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Crash Calestorm

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About Crash Calestorm

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    Ghost Rider Requesting Fly By
  • Birthday June 29

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    Buzzing the Tower
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    Classic Star Trek, Classic Trek Movie Era, Star Trek: Enterprise, New Star Trek (Star Trek 11)

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  1. Morag Abandoned Planet Nova Corps Territory After securing transport with the rag tag crew of a sector hopper, Crash Calestorm had called in some favors and gathered a small team who could be trusted. The former Starfleet security, pilots and border patrol personnel were referred to as the “Ben Gay Brigade” by the younger crew of the transport. Eh, whatever. If the name fit... The captain of the hopper had been true to his word and they’d achieved landing at Morag with no incident. Cale and her team had been bird dogging the Ravager camp for two days now, gathering intelligence and digital recordings on Yondu and his band of pirate Ravagers. They had more than enough information at this point on the dealings the pirate band engaged in. The older woman now lay prone on a shelf of rock, several kilometers distant from the pirate camp. As usual it was raining and she wore wet weather gear. The scope on her sniper rifle never wavered as she kept tabs on the pirate camp and her own team as they went about their business - in disguise as a “crew of ill-repute” - trading supplies with Yondu and his men. She heard the movement as the piece of rock shifted and whirled, rising and bringing the scope to bear in the direction of the target. Before she could complete the revolution a shape loomed up in her left periphery and half-tackled, half brought down Crash. In the ensuing scuffle she brought up the matte black combat knife and stopped several inches from slamming it into the intended target between exposed seams. Her notice of the subdued delta shield on the front of the chest plate stopped her in time, thank God. Crash and her opponent stood apart, both panting; she was pretty sure several scopes had gotten into position to sight down on her by now and slung her own rifle over her shoulder in a deliberate gesture before speaking. “So you Folks decided to get off your backsides and do something? It’s about damn time. And there are easier ways of getting my attention aside from sneaking up on me.” “Call off your team. My squad will handle it from here. Consider yourself in protective custody, Captain Calestorm.” Female voice, gruff, slightly distorted by the protective face gear. Calestorm almost blurted out protective custody? From who, myself? Or doing your job? But instead offered a half-assed salute and responded with a sarcastic. “Yes, Sir.” She flashed a disdainful look at the gathering Starfleet SpecOps types before speaking into the ear mic to instruct her hired mercs and the team to exfiltrate the camp immediately. *Nova Corps, Morag, Yondu and the Ravagers appear courtesy of “Guardians of the Galaxy” (2014)
  2. The establishment was like any other space bar in any other quadrant: A place to get lost among the crowd, enjoy the music and the food and drink, or a wretched hive of scum and villainy. The opinion depended on who you talked to. Crash Calestorm was no stranger to these places since the middle-aged officer had spent a good portion of her adult life within their confines gathering information or seeking out contacts and criminals. ...she wasn’t totally sure if this familiarity was a good or a bad thing. The Andorian band played a new age jazz number while the wait staff circulated among the patrons. An attractive female Human with purple and red dyed hair sidled easily up to the table Cale was ensconced at. “Long time, Captain.” “Yep, Anybody been looking for me?” “Well, I have but what’s the use! What’ll it be?” “Andorian Ice Rum.” “The usual poison, got it.” She winked seductively at the older woman and then flitted off to enter the drink order at the main bar. After thirty minutes had passed and Cale was nursing the drink, a large male alien approached her table and spread his arms. “To your planet, welcome.” The Chief of Starfleet Border Operations eyed the feathery eyebrowed male appraisingly. “I think that's my line, stranger.” The alien - Cale couldn’t name his species off the top of her head - settled into the chair opposite her. He glanced furtively around the area as he spoke in his disjointed vernacular. “Oh, forgive. I here am new. But you are known as being Calestorm from Comanche Creek.” “Formerly of the Comanche Creek. And you have me at a disadvantage, sir. You are?” “Oh, I name not important. You seek I. Message received. Available ship stands by.” She leaned forward slightly, now very much interested. “How much and how soon? “How soon is now. How much is, where?” “Somewhere in the Outer Sectors.” “Oh, Outer restricted! Take permits many; money more.” Crash’s patience had worn out months earlier on this subject matter. Starfleet Command, the Border Patrol, Colonial Operations, Hell, even the Klingons had avoided crossing into the patrol territories claimed under the Nova Corps. In the meantime, Yondu was at large and free to deal in various narcotics. “There aren't gonna be any damned permits! How can you get a permit to do a damned illegal thing? Look, price you name, money I got.” “Place *you* name, money *I* name, otherwise bargain, no.” “Alright, damn it! It's MORAG! The name of the place we're going is Morag!” “Morag?!” “Yes, Morag! How can you be freakin’ deaf with ears like that?” “Morag allowed is not! Is planet forbidden!” The rotund alien bolted up from his chair and was stopped by Crash with a death grip on the lapels of his jacket. The abandoned planet - known as Morag - was on a strange rotation, only accessible by a few times during a solar year cycle by short range landing craft. No longer inhabited, it was generally a haven for junkers looking for scrap or outlaws looking to lay low during the visibility cycle. Starfleet had adopted an official hands-off policy for any official operations. The key word there being ‘official’. The silver-haired officer growled low in her throat, the animal sound a lingering byproduct of the narcotic the pirate Yondu had pumped her with. He wasn’t going to remain at large to cause more mayhem if she had anything to say about it. “You listen to me, my backward friend. Genesis may be planet forbidden, but I’m damn well gonna-hmmph!” A strong hand clamped on her shoulder. Painfully. “Your voice is carrying, Ma’am. I don’t think this is a conversation you want to be having in public.” The young man was surprised when Crash swiftly and quietly applied a choke hold. She whispered not-so-sweet-nothings in his ear. “You listen close, Sonny. I’m off duty and on my own dime. Back off before you get hurt, you hear me now?” She let go of the man and slipped out a side entrance as more Security types entered the club. = = = = *Some dialogue appears courtesy of Star Trek III: The Search for Spock (1984) *The character Yondu, the Nova Corp, and the planet Morag appear courtesy of Guardians of the Galaxy (2014)
  3. STSF_Scooter -> TBS was nonexistent, with the M150 still in front of us, lots of spark gap traffic, and the Doc going- "Captain - deliberating indicates no clear course of action. That is a most dangerous situation." ComCreekChat2016-8-8.txt
  4. Catch a Wave?

  5. STSF_Scooter -> TBS was 12 hours, and we're still dealing with Norman and his merry band of 500,000 or so androids. STSF_Scooter -> Any questions? Shalin -> They're all shut down due to the logic bomb, right? STSF_Scooter -> Yes they are. Unless you want to tip toe away, like Harcourt Fenton Mudd, we'll have to deal with them Byblos -> Status of the Commanche Creek? STSF_Scooter -> Vented. And functional Byblos -> Aye skipper. STSF_Scooter -> If there are no further questions STSF_Scooter -> BEGIN SIM ComCreekChat2016-6-20.txt
  6. STSF_Scooter -> Mission Brief: TBS was One Week, and Comanche Creek is still lurking at Sigma 97...597 with the late Colonial Battlestar Tethys. Airwing staff have been directed to acquire several of the smaller craft from the battlestar and bring them aboard the Creek. ComCreekChat2016-4-18.txt
  7. STSF_Scooter -> Mission Brief: TBS was 30 minutes, Scooter and Deathwish are in Sickbay, Tifa's on the Bridge, and the Cat's handling the evac of the Tethys. It's only been 30 minutes, and she's a big ship ComCreekChat2016-3-21.txt
  8. STSF_Scooter -> Mission Brief: TBS was 45 Minutes, and Creek's valiant crew have discovered three very different sets of remains inside the tomb that is the Tethys- humans, synthroids, and chrome plated mechanoids. Marines and Security are currently running search and destroy missions throughout the Tethys. ComCreekChat2016-2-22.txt
  9. 2.21.15 December 21, 2261 (Stardate 2261.355) Mission Brief: TBS has been 45 Days. We are preparing to dock at the orbital platform for our home base on New Topeka for the ordered refit. Mission Summary: The crew prepares to depart the USS Comanche Creek for the year-long refit. Time Between Sims is One Year = = = = PS: Admiral Archer is very happy that his orized beagle has finally been found...but we are still keeping him. =P
  10. Beta Jupiter Twelve Vasquez Territory 2261 Beta Jupiter Twelve. Current era of time equivalent to the Earth Old West, with a few exceptions. If left alone, the planetary population would likely achieve warp drive in another two hundred years. If approached by one of the galactic governments - or involuntarily annexed by one of the empires - that projected timeline could be either sped up or forfeited. The population was of Humanoid and felinoid descent. There were rumors that the DNA signatures were a direct match for Earth Humans and Caitian Felines. All of this information was of no concern to Ashton ‘Crash’ Calestorm right at this moment. After three months spent on this assignment, she just wanted to get herself, JoNs and Honor-Scar out of this in one piece; as the projectile sped past her head, she wasn’t so sure about that last part. Commander Kansas ‘Taboo Cat’ JoNs was driving the hover vehicle. Or rather, she was attempting to drive the vehicle. Used primarily to haul ore or supplies, the transport wasn’t the optimal choice for a high speed chase. Then again, their pursuers were riding on the local equivalent of horses so it wasn’t exactly a high speed chase. Lieutenant Jagrissa ‘Jumper’ Honor-Scar fired a few shots back in the general direction of the posse as Calestorm quickly reloaded her pistol. “It sure would have been nice to bring some hand grenades, wouldn’t it?” the younger felinoid yelled out as she took a wide shot at a rider. Crash made a close approximation of a growl. “Stow it, Jumper!” She popped up again and squeezed off her shots, still deliberately missing targets. An undercover operative had been observing the population for the last four months. He currently lay unconscious on the bed of the pickup due to a bullet graze on the side of the head. Thankfully, the injury wasn’t serious. He’d been mistakenly arrested as one of the persons responsible for a fixed poker game and missed two scheduled check ins. Starfleet Intelligence had gotten concerned and as always, the Border Patrol had been volunteered to deal with the situation. Calestorm had been tapped due to past experience with the type of era, with JoNs and Honor-Scar tapped for the obvious reasons that they were feline and Crash had obviously worked closely with the two officers before. Just beaming him up to a recovery vessel was not an option; as the reconnaissance had indicated, Cooper had been watched most of the time by the sheriff and her deputies. So….they’d staged a jailbreak… Join Starfleet. See the Universe. Travel to exotic locations and mess with the local law in the name of surveillance. Yippee ki yay! Not. With their pursuers’ equines beginning to run out of proverbial steam, Crash decided that it was now or never. “JoNs! Once we clear that overhang ahead, trigger the automatic beam out!” “Aye!” Less then two minutes later, the four of them shimmered back into existence, boots and paws on the solid deck surface of a sleek, black shuttle. Like the outside, the interior was devoid of any official Starfleet markings. Honor-Scar tended to Cooper’s wound while Calestorm and the older felinoid moved into the cockpit area and readied the flight programs for the shuttle to leave orbit. Crash couldn’t help but laugh from the co-pilot’s seat. “Those yokels were so far off with their shots it wasn’t even funny. The sheriff must have rounded up every drunk in the county for that posse.” “Uh, Captain?” Kansas stopped her course plot on the cockpit keyboard monitor to indicate the cowboy hat Calestorm wore with a paw. “You might want to double check on that.” Crash removed the hat, gave it The Look and then poked her finger through the hole in the brim of her hat. She exclaimed, “Son of a…Great Bird of the Galaxy. Not cool! This is so not cool! Do you see how close that one got?!
  11. Lieutenant Malcolm Reed: I'm being compromised, sir. And I don't like it. Harris: Then I suggest you adjust your comfort level, Lieutenant. - Star Trek: Enterprise, “Affliction” (2005) Old United Stares Territory Former State of Georgia 2261 As a person aged, they naturally acquired skill sets depending on their line of work. A person could be anything to a crackerjack secretary with the civilian workforce to an EOD specialist with the Starfleet Marines to a Historical Sciences officer serving on a survey vessel attached to the private First Contact sector. A lot of folks considered starship commanders the best of the Starfleet breed, but that wasn’t really true. Or to clarify, this was what she had discovered. Once you got out there in the black expanse you realized that sure, you had the training for the position but it was the acquired skills and training that really made the difference. Well, all that along with a healthy dose of common sense. Was she a good starship commander? Calestorm had no idea and that opinion depended on who you asked. Did she have common sense? Again, that depended on who you spoke to. Common sense was also another way of knowing when to be a coward for a minute than dead for the rest of your life, or so the old Irish saying went. Her grandfather had been fond of quoting from the “Motherlands” as he jokingly referred to Ireland and Scotland. But she did notice things. Like the fact the birds had stopped chirping. Captain Ashton ‘Crash’ Calestorm kept her sight on the tree line, straight ahead ‘cause that was where the uninvited guest was coming from. Her one hand was occupied with a glass of sweet tea that she raised to her lips while the other was occupied with the trigger of Granddads pump-action shotgun that lay across her knees. The security system hadn’t been triggered and she hadn’t heard the engine of a shuttle. Her guess was either a hover car or standard automobile. Years back, all those science fiction books and 2-D television shows had assumed hover cars would be the way to travel but regular cars had stuck around, mostly clean fuel versions. Even the old gas guzzlers such as her 1966 Pontiac had been converted to some form of electric or plasma energy. Her glance traveled over to the storage shed where the car sat, a glint of the afternoon sun glinting off the hood. Then her no nonsense gaze fixed on the tree line again. The only visitors she’d been expecting was family and friends who had the clearance codes to the Coyote Run property and that meant this would go really well or someone was going to get a really rude awakening. She’d never be accused of being twitchy but her old age had made her cautious. Or grumpy. She was finding it hard to tell these days. A squirrel – the one with the missing tuft of tail – shot out of the bushes and climbed up the trunk of a tree before the rustling reached her ears. Seconds later, a Human emerged from the relative obscurity of the woods. Not bad. Probably has some SpecOps training… The man was tall, average build and wore a simple black uniform tunic and trousers. He was younger then Calestorm with sandy colored hair close cropped and starting to go gray at the temples. He had a burn scar that ran from the corner of his left eye down to the jaw line. It was odd to see a superficial scar in this day and age of medical advances. She kept a close eye on him the whole time. * * * * Special Agent Harris stopped at least a dozen paces out from the woods, roughly at the halfway mark between the log cabin and the brush and trees. With the combat boots, cargo pants, denim shirt and camouflage wrapped shot gun, a Mossberg 835 Turkey Popper if he was guessing correctly and done his research - which of course he had - she looked like a redneck who should have been running moonshine whiskey from county to county in one of those stereotypical good ol’ boy country films that had been so popular back in the 1970’s and 1980’s. He knew that could be further from the truth based on her service record. Harris watched as she carefully put the glass down on a small patio table and unfolded her lanky frame from the folding hunter’s chair. Shotgun held away yet at the ready, the starship captain mad her way down the composite wood steps leading to the porch. The silence stretched out until it was Calestorm who broke it. “Welcome. Got a name? And what happened here?” She indicated her face. Harris nodded in greeting and then answered. “A reminder of the last team I deployed with. Lost a couple of people. Completed the mission, but things went sideways.” Okay, Harris isn’t a**hole but he’s not begun to adjust his course dealing with the demons though. She made a mental note. “Why are you here?” “My unit requires your assistance with a mission. You’ve come to our attention based on your past involvement with the ORP, specifically, the assignment to Idiri K Five*. There was no dickering around here, this was for sure. The Officer Recovery Program had been responsible for the recovery of noncom-grade and officer personnel from covert operations that had ended, or were mostly ended. The assignments could range from non-interference observation of an evolving culture to deep cover within the ranks of a pirate clan preying on cargo haulers. ORP missions had typically involved ferrying assets from point A to point B for drop off and debriefing. When things got weird the assignments were a straight up run and gun extraction. Then Lieutenant Commander Calestorm had done two years with the program with then Commander Shauna Coyote as lead handler. The program had since been enveloped under Starfleet Intelligence Operations and …Crash hadn’t heard the name K Five in a long time. “As ah recall, Thirty One came to ORP and asked for assistance with that one. I suggest you contact them.” Her tone was cool and on DefCon Accent Eleventy. He only had a slight reaction to her blatant use of the Starfleet covert organization. “Actually, that is who I represent.” She paused, her expression exasperated and then she spit out her opinion on the matter. “What the Hell is this? Is every covert Starfleet group in operation volun-tolding Border Patrol personnel now?” Calestorm deliberately made an overt reference to the recent cryptic note she’d received from her Exec, Commander Wesley and…Harris made no comment. Of course he didn’t. She knew there were a limited number of experienced personnel that could be tapped for high value assignments, especially after the destruction of the Fleet at Vulcan. As such, Crash and Scooter were two such qualified officers. Didn’t mean Calestorm had to like it…she ran a hand through her short silver-white hair. Her emotions debated with her logic and the outcome was somewhere in between Flaming Mad and Ticked as Hell. “Fine. Harris, you can deal with our commanding officer when she finds out. First Threat Response Program, Commanding Officer - Admiral Coyote, remember that name ‘cause she sure as Hell will remember you. Good luck with that.” “I will. She will be contacted shortly as well to inform her of your acceptance of the extraction assignment.” “In case you ain’t noticed, I haven’t said ‘yes’ to anything, boy.” “You don’t have to. Here’s your assignment.” Unperturbed, Harris held out a simple data chip. Well, simple except for the bright pink color of the chip. Crash took the item gingerly as if it would explode in her hand. “And here is your backup.” Two forms emerged from the wooded area and scared the freakin’ proverbial you know what out of her; there was only one species that could sneak up on Calestorm like that. The data chip dropped to the grass. She knew they were both good at sneaking, but despite knowing that fact she reflexively crouched and pumped a round into the shotgun as it swung on the felinoids. There was no retort of the weapon. No fur or blood exploded into a cloud. Just as quickly as she had moved, the older woman automatically and quickly unchambered the round, withdrew her finger from the trigger and pointed the shotgun to it’s safer and upright position. Crash was practically apoplectic. “Dammit, y’all know better then that!” Lieutenant Jagrissa Shaow Vacer Honor-Scar and Commander Kansas Vacer JoNs didn’t so much as purr or say a word. The female cousins as one just put their paws in the air in a facsimile of ‘we surrender’. She swore JoNs was smirking. Smart ass cats… “Good hunting, Captain. I’ll leave you and your team to your mission.” He nodded and then began to retreat back the way he’d come. She waited until he’d gone a slight distance and then called his name. Harris stopped, turned and regarded her. “Lose the scar, it don’t suit you. Your memories honor your team and you’ll know what not to do the next time.” Harris gave her a funny little look and seemed about to say something. But, he just nodded silently and then quietly made his way back into the wooded area. * * * * Calestorm watched him go and listened until he was out of earshot before turning her attention back to the golden furred cats, “Oh fer the love of – put your paws down!” and pointed towards the house with her free hand while the other held the now disengaged shotgun barrel upright against her shoulder. “Well, Ladies, I’ve got an extra room. You two shed, you’re responsible for sweeping it up. Any questions? No? Good. Welcome to Coyote Run and let’s start making plans. * See “Hang Tree Flats” Log (08.30.09) for reference: http://www.stsf.net/...showtopic=19380
  12. 12.21.15 Mission Brief: December 21, 2261 (Stardate 2261.355) TBS has been 45 Days. We are preparing to dock at the orbital platform for our home base on New Topeka for the ordered refit.
  13. 12.14.15 Mission Brief: December 8, 2261 (Stardate 2231.310) TBS has been 1 Month. We have been asked to provide escort to the Science vessel the USS Seleya through a particularly active section of hijacker space. ComCreekChat2015-12-14.txt
  14. 12.14.15 December 8, 2261 (Stardate 2261.310) Mission Brief: TBS has been 1 Month. We have been asked to provide escort to the Science vessel the USS Seleya through a particularly active section of hijacker space. Mission Summary: LT CDR KVar exercises Chipper the beagle in the gym. LT Shalin deals with the specifics of our refit orders. On the main bridge, LT "Doc" TAral inquires of CDR Wesley regarding our escort mission whileMID Schultz scans for any threat assessment. Time Between Sims is 45 Days.
  15. 12.07.15 Mission Brief: November 8, 2261 (Stardate 2231.279) We are three weeks into our continued patrol of the region aka the “nice quiet backwater region” and are still located between the borders of Romulan and Klingon space with no issues. ComCreekChat2015-12-7.txt