Chapter Twelve
Stardate 54246.3 (2 April 2377)
SS Queen Elizabeth VII
Sector 04340 - Warp 9.0
Dining Room 13-A
Ulka Yol cradled his Nausican assault rifle and continued to sweep the cowering occupants of the dining room with a dispassionate gaze. The young Bajoran was, in fact, beginning to get drowsy and the tactical mask was making his face itch. He blinked perspiration from his eyes and considered popping a stim-pill. Yol hated the pills - they gave him the jitters, but he supposed it was better than nodding off.
A commotion from a table to his right caused him to turn and level the rifle. He saw a white haired human male lying prone beside the table, a woman, presumably his wife, looked around helplessly.
"Help me, someone, please! My husband - I think it's his heart!"
Yol glanced around the room. The other diners seemed disinclined to help, no doubt frozen in place with fear. The Neo-Maquis terrorist cautiously approached the table, weapon at the ready.
"Sit down!" he said gruffly to the tearful woman.
"Please!" she implored, tears streaming down her face. "Do something for him! Can't you see he's sick?"
In truth, the old man did not look well. His eyes were rolled back in his head and he didn't appear to be breathing. Yol wasn't suspicious - these two looked to be older than his own grandparents. He knelt down, moving his hand toward the old man's neck to check his pulse.
Suddenly, a vice-like pressure gripped his neck, cutting off his breathing and the blood-flow to his brain. Instinctively, he dropped the rifle and reached up to pry loose the arm that was crushing his trachea. Already, dark spots were beginning to cloud his vision and a sense of panic took hold.
Vincent Criswell quickly opened his eyes and caught the abandoned assault rifle while his wife, Pat, applied lethal pressure to the terrorist's neck. With a sudden twist and a sickening "crack," the terrorist went limp and Mrs. Criswell dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. She wiped her hands together and favored her husband with a look of satisfaction. Vince nodded slightly in approval.
There were murmurs of shock and even a muffled scream at the brief but violent display. Vincent quickly shouldered the rifle and looked around.
"We're Federation Marines!" He announced. "Anyone else in here with military experience?"
Three people rose from their seats - two women and a young man.
"Get over here - now!" ordered former Master Gunnery Sergeant Vincent Criswell, easily falling back into his familiar command role. The three heard the note of authority in his voice and quickly moved his way.
"The rest of you, just sit tight! Help is probably on the way, but we need to level the playing field a bit."
A portly man stood and spoke. "And who put you in charge?" he challenged, a nervous tremor in his voice. There were a few murmurs of agreement to the query.
Criswell gave the man a withering stare. "I did," he said flatly in a tone that brokered no argument. "However, if you want to come take the rifle from me - be my guest!"
The portly man, his face now crimson with embarrassment, mumbled something unintelligible and retook his seat. Criswell turned to the three that had approached.
"I'm Vincent Criswell and that's my wife, Pat," he said gesturing to his now smiling wife. "Who are you and what's your branch of service?"
The two women were both former Starfleet officers. Unfortunately, neither had combat experience and only basic weapons training. The young man, as it turned out, was PFC Harlan Owens, a young Marine who was traveling to see his parents.
"Okay, Owens - we probably don't have much time. I need you to put on the perp's gear and get back into his position. Chances are, whoever's running this operation is monitoring us. Pat and I are going to try to get through the door and find a comm station."
The wide-eyed PFC nodded and with the help of the two ex-Starfleeters, began to strip the gear from the dead terrorist. Vincent turned to his wife.
"Think you can still bypass a locked pressure door?" he asked.
She gave him a withering look. "In my sleep, Gunny," she said, then winked. "Why don't you find us some useful weapons while I jack the door."
Vincent grinned, "I love it when you talk dirty!" He moved to the buffet table where he found several sharp carving knives. He gave two to the former 'Fleeters and kept the others for Pat and himself. PFC Owens quickly donned the black coverall, vest and mask. A small transceiver was in the ear of the corpse. He dug it out and popped it in his own ear. Vincent nodded approvingly as others at the table hid the dead terrorist under the folds of the tablecloth.
"Alright, Owens - just do what our late friend was doing. Pretend to keep watch over the folks in here. If someone contacts you - act like you're having comm problems. Oh, and you do know how to handle that Nausican Hell-slinger, don't you?"
The youngster quickly unsafed the weapon and ratcheted the power setting to level four - all without looking at the weapon. He smiled broadly.
"Master Gunnery Sergeant - a Marine is expert with all weapons!" he replied, briskly.
Vincent grinned and cuffed Owens on the arm. "Right answer, Marine. If anyone but us comes through that door, you know what to do. The missus and I are off to hurt people and break things. Good luck!"
* * *
Stardate 54246.4 (2 April 2377)
USS Resolute
Sector 04340 - Warp 9.3
"Captain Franklin? Incoming message from the USS Bluefin on secure channel." announced the Ops officer.
"On screen, Mr. Oolkan," replied Franklin.
Momentarily the image of a dark-skinned human captain appeared on the main viewer. Franklin noticed the lines of fatigue around the man's eyes.
"Captain, I'm Joseph Akinola, CO of the Bluefin. We've picked up three ships heading our way, ETA one hour. I don't think they're part of the USO tour."
Franklin grimaced. "Samantha Franklin, Captain. Understood - do you plan to engage the inbound vessels?"
"Actually, we were hoping you could head them off, Captain. We've worked up a plan that should allow us to knock the Queen Elizabeth out of warp and beam over boarding parties from our two cutters."
Franklin frowned. "Captain Akinola - my orders are explicit. I'm to make dead-certain that liner doesn't get near to the Brez-kril system." She cringed inwardly at her poor choice of words. "I'm sorry, but I don't have the latitude to engage unknown targets."
"I understand your quandary, Captain. . . I'm confident we can accomplish that goal without destroying the liner and 2800 people. But if we have to break-off and tangle with these other ships . . . well . . ." Akinola left the rest unsaid.
Captain Franklin felt caught in her own no-win scenario. If she violated her orders, her career was effectively finished. But, on the other hand, if those people had even a slim chance of being rescued . . .
She stared at the waiting image of Akinola. She didn't know the man, yet something in his voice inspired trust. Hell, she needed to trust him right now. To be honest, she wasn't at all sure she could give the order to fire on the QE, if it came to that.
Which made her decision much simpler.
"Alright, Captain - give us the bearing of those ships. Helm, prepare to adjust course to engage inbound targets."
A ghost of a smile formed on the cutter commander's face. "Thank you, Captain. We won't let you down. Bluefin, out."
Akinola's face disappeared from the viewscreen to be replaced by the streaking starfield. Samantha Franklin sat quietly in her command chair, suddenly feeling as if a great burden had been lifted from her heart.
* * *
Stardate 54246.3 (2 April 2377)
SS Queen Elizabeth VII
Sector 04340 - Warp 9.0
Dining Room 13-A
Ulka Yol cradled his Nausican assault rifle and continued to sweep the cowering occupants of the dining room with a dispassionate gaze. The young Bajoran was, in fact, beginning to get drowsy and the tactical mask was making his face itch. He blinked perspiration from his eyes and considered popping a stim-pill. Yol hated the pills - they gave him the jitters, but he supposed it was better than nodding off.
A commotion from a table to his right caused him to turn and level the rifle. He saw a white haired human male lying prone beside the table, a woman, presumably his wife, looked around helplessly.
"Help me, someone, please! My husband - I think it's his heart!"
Yol glanced around the room. The other diners seemed disinclined to help, no doubt frozen in place with fear. The Neo-Maquis terrorist cautiously approached the table, weapon at the ready.
"Sit down!" he said gruffly to the tearful woman.
"Please!" she implored, tears streaming down her face. "Do something for him! Can't you see he's sick?"
In truth, the old man did not look well. His eyes were rolled back in his head and he didn't appear to be breathing. Yol wasn't suspicious - these two looked to be older than his own grandparents. He knelt down, moving his hand toward the old man's neck to check his pulse.
Suddenly, a vice-like pressure gripped his neck, cutting off his breathing and the blood-flow to his brain. Instinctively, he dropped the rifle and reached up to pry loose the arm that was crushing his trachea. Already, dark spots were beginning to cloud his vision and a sense of panic took hold.
Vincent Criswell quickly opened his eyes and caught the abandoned assault rifle while his wife, Pat, applied lethal pressure to the terrorist's neck. With a sudden twist and a sickening "crack," the terrorist went limp and Mrs. Criswell dumped him unceremoniously on the floor. She wiped her hands together and favored her husband with a look of satisfaction. Vince nodded slightly in approval.
There were murmurs of shock and even a muffled scream at the brief but violent display. Vincent quickly shouldered the rifle and looked around.
"We're Federation Marines!" He announced. "Anyone else in here with military experience?"
Three people rose from their seats - two women and a young man.
"Get over here - now!" ordered former Master Gunnery Sergeant Vincent Criswell, easily falling back into his familiar command role. The three heard the note of authority in his voice and quickly moved his way.
"The rest of you, just sit tight! Help is probably on the way, but we need to level the playing field a bit."
A portly man stood and spoke. "And who put you in charge?" he challenged, a nervous tremor in his voice. There were a few murmurs of agreement to the query.
Criswell gave the man a withering stare. "I did," he said flatly in a tone that brokered no argument. "However, if you want to come take the rifle from me - be my guest!"
The portly man, his face now crimson with embarrassment, mumbled something unintelligible and retook his seat. Criswell turned to the three that had approached.
"I'm Vincent Criswell and that's my wife, Pat," he said gesturing to his now smiling wife. "Who are you and what's your branch of service?"
The two women were both former Starfleet officers. Unfortunately, neither had combat experience and only basic weapons training. The young man, as it turned out, was PFC Harlan Owens, a young Marine who was traveling to see his parents.
"Okay, Owens - we probably don't have much time. I need you to put on the perp's gear and get back into his position. Chances are, whoever's running this operation is monitoring us. Pat and I are going to try to get through the door and find a comm station."
The wide-eyed PFC nodded and with the help of the two ex-Starfleeters, began to strip the gear from the dead terrorist. Vincent turned to his wife.
"Think you can still bypass a locked pressure door?" he asked.
She gave him a withering look. "In my sleep, Gunny," she said, then winked. "Why don't you find us some useful weapons while I jack the door."
Vincent grinned, "I love it when you talk dirty!" He moved to the buffet table where he found several sharp carving knives. He gave two to the former 'Fleeters and kept the others for Pat and himself. PFC Owens quickly donned the black coverall, vest and mask. A small transceiver was in the ear of the corpse. He dug it out and popped it in his own ear. Vincent nodded approvingly as others at the table hid the dead terrorist under the folds of the tablecloth.
"Alright, Owens - just do what our late friend was doing. Pretend to keep watch over the folks in here. If someone contacts you - act like you're having comm problems. Oh, and you do know how to handle that Nausican Hell-slinger, don't you?"
The youngster quickly unsafed the weapon and ratcheted the power setting to level four - all without looking at the weapon. He smiled broadly.
"Master Gunnery Sergeant - a Marine is expert with all weapons!" he replied, briskly.
Vincent grinned and cuffed Owens on the arm. "Right answer, Marine. If anyone but us comes through that door, you know what to do. The missus and I are off to hurt people and break things. Good luck!"
* * *
Stardate 54246.4 (2 April 2377)
USS Resolute
Sector 04340 - Warp 9.3
"Captain Franklin? Incoming message from the USS Bluefin on secure channel." announced the Ops officer.
"On screen, Mr. Oolkan," replied Franklin.
Momentarily the image of a dark-skinned human captain appeared on the main viewer. Franklin noticed the lines of fatigue around the man's eyes.
"Captain, I'm Joseph Akinola, CO of the Bluefin. We've picked up three ships heading our way, ETA one hour. I don't think they're part of the USO tour."
Franklin grimaced. "Samantha Franklin, Captain. Understood - do you plan to engage the inbound vessels?"
"Actually, we were hoping you could head them off, Captain. We've worked up a plan that should allow us to knock the Queen Elizabeth out of warp and beam over boarding parties from our two cutters."
Franklin frowned. "Captain Akinola - my orders are explicit. I'm to make dead-certain that liner doesn't get near to the Brez-kril system." She cringed inwardly at her poor choice of words. "I'm sorry, but I don't have the latitude to engage unknown targets."
"I understand your quandary, Captain. . . I'm confident we can accomplish that goal without destroying the liner and 2800 people. But if we have to break-off and tangle with these other ships . . . well . . ." Akinola left the rest unsaid.
Captain Franklin felt caught in her own no-win scenario. If she violated her orders, her career was effectively finished. But, on the other hand, if those people had even a slim chance of being rescued . . .
She stared at the waiting image of Akinola. She didn't know the man, yet something in his voice inspired trust. Hell, she needed to trust him right now. To be honest, she wasn't at all sure she could give the order to fire on the QE, if it came to that.
Which made her decision much simpler.
"Alright, Captain - give us the bearing of those ships. Helm, prepare to adjust course to engage inbound targets."
A ghost of a smile formed on the cutter commander's face. "Thank you, Captain. We won't let you down. Bluefin, out."
Akinola's face disappeared from the viewscreen to be replaced by the streaking starfield. Samantha Franklin sat quietly in her command chair, suddenly feeling as if a great burden had been lifted from her heart.
* * *
Sleep lightly, my friend.
