UNEXPECTED

[Sgt_G]

This is another in a series of stories I'm writing based on the Federation Police Force. Think of them as to Star Fleet as the Coast Guard is to the US Navy. The era is TOS, after BALANCE OF TERROR and before ERRAND OF MERCY.

At this point of my writing, there is a Police Cutter scheduled to go back into service after spending a year in mothballs (due to battle damage), so I'm still introducing crew members and how they got assigned to the ship.

 

[Sgt_G]

UNEXPECTED

T’Fae dutifully met her husband of 45 years at the door. One look told her Stoan led his troops though the obstacle course again. His police tactical uniform was ripped and torn and covered in dirt and mud. His rank insignia for Senior Chief Master-at-Arms was missing. He reached up with two fingers extended; she place an open hand on his chest. “You are not walking through this house like that,” she ordered. “Go through the back door and straight to the shower.”

“As you wish,” he replied, wisely not trying to argue that the cleaning bots would take care of the floors. He walked to the rear of the house with its fenced yard. After all the time he had spent with humans, he still did not understand the logic of what they did sometimes. The previous occupant built the dwelling outside of the town, well away from the nearest neighbor, and then promptly installed a privacy fence. Stoan peeled his uniform off and inspected the damage. It was beyond mending, so he deposited it in the recycle bin. A cleaning bot took his boots away.

Wearing the bare minimum to protect his modesty, he entered the house and walked straight to the master bedroom. T’Fae was laying a fresh set of clothes on the bed for him. “That is most thoughtful,” he commented as he stepped into the shower. She looked at him and raise one eyebrow. Theirs was an arranged marriage, yet she could appreciate that he was a superior specimen of the Vulcan male, and at 68 years of age was still in the prime of his life. She disrobed and joined him in the shower.

“That was unexpected,” Stoan commented as they were getting dressed.

His wife replied simply, “I presumed you needed help scrubbing your back.”

“Ah, very thoughtful,” he gave his wife a sideways glance. “And the rest?”

“Speaking of unexpected,” she changed the subject, “we received messages from two of our children today. T’Sing sent an announcement that she is expecting another child. The last part of the message was rather strange; she said that they don’t need anything for the baby. I fail to understand what she meant by that.”

“I would suspect she sent the message to a group of people, including her colleagues some of whom are humans. There is an Earth custom called a ‘baby shower’ where friends and family will give gifts to expectant mothers, to help defray the costs of a newborn.”

“Both thoughtful and logical,” T’Fae nodded. “Shaw left a message requesting that I call him, which I did just before you came home. He is traveling to Vulcan with a young lady, with plans to meet with her family and ask for their blessing to court and possibly marry.”

“That is another Earth custom, although one that seems to have fallen out of favor among humans,” Stoan said.

“Yes, I know,” T’Fae rejoined, “and it is becoming more popular on Vulcan as our people move away from arranged marriages. It is a most logical system. I haven’t met Shaw’s intended, other than the short conversation today via video-comms, but I do know of her family. They are well respected, and her older siblings appear to have prospered. I offered my approval and wished them good fortune.”

Stoan turned to his wife, “As always, I trust and defer to your judgement on such matters.”

A chime sounded in the other room indicating an incoming message. Stoan walked to his small office and activated the comm unit. Lieutenant Commander Debra Estrada’s face appeared. “I apologize for the after-hours call, Senior Chief, but I just received a message. Your presence is requested and required on Star Base by noon tomorrow. I tried to delay it for a day or two, but they were adamant. Given the flight time, you’ll need to catch the red-eye tonight.”

“I shall comply,” Stoan answered. “May I presume I am to report to Captain Bell? He has been trying to talk me into moving to District HQ.”

“No, Senior Chief. The order came from Star Fleet,” Estrada explained. She took a deep breath and continued. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, I don’t think you’re going to like it. I sure don’t. They asked, insisted, that you bring your wife and family. There are five other Vulcans on planet right now, and they have all been called to Star Base as well.”

Stoan absorbed this information. “I could speculate, Ma’am. If I am correct, please consider Chief Varco as my interim replacement. Please excuse me; I must go and inform my family.”

Estrada nodded, understanding what he meant. “In case we don’t get a chance to speak again, it’s been nice working with you, Senior Chief. I know we butted heads at first, but I learned a lot from you.”

“If I may be blunt, Ma’am ...”

“You always are.”

“It is true, I did not believe, at first, that you were the right person for the job. I did not think you had it in you to command effectively. You proved me wrong.”

“No, you were right; I wasn’t fit for the job. You made me a better leader, a better person. I thank you for that.”

“I am grateful that I was able to provide some small measure of assistance.” Stoan lifted his hand in a V-shaped salute. “Live long and prosper, Lieutenant Commander.”

“Likewise to you and your family, Senior Chief.” The screen went dark.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

[Sgt_G]

The express ship arrived at Star Base Twelve with time to spare, and was met by four Star Fleet security personnel who led the Vulcans to a waiting room. They were offered refreshments but no explanation about the situation. Besides Stoan, there were two other Vulcans from the Sebelia Police Station, one a forensics technician and the other the commander’s administrative yeoman. Another Vulcan from the planet was a Star Fleet medical officer, and the last two were civilian merchants. Stoan and T’Fae had three of their children with them, of course, and the merchants had two offspring.

Several minutes passed, and eight more adult Vulcans were ushered into the room, along with four more Vulcan children. A female Star Fleet ensign entered the room. “Perhaps the children would be more comfortable in the recreation center. We have games and videos and computer terminals.” The parents agreed but only if T’Fae and two of the other mothers could accompany them.

Before leaving, T’Fae asked, “Do you know what’s going on?”

“I do not, and even if I did, I doubt I’d be allowed to say,” the ensign answered apologetically. Her PADD beeped softly; she looked at it and said, “The rest of your group is arriving now.” She escorted the mothers and children from the room.

The security personnel returned and led the Vulcans to a nearby auditorium where several more Vulcans were already seated. Three more Vulcans, all three Star Fleet officers, entered after Stoan and the others took their seats. Two wore medical badges, and the last was in a blue science officer’s uniform. The stripes on his sleeve denoted that he was a full Commander, so Stoan instantly knew who he was. He took a seat in the second row, confirming he wasn’t to be the one who would brief them.

Stoan’s PADD beeped softly, indicating an incoming message. He looked at the screen. How strange. The name on the message was someone he hadn’t spoken to in years, someone he thought he’d never hear from again.

Twenty seconds later, three men, all humans or at least near-human, entered the room. The first was an enlisted yeoman, the second was in civilian attire with a Federation Diplomatic Corps pin on his lapel, and the third was a Star Fleet Lieutenant Commander in a command-gold uniform.

“Good afternoon. I am Commander Gallo, and this is Mr. Blake.” He didn’t bother to introduce the yeoman. “We have been sent here by the Federation Assembly. There is concern amongst some members of the government, given recent events, with your continued presence in this region of space.”

The commander in the second row interrupted, “If by ‘recent events’ you mean the war we just fought against the Romulans and the revelation that they are related, distantly, to Vulcans, there is ample evidence that we Vulcans are nothing like our Romulan ‘cousins’ and thus pose no danger to the Federation. The initial suspicion was understandable, even logical, but it was my understanding that such fears have already been addressed.”

The interruption caught Gallo by surprise. “Yes, well, be that as it may, said assurances have not completely erased doubts for many, to include those at the highest levels of government. Therefore,” he motioned for the yeoman to begin handing out hard-copy pamphlets, “the president has signed travel restriction orders. It’s only temporary.”

“Temporary things have a habit of becoming permanent,” the officer in the second row retorted.

Stoan scanned the document in his hand. It required all Vulcans to immediately exit the region along the Romulan neutral zone within twenty-five hundred parsecs of the border. A provision allowed five days to close out ones affairs, all the while being escorted by Star Fleet security personnel. The travel ban was set for ninety days, with a provision to extend it ‘if security threats still exist’. There were other requirements, such as checking in at one of several specified Star Fleet facilities.

Stoan looked at Gallo and flatly stated, “I find all of this to be rather insulting.”

“Well, that was an emotional response,” Gallo quipped.

“One need not have nor display emotions to know when an insult is offered,” Stoan countered. “I have served in one uniform or another longer then you have been alive, Commander. How would you react if I were to question your loyalty after so many years of faithful service?”

Before Gallo could answer, one of the medical personnel spoke. “If the fear is that one or more of us might be a Romulan masquerading as a Vulcan, my colleagues and I were sent here to examine the evidence and attempt to develop a methodology to determine one’s true ethnicity, be it Vulcan or Romulan. These orders are a direct contradiction to our mission. What is that saying, the one about the left hand not knowing what the right is doing?”

Gallo and Blake conferred for a few minutes. Finally, Gallo informed them, “I’ll have to verify your orders, but I believe we can request an exemption for your team.” The yeoman handed three pamphlets to Blake. Gallo looked at him and asked, “Are we missing someone?”

“Yes, sir. The Hiawatha, a destroyer, hasn’t reported in yet. There are three Vulcans assigned to her crew.”

Stoan’s PADD beeped; the screen indicating another message from the same person. He stood up, preparing to leave the room. “I haven’t dismissed you yet, Chief,” Gallo snapped.

“The title is Senior Chief, sir, and the thing about not being in Star Fleet is I don’t answer to you. We have all the information right here, yes?” he waved the pamphlet. “What more is there to tell us?” Gallo didn’t say anything. Stoan held up his PADD, “I have an important call I must take. Police business.” He turned to walk out of the room, stopped and turned around. “Tell me, Commander, has the Vulcan High Council been notified of these developments? Or at least the Vulcan ambassador to the Federation?”

“Not as of yet,” Mr. Blake replied. “They will be apprised once we have contacted all Vulcans in the restricted zone.”

Stoan glanced across the room and suppressed a desire to smile. “I suspect they will be informed within the hour.”

The Star Fleet science officer stood and began walking towards the door. Gallo stepped halfway in front of him and repeated, “I haven’t dismissed any of you yet.”

The science officer looked at him sternly and raised one eyebrow. “You forget your place, Lieutenant Commander.” He added a hint of emphasis on the word ‘Lieutenant’. Stoan stepped aside to allow him to exit first, and then followed him out. The rest of the audience also stood and filed defiantly out of the room, leaving Gallo and Blake in stunned disbelief.

 

[Sgt_G]

Stoan used his PADD to message his wife. He suggested she make lodging arrangements for the night. He made his way to the on-base police station. He showed his credentials and requested access to a communication station. Chief Boatswain’s Mate Arnold Graff offered the use of his private office.

Stoan placed a call to Police Station Cygnus. The first attempt indicated a time-delay of over five minutes. A second attempt said the delay would be nearly half an hour. The third attempt failed to connect at all, as did the fourth. Finally, the fifth attempt connected with a fifteen second delay. It wasn’t ideal, but Stoan figured it was probably the best he could hope for, given the distance and number of relays the signal had to travel.

After the initial delay, a face appeared on the screen, a blue-skinned policeman named Senior Chief Thrace. The Andorian placed his left hand on his chest and leaned forward in a little bow. “Greetings, my old friend. I trust you are well. Please do pass on my regards to your wife and family. I heard you refused to allow your commander to put you in for Master Chief. Again. You cannot avoid it forever, my friend. I know, I know, get to the point. Remember how I said I’d like to be able to handpick our entire team? Well, such an opportunity has come up, to build not just a Tac-Team but also the entire ship’s crew. Alas, with my family obligations, I am unable to take advantage of it. I thought, perhaps, you would welcome the prospect.” He sat back and sipped a cup of Andorian tea, obviously waiting for the time-delay response.

Stoan tilted his head forward to return the bow. “Greetings. I admit I am surprised to hear you call me ‘old friend’, considering how things ended the last time we spoke. Yes, I am well, and my family continues to prosper. In fact, I just received word my daughter is expecting another child. Speaking of family, I had understood you were tied to Andor to fulfill obligations to your family. I do not understand why you are on Cygnus. As to Master Chief, there is a human saying about pots and kettles, old friend, pots and kettles. I am intrigued by the scenario you spoke of. The timing could not be more fortuitous, for it appears that I may be available for an immediate transfer. Please, do tell me more.”

Stoan waited a full thirty seconds for the signal to make the round trip with the reply. “I am here as part of the IG team on a routine readiness assessment,” Thrace explained. “This duty affords me with a welcome distraction from ... my domestic concerns. My team leader, Lieutenant Devon, was contacted and asked to serve as the operations officer on a patrol cutter. It will be assigned to the Third District. The ship’s captain will be Commander Robert Weatherford. I know him from ten years ago when he was a staff officer at HQ. He has selected a man named Dennis Hammerstrom as his second. I only know of his reputation. There are ... conflicting stories about him. As to the ship’s crew, Lieutenant Devon told me HQ will open it up to volunteers next week. Ergo, if there are people you want in the crew, you call them and ask them to apply, and then you approve those you want first. Commander Weatherford wants to fill the Chief of the Boat slot before the official announcement is made.” He raised his teacup in a salute, an unspoken suggestion that Senior Chief Stoan should be that COB.

Stoan nodded. “Yes, this is very intriguing. I have heard the name Weatherford before. What sort of impression did he give you? How hands-on will he be? Should I be concerned about Lieutenant Devon? I don’t think I have to remind you how stern some junior officer become after serving with the Inspector General’s office. I do know enough of Mister Hammerstrom’s background to say that the negative rumors are unfounded.”

As he waited for the reply, he called up the official biography for Commander Weatherford. It appeared, on paper at least, that he was well qualified to captain a police ship. Perhaps over-qualified for a lowly cutter, which begged the question why he wasn’t in command of a frigate. Thrace’s reply began, “The one event I recall about Mister Weatherford was how he went out of his way to protect a junior officer and get her a better assignment, all at the risk of his own career and personal reputation. He seems to understand that loyalty is a two-way street.”

Thrace looked off-screen for a moment before continuing. “Miss Devon has the same kind of moral compass. She has allowed me free reign to run the team as I see fit, for the most part. On the rare occasion we disagreed on points of leadership, she listened to my arguments. On some, she conceded graciously. There were a few times she would say, ‘Maybe you’re right, but let’s try it my way. If it doesn’t work, you can tell me you told me so.’ The one time I refused, she reminded me, very politely, of exactly how the chain of command works.”

He paused to take a sip of tea. “When it comes to the troops, if there’s a problem, she is quite willing to step in if she needs to, and yet she knows to stand back when she should. I believe she learned that from her time serving with Senior Chief Rinehart. There is another young officer stationed here, Lieutenant Christensen, who also served with Rinehart. I am very impressed with her. She and Miss Devon seem to be a lot alike, carved with the same knife. I was told that she may apply to be Weatherford’s intelligence officer. I would introduce you, but they have gone out to check on a situation with one of the patrol teams.”

Thrace looked off-screen again and said, “Wait one.” He walked away out of view for a long moment and then returned. “Apologies, my friend, there’s been an incident, and I must go see if I can be of assistance.” He closed the session without waiting for Stoan’s response.

 

[Sgt_G]

Stoan reread his potential new commander’s biography again, and also those of the other three officers named in the conversation. He signed off the computer and left to locate his wife. She too had been informed of the president’s travel ban orders and so had made arraignments to have a trusted friend gather a few personal items from their house and send them to the base. Stoan recounted his conversation with Thrace, of the possibility of going back out to space on ship-duty. T’Fae simply replied, “You should do it.”

“I thought you preferred me having a job that allowed me to be home most nights,” Stoan said questioningly.

“I do,” his wife confirmed.

“There are plenty of other ground stations I could go to,” Stoan stated, “many closer to Vulcan. They are expanding First District, so perhaps they need me to help build a new precinct. Or maybe it’s time I accept promotion to Master Chief and take a position at headquarters like they’ve been asking me to do.”

T’Fae gave her husband a knowing look as only a wife could. “You had a job at headquarters and you loathed it. Do not deny it,” she added before he could object. “This is your second ground assignment in a row, five years of living on planet. You’re getting restless. You need to do this. Called Mister Weatherford and take the job.”

“There are many unknowns. For instance, why is a full Commander on a cutter? What mission could possibly justify that? Besides, he may not offer me the position.”

“That is for him to decide. Do not take the option away from him.” She waited but he said nothing. “Call him, if for no other reason than to satisfy your curiosity about those unknowns.” When it looked like he might resist, she suggested, “It may give you an opportunity to find another project.”

He looked at her blandly, “I have no idea what that means.”

“Of course you do. You have always looked for young, impressionable troops you could mold and mentor. Here is an opportunity to mentor an entire ship.” He looked away, so she continued. “Need I remind you? David Rice, Rose Calhoun, Bill Grimm, Sheelan, T’Pia, Ruko’Noor, Charles Darkskies, Susan Ortiz....” Her husband raised his hands in surrender. She was right, of course, and he could not deny it. He told her he would go make the call.

Senior Chief Stoan returned to the police station and was allowed access to a communications terminal. He placed a call to Commander Weatherford only to receive an automatic reply that he was in class and what time he would be available. Stoan started to leave but had a sudden idea. He reviewed Weatherford’s record and then placed a call to his former commanding officer, Captain Isabelle Saito. He remembered her from when she was a junior-grade lieutenant.

She remembered him as well, so after exchanging pleasantries, she said she could spare five minutes for him. He explained why he was calling, and the discussion lasted nearly fifteen minutes. Saito described the ship’s mission statement, that as a roving squadron leader and reinforcement for hot-spots. No, they didn’t put a full commander in the center seat for some sort of super-secret operation. That alone alleviated Stoan’s concern about the assignment. She confirmed what Thrace had told him, how they could hand-pick the crew, more or less, by asking preferred troops to volunteer for a short-notice transfer.

Saito spoke at length of the Weatherford’s strength of character and how he excelled as an operations officer and later as the Exec, although she expressed concern that as this would be his first command, he might not make the adjustment he would need, to know when to delegate to his subordinates. She suggested that he would need a strong Chief of the Boat, someone like Stoan.

Stoan thanked her for the information and closed the connection. Before he could leave the facility, an urgent all-stations message came in from planet Cygnus. Early reports said a patrol team was ambushed, resulting in injuries to several police personnel including two junior officers. More distressing was that one policewoman was missing and presumed kidnapped. Two suspects were named; Stoan recognized them immediately, for they had been on the most-wanted list for several years. He send a text-message to Thrace asking to be updated on developments.

Stoan departed and joined his wife for a meal. He told her of his conversation with Captain Saito and said he had decided that yes, he would take the ship-duty position, pending a discussion with Commander Weatherford. He received a text-message from Thrace saying that Devon and Christensen were both injured but expected to make a full recovery. As to the missing policewoman, the situation was still quite fluid.

Stoan returned to the station to call Robert Weatherford. Dennis Hammerstrom was with him when he answered. Even with all that was going on, Devon found the time to relay Stoan’s name to them. And so began the requisite game of twenty questions. Of course, they had read his official biography, as he had theirs, and they also had access to read his service record. They asked good questions and gave great answers. Stoan knew within the first few minutes that he could work with these men; that they were someone he wanted to work with.

Before accepting the position, Stoan asked about the crew selection process. Exactly how much free reign would he have? Did the commanders already have people in mind? Weatherford would, of course, select and approve all the officers, although he would entertain suggestions. He said he would ask Brenda Sinclair to be the Chief Engineer; Stoan found that to be a surprising choice but said nothing. Both officers had a few names of enlisted personnel they wanted, but agreed to allow the senior chief the option to review them first.

Stoan asked who the commander had selected to be the Tactical Officer, the person in charge of the Tac-Teams and who Stoan would serve under operationally. Weatherford replied that he hadn’t contacted him yet, but he planned to ask Andrew Li. Stoan advised against that but couldn’t say why on an open channel, because he knew Li was under investigation and in all likelihood would soon be placed under arrest.

Stoan countered with five names of qualified officers. Hammerstrom had a list of three names, and Weatherford had two alternates in mind. One name was on all three lists: Ted Flynn, a former enlisted man with a thick Texas drawl. Stoan was the one who had convinced Flynn to become an officer. Weatherford said he’d give Flynn a call and offer him the position.

Commander Weatherford recorded Senior Chief Stoan’s official acceptance of the duty billet and sent it to Rear Admiral Gilbert Anoka, the Deputy Commissioner in charge of police personnel assignments. Ten minutes after ending the call, Stoan received a text-message from Anoka confirming his transfer. He had official written orders within the hour. Flynn called that evening to tell Stoan they would be working together again soon.

The Star Fleet destroyer USS Hiawatha limped home the next day. She was crippled but still flying on her own power; the entire bridge bubble was missing, apparently crushed by a collision with something very large and heavy. Stoan was asked to stay on-station, much to Lieutenant Commander Gallo’s annoyance, to help interview the surviving crew for the accident review board’s inquiry.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

 

[admiralelm11]

I like it so far. It almost has a feel of being similar to TLR's Star Trek: Bluefin series except it's in the 23rd century. Keep at it. I would love to read more, please.

 

[CeJay]

Travel ban, eh? I wonder if the Federation president may have been a former entertainment personality and businessperson with debatable political skills.

In fact, this is worse than just a travel ban, this is forced relocation. Pretty poor form on the Federation's part, especially since Vulcans are citizens.

A lot of interesting character background here otherwise although you do tend to drop a lot of names the casual reader may be unfamiliar with.

One question you may have already covered in previous stories but what is the relationship between the police and Starfleet in this universe? They clearly have a different chain of command. Are they different branches of the same service or is the police a local/planetary service like in real life.

 

[Sgt_G]

I wrote this section months ago. Yeah, I dropped you right in the middle of the story. I'm tweaking earlier sections.

 

[Sgt_G]

As to the number of "new" names that I drop ... this is a totally new set of characters. I don't use ANY "real" Trek characters. I wouldn't expect the reader to already "know" any of them.

The Police Cutter normally has a crew complement of about a hundred, but as this one will be the squadron leader, I padded the size to 120. Yes, I already have names for most of them. No, I don't plan on including every last one in stories. But if I want to write a bit with two female techs complaining about their boss, I can quickly check my list and find Petty Officer Second Class Daisy Xiang and Petty Officer First Class Marilyn de Groot both work in the engine room.

I already know I have four Vulcans on the ship: Stoan, Sovan, Sunal, and Jenna. I have three ethnic Orions who go by the names of Jacob Freeman, Ross Quinn, and Sasha Sparrow. I can tell you that the crew of 120 is 80 male & 40 female, and 90 Human/Alpha-Centauri & 30 non-Human. 95 of the crew are Police Force service members; the rest are on loan from Star Fleet or other services. There are three married couples: Doctor Winslow & Linda Holliday, Professors Hoffman & Tran, and Star Fleet IT2 Geovanni DeLuca & YN3 Suzette DuBois.

Here's a list of all the officers, chiefs, and bridge crew:

OFFICERS:
Captain: Cmdr Robert Weatherford == Human (British) Male
Exec Officer: LtCmdr Dennis Hammerstrom == Human (African-America) Male
Ops Officer: LT Tara Devon == Alpha Centauri Female
Intel Officer: LT Yvonne Christensen == Human (Swedish) Female
Tactical Officer: LT-jg Theodore "Ted" Flynn == Human (Texan) Male
Weapons Officer: Ensign Stanley Christov == Human (Russian-American) Male

Chief Engineer: LT Brenda Sinclair == Human (Canadian) Female
Engineer: LT-jg Kyle Miller == Human (Caucasian) Male
Engineer: Star Fleet Ensign Jason Littleton == Human (Caucasian) Male

Chief Shuttle Pilot: LT-jg Steven Eichenlaub == Human (American) Male
Shuttle Pilot: Ensign Sheelan == Andorian Female

Science Officer: Star Fleet LT-jg Thane == Andorian Male
Civilian Scientist: Dr. Timothy Hoffman == Human (Jewish-American) Male
Civilian Scientist: Dr. Laci Tran == Human (Asian-American) Female

Doctor: Star Fleet LT Preston James Winslow, III == Human (American / Caucasian) Male
Nurse: Star Fleet LT-jg Linda Holliday == Human (American / Caucasian) Female
Nurse: LT-jg David Young == Human (American / Native American) Male

CHIEF PETTY OFFICERS:
Senior Chief Master-at-Arm Stoan == Vulcan Male
Chief Signalman/Linguist Ethan Springer == Human (Causcasian) Male
Chief Gunner's Mate Walter Armstrong == Human (Australian) Male
Chief Warpdrive Reactor Ivan Blazek == Human (Russian-American)
Chief Boatswain's Mate Grun Morgoon == Tellarite Male
Star Fleet Chief Shuttle Technician Robert Carpenter == Human (Multi-ethnic) Male

BRIDGE CREW (working rotating shifts):
Helm
QM1 Otis Gunderson, Sr == Human (Caucasian / South African) Male
QM2 Caroline Wiggins == Human (Multi-ethnic) Female
QM3 ???? == one of the non-humans that I haven't fleshed out yet
Crewman First Class (QM) Albert Yazzie == Human (Native-American / Navajo) Male
Navigation
QM1 Amanda Carr == Human (Caucasian / Mars Colony) Female
QM2 Tanya Bryton == Alpha Centauri Female
QM3 Katchi'Dral == Cygnan Male
Star Fleet Crewman First Class (QM) Lorelei Everhart == Human (Caucasian & 1/4-Japanese) Female
Communications
Crypto Tech CT2 Venessa Taylor == Human (American (NYC) Caucasian/Multi-ethnic) Female
Star Fleet Signalman SM3 Daniel Levinstein == Human (Caucasian/Multi-ethnic) Male
Crewman First Class (SM) Arthur Peterson == Human (Caucasian / Luna Colony) Male
Sensors
ST1 Taavrov == Andorian Male
Star Fleet ST2 John Anuniaq == Human (Inuit / Eskimo) Male
ST3 Jenna == Vulcan Female
Crewman First Class (ST) Michelle Moretti == Human (Italian / Sicilian) Female

I have so very many story ideas rattling around inside my head and not enough time to get them down on paper. {sigh}

 

[admiralelm11]

Keep at it, sir. ::salutes::

 

[Sgt_G]

Okay, here's another segment. Obviously, the time stamp overlaps the story above.

Backstory: Weatherford and Hammerstrom are attending the Star Fleet Institute of Advanced Studies on Star Base Three to earn their Master’s Degree in Criminal Justice. In the first story (not posted yet), they happen to meet right after Weatherford learns he lost his command slot for a Frigate. The next day, he's offered command of a Cutter, which is normally a LtCmdr (O-4) slot, but he's a full Cmdr (O-5). Hammerstrom explains why he thinks he'll never be given a command of anything, a result of one event that happened very early in his career, and even though it wasn't his fault it almost forced him off the Police Force until he sued the service. He feels that then-LtCmdr Gilbert Anoka, now a two-star Admiral, is responsible for keeping him out of the center seat. Weatherford read his service record and talked with people he served with, and then asked him to be his Exec Officer (aka First Officer). In the second story (not posted yet), we meet the two officers who Weatherford asks to be his Operations Officer (third in command) and Intelligence Officer, plus they run into a couple Bad Guys who will factor in future stories.


CLEARING THE AIR

Professor Caroline Higgins wrapped up her lecture in her typical fashion, challenging her students to consider alternative strategies that all parties may have used to change the final outcome. Higgins was a retired one-star Admiral who had served eighteen years as a JAG lawyer and another twelve as a military judge. Her lectures consisted of reviews of the more memorable cases she had presided over. She assigned reading homework and dismissed the class.

Commander Robert Weatherford made his way down from the upper rows of the auditorium, looking for Dennis Hammerstrom and found him talking with the professor. He waited at a respectable distance until Higgins walked away. “Is there an issue?” Weatherford inquired, genuinely curious.

Lieutenant Commander Hammerstrom shook his head, “No, she just asked if I would mind if she presented my case. I told her I’m okay with it. To be honest, I’d like to hear her perspective on it.” The big man gathered up his belongings. “Do you have plans for dinner?”

“Not really. I figured I’d call out for some Indian chicken curry.”

“Good. My wife is making barbeque ribs tonight, and you’re invited. Grace won’t accept ‘no’ for an answer.”

“I look forward to meeting her. I just need to swing by my place first; I’m expecting a call. I spoke with Tara Devon and Yvonne Christensen during my lunch break. They’re both on board.”

“Excellent!” Hammerstrom beamed. “You won’t be sorry.”

“I’m sure I won’t. Also, I spoke with Devon’s senior chief, an Andorian named Thrace. He’s not available, but he gave me a few suggestions.” Weatherford looked at his PADD to recall the names, “Shawn DeSoto, Isabel Quinn, and Eva Kapoor. All good people, but not quite what I was looking for. Thrace had one more person in mind, a Vulcan, but he wanted to broach the subject to him first. Apparently, he did because Devon messaged me his name: Stoan.”

Hammerstrom shook his head. “Can’t say I know him.” His PADD beeped.

“Neither do I. Stoan tried to contact me and left a message, so I replied with a time for him to call me. Us, if you want to be there. My place in an hour.”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied, distracted. “Excuse me a second.” Lieutenant Commander Hammerstrom entered commands into his PADD and put it to his ear. “Hammerstrom here, you messaged me. ... Yes, I’m qualified, but you have a dozen instructors. ... What do you mean, ask for me by name? ... Did they say who? ... Okay, fine, I’ll be there in five minutes.” He lowered the device with a confused look on his face, “I have to re-certify someone in hand-to-hand combat.”

“Why you?” asked Commander Weatherford.

“I have no idea. Whoever it is, they’re waiting for me.” He turned and walked out. Weatherford headed for the other exit, then turned and hurried to catch Dennis, curiosity gnawing at him. The Falcon Fitness Center wasn’t far by turbolift, so they arrived within minutes. Hammerstrom headed straight to the locker room to change.

Weatherford walked into the gymnasium area and found Deputy Commissioner Anoka dressed in a standard-issue physical fitness uniform. The Samoan smiled brightly as he shook Weatherford’s hand. “Robert! How goes the man hunt?”

“Fine, Admiral,” Weatherford answered. “Devon’s signed on, and I found an Intel officer, a Lieutenant Christensen currently assigned to the Cygnus Station.”

“There are no ranks here, Robert. Call me Gilbert,” Anoka replied in a tone that said it was an order. “I’m glad you grabbed Yvonne because her name just came across my desk this morning. Her record looks good, on paper at least. What about the chief of the boat?”

“I’m compiling a short list,” he replied and named five people he was looking at. “I received a strong recommendation for a Vulcan by the name of Stoan. I’m going to talk with him shortly.”

Anoka nodded. “Yes, Stoan. Why didn’t I think of him? You can’t go wrong with anyone on your list. I was going to suggest Eva Kapoor. She’s ready.” He gave it a moment’s thought. “If I were in your shoes, I’d pick Stoan. He’s not your typical Vulcan.”

Robert laughed, “Sir, I don’t think I’ve ever met a ‘typical Vulcan’. Then again, I’ve never met a typical admiral, either.”

Anoka joined in the laughter. “Neither have I, Robert, neither have I.” Hammerstrom came out of the locker room and saw the two men. He walked over with a look of confusion and annoyance. Anoka stuck his hand out, “Hi, I’m Gilbert. I need re-certification in hand-to-hand combat. I’m told you’re the best evaluator.”

Dennis Hammerstrom hesitated before accepting the offered hand. “I’m sure there are other instructors you would prefer, Admiral.” He kept his tone neutral. He glanced over at Robert, who just shrugged.

“There are no ranks here, Dennis. Call me Gilbert,” Anoka stated still smiling. “I picked you. Shall we?” He gestured towards the martial arts training area.

Weatherford pulled Dennis aside. “This is not a good idea.”

“I know,” Dennis agreed, “but you heard him: no ranks here. When will I ever get another chance like this?”

Weatherford walked over to Anoka, “Sir, you don’t have to do this.”

“Too late now,” Anoka countered with a grin.

Weatherford just shook his head and walked over to the training area. A dozen Marines were paired up and sparring in mock fights. “These gentlemen need the ring for about twenty minutes,” he announced.

One of the Marines, a Staff Sergeant, responded without looking, “You’re welcome to join us.”

Weatherford stepped onto the mat and faced the sergeant. “The Admiral needs the ring. Now.”

The sergeant looked at the police Commander and then at the two very large men behind him. He clapped his hands twice and bellowed, “Fall in for a three-mile run! Move!” The rest of the Marines cleared the mat in seconds.

Gilbert Anoka and Dennis Hammerstrom walked to opposite sides of the ring. Weatherford noticed a small crowd forming to watch. “Clear the area!” he yelled, dispersing the audience.

The two combatants moved closer in a ready stance. Dennis appeared to be having second thoughts. Anoka taunted him as he made some quick moves with his hands, “So, I hear you think I hold grudges.” Dennis glanced over at Weatherford. “No, don’t worry, Robert didn’t tell me that. I’ve heard it from many sources.” He made a quick grabbing move that Dennis slapped away easily. The two men began to circle. “I’d say you’re the one who holds grudges.”

“Perhaps,” Dennis admitted, “but mine have no power behind them.” He made a grab at Anoka’s wrist; the admiral twisted out of the hold. “Do you have any idea how many careers you’ve ruined?”

Anoka snorted. “I never ruined anyone’s career. I ended plenty that needed ending. People ruin their own careers. Everyone expected you to ruin yours. I had a feeling you wouldn’t.” Suddenly he snapped out a lightning-fast jab that connected, hitting Hammerstrom right in the nose.

Dennis blinked twice in surprise. It wasn’t a hard hit, just enough to sting, but he never saw it coming. “What about Karl Wolfe? You kicked him off the Eliot Ness.” He blocked two more quick jabs and missed the one that hit him two inches above the belly button. That one hurt.

“Wolfe’s move was already in the works and had nothing to do with the incident,” Anoka retorted as he tossed out a few more jabs, with one connecting on the big man’s chin, causing him to take a step back. “In fact,” he began as he stepped forward to throw another punch. Dennis evaded it and fired a quick flurry of punches in return. Anoka blocked or ducked most of them. The last was a haymaker that would have taken his head off. Anoka grabbed his opponent’s arm and attempted a judo hip-throw.

Dennis recognized the move, a basic technique he had taught to countless first-year cadets. He shifted his weight and tried to reverse the throw. Anoka countered, and both men hit the floor in a tangle of arms and legs. Weatherford felt the impact in the soles of his feet. Anoka threw his elbow into the other man’s ribs and rolled to his feet. Dennis likewise kicked his legs and popped up on his feet. Both men displayed amazing dexterity for their size.

“Not bad,” Dennis said. He had to admit; the admiral was good. Very good. He snapped out a vicious kick onto Anoka’s thigh. The admiral grunted in pain and responded with a kick of his own. Dennis expected it and grabbed his foot, putting Anoka on his back with another loud thud. Anoka rolled to his feet gracefully and faced his opponent. A moment later, it was Dennis’s turn to be thrown to the mat. He spun on his back and kicked Anoka’s legs out from under him. Both men sprung gracefully to their feet and traded more blows and kicks, each tossing the other across the ring several more times. This was no longer a contest of skill but rather of willpower.

If they keep this up, Weatherford thought to himself, they’re going to shift the star base’s orbit. He wasn’t sure which man to root for, Dennis, his new friend who had justifiable grievances, or Anoka, the man with the power to right the wrongs Dennis had suffered for so many years. Regardless, it wouldn’t do to allow either of them to get seriously injured, so he activated the floor’s force-dampening field.

The big men circled each other looking for an opening to attack. Anoka took two quick steps and feigned to his left; Dennis made a move to counter and was caught off guard. Anoka connected with a left jab followed up with a basic leg-hook to put Dennis on his back once again. Dennis rolled over and shook his head. He pushed himself up to his feet, a bit slower this time. Anoka took the bait and stepped closer; Dennis whirled with a massive right cross that connected, sending Anoka staggering back. A lesser man would have been down for the count. Anoka didn’t fall, but his hands were down. Dazed, he was defenseless.

Dennis could easily have continued the attack, following up with more punches and kicks, crushing the man he blamed for crushing his career. He had years of pent-up anger, ready to unleash.

He waited. He just stood there, crouched forward in a combat-ready stance.

Weatherford walked between the two men. “Are you okay, sir?” he asked Anoka. The admiral nodded, shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and moved back to ready stance. “No, sir, you’re done,” Weatherford announced. He looked at Dennis. “Feel better?”

“Not really,” he admitted.

“Good. Just so you know, I had nothing to do with this little experiment. I had no knowledge of it. I will say the results were interesting. Very telling.” He looked at Anoka, “Did you get what you wanted?”

“Am I re-certified?”

Hammerstrom snorted out a bark of laughter. “Yes, sir, you are. It’s been a long time since anyone has put me on my back.”

“I’ll bet Senior Chief Stoan can,” Anoka quipped.

Weatherford shook his head in disgust. “If it were up to me, I’d fail you both. I don’t know what fighting style you call that, but it looked more like a tavern brawl than any approved technique in the police manual.”

Anoka laughed, “You can’t fight fair if you don’t know how to fight dirty.” He walked over and took two water bottles out of the cooler. He tossed one to Hammerstrom. “Look, Dennis, I know you’re still bitter after all these years,” he said as he rolled the ice-cold bottle on his cheek and jaw, “but the one you should be pissed at is Tony Pratt. He screwed us both on his way out.”

“Oh, right. You seriously expect me to buy that?” Hammerstrom snapped in disbelief. “From where I stand, you faired pretty well. Or did you expect to be the Commissioner by now?”

“I expected to be retired by now,” Anoka snapped back. “The Eliot Ness was supposed to be my ship. And if it had been, I would have been able to protect you and the others. I never wanted this job. All I ever wanted was to be a cop, to be out there on the front lines.”

Weatherford crinkled his brow. “For someone who didn’t want the job, you sure fought long and hard enough to get it. We were never formally introduced, but I was at headquarters when you transferred in. I remember all too well the uproar you caused from the get-go.”

“I did what had to be done for the greater good, Commander,” Anoka stated flatly.

“Spoken like a true politician,” Weatherford replied dryly. “And there are no ranks here, Gilbert. Remember?”

“Maybe there should be, Robert. I did a little more digging on you,” Anoka said angrily as he stepped closer to Weatherford. “I knew your father was political when I offered you command, but I didn’t realize exactly who he is.” He poked Weatherford in the chest with his index finger. “I need to know,” he began. He never finished that sentence.

Weatherford grabbed Anoka’s wrist and used a three-point takedown move to put his superior officer on his knees. Anoka tried to twist and muscle his way out of the hold, only to find himself planted face down on the mat with his hands flex-cuffed behind his back. It was a textbook-perfect maneuver. Weatherford bent down close to the Admiral’s ear. “I may be my father’s son, but I’m my own man,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“Whoa, dude,” Hammerstrom exclaimed in complete surprise. “That wasn’t very smart. You do realize that he holds your career in his hands, don’t you?”

“I could say the same thing to you.” Weatherford retorted. He removed the flex-cuffs and helped the admiral to his feet. “Something I didn’t get a chance to tell you ... and I wasn’t sure I was ever going to tell you ... last night, when he offered me command of the ship, the Deputy Commissioner asked me to take you on as my exec officer. And that was before he knew we knew each other.”

“Really?” he asked, dumbfounded. “No.”

Anoka nodded. Weatherford continued, “Ask Captain Saito, if you don’t believe me. And you almost threw it away.” Hammerstrom’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. “I told you it wasn’t a good idea to accept his challenge. I don’t need a hothead or someone who holds lifelong grudges as a second-in-command.” He shook his head and exhaled sharply. “The only reason ... the ONLY reason ... I haven’t changed my mind is because it seemed like you came to your senses. You held back and didn’t give in to anger before it was too late.”

Hammerstrom looked down at the floor and shuffled his feet like a four-year-old caught taking cookies before dinner. “Well, thank my wife for that. Grace taught me that I need to let things go; otherwise, I can’t be a good father to our girls.” He shook his head and chuckled softly with a small smile.

“I fail to see the humor in this,” Weatherford snapped.

“Nah, man, just funny how the universe works. If I didn’t go to the Headquarters to challenge that reprimand, I would have never met Grace,” Hammerstrom explained. “She was the secretary assigned to provide me with admin support.” He looked up at Anoka, “So, you say you want to help me, sir. Okay, let’s pretend I believe that. What I don’t understand is why now, after you pulled the rug out from under me twice.”

“What are you talking about?” the admiral demanded. “I’ve been trying to get you back on the right path for years. I got you in this school because Marcus Maxwell refused to take you as his Exec.”

Hammerstrom tilted his head skeptically. “Marcus told me he was told to reject my orders. So did Aaron Janowsky, when I had orders to the Sayed Pacha.” He paused to watch Anoka’s reaction. “Both of them said the word came from your office.”

Anoka considered this. “Well, now, that is interesting. Trust me, even if that came from my office, it didn’t come from me. This is the first time I’ve heard of it. I’ll give Maxwell and Janowsky a call.”

“No, sir, don’t to that,” Weatherford suggested, “not yet, at least.” Anoka looked at him curiously and motioned for him to continue. “How much do you want to wager that I’ll get the same word to reject Dennis as my exec, too? If and when I do, I’ll play along. It’ll give me an excuse to call Maxwell and Janowsky to find out what they know.”

Deputy Commissioner Anoka nodded in agreement. “Sounds like a plan, Robert. Keep me in the loop but don’t contact me directly; go through Isabelle. If this leads where I think it might ...” he left the thought unsaid. “By the way, where did you learn that takedown?”

“An Orion cop who goes by the name Keith Cringle, the dirtiest bar-brawler I know.” He looked at his PADD, “We need to cut this short, sir. I’m expecting a call from Senior Chief Stoan.” He turned to Hammerstrom. “Shower at my place, if you want.” The three departed just as the Marines returned from their run.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

 

[Sgt_G]

I'm still plugging along with this project. Had real-life and work stuff get in the way. I did write a whole segment the other night. The one name was supposed to be "Hunt", but I miss-typed it and then decided to keep it.

+ => => =>

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

SECOND CHANCES

“You wanted to see me, Senior Chief?” Boatswain’s Mate Third Class Joseph Michael “Mike” Martinez asked at the Chief of the Boat’s office doorway. He wore his usual sloppy grin, but his ‘rugged good looks’ were marred by a cut lip and a black eye.

Senior Chief Amber Hurt didn’t look up from the PADD in her hand. She just pointed to the empty chair on the other side of the desk. Martinez dutifully sat down. He didn’t squirm or fidget. Unfortunately, this wasn’t the first time he’d been called up on the carpet, and likely wouldn’t be the last. He was used to being in the hot seat. Senior Chief Hurt finally looked up at him, “How’d you get that shiner, Mike?”

“I’d rather not say, Senior Chief.”

“Did you start it?”

“No, Senior Chief, not this time.” He tried not to look at her, focusing instead on the many awards and accolades mounted on the wall behind her desk. She had a long and storied career.

“Really, Mike. You had to have done something.”

Martinez sighed. “The truth is, this was an accident,” he pointed to his eye. “I got too close behind someone and took an elbow.” She probably didn’t believe him, but it really was the truth ... just not the whole truth.

Hurt just nodded. “So, who was he?”

Martinez rubbed his nose in a vain attempt to hide his embarrassment. “She, actually. I didn’t get her name. Someone in a red Star Fleet uniform. An officer, so, no, I wasn’t trying to make a move on her. I know better than that.” Mike had a history of trying to pick up women at every Star Base, with mixed success, which resulted in the occasional bar fight. “I think she didn’t know I was behind her.”

“It’s hard to believe that Mike Martinez was an innocent bystander when a fight breaks out,” Hurt said with a hint of amusement. “Any witnesses?”

“Well, I’m sure there were plenty of people who saw it happen,” he responded defensively. Hurt glared at him; he tried to stand his ground but soon withered under her glare. “I was there with Tim Conner and Bill Jefferson,” he confessed. “They were at the table while I went to the head.”

“And Ulrich,” Hurt accused.

Martinez shook his head. “No, Senior Chief, he wasn’t with us.” She stared at him as if she could see right into his very soul. After a moment, he relented. “However, I did see Petty Officer Ulrich there.” He paused for a moment. “He may have had a bit to drink,” he stated, hoping to soften the blow.

“A bit too much, as it turns out,” Senior Chief Hurt replied. “You do realize, don’t you, that they have security cameras in that club.”

Martinez shrugged. “Only over the bar’s service area and the register, as far as I know, nothing that looks out over the tables or dance floor.” Doubts crept into his mind. “If there are any, they’re well hidden.”

“True, but remember that big mirror behind the bar? The camera’s pointed right at it. It sees all.” She turned her computer display around and pressed a button to play a video. “Okay, so this is Ulrich. At this point, he’s been at the club for an hour and has already downed five or six drinks. He also struck out with as many women. There’s you, Conner, and Jefferson coming in, going over to a table. You all order something, and then you get up and make your way to the men’s room. Ulrich gets another drink and tries his luck with Lieutenant Shelby Littleton.”

“Littleton? Really?” Martinez shook his head in disbelief. “Dang.” It was bad enough that an enlisted man would try to pick up an officer, but a Littleton at that. Wow, Ulrich really stepped in it big time. She was probably fourth-generation Star Fleet; Martinez wouldn’t be surprised if her father was a captain or perhaps even an admiral.

“Yeah. One of those Littletons. We’ll get back to that. So, here’s you coming out of the restroom, just in time for the action to begin. The lieutenant already turned Ulrich down once, but he’s not taking the hint. See how her face changes? She’s getting annoyed and tries to walk by him. He grabs her arm, she pulls away, and bam! You take it right in the eye.” Martinez flinched; it hurt just watching. “It’s just like you said, more or less. Now, would you care to explain what happened next? Mind you, I’ve seen it already.”

Martinez sat back and hung his head. He didn’t like ratting out his fellow crewmates. “The lieutenant fell backwards. I don’t know if Ulrich hit her, but I think he did take a swing. I caught her and sat her down on the floor and then moved to push Ulrich back. He punched me; that’s how I got the fat lip. Bill and Tim pulled him off me. I turned around and helped the lieutenant to her feet. I asked if she was okay, and then the base security goons grabbed me from behind. I didn’t see the others after that. Security was going to throw me in the brig, but the lieutenant told them they had the wrong guy. I reported back to the ship and went to sickbay.”

Senior Chief Hurt nodded as she turned the screen back around. “Yes, that all checks out. Conner and Jefferson took Ulrich to a hotel room to get him sobered up. We rounded them up and brought them back here. Ulrich is in the brig; the other two are confined to quarters. Ulrich did hit Lieutenant Littleton; she has two broken teeth. She is pressing charges against Ulrich. Even if she wasn’t, the Skipper is ready to hang him out to dry. Conner and Jefferson are probably looking at NJP.”

Martinez knew first-hand what that entailed, for he had accepted non-judicial punishment and loss of rank a year prior to avoid a court martial with overblown charges. “They were just trying to do the right thing, protect one of their own,” he protested.

“It would have been the right thing,” Hurt replied, “had they brought him back to the ship instead of hiding in a rental flat. Don’t worry; I doubt they’ll lose a stripe, just a formal reprimand. You’re in the clear.” Martinez relaxed. “Except, you’re not.”

“I’m not? What did I do?” he objected.

“Nothing,” Hurt reassured him. “In fact, Lieutenant Littleton gave a statement attesting that you were at first an innocent bystander and accidental victim. She has made it clear that you jumped in to defend her.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem?” Martinez was confused.

Hurt sighed. “The problem is that Lieutenant Littleton is the personal assistant to the Star Base Ten’s new vice commander, Captain Caldwell.” Great. Captain Edward Caldwell was one who pushed for Martinez to be court martialed last year, when Caldwell was the commander of Space Station F-3. Martinez was involved in yet another bar fight, one he didn’t start but one that he sure finished. Always one to give as good as he got, Mike put three Marines in the dispensary. “He heard your name and blew his stack. He wants you charged with aiding and abetting. His lieutenant is trying to talk him off that cliff. The Skipper’s on the line with HQ right now. That means it’s political. If this had been anyone else, I’m sure they’d go to bat. With your history, though, they might sacrifice you to Caldwell. That means Star Fleet sets the charges, but at least it’ll be a police force court martial. You’d probably win. But at what cost?”

“I’m screwed,” Martinez said in dismay.

“Not necessarily,” Hurt answered. “I do have an idea. It means a transfer. The Stephenson is assigned to Star Base Ten for the next several months, so it’s not as if we can just go out on patrol and hope Caldwell forgets about you. I want to transfer you to another cutter, in another district. I have a friend, Commander Robert Weatherford, who called me yesterday. He’s been offered a boat and needs a crew. He wanted me to be his Chief of the Boat, but obviously I can’t now that I was picked up for Master Chief. Say the word and I’ll give him a call. With any luck, that’ll appease Caldwell and defuse the politics.”

Martinez looked up. “Ah, yeah, I suppose. Of course, I’d much rather stay on the Jonny C, but if it’ll save everyone headaches, then, yeah, I’ll transfer out.” One cutter was pretty much like all the others, but he’d been assigned to the ‘John C. Stephenson’ for so long it felt like home. “Oh, wait. I can’t. I’m still on probation for two more months.”

Hurt grinned at him. “Not anymore. I convinced the skipper to close your file early. Regardless of how this situation shakes out, you’re off probation, assuming we can keep Cadwell from pushing new charges on you. That means you’ll test for promotion in ninety days. I’m counting on you to earn that stripe back.”

“Thank you, Senior Chief. I’ve been studying.”

“Good. For now, lay low. I can’t restrict you to the ship, but I’d stay off the base if I were you.” She regarded him for a long moment. “Mike, a lot of people get second chances. I’d say more than half blow it. You didn’t. You stayed out of trouble, mostly, and did everything I’ve asked of you and more. You earned your second chance, and I have faith that you’ll use it wisely.” Her computer beeped. She read something on the screen. “A message from Lieutenant Littleton; Captain Caldwell will not be pressing charges, but he has banned you from the base.”

Martinez shrugged. “I’ll live. I’d appreciate if you’d call your friend.” He stood up. “I suppose I won’t be here when you pin on Master Chief.” He extended his hand. “It’s been a pleasure working for you, Senior Chief.” She shook his hand and dismissed him. She turned her attention to the computer screen and began composing a message to Commander Weatherford.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

 

[TheLoneRedshirt]

Just caught all the way up. This is really a good read! I'm enjoying your take on a Federation version of the Coast Guard; somewhat different from the direction I took, but I really like it. You've done a great job in adding in the back-channel political intrigue that permeates all armed services. The treatment of the Vulcans (post "Balance of Terror") is troubling, but plausible, especially considering the reaction of Lt. What's-His-Name who all but accused Spock of being a Romulan.
Looking forward how you continue to put together the crew of the police cutter under Weatherby's command.

 

[Sgt_G]

Here's a sneak-peek of another future crew member for Commander Weatherford's new ship.
Care to guess which one it'll be?

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

A ROOKIE MISTAKE

“I’m telling you, Jim, you should have seen her,” Boatswain’s Mate Craig Smith was saying to his friend as they walked into the crew’s break area. He gestured with his hands, “She had the biggest ....” He stopped talking and walking in mid-sentence. “Well, hello.” Smith halted so suddenly that his friend, Petty Officer James Hunter, nearly collided with him.

Hunter looked to see what had grabbed Smith’s attention and did a double take at what he saw. The break area, it wasn’t a room so much as a wide area on Deck Four where several corridors converged near Main Engineering, had six tables and a food service system. It was empty save for one lone figure sitting at a table. Smith and Hunter looked at each other. “Somebody’s pet, maybe,” Hunter suggested, wondering where its owner might be.

Smith shrugged, “Probably the ship’s mascot. They put it in a uniform of sorts.” The creature appeared to be a large monkey of some kind, not a chimpanzee or gorilla but rather more like a spider monkey or a macaque, perhaps a hundred forty centimeters tall (about four-and-a-half foot) with a meter-long tail. Its fur was a tannish-orange, much the color of an African lion, with a rusty-brown mane around its neck. The creature was wearing a police-blue vest with a logo for the Police Frigate Edmund Randolph embroidered on the chest.

It gnawed on a hard tuber in one hand and held a PADD in the other. It looked up at them with inquisitive brown eyes, and in a tiny child-like voice said, “Me no pet. Me ‘lectrician.” He turned slightly and pointed to the Electrician’s Mate Second Class insignia pinned just below the ship’s logo.

Smith laughed, “You hear that, Jim, he’s an eeelectrician, just like you.” Hunter gave him a dirty look. Smith walked over to the counter, “What do you think, Jim. Maybe it wants a banana,” he said as he picked up a fruit basket.

The creature shook its head. “Senji no eat ’nanas. Too much ‘tassium. No good for Senji”

“Oh, your name’s Senji. Funny name.”

“Don’t tease him, Craig,” Hunter advised. “He might think Smith is a funny name.”

The creature’s eyes widened. “Oh. Smith. You Smith and Jones, yes? You related Tina Smith, yes?”

Smith shook his head. “No, I wish. That’s a different Smith.” He looked at Hunter, “If I was related to Smith and Jones Shipping and Freight, do you think I’d be here?” He looked back at the creature. “Is that all you eat, Senji?”

“My name Felix,” the creature corrected him. “My kind Senji. My kind omnivore. Some Senji still hunt old way.”

“How’s that? With bow and arrow?”

Felix barked out something of a laugh. “No. Senji run prey down. Catch and bite neck. Rip throat out.” Felix smiled, pulling his lips back to reveal an impressive set of razor-sharp teeth, causing both men to pull back in alarm. He said that just as another man walked into the break area.

“Easy, now, Felix,” Chief Boatswain’s Mate Scott King said, “you don’t want to scare the rookies on their first day.” He looked at the others. “Hunter and Smith, right? Let’s go talk.” He led the pair to the turbolift.

A few minutes later, they arrived at Chief King’s office. “Have a seat, gentlemen,” he instructed as he sat down behind his desk. “So, both of you were jumped up right out of tech school. Maybe you think that earns you extra privileges. Think again. I’m a Chief Petty Officer; you’re both Third Class. Ergo, you come to me; I shouldn’t have to go looking for you. Also, you shouldn’t be wandering around the ship alone until you’ve had the grand tour. That break area is for Second-class and above.”

“We didn’t know, Chief,” Hunter admitted.

“No, you didn’t know,” King admonished them. “You didn’t even know to ask. Well, at least you met your new supervisor.”

The young men looked at each other, mouths agape. “How’s that going to work, Chief,” Smith asked. “That thing can barely speak!”

“That ‘thing’ is a Petty Officer Second Class in the Federation Space Police Force,” Chief King snapped. “You will give him the due respect he has earned. As far as not talking very well, Senji anatomy wasn’t designed for human speech. Petty Officer Tawny has an IQ higher than both of yours put together. Keep your mouth shut and eyes open, and you just might learn something for him. Clear?”

“Yes, Chief,” both men replied. Hunter rubbed his chin in thought. “Felix Tawny. I’ve heard that name before.” He snapped his fingers. “My sister is into poetry; she’s been raving about a new book by a Felix Tawny.”

“One in the same,” King confirmed. “Poetry’s not my thing, but the way Felix paints pictures with words is magical. He also writes action-adventure novels, some real page-turners. Like I said, don’t judge him by his looks or his speech patterns.” He looked at the timepiece. “Alright, now that that’s out of the way, let me take you down and introduce you to your division officer, Lieutenant Sinclair.”

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

 

[Sgt_G]

A COLORFUL SOLUTION

Lieutenant Commander Tony Foxx walked into the conference room. “Change of plans, again,” he announced. The chief engineer took his seat at the head of the table. Three junior officers and seven senior enlisted regarded him expectantly. “The Randolph won’t just be a taxi; HQ wants us to be a tow truck, too. We’ve been ordered to help select a suitable candidate and drag it back to Star Base Four.”

“Any idea how long that will take, sir,” Lieutenant-junior grade Pablo Ramirez. “I was planning on being home for my son’s birthday.”

“When is that?”

“Next week, sir. Nine days to be exact.”

Foxx shrugged. “I should hope that we’ll be done before then. Worst case, you’ll have to burn some leave and catch a hop on a mail boat. Lord knows, we miss enough family events; I’ll cut you loose if I can.”

The comm unit whistled, and a female voice said, “Commander Foxx, there’s an incoming call from a Commander Weatherford.”

“Pipe it down here, please,” Foxx replied. A moment later, a man’s face appears on the monitor in the center of the table. “Lieutenant Commander Foxx here, sir. How may I help you?”

“I’m Robert Weatherford,” the man stated with a distinct British accent, “I’m looking for Lieutenant Brenda Sinclair.”

Sinclair answered, “I’m here, sir. We’re in a meeting, sir. Shall I call you back?”

“Yes, please. I have a job offer for you, if you’re not busy,” Weatherford explained. “Where are you presently?”

“On the frigate Edmund Randolph, sir. We’re on our way to the boneyard,” she informed him, “to tow a cutter back to dry dock for rebuild.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Really? How interesting. When did you get those orders?”

“We were notified yesterday afternoon, sir,” Foxx answered, “just as we were pulling into Star Base Two.”

“Fascinating. Just yesterday, I had dinner with Deputy Commissioner Anoka, and he informed me that I am to take command of whichever ship you pull out of mothballs. I happened to mention I was considering asking Lieutenant Sinclair to be my chief engineer. Make sure you pick out a good one, Brenda, because you’ll be working on it. If you want the job, that is.”

Sinclair cringed for a moment as she looked at Foxx. “I’d be honored to work for you, sir.”

Foxx interrupted, “Perhaps you and I should speak in private, sir.”

“No need, sir,” Sinclair retorted. She turned back to the monitor. “Commander Foxx is going to express an opinion that I am not ready to be a chief engineer,” she admitted.

“Correct,” Foxx confirmed. “I fear she lacks the full understanding of warp-field dynamics required for such a position.”

“Yes, I saw you wrote that when I read her personnel file. Your opinion has been duly noted and considered,” Weatherford responded. “However, I want someone who can, what was that saying, find inventive solutions....”

“Find colorful solutions to black-and-white problems,” Sinclair supplied.

“The logical course of action,” Lieutenant Stills interjected, “would be to acquire an assistant engineer who has a strong background in warp drive technology. As Captain Cho is fond of saying, find a Yin to your Yang. As a Vulcan, I prefer a regimented approach to solving problems, to follow a logical path from point A to point B. I paired myself with Chief Petty Officer Clark,” he gestured to the man sitting to his left, “because he has the ability to, as he says, think outside the box and thus can find alternative paths of logic that escape me.”

“Great idea, sir,” Bill Clark quipped, “I think I’m finally rubbing off on you.”

Stills frowned slightly. “It is only logical to apply a solution that has worked in the past to similar problems in the future.” The others chuckled. “I fail to understand why you find that amusing,” he remarked.

Foxx nodded. “While I can’t in good conscience endorse you for the job, I won’t stand in your way, either. I do strongly recommend you take Lieutenant Stills’ advice.” He rubbed his chin. “There are plenty of officers that would fit the bill. Talk to me later.” He turned to the monitor. “Anything else we can do for you, Commander?”

“No, but real quick before I let you go, Brenda, to take the assignment, I need you to formally volunteer. There’ll be an announcement Monday morning listing the ship as available. Send your application in right away. Admiral Anoka told me I’ll have first right to approve or deny candidates. Senior Chief Sloan will review enlisted packages and give me his recommendations.”

“Stoan,” Sinclair sighed. “How lovely.”

“Oh, problem?”

Sinclair frowned and shook her head. “There won’t be, as long as he remembers he’s not a Boatswain’s Mate anymore and keeps his nose out of my engine room.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Chief Boatswain’s Mate Scott King interrupted, “Am I correct in that you’re taking volunteers for enlisted as well as officers?”

“That’s correct. They have to meet eligibility requirements, of course. If you want specific personnel, Brenda, tell them to apply and send your list of names to Stoan. Don’t be sending me any bad apples, Chief.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.” King looked at Sinclair and tapped his temple, indicating he had some ideas.

“Well, I have more people to contact. I’ll send you a text later. Good day,” Weatherford said before he closed the connection. Foxx continued the meeting to go over plans for when they reached the boneyard.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Brenda Sinclair returned to her office and began reviewing the daily maintenance reports. A chime sounded indicating someone was at her door. “Come in,” she said loudly.

She was expecting Chief King, but it was Lieutenant Stills who entered. “May I have a word, if you have a moment to spare, Lieutenant Sinclair?”

She gestured to a chair, “Please.” He sat down. “Are you ever going to call me ‘Brenda’?”

“Probably not,” he admitted. “I just spoke with Commander Foxx. I believe he hinted that you may want to ask me to be your second, should you take the chief engineer position.”

She nodded. “Oh, I am taking the job, without a doubt. Opportunities like that don’t grow on trees.” She grinned. “Sorry, it’s an Earth saying, meaning it doesn’t happen often. Obviously, I have not had time to think about whom I may want on my team.” She studied his face, trying to read his thoughts. She might as well study a marble statue. “Is that what you want, to be my second?”

“I will serve where ever I am most needed.”

Sinclair sat back and sighed. “I will put your name on my list for consideration, if that’s your desire. To be honest, though, I don’t think I’ll choose you.”

“Is it because I don’t call you by your given name?” Stills said with an unflappable poker face.

Brenda laughed out loud. “That’s funny! And don’t you dare say it’s not.” She let the giggles die down. Vulcans, the perfect straight-men of comedy. “No, that’s not why. I have always struggled with theoretical physics and quantum mechanics, an area I know you excel in. However, I can think of dozens of other qualified candidates who also excel in all that stuff. Pablo Ramirez, for example. Ergo, I don’t need you, my friend,” she explained emphasizing the word ‘need’. “It is my opinion, one that I will convey to Commander Foxx, that the needs of the Police Force would be best served by making you chief engineer on your own ship.”

Stills raised one eyebrow in a rare moment of expression. “That is not what I expected you to say. And as you said, such opportunities don’t grow on trees.”

Sinclair shrugged. “You never know. Our orders were to select three cutters in the boneyard for refurbishment. Maybe the next one can be yours. I think you’re ready for the job, perhaps more so than I am. You’ve put the hard work in; you deserve it. If I can help get you there, I will. Just say the word.” The door chimed and opened for Chief King.

“Yes. I would appreciate it.” Stills stood up. “Thank you ... Brenda.” He departed, allowing King to take the chair.

“Ma’am, I took the liberty,” he handed her a PADD. “That’s just off the top of my head.”

Sinclair looked at the PADD. There must have been sixty names on the list. She knew half of them personally or by their reputations, all good people. “I’m surprised you didn’t put yourself at the top of the list, Scott.”

King shrugged. “I’m not sure I want to go back to a cutter. I wouldn’t get to see the grandkids as much.”

“Yeah, there is that,” she gestured with an open hand. “I’d be happy to have you, if you change your mind.”

“Thanks. Okay, I think you need the best reactor chief money can buy. There’s none better than Andy Flynn.”

Sinclair glared at him. “The last time I saw Andrew Flynn, I punched him in the mouth. If I ever see him again, I’m liable to knock the rest of his teeth out.”

“Okay,” King said slowly, wisely not asking for details. He thought for a moment. “Do you know Janet McCormick?”

“Oh, yes. She’s a very good friend of mine. Unfortunately, I happen to know she’s not available,” Sinclair replied. “Hang on a moment.” She turned to her computer display and searched for a document. “Here it is. I was reading this a few days ago. It’s a technical finding written by Ivan Blazek. I like the way he explains things. Ever hear of him?”

King nodded. “I know him, not well, but yes.”

“Do me a favor and find out everything you can about him, Chief.”

“Will do, ma’am.”

Sinclair waved the PADD before sitting it aside. “Thanks for this. Okay, let’s see the to-do list,” she picked up another PADD. “By the way, what did you do with those two knuckleheads from this morning?”

“The Padre wants the chapel lights changed out, so I gave them to Felix to help him re-wire the place.”

“Well, that should keep them out of trouble. Okay, next on the list....”

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

 

[Sgt_G]

Yes, I's still writing. In fact, I just knocked out this short filler piece.


IN THE WORKS

A small man entered the private dining room in the back of a local restaurant. Another man in a business suit waited for him. “You weren’t followed, were you?”

“You really need to ask me that?” the small man retorted. He reached in his pocket and took out a data card. “Here’s everything I have on Weatherford and his new crew thus far. And yes, he picked Hammerstrom as his second in command.”

The businessman laughed as he took the data card. “He’s going to blow a gasket!” referring to one of their secret colleagues.

“Let him,” the small man replied unsympathetically. “I also found out what Weatherford’s mission is; he’s to be something of a squadron leader, able to go anywhere in the precinct with no set patrol zone. It’s part of the Commissioner’s plan to double the size of the fleet.”

“Really, double the fleet?” the businessman raised his eyebrows. “Good. Good. If we can get the right men in the center seats, it will assure success when the time comes.” Yes, but doubling the number of police ships does my other associates no good, the small man thought to himself. “Still, I’m not sure Weatherford’s one of us yet, and Hammerstrom definitely isn’t. I’d like to get some of our people on his boat.”

“That’s already in the works,” the small man smiled before turning to walk out of the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hi, Nate,” Signalman Amy Brown said, sitting down across the table from Boatswain’s Mate Nathaniel Wright. “Coming over later?” she winked.

Wright pulled the fork away from his mouth to say, “Of course. I want to hit the gym first.”

“Well, don’t wear yourself out! Oh, hey, you had a message come in today. From your mother, I think. Did you tell her about us yet?” she asked hopefully.

“What’s to tell?” he quipped. She threw a carrot stick at him.

Wright and Brown finished their meal with the usual flirtatious small talk. Yeah, he thought to himself, what was there to tell? Amy was fun, but there was no chance of anything long-term. She was a nice girl. She deserved better. He wondered how he could break it off without breaking her heart. The thought surprised him; was he actually growing a conscience? Maybe it was his recent brush with death. That close call made him question everything, to rethink his priorities. Part of him wanted to quit the police force and go build a nice, quiet life with Amy on a farming colony. The people he answered to would never allow that.

Wright went to his quarters and locked the door. He opened a desk drawer to retrieve a beat-up deck of playing cards. He sat at the comm unit, activated the screen, and accessed the recorded message. The image of his mother appeared; she was wearing a green scarf. He picked up the deck of cards and made sure all the dog-eared corners were oriented in the same direction. There were little marks along the edges: red, blue, black, green, yellow, purple, and orange. He sorted them using the green marks along the short edge as a guide. Soon, he had the cards arranged such that a straight green line ran diagonally across the edge of the deck. He split the deck into two piles, keeping them in the same order: Hearts and Spades in one stack, and Diamonds and Clubs in the other. He did the math once – those simple little marks gave him over 1,200 ways to arrange the cards. It was important to not repeat any one sequence too many times.

His mother was talking about people he hadn’t seen in years or didn’t even know. Blah blah blah. He zoomed in on the open book, a trashy romance novel, sitting on his mother’s table, conveniently placed in clear view of the camera. Part of the text was a block of nonsensical random letters. Wright took out a pen and sheet of paper ... real paper, for there could be no electronic footprint of what he was about to do.

He hand-copied the jumbled letters, leaving space between the lines. Next, he looked at the cards. The first card was the Five of Hearts, so he found every ‘A’ and wrote the letter ‘R’ below it. Double-checking his work before moving on, he flipped the next card over to reveal the Eight of Spades, which meant ‘B’ became ‘H’, and then the Ten of Hearts, so ‘C’ became ‘W’, and so on, based on the order of the cards. The sixth card was the Big Joker, turning all ‘F’ into a dash, the 27th character in the set. Twice he found missing substitutions, and one that was wrong. He cursed himself for getting sloppy. His time with Amy was making him complacent. For a cop, complacency was dangerous; for someone in his position, complacency was deadly.

After substituting all the letters in the message, he converted them to a corresponding three-digit number: a=000, b=001, c=002, d=010, and so forth. The next step was a simple yet tedious manipulation of each set of three consecutive letters based on a 3x3x3 grid. Converting the numbers back into letters resulted in another jumbled mess of random letters, or so it appeared. Referring to the sequence of the cards again, the Six of Clubs meant that all the ‘A’ became ‘F’, Seven of Diamonds changed all the ‘B’ to ‘T’, and so on. Bit by bit, legible words began to appear until finally the entire clear-text message was revealed.

He read the deciphered message twice before shredding the paper. The message ordered him to volunteer for reassignment to a new ship. These orders were from people who didn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. He shuffled the deck of cards several times and returned them to the desk drawer as he considered his assignment. The message told him his mission was to observe and report. No mention of what to watch for. Or why. They would never tell him why. He shrugged. The why was never his concern. Well, at least now he knew how to break things off with Amy Brown, and he wouldn’t even have to lie. So why was he feeling so bad?

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

Spoiler: If you're curious, look up the Trifid Cipher.

 

[Sgt_G]

I decided to write a prologue to my Commander Weatherford series, so I came up with this. It highlights the disdain and misconceptions Star Fleet has for the Police Force. It also introduces two more future members of Weatherford's crew.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

DISTRESS CALL

Lieutenant Commander Henry Cooper leaned back and stretched his legs out. The allure of sitting in the center command seat wears off quickly on these long flights; this was day four of a fifteen day voyage from Space Station F-4 to the new Starbase being constructed in the far reaches of the northeast region. Yeoman McDaniel handed him a PADD with the current fuel consumption report. Cooper had to look at the time stamp because the numbers were identical to the last three such reports. He initialed the report and sat back, wishing for something interesting to happen.

“Picking up a distress call, Commander,” Ensign Alvarez fulfilled his wish. “Audio only. Titan Transports registry Delta Golf Nine One Five Nine Hotel, that’s a twin-pod freighter. They’re reporting a fire in one of the cargo bins, explosion and hull breach, damage to a warp nacelle, several personnel injured.”

“Helm, time to intercept,” Cooper asked.

“Present speed, ah, about fourteen hours, sir,” Lieutenant Ellis answered. Seeing the look on Cooper’s face, he recalculated. “At maximum speed, ah, one moment, ah, about two and a half hours.”

“Change course, increase to maximum,” Cooper ordered, “Open a channel.”

“Channel open.”

“Titan Transport Five Nine Hotel, this is the Starship Yorktown. We have received your distress call and will rendezvous in two hours thirty.”

“Yorktown, Five Nine Hotel, thank God someone was out here,” an older male voice was heard. Yes, this was as close to the middle of nowhere as one could get, midway between the Federation’s core worlds and the heavily patrolled border regions.

Another voice came over the speaker. “Five Nine Hotel, this is the Police Cutter Robert Forsyth. We can be there in under an hour. Change course to zero six five mark one two and make best speed to close the distance.”

Cooper narrowed his eyebrows. “Who do they think they are?” He pressed the button on the arm of the command chair. “Stand down, Cutter Forsyth. We’ve got this.”

“Five Nine Hotel is unable to make warp,” the older voice declared.

“Yorktown, this is Commander Ortega of the Cutter Forsyth. We’re the closest rescue ship. See you there.”

Cooper shook his head. Whatever. “Five Nine Hotel, when able, please send full damage report, so we’ll know how we can help.” He released the button and pressed another. “All hands, this is the bridge. Prepare for rescue mission, crippled civilian freighter, arrival time two hours. Sickbay, expect several casualties.”

The door to the turbolift opened. Captain Wilbur Massey entered the bridge. “I heard. What do we know?”

“Their damage report is coming in now, sir,” Alvarez replied. He transferred the report to a PADD.

“There’s a patrol boat in the vicinity,” Cooper scoffed. “I just hope they don’t get in our way.”

Ensign Alvarez read the report aloud, “Five Nine Hotel is a twin-pod freighter, bound for Gordon’s Planet with a load of nitrate fertilizer.” Gordon’s Planet was near the Romulan Neutral Zone and had suffered grievous ecological damage during the recent war. Officially, it was classified as ‘a series of border incursions’, but to those who fought in it, it was most definitely a war. “An electrical fire broke out and spread to one of the fertilizer bins while the crew was attempting to put it out. Several injuries, five serious and three critical, burns and blast wave.”

Captain Massey nodded. “Okay, it looks like you have a handle on things. I’m going to go lay back down; call me in two hours.”

“Aye, sir,” Cooper acknowledged.

Two hours and eighteen minutes later, the USS Yorktown dropped out of high-warp. Cooper relinquished the command chair to his captain. “Take us to a thousand kilometers. On screen,” Massey ordered.

The image appeared; the freighter was a behemoth with twin two-hundred meter long by forty-meter diameter pods, with a command module mounted on one end and a pair pitifully small warp nacelles on the other. The police cutter was in close proximity; it was basically cylindrical but only about a quarter the size of one of the freighter’s pod, or about the size of the Yorktown’s secondary hull.

Massey activated the comm link. “Titan Transport Five Nine Hotel, this is Captain Massey of the USS Yorktown. Stand by to receive damage assessment teams. Patrol Cutter Forsyth, stand down. We’ll take it from here.” He had Cooper signal the transporter room.

Alvarez announced that they were being hailed and put it on the main view screen. “Welcome to the party, Captain,” the man in a police duty uniform said with a huge smile. “I’m Lieutenant Commander Michael Ortega, captain of the Police Cutter ‘Marshal Robert Forsyth’. I hope you brought mops and brooms, because all that’s left to do is clean up. By the way, we stopped calling them ‘patrol cutters’ over a decade ago.”

“I’ll make my own judgement of the situation, Lieutenant Commander,” Massey retorted. “Would you like me to send over some doughnuts?”

“As you wish, Captain,” Ortega emphasized the word. By rights, Massey should have addressed him a ‘Captain’, too. It was a deliberate insult. “And no thank you, we have plenty,” he said with a forced smile. One of his crewmen handed him a PADD; the smile faded. “One of the victims has an inverted lung. Please ask you Chief Medical Officer if he has any experience treating that.”

Massey pointed at Cooper; he turned to the console and called down to Sickbay. “I don’t even know what that is,” Massey confessed. “Why don’t you just transfer the patients to the Yorktown? I’m sure we’re better equipped.”

Ortega had a confused look. “No need, Captain. However, if you can loan us a couple of doctors for an hour or two, that would be a big help.”

Cooper interrupted, “Doctor Bracket is sending Winslow and Kaufman and three nurses over, sir. He told me what an inverted lung is. Sounds pretty gruesome. Between the blast wave and explosive decompression, the lungs are inflated and deflated so rapidly they are literally turned inside out.”

Massey looked ill. “I would rather have gone through life not knowing that.” He looked back at the screen, “Fear not, Commander Ortega, Star Fleet is here to help.” He closed the signal.

Five minutes later, Commander Gunaji, the Yorktown’s First Officer, reported in from the freighter. It was as Ortega said; there was nothing left to do but sweep the floors. The freighter’s crew had extinguished the fire and plugged the hull breach before the rescue ships arrived. The Forsyth’s damage control team welded a patch over the hole; their work was on par with what a repair tender could do. Police Force engineers were working to restore warp drive. All of the injured personnel were either treated on-scene or evacuated to the police cutter. Even the ship’s mascot, a golden retriever, was expected to make a full recovery.

Two hours later, the medical team returned to the USS Yorktown. The starship jumped to standard cruising speed back on course for their original destination. The police vessel would escort the freighter to Space Station F-3 with the patients; one was still in critical condition but all were expected to survive.

Doctor Winslow and Nurse Holliday reported to the conference room for the after-actions debrief; they were the last to take their seats. “Welcome back to civilization,” Doctor Bracket greeted them.

“I’ll bet that was absolutely primitive,” Henry Cooper laughed. “Let me guess, you had to do surgery on a mess hall table. Oh, and they probably use kitchen knives as scalpels.”

Doctor Preston James Winslow, III stared at him blandly. “Quite the contrary; that is the most modern trauma facility I have ever worked in. It rivals what we had at Johns Hopkins.” He turned to the Chief Medical Officer. “They have ten recovery beds; we have six. They also have two isolation rooms and two private exam room that can be used for quarantine. They only have two surgical tables, but they are fully equipped to handle any trauma. All of their equipment is brand-new; everything on the Yorktown is at least five years old.”

Copper blinked twice in disbelief. “What do they need all that for? They have a crew of, what, sixty.”

“A hundred, actually,” Lieutenant-junior grade Robyn Baker, the damage control officer, corrected him. “I presume none of you have ever been on a police cutter before.” She looked around the table; everyone shook their heads. “I served on one for two months before my senior year at Academy. As I told Commander Gunaji before we beamed over, the police cutter was designed to be a first response ship. They train for anything and everything. They are prepared for anything and everything.”

“Surely they can’t do what we can do,” Cooper countered.

“No, they can probably do more,” Baker rejoined, “and with far less. Do you know how many of my people are EVA qualified? I checked. Two. They had six people on that spacewalk to weld the hull patch in place.” She looked at the chief engineer, Lieutenant Commander Samuel Sullivan, “The warp drive technicians you sent over? All they could do is stand back and watch. They had no clue how to work on the freighter’s engines.”

“Okay, you made your point, Lieutenant,” Captain Massey said sharply. “They’re good at what they do.”

“We can do better, sir,” Baker replied. “I’m going to start by getting my people more EVA training.”

“Not a bad idea,” Massey noted. “Anything else to add,” he started looking around the table one person at a time.

Nurse Linda Holliday noticed a light blink on her PADD. She picked it up, thumbed the control, and looked at the screen. After a moment, she showed it to Doctor Winslow. “I just received a message from my mother. She sent me a news article. ‘Daring rescue in deep space’,” She quoted. She looked at Cooper, “You didn’t waste any time, did you? ‘The Star Fleet vessel USS Yorktown made a harrowing rescue today. Yadda yadda yadda. Led by Senior Navigator Henry Cooper, under the guidance of Captain Wilbur Massey, the crew of the Yorktown saved a dozen lives on the civilian freighter Titan’s Transport.’ Funny, I don’t see Commander Gunaji mentioned anywhere.”

“Commander Gunaji declined to be included,” Cooper said defensively, “and Captain Massey approved the press release. I just wrote the basic facts and let public affairs polish it up.”

Holliday continued reading, “And then there’s this. ‘The patrol cutter Roger Forsyth was on hand to transport the injured back to Starbase.’ It’s the Robert Forsyth. You couldn’t even be bothered with getting the name right, never mind the fact they did most of the heavy lifting.”

“Oh, don’t get your panties in a wad,” Cooper snapped. “In case you’ve forgotten, we just fought a war. There are an awful lot of people back home that feel we shouldn’t be fighting anyone, people who want to disband Star Fleet. We need every opportunity to remind them that we’re out here doing some good.”

“Okay, I think we’re done here,” Captain Massey announced as he stood up. Everyone else stood and waited for him to leave the conference room.

“By the way, Commander Cooper,” Doctor Winslow said casually, “I believe you’re overdue for your annual physical. Please report to sickbay forthwith.” With that, he and Nurse Holliday left the room.

Doctor Bracket causally walked over. “Seriously, Henry? ‘Don’t get your panties in a wad.’ Never mind the fact you just insulted one of my best nurses,” Bracket said with a lop-sided grin, “I guess you forgot that Linda Holliday happens to be Preston Winslow’s wife. You don’t look well, Commander. Maybe you should see a doctor.” He began to whistle a happy tune as he headed back to sickbay.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

 

[Sgt_G]

The stories above have been posted out of order from how they appear in the master document. I really should start a new thread and post them (and the 'missing' ones) in the proper sequence.

So, I'm 54,000 words in and finally give the reader a glimpse of the Hero ship. I've gone back and forth in my mind whether to use the SFB-style cutter or to use a standard saucer design.

Note: The constellation Cervus (the deer) is not visible from Earth; it's not a misspelling of Corvus (the crow).

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

THE BONEYARD

The police frigate Edmund Randolph arrived in the Iota Cervus system just as the morning watch took over shift. Captain Cho contacted Space Station Foxtrot-One to request permission before approaching Sonora, the second planet from the star, where Star Fleet’s Logistics Reclamation and Regeneration Facility was located. Most people simply called it ‘The Boneyard’. This was where starships went to die.

Iota Cervus was a yellow dwarf star, like Earth’s sun, but smaller and cooler. It was about eighty percent the size of Sol yet emitted only about twenty percent of the sun’s ultraviolet light. It was located on the edge of the Local Spur of the Orion-Cygnus Spiral Arm in a region of space that was sparsely populated with stars. The nearest star, a very cool red dwarf, was just under two light-years away and barely visible to the naked eye. Of the forty stars within twenty-five light-years, only two were not red or brown dwarfs. The Milky Way was vibrant in the otherwise dark skies.

Iota Cervus had four planets, or five depending on how you counted the double planet in the third orbit. The first planet, The Forge, was mostly metallic, believed to be the core of a once larger world stripped of its mantle. Its orbit was close to the star with daytime temperatures nearing one thousand degrees centigrade, well above the melting point of lead and tin. Nighttime temperatures dropped to sixty below zero, below the freezing point of mercury. Star Fleet was interested in finding some way of mining the valuable resources.

In the third orbital position was a pair of airless worlds, dubbed the Dancing Sisters, each about two-thirds the size of Earth. There was evidence they were once a single planet that split in two due to some cataclysmic event over a billion years ago. They revolved around each other in an eccentric orbit ranging from three hundred-thousand to seven hundred-thousand kilometers. Tectonically unstable, the twin planets made for interesting scientific study but were otherwise useless. The fourth planet, twice the distance from the star than the Sisters, was little more than a giant ice ball made up of frozen water, methane, alcohol, and other simple compounds; it was called Olaf for some obscure reason. The Iota Cervus system had no significant asteroids fields, and even its Ort Cloud was rather sparse.

The Earth-sized planet Sonora orbited in the second position at about six light-minutes from the star, right in the ‘Goldilocks Zone’. It was a Class-L world with two small oceans covering less than a third of the surface. Most of the plant life was confined to small coastal regions. The rest of the planet was arid. Sea level in the thin atmosphere was equivalent to two thousand meters / sixty-five hundred feet elevation Earth Standard.

Sonora was an ideal location for long-term storage of retired spacecraft. Metallic hulls and hardware did not rust or corrode in the mild temperatures and low humidity, and the low ultraviolet radiation slowed degradation of plastics and acrylic components. The boneyard covered an area of over a hundred square kilometers. Thousands of retired shuttles, skiffs, and other small craft were arranged in blocks like a patchwork quilt. There was an area dedicated to obsolete military tanks and other heavy ground vehicles. Detached warp drive nacelles were laid out in rows according to size and type. Scores of freighters, independent trading vessels, and priority transports, all well past their useful lifespan, awaited their final fate. A dozen or more starship saucers and other hull segments were in various stages of dismantlement.

There were hundreds of starships in stabilized orbit above the planet, many dating back to the Earth-Romulan War, under the watchful eyes of the Space Station Foxtrot-One. Most of these would eventually be lowered to the planet's surface to be stripped of any useful parts. The left over hulk would be broken down and recycled. Occasionally, a ship might be pulled out of the boneyard and returned to service, even if only in the Inactive Reserve Fleet held in mothball status in orbit over Mars. Some were sacrificed as targets for war games and weapons testing. A few lucky ones were saved to become museum pieces.

The Randolph made orbit just in time to witness workers remove the bridge bubble off a war-damaged Saladin-class Destroyer. More workers were cutting out huge section of the upper decks. A Ptolemy-class Fleet Tug stood by with its cargo pod doors wide open to accept the components.

“I wonder what that’s for,” Commander Genovese commented as he stroked his goatee. He had been letting it grow for the past few weeks, not sure yet whether he was going to keep it or shave it off.

“For the Hiawatha, I would suspect,” Captain Cho answered his Exec Officer, “although with the amount of damage she took, I would have thought there is too much structural damage to rebuild her. I’m surprised they don’t just drag her here.”

Lieutenant Commander Tony Foxx disagreed, “From what I've heard through the grapevine, her bones are still good. Even so, she’ll be laid up in space dock for weeks.”

Lieutenant Brenda Sinclair nodded. “I still can't believe they were able to limp her back to star base. Her chief engineer deserves a medal.”

Foxx shook his head, “George McLaughlin was one of the injured; he spent the trip in a medically-induced coma. Nancy, his wife, posted a message saying he’s awake and being evaluated for TBI.” He looked at the others with a funny grin. “George and I go way back, to high school. I’m the one who introduced him to Nancy.”

“Sounds like there’s more to that story,” Sinclair quipped.

Foxx simply nodded and replied, “Yep.”

The Randolph docked to the station. Cho, Foxx, and Sinclair disembarked and were escorted to a conference room. A long table with fifteen chairs dominated the room; more chairs lined the side walls. A large view screen was mounted at the opposite end of the room. About twenty-five people were already in the room, a mix of civilians and Star Fleet officers. Brenda Sinclair couldn’t help but notice she was the only woman in the room. There was one other police officer present; he introduced himself to the newcomers as Lieutenant-junior grade Kyle Miller.

The room was called to attention when the station’s commander, Captain Ethridge, entered. “As you were,” he said immediately. “Please, take your seats,” he said as he took the chair at the end of the table. Captain Cho took the seat to his right. Foxx and Sinclair joined him at the table, although Sinclair had to evict one of the civilian contractors from the chair. He gave her a dirty look as he took a seat on the opposite side of the table.

A very pale, very blond man stepped up onto the platform and activated the view screen. His nearly-white hair and skin made for a weird contrast to his red Star Fleet uniform. “Good morning. I am Lieutenant at’Rohas. I will brief you on the assessment of police cutters currently located at the LRRF. We have been tasked with evaluated them to see how many might be candidates for restoration and return to service.” He clicked the hand remote. The view screen displayed a list of forty-six cutters, two dozen of which only had hull numbers but no name. “We had to eliminate these for consideration,” he highlighted the nameless ships.

“Why is that?” Captain Cho asked.

“There is a legal dispute between the government and construction facility,” at’Rohas explained. “Until that has been resolved, they are impounded.” He clicked the remote, and list changed to the remaining ships. “A cursory inspection indicates these are not viable candidates,” thirteen names were highlighted and then deleted. “We believe that these nine can be returned to service. Furthermore, we believe that these three will require the least amount of work.” The names James Everette, Yvonne Fletcher, and Patrick McGeehan remained on the screen.

“Which one would you recommend, Lieutenant?” Cho asked.

“It’s not my call, sir, but I would pick the McGeehan,” at’Rohas replied. “Its systems are most up-to-date. However, a case could be made for the Everette because it still has all its furnishings in place. The McGeehan would need to be fitted out.”

Lieutenant Sinclair pulled up the information for all three ships on her PADD. Yes, the McGeehan did undergo a system refresh just five months ago, so why was it consigned to the boneyard? Ah, there it is: the ship’s warp drive failed and was deemed non-repairable by the contractor. Why didn’t they just replace the nacelles, she wondered. The Everette was the latest cutter to arrive at the boneyard and thus had not been picked over for spare parts yet. It was taken out of service a few weeks prior due to severe electrical damage in an ion storm.

On paper, the Fletcher was the worst of the batch, having suffered battle damage during the war. She scanned the report: the hull was scorched and pockmarked with weapon hits; the photon torpedo launcher was smoked, obviously due to flashback from firing on a target at point-blank range; the 7.5-meter deflector disk looked like Swiss cheese; the navigation sensor dome was shattered, causing a breach directly into the main bridge; and one of the warp nacelles was missing, apparently jettisoned during combat. It’s a miracle the ship made it home at all. The structural analysis was promising; as Tony Foxx would say, ‘her bones are good’.

Sinclair looked up from her reading just in time to hear Captain Ethridge say, “So, we're all in agreement then, the McGeehan in the one.”

Sinclair shook her head and opened he mouth, but Captain Cho spoke first, “Not so fast. Let’s discuss this more.” He turned to the other police officer. “Lieutenant Miller, you’re our liaison here, yes? Do you have any thoughts to share?”

“No, sir, I’m not the liaison,” the young man replied. “My team and I arrived yesterday on the tug Copernicus. We were sent to help power the ship up, whichever one is selected.”

“Lieutenant Ducati was the police liaison,” Ethridge supplied, “but he transferred out a couple weeks ago.” There was an edge to his tone. “Ducati was the reason we haven’t been able to scrap any of these flargon yet. Now that he’s gone, I want to start clearing our backlog.”

“Not without the Commissioner’s approval,” Captain Cho responded sharply. “These ‘flargon’ are still police force assets. We’ll decide when they can be scrapped.”

The two senior officers stared at each other for several awkward seconds. Commander Foxx broke the silence, “Lieutenant at’Rohas, can you please display images of each of the ships in question?”

“Of course, sir,” at’Rohas replied. “Computer, display photographic records of the police cutter Patrick McGeehan.”

The ship appeared on the view screen. Its design was based loosely on the old Wellington-class destroyer, developed by the Terrain Space Defense Force, dating back to just after the Earth-Romulan War. In fact, some new police cutters were still being manufactured in the original Wellington slipway. Unlike most Star Fleet ships, the police cutter did not have a saucer design, or even the spherical design of the old Daedalus-class starships of the United Earth Space Probe Agency, but rather was overall cigar-shaped. At 111 meters long by 27.5 meters wide (not counting the warp engines), it was roughly the same size at the Constitution-class heavy cruiser's secondary hull.

The cutter’s hull was divided into two dissimilar segments; the forward hull segment, four decks thick, was a long, flat plank with sharply beveled edges tapering to an angular spearhead point. The navigational sensor dome sat neatly on the top; the main bridge itself was embedded inside the hull and thus not exposed. Two phaser emitters were affixed to the slanting front plates (like a pair of eyeballs, some say), and the single photon torpedo launcher was slung under the chin. The main deflector disk was mounted to a sturdy pillar on the bottom of the hull.

The forward hull attached directly to the aft hull with only the slightest narrowing of a neckline. The after hull segment was a perfect cylinder, eight decks thickness in diameter, with a tail section akin to a flat-bottom ice cream cone. The shuttle hangar door was on the cylinder's front face plate above the forward hull, an unusual feature carried over from the Wellington, and the main cargo bay hatch on likewise on the front face below the forward hull. A single phaser emitter was affixed to the bottom giving it a full 360-degree field of fire.

A pair of warp drive nacelles were attached to either side of the aft hull on short, straight pylons, giving the ship a very utilitarian feel. The warp engines were less than half the length of the Constitution’s engines and produced only a third the energy, still plenty of power for the cutter's needs.

“That’s a Masterson-class,” Lieutenant Sinclair said incredulously. “This says it should be a Callahan-class,” she held up her PADD. The Masterson-class was the original cutter design developed and deployed nearly thirty years prior. Some construction facilities hadn’t been retooled and thus still produced them. The Callahan-class had been in service for only eight years, but many Masterson-class cutters had already been converted to the newer design.

“Yes, well, you see,” Lieutenant at’Rohas explained, “it was scheduled for the upgrade, but your headquarters wanted it back in service, so the project was canceled. Apparently, the paperwork wasn’t corrected.”

“Apparently not,” Sinclair retorted. “This makes no sense. She’s here because of a problem with the warp drive, so why didn’t they just send her back for the upgrade?” The white-haired Star Fleet engineer could only shrug. “You know what, never mind.” She rubbed her temples. “My head’s going to explode if I keep thinking about it. The mission statement calls for a Callahan, so we can cross this one off the list.”

“But the Masterson and Callahan are functionally identical, aren’t they?” at’Rohas asked.

“More or less,” Foxx answered. “In combat, yes, they have essentially the same capabilities. However, the Masterson’s top speed at high-warp is limited and its deuterium fuel tanks are smaller; the Callahan is better suited for long-range patrols. What else do you have?”

Lieutenant at’Rohas called up the image for the James Everette. The most obvious difference between it and the previous ship was the sweptback design of the warp nacelles, giving this ship a graceful appearance befitting its speed and agility. The Callahan-class cutter just looked like it was going Warp Nine while floating in orbit. There were other subtle differences, of course, but both ships shared the same weapons suite and other capabilities.

“The Everette has only been here a short while,” at'Rohas explained, “so we haven’t completed a full assessment of her systems. In fact, I think Lieutenant Ducati was the last person onboard.” He displayed photographic records of the ship's interior. “Her food stores and water tanks have been purged, of course, but otherwise she’s exactly the same as the day they towed her in.” He flicked through several images. “As you can see, she’s ready to fly.”

“No, she’s not,” Lieutenant Sinclair disagreed. “When was her last systems refresh?” She scanned the documents on her PADD to find the answer. “Seven year ago with her Callahan upgrade. She’s overdue.”

“Even so, I don’t think it’ll be that hard to return her to service,” at’Rohas replied. “However, I really do think you should take another look at the McGeehan.” This started a debate lasting a good twenty minutes. Several people around the room offered their opinions one way or the other. Sinclair was unable to get a word in edgewise, so she simply sat back and watched the show.

The issue with the McGeehan kept coming back to the McGeehan’s non-functioning warp drive. “I’ll take a look at her engines,” Lieutenant Miller volunteered.

“They’re shot; it’s a waste of time,” the grouchy contractor across from Sinclair told him.

Miller shrugged it off. “Well, Mister Borges, it’s my time to waste.” I really like this kid, Sinclair thought to herself.

“I’ll be happy to say ‘I told you so’,” the civilian retorted. “My money’s on the Everette. At least we know her warp drive's good.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Miller shook his head. “An ion storm can really mess up the injection modules. Even if you're lucky, all the frequency modulators will need re-calibration. I’ll bet that most of the sequence initiators are burnt out.”

Lieutenant Commander Foxx nodded. “I concur with that assessment. It would be easier and safer to replace the nacelles and send the damaged ones back the factory to be re-manufactured. Ditto for the McGeehan.”

“I’ll take a look at both ships’ engines, sir,” Miller repeated. “If it’s what I suspect it is, I should be able to get the McGeehan’s engines working in a day or so. Worst case, we can get a set of new injection modules in a week or so.”

Mr. Borges laughed at that. “How? There’s a six-month backlog. Hell, you can’t even get them on the black market.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Miller replied defensively. “My ... I have contacts at the factory. I’ll find out what’s going on,” he said as he pulled out his PADD and began typing.

“Please do let me know, Lieutenant, how soon you think the McGeehan can return to service,” Captain Cho ordered.

“So now we’re back to the McGeehan, yes?” Captain Ethridge asked.

Cho shook his head, “No. I just know that the training ship at Academy is due for a refresh, so this might be a good replacement. I’d like to have my people take a closer look at both ships before we make a final decision.”

“All three ships, sir,” Sinclair corrected him. “May I see images of the Fletcher, please?”

Lieutenant at’Rohas gave her a surprised look. “Whatever for? Seriously, I have no idea why Ducati bothered to put the Fletcher on the short list. That ship should have been scrapped last year, if he would have let us.”

“Just put the images on the screen, Mister at’Rohas,” Cho ordered. Foxx and Sinclair glanced at each other; the captain only called officers ‘mister’ when he was very annoyed with them.

The imagery cycled through on the display. Sinclair studied them carefully, noting that there was no evidence of fire or other serious damage, save for the main bridge and photon torpedo compartment. There were many images of empty rooms; nothing worth reusing remained, even the floor coverings had been removed. “You can see for yourself, she’s been stripped bare,” at’Rohas quipped. As bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard, Sinclair thought. She had him pause on the images of the spars and ribs and other frame members. The accompanying sensor data indicated most were undamaged and well within specifications; two or three should probably be replaced. About a dozen or so hull panels also needed repair or replacement. All in all, the damage appeared to be quite minimum.

Before the slide show was completed, Ethridge announced, “I think we've seen enough. I say you take the McGeehan.”

Cho looked at him deliberately. “That’s not your call to make,” he informed his counterpart, “and we don’t need to make a decision right now.”

“Again, my money’s on the Everette,” Mr. Borges restated. “It’s the most complete of the bunch.”

Sinclair shook her head, “No. I want to check it out myself, but I think the Fletcher is the right one.”

“Why, in God’s name?” Borges demanded. “She’s an empty shell. There’s nothing left to salvage. The Everette still has all her systems.”

“Yes, exactly,” she snapped back. “The Everette’s overdue for a systems refresh, and who knows how much damage that ion storm did. Is there a single computer or console that hasn’t been fried? I’ll bet my money that half the wiring is burned out, too. We’ll have to rip everything out regardless, if only for the refresh. As you said, the Fletcher’s been gutted, so half the job’s already done for us. It may be an empty shell, but her bones are good."

“What about the engines? Or that sensor dome?” Borges asked nastily.

“It sounds like it doesn’t matter which ship we pick, it’ll need new engines,” she pointed out. “As to the dome, it’s the same as on the Burke-class frigate. I’m sure there’s a few lying around here someplace. Let me take a close look at the Fletcher first. If I’m wrong about her, feel free to say ‘I told you so’. The Everette is my second choice, at least for now. I want to review the reports on those other six ships, too. Maybe one of them is in better shape.”

Captain Ethridge drummed the table with his fingers. “Who says the McGeehan?” Several hands went up. “Everette?” More hands went up. None of the police officers raised their hands. “Looks like you've been out-voted, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t do it,” Foxx whispered under his breath. She did it anyway.

“Well, sir, since I will be the Chief Engineer of that ship, I think my vote is the only one that counts.” She stood up. “If you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m going to go inspect the Fletcher. Lieutenant Miller, would you care to join me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he hurried to follow her out the door.

~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~

Spoiler: Yes, they end up using the Yvonne J. Fletcher as the hero ship. The others will be mentioned later as also returned to service.

 

[Sgt_G]

I just replaced Clearing The Air and Second Chances with revised versions. Minor edits, giving a little more color to the scenes. As a bonus, I asked the AI-bot to create images. Sadly, only one was remote close to what I had envisioned.