RAdm S.Coyote

This log takes place during the first week of our month long TBS… USS Comanche Creek Wei Orbit Captains Quarters 20:00 Hours (8:00 PM) It had been six days since the shuttle Hobbes had gone down, taken out by an EMP pulse over the tropical jungles of the planet Wei. Thankfully, Captain Calestorm and her senior officers had survived impact and the resulting harrowing trip to safety, though a few had come out of their enforced evade and escape march the worse for wear. The Starfleet officers had been rescued by soldiers representing the planet’s joint governmental peacekeeping force, and been given medical aid at a remote village located along the outer edge of the tropics. After most of the away team had been stabilized, and they’d made contact with the ‘Creek watch officer on duty, the critical cases – Mrkath and Wesley - were evacuated to the ship. Both officers were expected to make a full recovery. Overall, things were going well. The government representatives of Amadacia and Domani were eager to continue diplomatic relations with the United Federation of Planets, and there was a shared excitement across the general populace of the planet itself. The Sean Chan terror group had retreated back into hiding for the moment. If things continued to move forward, the planet of Wei would eventually become a full member within the galactic Federation network. Calestorm currently luxuriated in a hot bubble bath, and relaxed her aching body as much as she could. Most crew quarters only had a single stall shower, but the combination tub and shower was a captain’s stateroom privilege; she really didn’t think that she’d ever use the tub, until this Wei mission. And bubble bath was not her usual thing. Of all people, Ambassador Kailchev had given her the medicinal bath mixture. With Commander Wesley still down and unable to take part in any of the administrative duties, Calestorm had spent most of her time with Ambassadors Kailchev and Kitor; zipping all over the place had taxed her already tired system, her gimping becoming more pronounced. If she didn’t settle down, her CMO was going to kill her. The captain settled in, using the bath as medicinal as much as relaxation. Her thoughts began to drift, exhaustion catching up to her. She thought she heard the entry to her quarters whoosh open, and then dismissed it as her mind playing tricks on her. It was the sudden appearance of Admiral Shauna “Skipper” Coyote in her bathroom that about gave her a heart attack though. Rear Admirals didn’t suddenly appear out of thin air; they just liked people to think they had that power though. “Admiral?! What in hell are you doing here?” Calestorm started to rise in a reflex action, remembered where she was, and sank back down into the bubbles for the sake of general modesty. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in.” Coyote quipped. Calestorm had only given a full verbal report to the admiral on the Wei situation via wireless comms about forty eight hours ago. The captain stared at Coyote, giving her commanding officer the once over; she wore the standard field duty uniform, and held a backpack over one shoulder. "You must’ve really hauled to get out here.” The dark haired Native American woman nodded in the affirmative. “Caught a long range fast cargo hauler at New Topeka, hooked up a shuttle to the outer hull, had them divert slightly to drop me here. Shuttle’s parked in your hanger bay, I asked your FOPS and COMM officers not to contact you.” “Uh huh. Secret mission and all that. Your Mama ever teach you to knock?” “You didn’t leave a pair of boots outside the door.” Coyote replied innocently. The two stared at one another for another few seconds. Crash finally broke the silence. ”Um…Okaaay. Admiral. Captain in tub. In the head. Awkward.” She waggled her hands to illustrate the point. Shauna silently pulled a bottle of Romulan Ale – illegal ale, mind you – out of the backpack. The liquid was a rich blue color. “Good alcohol. Awkwardness has suddenly passed. Meet ya out at my desk.” A few minutes later, the captain had exited the head, clad in a half sleeve short red robe with a modern Asian design and pattern. Her regulation length silvering blond hair was combed back, still damp from her bath. The admiral had set about doling out the ale and two tumbler glasses had also appeared from the pack, and were set on the surface of the desk. As she poured the potent beverage, the admiral quirked a brow towards her line captain. “Bubble bath?” “Hey, I hurt in places I didn’t know I had. With respect Sir, shut up and pour.” Cale gingerly lowered herself into her office chair, favoring the back thigh of her left leg “So what are you doin’ here Admiral?” Skipper settled into the guest chair facing the small desk. “Thought I’d come out and do some damage control with this Wei situation.” “I’m sure you’re diplomacy skills’re welcome. I assume you’ll be attendin’ the joint government diplomacy gathering at Wei’s Castle An-Thrax?” “Aye. Ambassadors Kailchev and Kitor extended an invitation to me over the subspace wireless; your communications department relayed the message back to the FTR offices.” The two women drank in silence, until Calestorm retreated back to her initial line of questioning. “So, what’s going on Shauna? The party isn’t scheduled for two weeks. What caused you to scoot out here so quick?” The admiral finished a sip. “As I said, came out to look over the situation. Admirals prerogative.” Crash took a slow drink from her glass, and then her attention snapped back to Coyote. “Skipper, I’m not going to ask again, so quit bullsh*ttin’ me. What’s goin’ on?” Her tone remained respectful, though held a command ring to it. Not many could get away with talking that way to an admiral, but this was the give and take of friendship. The silence threatened to deepen; the captain silently scrutinized her commanding officer, her facial expression open, not demanding. The admiral sighed. “You and your line crew could have been killed.” “We weren’t.” “Fat lot of good. I read the preliminary medical report on the last transmission packet. Mrkath’s recovering from a broken leg. Wesley has enforced recovery time from that C-4 device. Multiple concussions and contusions were suffered by several of the officers. You got hurt.” “We all knew the risks when we signed our recruitment papers.” From her seated position, Calestorm half leaned across the desktop and indicated the admiralty braid on Shauna’s sleeves, the silver coloring of the braid in contrast to the dark gold of her command tunic. “And you knew the risk when you accepted that promotion.” She tapped the sleeve lightly with a finger. “I never should have pushed for the FTR to take on the Wei post First Contact mission.” “It ever occur to you that a full diplomacy response crew might not have survived on the planet? Myself and the others were more suited to the dangers of the mission.” “That’s not the point Crash—“ “You’re bein’ too hard on yourself. If it’s a reprimand you want Admiral, fine – I’ll take you down to the ships armory range and shoot stun pellets at your head. Otherwise, you seem to be punishing yourself fine.” The two women continued drinking in silence, the cobalt blue liquid going a bit lower and lower in the bottle flask. It was a companionable silence, the kind where nothing needs to be said. After some time had passed, Calestorm spoke gently into the quiet. “Here’s to making it back alive.” Coyote nodded, still subdued, but her bearing a little bit lighter. “Alive.” The two officers clinked their glasses together.

= = = = = = SEC CODE 5648-Coyote = = = = = = = = = = = iComanche 5648-Intership Wireless = = = = = = = = = = = = Briefing Report Transmit = = = = = = Informational Overview prepared by Rear Admiral Shauna M. Walking-Coyote Command Staff and Senior Crew of the USS Comanche Creek Level Five Security Clearance Overview: The Were-Wires are a mercenary pirate group of various species that have hardwired technology into their bodies for use in combat. They contract out to the highest bidder, and cause general chaos with regard to the sectors in and around the Outer Rim colony areas referred to as the Dead Lands. They have loyalty to none, and Starfleet Intelligence places their combined numbers at 400 to 800 members scattered throughout the quadrants in small, medium or large sized tribal bands. The more organized and professional groups and gangs tend to find work as guards or paramilitary soldiers, while the non professional groups find work as mercenaries and contract privateers. Society Classes: - Adepts: Those individuals who are born with mental powers (Vulcans, Betazeds) and enhance this power with the cyber technology. - Lancers: Those individuals that were not born with any sort of enhanced mental capacity, using the fused technology and equipment to aide them; they tend to burn out quicker than their adept counterparts. - Tanks: Those individuals who choose to not implant any sort of technology aide directly on their bodies, instead using some form of combat armor, strap on weaponry, and similar combat technology. Appearance: The style of dress and appearance for all the classes resembles a cyborg-cyber type of military punk: - Paramilitary or soldier styled clothing, black and charcoal colored tones are popular, myriad patterns of camouflage. - Metal, plastic or leather pieces attached to fabric for use as makeshift armor and protection - Hair colored with bright greens, yellows, or orange - Scarves, bandannas colored in bright, lurid patterns - Some can be further recognized according to inter-tribes by tattoo adornments Transportation: The Were-Wire tribes use and employ whatever vehicles they can. Most of their orbital, ground based, and space based vehicles are used, purchased (or stolen) from scrap yards. These ships and vehicles are then typically patched together with mismatching hull panels, and internal systems are fused with combined technologies and held together with spit and bailing wire. The tribes should not be underestimated in their scattered use of available transportation technologies; in 2251, the scout-class USS Tripoli was destroyed during a skirmish with a former Starfleet class vessel retro-fitted with kit bash Were-Wire technology. Medical Considerations: Both Lancer and Adept Were-Wires suffer from long term skin and muscle deterioration at the site of an interface node or implant, and some weaker minded individuals can succumb to mental disease in their later years, usually aggravated by the combat and implant devices. Signed, Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote = = = = = = SEC CODE 5648-Coyote = = = = = = = = = = = iComanche 5648-Intership Wireless = = = = = = = = = = = = End Briefing Report = = = = = =

Note: I do not own the Star Trek character of Lieutenant Kevin Thomas Riley (copyright ‘The Naked Now’ and ‘The Conscience of the King’ of the Classic/Original Series and various novels), I just play in his universe. Take Me Home Again Kathleen… = = = = Lieutenant Kevin Riley wasn’t exactly a good singer. Atrociously painful was a good description of the young man’s tone and voice. But, with all the craziness of the last few hours as the investigation into the disappearance and reappearance of the transport vessel the SS Slipstream, Admiral Shauna ‘Skipper’ Coyote found some comfort nonetheless in the tone deaf notes of the song ‘Take Me Home Again Kathleen’ that drifted onto the air through the open entryway into her office. The lieutenant was a crackerjack administrative aide however, and Coyote considered herself blessed to be working with the young man, his lack of a singing voice aside. Shauna had been holed up in her office at Starfleet Command in San Francisco for the better part of the day, fielding reports and inquiries regarding the Slipstream. With the First Threat Response Program responding to the situation on behalf of the Fleet border patrol, Coyote was the senior officer on the front line as the domestic political situation continued to grow in scope and scale. The public -- and certain officers within the Starfleet -- wanted answers to this mystery, and the admiral was at ground zero. Suddenly, the rendition of ‘Kathleen’ dropped off, and a few seconds later Riley’s lanky frame appeared in her open doorway; his facial expression was caught somewhere between curiosity, dread, and professionalism. The admiral ticked her head over towards her aide. “What’s up Lieutenant?” “Well…we just got two complaints from a couple of the Markis sector news affiliates. One from Net Channel Six News, the other from The Evening News with Terri ‘Trix’ Trixan…the satellite station for Six.” “Why?” “A pilot did a fly by across the perimeter patrol line that the local authorities have surrounding the Slipstream. Trixan is actually attempting to downplay the pilot’s actions, but I'm guessing her boss still told her to make the report. Channel Six is the real problem, complaint wise.” The admiral nodded once in approval on the reporting actions of the news anchor. “I’ve never worked with or met Trixan personally, but I’m not surprised that she’s running a bit of damage control where she can. She’s a former Fleet pilot from the Spec Ops Task Force, and it’s not easy to get being a jump jock out of your blood.” The younger Human male hesitated at the lull in the conversation, fingering the flat silvery-gray digital data tablet that he held nervously. He really didn’t want to convey this next bit of information. Coyote buried her face in her hands as she spoke, muffling her tone a bit. “Let me guess, there’s footage?” “Uh, yes Admiral, from the external sensor video from the Evening News shuttle. It’s definitely one of the Goshawk fighters from the Comanche Creek tweaking the perimeter. According to the flight number on the hull, it’s not technically assigned to any of the pilots, so…we can’t really pin down who was piloting it.” “Thank God for small favors. Has it been released on the public news net yet? “Uh, yes. News Six must have an editor on raktajino coffee, although the actual footage hasn’t been cleaned up and enhanced as of yet. The incident happened less then forty five minutes ago, and Channel Six already has the piece airing. It’s the usual spiel sir: Crazy Starfleet pilots, not taking a sensitive investigation seriously, going all cockamamie and mocking the plight of the Slipstream, etcetera.” “Fine. Go into standard damage control. Contact News Six, and gently ask them yank the footage and the story…forward any complaints from the station affiliates to me. Send the footage to me.” A few minutes later, Riley had text mailed the video footage to Shauna’s private Fleet command account, and the FTR program lead watched the rough and grainy news feed. The footage showed one lone Goshawk class fighter weaving towards the east perimeter line that had been established by the local Markis sector news networks and then flipping in order to buzz the news shuttles and runabouts from an inverted position; there was no mistaking the form and control of the fighter, the slight yaw of the wings to the right. Coyote had witnessed this particular pilot in action on dozens and dozens of occasions. She noted that the tint was engaged on the cockpit canopy, further obstructing the identity of the Comanche Creek pilot as an added precaution. Riley stood quietly in the open doorway to Admiral Coyote’s office, watching in silence as the older woman perused the footage and waiting until the video loop had completed before venturing a comment to his obviously stewing boss. “You know sir, I know I’m probably speaking out of turn, but Captain Calestorm is a good pilot. I mean, that footage is really something…to have that same skill set as an Old Lady…she totally flipped the reporters the bird. What I mean is, she really did literally flip the fighter, you know…” Coyote, who was herself an ‘old lady’ and didn’t agree with her line captain’s interpretation of crowd control, shot a death look towards her personal aide. If looks could kill, the lieutenant would probably be a composite gooey paste on the carpeted decking of the office. Riley shut himself up right quick. “She buzzed mobile reporter vessels during a sensitive investigation. That is, as you young people say Mister Riley, ‘not cool’.” The tall, dark haired woman had unfolded herself from the leather desk chair and started walking slowly and with a predatory gait across her office, going towards Riley as she spoke and pointing a slender finger to punctuate her spoken words. Lieutenant Riley knew it was time to exit, stage left and very, very quickly. “…and you know, I totally have some reports to catch up on. And I’ll contact News Six…pardon me Admiral…” He zoomed out of the office as if he had warp nacelles interwoven into his uniform, leaving Coyote alone with her thoughts. Calestorm was at heart a good person, and was very good at what she did for the border patrol. But, the end result outdid any methods that she employed…which at times was a useful personality trait, and worked well for the rough and tumble missions of the Fleet border patrol that the captain was tasked with. Yet that same methodology was a blatant reminder as to why the line captain would never make it beyond the commodore rank, at best. Shauna spent a few moments pacing back and forth across the medium sized expanse of her office, working off some of the ticked off adrenaline that had infused her veins and getting her annoyance under control. She had left her office window on clear mode, not caring what workers in the outer office area caught random flashes of her gold command tunic as she walked back and forth. Once she has worked off the annoyance, she sat down again at her desk and set about to get some more work done. One official text mail was to be sent to the news networks in question, apologizing for the fighter incident but all the same not really admitting to the issue that the Comanche Creek fighter pilot had caused in the first place -- the joys of knowing how to make domestic political speak work for you. In the employ of a master political tactician like Coyote, the simple word could be deadly direct and formal. The second text mail was of a more personal/official nature, sent to her long time friend and fellow officer and the content was rather…scathingly oriented, and carried with it the promise of a one on one follow up visual conference. Take Me Home Again Kathleen…

= = = = = Secure Wireless/565 SC 789 = = = = = = = = = = Internal/Starfleet Command/Earth Orbital = = = = = From: Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote, Project Lead, First Threat Response Program To: Captain Ashton Calestorm, Commanding Officer, USS Comanche Creek NCC-214 CC: Wesley, Commander Audraya, Executive Officer, USS Comanche Creek NCC-214 Subject: USS Comanche Creek Ceremonial and Launch Activities Captain Calestorm: Your presence, as well as the presence of your Executive Officer and all Line Officers serving as the launch crew of the USS Comanche Creek, is requested for the ceremonial and cocktail gatherings on Star Date 0910.02 (October 2, 2009). After the conclusion of the festivities, you are hereby ordered to take possession and command of the Kelvin Class Frigate vessel, the USS Comanche Creek NCC-214. Your orders are to proceed to the heading and planetary body known as Regulus (77.5 LY from Earth, **** Vulcan Colony Prime ****) which has been designated as the site of the New Vulcan colony endeavor. You and your crew are to provide support assistance, a patrol presence, and any general diplomatic capabilities as needed to the current Vulcan government officials during this time as the new colony planet is rendered useable for the survivors of the Vulcan culture. Good luck and God speed. Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote Special Lead Liaison FTR Agent Starfleet Special Operations Division Starfleet Border Patrol Division PS: Don’t scratch the paint Crash Calestorm. She’s a new ship, be gentle with her. = = = = = End Transmission= = = = =

Starfleet Recruitment Campaign First Threat Response Program Border Patrol Contingency Prospective Officer Recruit: Thank you for your interest in serving as a Border Patrol Officer with the First Threat Response Program. The FTR Program is a Starfleet endeavor to police and protect the borders of the Federation from the threat of hostile attack. We need good men and women such as yourself who are willing to protect and serve the galactic community. Within the next few weeks, you will receive your assignment orders for the USS Comanche Creek NCC-214, our current lead line ship for the FTR program. Your commanding officers will be Captain Ashton Calestorm and Commander Audraya Wesley. Peace is our profession. Good luck and God speed. Sincerely, Shauna Coyote Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote Special Lead Liaison FTR Agent Starfleet Special Operations Division Starfleet Border Patrol Division