Sharon, put her through. Thanks."
The face of his attache was replaced by the coldly regal features of his former shipmate. "Commander Forester. I was beginning to think your aide was running out of ways to stall me."
"Ensign Kasabian does a good job of only bothering me with the important things. Most of the time, anyway." Forester rejoindered, stamping out his cigarette in a crystalline ashtray. "Was this a social call, sir, or was there something the Academy can do for you?"
"Actually, Commander, I was hoping you'd agree to meet me for lunch at the Presidio. We have something to discuss that may be of interest to you."
Kieran sighed. "Really, Captain, I'm quite busy, and I'm not sure the two of us have anyth--"
"I promise you, Kieran, you won't be disappointed."
Forester cocked his head. Reluctantly, he concluded that he believed her; Kieran saw no reason for her to be dishonest. He leaned forward, curiousity replacing annoyance on his face. "Very well, Captain. The main dining area serves decent food, and I should be able to reserve a booth. I'll meet you there in, say, half an hour?"
Petra nodded in assent. "Sounds like a plan, Commander. See you there." Her image blinked off the screen, replaced by the Starfleet Academy logo. Kieran leaned back, tapping his chin in thought for a moment before reactivating his comm system. "Ensign Kasabian?"
"Sir?"
"Hold my calls and cancel my office hours for today, if you would. I'm taking an... early lunch."
"Aye, sir." The pretty ensign terminated the comm channel, and Kieran rose to leave.
And here I was thinking this was just going to be another normal day. He smiled at himself sardonically. You'd think I'd have learned by now there's no such thing.
I've finally slogged through the last of my RL obligations and have started writing the second part. I hope to have something up within a week at the most. Stay tuned! 
