Tales of the USS Bluefin: “The Mayaguez Incident”
Stardate 54360.1 (12 May 2377)
USS Bluefin NCC-4458
On patrol near the Molari Badlands
Captain’s Log, Stardate 54360.1. Captain Joseph B. Akinola, recording.
We are now in our sixth week of patrolling the Molari badlands. While this patrol has been blissfully quiet, the routine is beginning to wear thin. We are scheduled to be relieved by USS Scamp in three days, allowing us to return to Star Station Echo for some much needed R&R.
To break the monotony, I tasked Commander Strauss with running numerous drills with the crew, running the gamut from battle situations to radiation leaks. I’m pleased with how the crew has responded; all simulations were completed well within acceptable limits. A team commendation goes to the Engineering Division, capably led by Lt. Commander Gralt, for setting a new record in a simulated warp core lock down and jettison.
Commander Strauss has settled in well in her role as Executive Officer over the past few months. She has gained a good sense of the ship and crew, and her confidence in her own command capabilities continues to grow. Still, there are a few glimpses of self-doubt that creep in, but I am confident that she will overcome such moments with time and experience.
Stellar Meteorology reports some increase in ionic activity. At this point, it is of little concern but certainly bears watching.
End and save log entry.
Akinola stood from his chair in the ready room, stretching and feeling a welcome pop in his back. He went to the beverage servitor on the bulkhead, dispensing a cup of coffee. The eighty year-old Albacore-class border cutter lacked some of the more common conveniences such as replicators and holodecks.
Captain Akinola wouldn’t have it any other way.
Coffee in hand, the tall Nigerian C.O. exited the ready room and strode onto the upper level of the cutter’s compact bridge.
Commander Inga Strauss, a petite young woman with long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes sat in the command chair. Her hair was in a single long braid, practical and efficient as usual. At the moment she was deep in thought as she studied a data PADD.
Strauss and Akinola were a study in contrasts. The Captain was tall, well over six feet, with ebony skin and dark, somber eyes. At 60 years of age, he was twice the age of the young Executive Officer. Inga Strauss was petite and trim, with a fair complexion to go along with her eyes and hair, courtesy of her Teutonic heritage. She tended to be bubbly and talkative, especially when nervous. She also had a tendency to be both socially and physically awkward, surprising since she had been on the Academy gymnastics team.
Akinola was generally reserved in his demeanor, though he could stare down a subordinate like a phaser through butter if the need arose. He could also bellow with the best of NCOs, of which he had been before a battlefield commission years earlier had placed him amongst the ranks of mustang officers.
Strauss sensed, rather than saw, Akinola step onto the bridge. She stood and turned to face him with a small smile on her lips.
“Captain on the bridge,” she announced in a clear, firm voice. It was a tradition Strauss enthusiastically embraced and Akinola tolerated.
“As you were,” replied the Captain. He suppressed a smile of his own, recalling how the young XO would virtually rocket out of the chair her first few weeks on board Bluefin. He was gratified that his presence no longer struck terror into her heart, or at least, not to the same degree.
“Report, XO,” he said, settling down into the well-worn faux leather of the command chair.
“All in all, a quiet shift, sir. Lt. Simms reported that an impeller in the port side Deuterium tank is running hot and recommends that it be replaced. I have forwarded the work order to Chief Engineer Gralt. At 0237 hours, we met an inbound convoy of ore carriers headed to the Dilithium mines of Molari IV. Cookie sent word that he will have blueberry pancakes available beginning at 0700 and he will save you some if you will give the word.”
This time, Akinola did smile. “The word is given.”
“Yes sir, I’ll let Cookie know. Currently, our speed is warp factor 4.2, course and bearing, 114 mark 36.”
“Very well, XO. I have the conn. Rest well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The first-watch bridge crew was already in place, some speaking with their third-watch counterparts. Lieutenants Bane and Sarnek, along Petty Officer Salinas, followed after Commander Strauss. Lt. T’Ser took over at OPs, while a young Bolian, Ensign Bralus, took over the helm. Senior Chief Solly Brin, a burly Red Orion, took his usual place at tactical.
“Steady as she goes, helm,” ordered Akinola.
* * *
Strauss still enjoyed the novelty of serving on a ship with an actual chef. During her wartime service on the Thunderchild, she ate food from replicators as did the vast majority of Starfleet crews. When she transferred to the Border Service and specifically to the USS Bluefin, she was surprised by the cutter’s small size and seemingly out-of-date technology. While she missed the holodeck (and access to Raktajino, one of her guilty pleasures), she came to quickly appreciate the culinary genius of Petty Officer 1C Tony “Cookie” Marino. The variety, quality, and sheer quantity of food had necessitated an uptick in her fitness regimen, lest she grow out of her uniforms.
Carrying a tray laden with blueberry pancakes and a bowl of Gwint’ja fruit from Rigel VII, she entered the wardroom and took a seat at the long table. Lt. Delta Simms, the assistant engineer, was nearly through with her breakfast, the remnants of bacon, eggs, and what Strauss learned was “grits” on her nearly empty tray. Simms nursed a mug of coffee and nodded at Strauss.
“Mornin’ Commander,” drawled Simms. Despite her years in space, Delta Simms still spoke in the strong regional dialect of her native home, Sylacauga, Alabama. Her thick hair was a gorgeous shade of Auburn (ironic for a graduate of the University of Alabama), and her wide-set hazel eyes were more than fetching. A sprinkle of freckles added a pleasing accent to her friendly face.
“Good morning, Delta. I see you put away your breakfast in quick order.”
Simms grinned. “Ma’am, I grew up with five older brothers. I learned to eat early and often around that lot. Momma used to fuss at me for wolfing down my food.”
“I’m fairly confident you can eat at a leisurely pace here.” Noted Strauss.
At that moment, Lt. Nigel Bane entered the wardroom, placing his tray down across from Strauss and Simms. His tray nearly overflowed with food.
Simms gestured at Bane with her fork. “Not with the likes of him around. Nigel’s worse than any of my brothers when it comes to scarfin’ groceries.”
Bane affected an affronted expression. “What? Me? Nah, I’d never,” he responded in his pronounced Aussie accent. He glanced at Inge’s tray. “You gonna finish those pancakes, Commander?”
“Nigel, I just sat down.”
“See?” remarked Simms with a grin. Changing the subject, Delta asked, “What are y’all planning to do when we get back to Echo for R&R?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” admitted Strauss. “The rest part is obvious . . . I’d like to take a couple of days just to sleep. As for recreation, I might try to reserve a holodeck for some snow skiing.”
“Nah, I’ve got a better idea,” interjected Bane. He glanced around for dramatic effect, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’ve got a friend on the station that knows a bloke that can get us transport to Risa . . . two days transit, six days in paradise, two days back. Whaddya say?”
Strauss’ face began to redden. Delta burst out laughing. “Nigel, you horny hound dog! As if you had a shot at the XO or me.” Simms stood, “That’s a good one, sweetie; I needed a laugh. I’ll see y’all later.”
Bane maintained eye contact with Strauss, ignoring the departing Simms. “Well?”
Strauss cleared her throat. She was more than a little attracted to the handsome Aussie. Maybe it was his bad-boy image which covered a truly kind and caring heart.
“We’ll see.”
Bane grinned broadly as if she had already agreed. “Bonzer!”
* * *
“Captain, sensor contact, bearing 223 mark 6,” announced Lt. T’Ser.
Akinola straightened in his chair. “Can you get an ID? We’ve moved well away from the shipping lanes.”
“Yes sir, just a moment.” The Vulcan’s fingers moved rapidly over her controls, bringing the cutter’s powerful sensor array to bear.
“Sir, it’s a LoadStar-class cargo ship . . . the MV Mayaguez. 85 thousand ton, Martian registry, normal crew complement of 12.”
The Captain frowned. He knew the master of the Mayaguez, Lillian Hoshiyama, a solid, no-nonsense captain who ran a tight ship and played by the rules. That ship was a long way from its normal Mars - Klaamet IV run.
Akinola felt a hint of a tickle in the back of his mind. “Hail them.”
“Aye sir,” T’Ser opened a channel. “Mayaguez, this is the Border Service Cutter, USS Bluefin, please respond.”
There was a delay before the response came through. Not a long delay, but enough for the tickle in Akinola’s mind to become an itch.
“Bluefin, this is Mayaguez. We read you. . . go ahead.” The signal was strong, but audio only.
Akinola recognized the voice of Captain Hoshiyama. He made a gesture to T’Ser, who nodded.
“Mayaguez, stand by for Bluefin, actual.” She transferred the comm link to the command chair.
“Lilly, this is Joseph Akinola; long time, no see.”
Again, a very slight pause. “Ah, Joseph, it has been awhile. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Likewise. Speaking of which, are you having problems with your video transmission?”
Pause. “Yes, a minor glitch. We’re working on it now and should have video repaired in short order.”
“Good to hear. I couldn’t help notice you’re not on your normal route. Your current heading will take you into the boundaries of the badlands and ionic activity is beginning to pick up.”
Another pause. “We’re making a special run to the Molari system with an expedited order of mining equipment. You know the old saying, ‘time is money.’”
“Of course. Hey, Lilly . . . you wouldn’t happen to have any Pistachio ice cream in your stores; you know it’s my favorite and we’re completely out. Cookie has some of that RIgellian tea you like if you want to make a trade.”
“I’m sorry, Joseph, we don’t have any on this trip and I know you love Pistachio. Maybe next time.”
“Certainly. By the way, we could send over a couple of engineers to help with your video feed problem. They could beam over and take a look.”
“That’s a kind offer, but I think we’ve about got the problem resolved.”
“Alright then. Safe travels, Lilly, and mind the gravimetric shear if you stay on this heading.”
“We will. Thank you, Captain. Mayaguez, out.”
T’Ser closed the channel and turned to the Captain, an elegant eyebrow arched. “You hate Pistachio. She knows that!”
Akinola nodded. “Something is definitely wrong on that ship. Mr. Bralus, continue on our present course until we’re out of their sensor range, then execute a 180 degree turn to follow them. Our sensors have roughly three times the range of theirs, so keep us astern at 150 thousand klicks. We’ll be able to track them without their knowledge.”
“Aye sir,” replied the Bolian helmsman.
“Do you think they were hijacked?” asked T’Ser.
“I don’t know, but that’s a distinct possibility. Contact their freight company; find out everything you can . . . crew manifest, cargo, assigned route, last port of call. Then have the senior staff assemble in the wardroom.”
To Be Continued . . .
Stardate 54360.1 (12 May 2377)
USS Bluefin NCC-4458
On patrol near the Molari Badlands
Captain’s Log, Stardate 54360.1. Captain Joseph B. Akinola, recording.
We are now in our sixth week of patrolling the Molari badlands. While this patrol has been blissfully quiet, the routine is beginning to wear thin. We are scheduled to be relieved by USS Scamp in three days, allowing us to return to Star Station Echo for some much needed R&R.
To break the monotony, I tasked Commander Strauss with running numerous drills with the crew, running the gamut from battle situations to radiation leaks. I’m pleased with how the crew has responded; all simulations were completed well within acceptable limits. A team commendation goes to the Engineering Division, capably led by Lt. Commander Gralt, for setting a new record in a simulated warp core lock down and jettison.
Commander Strauss has settled in well in her role as Executive Officer over the past few months. She has gained a good sense of the ship and crew, and her confidence in her own command capabilities continues to grow. Still, there are a few glimpses of self-doubt that creep in, but I am confident that she will overcome such moments with time and experience.
Stellar Meteorology reports some increase in ionic activity. At this point, it is of little concern but certainly bears watching.
End and save log entry.
Akinola stood from his chair in the ready room, stretching and feeling a welcome pop in his back. He went to the beverage servitor on the bulkhead, dispensing a cup of coffee. The eighty year-old Albacore-class border cutter lacked some of the more common conveniences such as replicators and holodecks.
Captain Akinola wouldn’t have it any other way.
Coffee in hand, the tall Nigerian C.O. exited the ready room and strode onto the upper level of the cutter’s compact bridge.
Commander Inga Strauss, a petite young woman with long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes sat in the command chair. Her hair was in a single long braid, practical and efficient as usual. At the moment she was deep in thought as she studied a data PADD.
Strauss and Akinola were a study in contrasts. The Captain was tall, well over six feet, with ebony skin and dark, somber eyes. At 60 years of age, he was twice the age of the young Executive Officer. Inga Strauss was petite and trim, with a fair complexion to go along with her eyes and hair, courtesy of her Teutonic heritage. She tended to be bubbly and talkative, especially when nervous. She also had a tendency to be both socially and physically awkward, surprising since she had been on the Academy gymnastics team.
Akinola was generally reserved in his demeanor, though he could stare down a subordinate like a phaser through butter if the need arose. He could also bellow with the best of NCOs, of which he had been before a battlefield commission years earlier had placed him amongst the ranks of mustang officers.
Strauss sensed, rather than saw, Akinola step onto the bridge. She stood and turned to face him with a small smile on her lips.
“Captain on the bridge,” she announced in a clear, firm voice. It was a tradition Strauss enthusiastically embraced and Akinola tolerated.
“As you were,” replied the Captain. He suppressed a smile of his own, recalling how the young XO would virtually rocket out of the chair her first few weeks on board Bluefin. He was gratified that his presence no longer struck terror into her heart, or at least, not to the same degree.
“Report, XO,” he said, settling down into the well-worn faux leather of the command chair.
“All in all, a quiet shift, sir. Lt. Simms reported that an impeller in the port side Deuterium tank is running hot and recommends that it be replaced. I have forwarded the work order to Chief Engineer Gralt. At 0237 hours, we met an inbound convoy of ore carriers headed to the Dilithium mines of Molari IV. Cookie sent word that he will have blueberry pancakes available beginning at 0700 and he will save you some if you will give the word.”
This time, Akinola did smile. “The word is given.”
“Yes sir, I’ll let Cookie know. Currently, our speed is warp factor 4.2, course and bearing, 114 mark 36.”
“Very well, XO. I have the conn. Rest well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The first-watch bridge crew was already in place, some speaking with their third-watch counterparts. Lieutenants Bane and Sarnek, along Petty Officer Salinas, followed after Commander Strauss. Lt. T’Ser took over at OPs, while a young Bolian, Ensign Bralus, took over the helm. Senior Chief Solly Brin, a burly Red Orion, took his usual place at tactical.
“Steady as she goes, helm,” ordered Akinola.
* * *
Strauss still enjoyed the novelty of serving on a ship with an actual chef. During her wartime service on the Thunderchild, she ate food from replicators as did the vast majority of Starfleet crews. When she transferred to the Border Service and specifically to the USS Bluefin, she was surprised by the cutter’s small size and seemingly out-of-date technology. While she missed the holodeck (and access to Raktajino, one of her guilty pleasures), she came to quickly appreciate the culinary genius of Petty Officer 1C Tony “Cookie” Marino. The variety, quality, and sheer quantity of food had necessitated an uptick in her fitness regimen, lest she grow out of her uniforms.
Carrying a tray laden with blueberry pancakes and a bowl of Gwint’ja fruit from Rigel VII, she entered the wardroom and took a seat at the long table. Lt. Delta Simms, the assistant engineer, was nearly through with her breakfast, the remnants of bacon, eggs, and what Strauss learned was “grits” on her nearly empty tray. Simms nursed a mug of coffee and nodded at Strauss.
“Mornin’ Commander,” drawled Simms. Despite her years in space, Delta Simms still spoke in the strong regional dialect of her native home, Sylacauga, Alabama. Her thick hair was a gorgeous shade of Auburn (ironic for a graduate of the University of Alabama), and her wide-set hazel eyes were more than fetching. A sprinkle of freckles added a pleasing accent to her friendly face.
“Good morning, Delta. I see you put away your breakfast in quick order.”
Simms grinned. “Ma’am, I grew up with five older brothers. I learned to eat early and often around that lot. Momma used to fuss at me for wolfing down my food.”
“I’m fairly confident you can eat at a leisurely pace here.” Noted Strauss.
At that moment, Lt. Nigel Bane entered the wardroom, placing his tray down across from Strauss and Simms. His tray nearly overflowed with food.
Simms gestured at Bane with her fork. “Not with the likes of him around. Nigel’s worse than any of my brothers when it comes to scarfin’ groceries.”
Bane affected an affronted expression. “What? Me? Nah, I’d never,” he responded in his pronounced Aussie accent. He glanced at Inge’s tray. “You gonna finish those pancakes, Commander?”
“Nigel, I just sat down.”
“See?” remarked Simms with a grin. Changing the subject, Delta asked, “What are y’all planning to do when we get back to Echo for R&R?”
“I hadn’t given it much thought,” admitted Strauss. “The rest part is obvious . . . I’d like to take a couple of days just to sleep. As for recreation, I might try to reserve a holodeck for some snow skiing.”
“Nah, I’ve got a better idea,” interjected Bane. He glanced around for dramatic effect, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I’ve got a friend on the station that knows a bloke that can get us transport to Risa . . . two days transit, six days in paradise, two days back. Whaddya say?”
Strauss’ face began to redden. Delta burst out laughing. “Nigel, you horny hound dog! As if you had a shot at the XO or me.” Simms stood, “That’s a good one, sweetie; I needed a laugh. I’ll see y’all later.”
Bane maintained eye contact with Strauss, ignoring the departing Simms. “Well?”
Strauss cleared her throat. She was more than a little attracted to the handsome Aussie. Maybe it was his bad-boy image which covered a truly kind and caring heart.
“We’ll see.”
Bane grinned broadly as if she had already agreed. “Bonzer!”
* * *
“Captain, sensor contact, bearing 223 mark 6,” announced Lt. T’Ser.
Akinola straightened in his chair. “Can you get an ID? We’ve moved well away from the shipping lanes.”
“Yes sir, just a moment.” The Vulcan’s fingers moved rapidly over her controls, bringing the cutter’s powerful sensor array to bear.
“Sir, it’s a LoadStar-class cargo ship . . . the MV Mayaguez. 85 thousand ton, Martian registry, normal crew complement of 12.”
The Captain frowned. He knew the master of the Mayaguez, Lillian Hoshiyama, a solid, no-nonsense captain who ran a tight ship and played by the rules. That ship was a long way from its normal Mars - Klaamet IV run.
Akinola felt a hint of a tickle in the back of his mind. “Hail them.”
“Aye sir,” T’Ser opened a channel. “Mayaguez, this is the Border Service Cutter, USS Bluefin, please respond.”
There was a delay before the response came through. Not a long delay, but enough for the tickle in Akinola’s mind to become an itch.
“Bluefin, this is Mayaguez. We read you. . . go ahead.” The signal was strong, but audio only.
Akinola recognized the voice of Captain Hoshiyama. He made a gesture to T’Ser, who nodded.
“Mayaguez, stand by for Bluefin, actual.” She transferred the comm link to the command chair.
“Lilly, this is Joseph Akinola; long time, no see.”
Again, a very slight pause. “Ah, Joseph, it has been awhile. It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Likewise. Speaking of which, are you having problems with your video transmission?”
Pause. “Yes, a minor glitch. We’re working on it now and should have video repaired in short order.”
“Good to hear. I couldn’t help notice you’re not on your normal route. Your current heading will take you into the boundaries of the badlands and ionic activity is beginning to pick up.”
Another pause. “We’re making a special run to the Molari system with an expedited order of mining equipment. You know the old saying, ‘time is money.’”
“Of course. Hey, Lilly . . . you wouldn’t happen to have any Pistachio ice cream in your stores; you know it’s my favorite and we’re completely out. Cookie has some of that RIgellian tea you like if you want to make a trade.”
“I’m sorry, Joseph, we don’t have any on this trip and I know you love Pistachio. Maybe next time.”
“Certainly. By the way, we could send over a couple of engineers to help with your video feed problem. They could beam over and take a look.”
“That’s a kind offer, but I think we’ve about got the problem resolved.”
“Alright then. Safe travels, Lilly, and mind the gravimetric shear if you stay on this heading.”
“We will. Thank you, Captain. Mayaguez, out.”
T’Ser closed the channel and turned to the Captain, an elegant eyebrow arched. “You hate Pistachio. She knows that!”
Akinola nodded. “Something is definitely wrong on that ship. Mr. Bralus, continue on our present course until we’re out of their sensor range, then execute a 180 degree turn to follow them. Our sensors have roughly three times the range of theirs, so keep us astern at 150 thousand klicks. We’ll be able to track them without their knowledge.”
“Aye sir,” replied the Bolian helmsman.
“Do you think they were hijacked?” asked T’Ser.
“I don’t know, but that’s a distinct possibility. Contact their freight company; find out everything you can . . . crew manifest, cargo, assigned route, last port of call. Then have the senior staff assemble in the wardroom.”
To Be Continued . . .
