Cassie Granger

Delta Team Mission Prep: Operation Zeus Boy Cassie Granger with Kal Matheson <Takes place just after the last sim.> The world of SpecOps is pretty close-knit. They become family, and for some much more than family. Having been through hell and back - in basic training, extended training, and combat missions - they realize that not all brothers are blood and in the brotherhood there is an attitude that can only be understood by someone who has been there, done that. It's intense, and it often needs tempering, decompression, a bringing back to the reality they knew before they joined. For that reason the atmosphere in the SpecOps complex of Marine Central, no matter what the posting, can be pretty relaxed. Well, as relaxed as you can be in SpecOps; everything's relative. On Challenger, outside the complex was spit and polish; inside was sit back and share the bond, relax into your normal routine until the mission came up and the pendulum swung back to intense. Cassie's entrance to Delta Team's briefing room went pretty much unnoticed. Shedding her uniform for fatigues blended her into the background as she wandered on the periphery of the group, aiming for a the small table at the far end of the room. The team kicked back, acquainting themselves with their newest, Kal Matheson, who seemed to have made a good impression. Moa caught sight of Cass. His nod passed down the line to Souter, and when it got to Kal - low man on the totem - Kal snapped to attention. The rest of the team turned toward the table. They were focused but stayed relaxed and seated, smirks and snickers at Kal scattered among them. Cass dropped a bag from her shoulder and began to unload an impressive array of padds and mission specific equipment. Until the snickers started. She looked up... straightened up... tossed the last padd on the table and dropped the shoulder bag to the floor as she took a command posture. A respectful nod to Kal and an, "As you were," relaxed him before she ran her eyes expectantly over rest of Delta. They scrambled to attention, their expressions sobered, eyes front. "Welcome to Delta team, Gunnery Sergeant Matheson," she said, her eyes drilling the rest of the team. "I see you've become acquainted already, so I'll dispense with that, but it's nice to know someone knows protocol around here." Jack O'Neill's mouth opened to respond, snapping her eyes to him instantly. "Don't _even_ think about it, O'Neill." It clamped shut as he returned to eyes front. A long minute of letting it sink in ended with a bemused, "Okay, ladies. You've had your fun with the gunny; I've had mine with you. Time to get a move on. "Delta team's pretty casual in here, Matheson," she said as she arranged her things and chair movement subsided. "Brass comes in - captain or exoh, Admiral Rawlings, or... heaven help us... Sector Commandant Jeorsey," there was a collective cough, "we'll snap to. Otherwise I want everyone's mind on the mission and nothing else. So relax," she waved a hand at the group, "settle in, and enjoy the ride." She smiled, nodding him into his chair. "Moa, Kal is taking point on this," she continued. "There's something else you need to concentrate on; we'll get to that." A click lit the wall monitor behind her and she dropped into a chair. "As of this moment we are on Operation Zeus Boy. Main* is Zeus. Kal is Zeus One, on down the line. Everything will be uploaded to your personal slates but we're going over the details so we're all on the same page. I don't have to tell you how important this mission is, the dangers involved, or the possibility of big-time fireworks if we're detected. Every mission is pretty much like that, but throw in a temporal displacement and all bets are off. Prime Directive, Temporal Police, the whole nine yards. "As per Commander Murphy's brief, Intel has word of a potential terrorist attack on the Apollo 11 mission of 1969. We're going to ignore the 'potential' part and prepare for a full terrorist attack. 'For those of you who slept through Earth History 101, Apollo 11 put the first humans from earth on the moon. We'll be operating from Kennedy Space Center in Florida and Johnson Space Center in Houston using a shuttle between. We're on a short timeline; there's no mockup available, so memorize the territory as well as your personal AOR.* "Number of operatives is unknown, estimated to be about a dozen, species and genders unknown, their objective and motive - all unknown. We are assuming highly professional, and as the commander put it 'state-of-the-art' technology. You will have mission specific technology, but do not depend on it." she glanced aside, "O'Neill's going to fill you in. Jack?" "Right," he said as he pushed himself to a stand and moved toward the table where the remote activated a display of the information as he spoke. "Standard ocular membranes* will have identification information uploaded. Every person who is supposed to be on site will be readily identifiable; others will be red flagged. "This does not mean everyone in your line of sight will be identified as NASA. Their own security will be tight so we've uploaded IDs of all era military, law enforcement, and DSS* personnel, anyone who might be undercover working the Apollo 11 mission. Be sure it's inserted in your non-dominant eye. I'd call for questions, but when the implant is inserted after this briefing will be a better time." He looked to Cass for verification. "Sounds good to me. Thank you, Staff." Cassie's attention turned back to the team. "All but myself and Tasha will be assigned to security, your profiles and fake backgrounds have already been uploaded to NASA's computers; pretty easy to do given their level of tech. "This is a covert op. We are going in sterile,* so take care of it. "Moa, you're in charge of high value targets. They're the most obvious focus for terrorists, but we all know terrorists seldom go for the obvious. Still, as security personnel, that is most likely where you will be stationed." She waved a hand in his direction and the Maori warrior nodded. "HVTs* are..." the screen behind Cass lit up with images of men who had long since passed into history. "Mission Commander Neil Armstrong, Command Module Pilot Lt. Col. Michael Collins, and Lunar Module Pilot Col. 'Buzz' Aldrin. They are to be protected at all costs. "Backup crew are just as important: James Lovell, William Anders, and Fred Haise. Study them, know them, watch their movements if they come into your AOR but do not approach. Ocular implants will transmit any red flags to Challenger's computers and inform you via ear comm. Standard frequencies for team and mission communications with an ear on NASA security frequencies as well. Questions?" "Not at the moment, ma'am," replied Moa, looking up from the padd where he had just jotted a note. "We'll have a few hours of practice before beam-down," she continued, "you'll probably have a few things to iron out. "Rules of engagement...." Cass paused to pick up a padd and breeze through it for the correct segment. "This is a protect, defend, and apprehend mission. Non-lethal force may be used when one or more of the following conditions are met: 1) the NASA security personnel in your AOR so authorize you to do so, 2) you are ordered by a confirmed superior officer in your AOR to do so, 3) it is evident that a confirmed non-terrorist in your AOR is under threat of force and there is no regular NASA security personnel to assist that person, 4) you are informed by USS Challenger mission operations that the subject in view is a confirmed terrorist and you are ordered to apprehend." She stopped reading and looked up. "Tasha will fill you in on the method of non-lethal apprehension. "Lethal force may be used only when authorized by NASA security personnel whose clearance is confirmed by your ocular implant... or when it is confirmed by USS Challenger mission operations that the subject is a terrorist... and you observe that the subject is clearly threatening lethal force against a confirmed non-terrorist." She looked up. "Clear?" It was evident they were not happy, but they signaled a collective, "Clear." "Tasha, your turn." The tall Apache descendant stood and took a second to retrieve two objects from her vest pocket. "Non-lethal apprehension will be achieved by this." She held up a two-inch injectable vial of clear liquid. "Pressed against any exposed skin, it will knock out in five seconds. Pressed against the body through thin fabric and it'll take a little longer. You've all used it before. Don't scratch yourself." The other hand held a thumbnail sized thin disk with a yellow tab hanging from the center. "Beamup will be by standard emergency evacuation tag. Pull the tab to alert Main, stick it to the subject, and they're gone." She sat after receiving nods from the entire team. Cass continued from there. "Hector, your explosives and mechanical expertise gives us a leg up on the rocket booster and its payload. You'll be keeping an eye out for tampering, anything that might cause the mission to go down the way our predecessor, the space shuttle Challenger, did." He gave a sharp nod and she pressed on. "Souter, you and Daniels will be on overwatch* imbedded with NASA security. Tech camo." "Roger that, Cap." "Kal, you're our swickie.* In addition to your security duties with Gunny Gleason you'll be handling a Cessna FanJet 500 Citation in case we shuttle between Johnson and Kennedy. I believe Challenger's helmsman, Lt. Reed, will be as well. Think you can handle it?" "Roger that, ma'am. If it flies, I got it." "Weapons Chief will issue vintage projectile sidearms and rifles. Spend what extra time you might have reacquainting yourselves with 'em. Questions?" Souter's flicked stylus caught her eye. And he wasn't hiding his playful grin very well. "Danny?" "Uh... yeah, Cap. You said all but you and the doc will be in security. Uh... what's up with that?" Cass eyed him a beat, then pursed her lips to his smirk. "Okay, Danny," she said, leaning back in her chair, "you know as well as I do that women weren't allowed in security teams back then. This will probably be the first... and last time... you'll see T and me in cotton skirts, makeup, and heels." Her own playful grin held a challenging twist as a casual finger-point emphasized, "Just remember, payback's a...." Souter's grin broadened behind his hand and his eyes continued to sparkle with his somewhat exaggerated, "Yes, ma'am." "Okay. Distress phrase is 'my mother always said that.' Mission prep in ten. Let's do this." ===================== *Main - the center of operations, in this case, USS Challenger. Main Actual would be Captain Ja'Lale. *AOR - Area of Responsibility *DSS - Diplomatic Security Service - the elite of the U.S. Secret Service *HVT - High Value Target *sterile: without anything that can identify you as someone else - watches, pictures, totems, etc. *ocular membranes: contact lenses, now in the development stage, that use nanotechnology to gather data from items in the wearer's field of vision and generate an image of information within the wearer's field of vision. *overwatch - sniper terminology for watching movements from outside the perimeter, standard operating procedure for high value target protection. *swickie: nickname for "swick" the pronunciation of the acronym SWCC: Special Warfare Combat Craft crewman.

Marine Force Reconnissance (FORECON) Delta Team Personnel Momoa, Gleason, GYSGT SFMC FORECON Delta Team Assistant Team Leader; logistics & planning human male, Pacific islands origin Call sign “Moa” O’Neill, Jack SSGT SFMC FORECON Delta Team mission communications human male FORECON Alpha Team Gonzales, Hector - SGT SFMC FORECON Delta Team explosives expert, breaching Call sign “Speedy” Human male, Hispanic, 5’7”, brown hair and eyes Hammond, Tasha LCPL SFMC FORECON Delta Team Hospital Corpsman 1st Class human female, Native American Daniels, John, CPL SFMC FORECON Delta Team designated shooter/sniper human male, Canadian Rockies Call Sign “Whisky” Souter, Daniel PFC SFMC FORECON Delta Team scout, point human male, dark brown hair, brown eyes, dark tanned complexion calls Montana home 5’6”, fast, wiry, quick wit, pretty laid back excels at mountaineering

= = Security Clearance Accepted = = = = Starfleet Special Warfare Command = = = = Personnel File: Granger, Cassidy Ross = = General Information: Name: Granger, Cassidy Ross Call Name: Striker Species: Human DOB: October 9, 2270 POB: Bertaria Colony, Federation/ Romulan border Height: 5' 8" Weight: 130 lbs Eyes: Blue Hair: Blond Distinguishing Marks: birthmark, left shoulder posterior, resembles lightning bolt Medical Considerations: none Security Clearance: Intel Alpha Certifications: Advanced Martial Arts Marine Recon Sniper Light and Heavy Energy and Projectile Weapons Combat Medicine Family Background: The Granger family traces its Marine roots to 20th century Earth, when the first of their line joined the Corps in response to their country's entrance into World War II. At the age of 17, Jonathan Wester Granger became part of the first wave of Marines at Guadalcanal. He served through Iwo Jima and returned, battle hardened and more determined than ever to serve his country in the Corps. Several generations later, Cassidy Ross Granger was born on Bertaria colony. Established in 2227, Bertaria Colony was a bold move by the Federation to push the boundaries of human colonization to the edge of Romulan space. A joint Starfleet-corporate venture, they chose that location in an attempt to establish more favorable relations with the Romulan Star Empire and to promote trade between the Empire and members of the United Federation of Planets. Because relations did not develop as planned, in 2228 the Federation dispatched a detachment of Marines as a precautionary measure. In 2230, Cassidy's namesake, Cassidy Kalista Granger was born to Recon Specialist GySgt Samantha Ducharme and Tactical Specialist Marine SSgt Franklin Granger, career Marines attached to the Marine defense force assigned to Bertaria Colony. In 2261 a permanent Marine training facility and Quick Reaction Force (QRF) base was established there. The colony continued to grow but much of the planet remained wilderness to accommodate the training facility and QRF base. The Granger family eventually made Bertaria their permanent home; there Cassidy Ross Granger was born. Education and Service: As was her namesake, Cassidy Ross was drawn to the family occupation. By the age of twelve she was expert in martial arts, stealth reconnaissance, weaponry, and wilderness survival. She entered the Marine pre-enlistment program at the age of 16 and enlisted in the Corps a year later. Her advanced skill status and rugged physique drew the attention of Starfleet SPECOPS. Soon after basic, she was fast-tracked into a joint-branch program that groomed SPECOPS Intelligence operatives. After three post-graduate years in intensive counterintelligence study and internship, she shipped off to Marine Scout Sniper school to prepare her for clandestine operations. Despite the name, Marine Scout Snipers are more often used as advanced pre-mission close-in reconnaissance than as snipers. Scout Sniper training focuses on marksmanship, stealth, strength and endurance, survival for extended periods of time in remote locations, and reconnaissance and communications techniques. During her training Granger received the call sign "Striker" because of her exceptional marksmanship and the lightning-shaped birthmark on her left shoulder. In 2292, Granger was assigned to the USS Kearsarge as Intelligence Specialist tasked with monitoring activity on the Federation side of the RNZ. In 2297 she was transferred to the USS Challenger for the bolstered joint military Special Operations program. Psychological Profile: Subject is 27 year old human female, no obvious psychoses. She is of exceptional build and extreme confidence, though she credits her family and extraordinary education for many of her personal accomplishments. Subject remained reserved, relaxed and focused throughout the examination. When asked what she considered the best qualities of a Marine, she replied, "Above all, teamwork, as well as focus on the mission, respect for command, and disregard for personal comfort. Clear thinking under fire and the ability to adapt to changing circumstances. Respect for command and the ability to take command if the need arises." When asked if she would give her life for a fellow Marine, she answered in the affirmative without hesitation. When asked if she would give her life for an enemy, she answered that she would if the circumstances dictated. When asked for a specific instance, she said she would if the success of the mission depended on it. Intelligence registers above average at 120 - 135, not unusual for career military. Visual spatial perception, problem solving, reasoning, and adaptive behavior well above average. Approved for duty. Reginald Hesse, MD Starfleet Medical, USS Kearsarge Stardate 2297.07.14

"There will be situations when loyalty to the side of the fight or even some higher value is in direct conflict with loyalty to one's own moral code. The warrior must live with these tensions and consciously choose among them. ~Karl Marlantes, What It Is Like To Go to War Blurred Lines Arctic camo isn't just camo. It's shelter. It's protection against the elements. It's a vital asset to survival in an unforgiving climate where more often than not the difference between life and death is measured in degrees and a drastic drop in body temperature is measured in seconds or fractions of seconds. In the case of Starfleet Ltjg John Corette his chances of survival for more than a few minutes on the surface of Rura Penthe were slim to none, the final countdown accelerated by the harsh existence he had known below the surface: brutal masters, malnutrition bordering on starvation, and rampant disease. Tossed by Klingon guards onto the surface for what may have been anything from the guards' petty enjoyment to a minor infraction, the young Starfleet officer stumbled as he braced himself against a driving wind and struggled for a foothold. Sharp ice shards sliced his feet and legs when he fell, then his bare hands as he struggled to a stand, the hardwired fight or flight both forcing him on and sucking his life away until, with his last ounce of strength, he slumped into a drift. From the warmth and safety of Polar Bear, the overwatch shuttle all but buried in the snow 500 meters distant, Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger watched. And said nothing. After a short discussion with his teammate, SSgt Jack O'Neill keyed his comm to the shuttle. "Bear actual, this is Bear one. ID human prisoner, evidence of Starfleet association. Permission to extract when clear." Cass drew her lips into a thin line as she shifted her eyes to the visual feed from O'Neill's visor. He and Marine recon scout John Daniels had settled into a snow hide, each within 50 meters of the hatch. Yes, the prisoner was human, and what clothing remained looked like a shredded Starfleet uniform. So what was it going to be? I will never leave a fallen comrade or I will always place the mission first? "Bear one, this is Bear actual," she replied, an edge to her voice. "Negative. Repeat: negative. No contact." The deployed team vital signs monitor next to Cass spiked. Daniels' blood pressure shot through the roof. He was young, she reasoned. Inexperienced. Cass couldn't expect him to understand. "It's coming up Fed, Warrant," Moa's quiet, even voice broke her thoughts. "John Corette, Lieutenant j.g." After a glance in his direction, Cass turned back to brace her hands against the rim of the main monitor. "Can't Gunny. Too risky." "Bear actual, this is Bear two. I have extra camo." Daniels' insistent voice exploded over the comm, drawing the attention of the rest of the team. "It'll mask his life signs, make him look frozen. I'm three meters from him. Max. I can cover, protect, and extract." There came a short break, then a frustrated, "How copy?" "Copy, Bear two. Stand by." "Takin' a big chance," said Moa. "One for how many beneath the surface?" "Last count, over twenty." The edge to Cassie's tone got edgier as Tasha's reflection, flanked by Souter's, appeared in the monitor. "Guards are gone," Moa continued in his usual informational tone, "but we can't be sure they don't have him bugged, can't be sure he's not a plant working in exchange for something down below." "Can't be sure of anything, Gunny," Cass snapped as she zeroed the screen in on the collapsed prisoner, now barely visible above the drift. With Silver gone, Team Leader had passed to Cass, making Moa her ATL.* Among other things, Moa was obligated to provide any and all information that might assist her in making a decision. And he was good at that. "Signs are fading," he said calmly. After considerable thought, Cass nodded. "Bear two, say again distance to package." "Three meters, max." She hung her head to get a grip on the situation, the implications, the full scope of what she was considering. Moa's calming presence and his emotionless expression helped but the weight of the decision still came full force. Blowing out a breath, she keyed the comm. "Bear two, give him a thorough scan for devices, explosives, anything you don't recognize. Make damn sure of that if it takes all day. Approach with caution and verify data before contact. Bear one!" "Bear one here,"O'Neill replied. "Stay frosty. If anything - repeat... _anything_ - looks like a trap or that hatch even cracks open again, you know what to do." "Got it." "Danny, Hect," Cass said, turning sharply to face the onlookers, "If he's alive when they get here, defrost him and keep him strapped down. Moa, notify Main* we have a package that might have intel and request instructions. T, you're gonna have your hands full. Go." Cass wiped a hand down her face as she locked eyes with Moa, looking for a sign of affirmation. "Damn, this better be right," she whispered. "We'll see." ----------------- *ATL - Assistant Team Leader *Main = Frankenship

Polar Bear Outside the confines of the shuttle the planet had the same snow-and-ice glare white reminiscent of glaciers, especially those that covered earth's southernmost continent. It was bleak, but that went along with the snow and ice because not much survived on the surface of Rura Penthe. Just for them to survive took specialized Marine recon arctic white camo gear; anything less froze in seconds, became brittle, and crumbled at the slightest touch - not a good idea considering it was the only thing between you and eternity. So it was cold, but that's taken for granted on a frozen ice planet. In the words of the lab rats, the place had "an absence of heat" that sucked whatever heat you had in your body right smack out. But special gear or no, after a certain period of time - say twelve hours give or take - you still got chilly. "Damn, it's cold out here," Souter broke the silence that'd been hanging over them for a while. Souter and Cass had left the relative warmth of the shuttle to check out what appeared to be an opening in the surface: some kind of hatch or small door that appeared once. Passive shuttle sensors picked up what looked like a life sign, but it blinked in and out so fast they couldn't verify. Hence, the recon team. If it was a life sign they figured the hatch might be a tunnel into the penal colony, which sure could help with exfil. That was almost 12 hours ago. Yeah, they were getting chilly. Flicking her gaze across the barren landscape, Cass keyed her comm to reply. "S'matter Montana," she said, pausing to take a reading on an outcrop not far away, "afraid somethin' important's gonna freeze and fall off?" "Eh, I figure everything else'll freeze first and then it won't matter anymore." "Just make sure the trigger finger is the last to go, aight?" Cass shifted her eyes across the horizon. Her visor monitor picked up the motion of her retinas and took readings, then displayed them in a semi-transparent mode on her visor monitor. Handy thing that was. "Trigger finger? Got somethin's more important than that I need to protect." 'And if your trigger finger's frozen, then you're dead meat and what good's the other thing gonna do ya?" Cass gave a snort, checked the chrono read on her visor monitor, and got ready to check in with the shuttle just as Souter's comm stopped her short. "Contact." Cass shielded her visor and froze in position. Souter lay directly west of the point they were watching and Cass to the south east. Their arctic whites gave them a lot of cover, but the glare from prevailing sunlight made them more difficult to spot with a simple visual. "Got it. Can you get a read?" "Workin' on it, Boss." From her vantage on a slight rise, Cass watched a section of snow-covered ice rise, an alien head and torso emerge to scan the horizon, then disappear as the section of ice closed. Several minutes passed before Souter called back. "Got a hatch big enough for two, maybe three people." Cass could tell he was thinking. Hard. His Montana backwoods casual tone was gone, his voice deepened, and his speech came out clipped and analytical. "Temperature under the hood varies from positive 20 to positive 30 Celsius, depending on the reading area. Got some images of the alien; we can ID later. It was looking for something and there was another peeking out from behind." They waited in silence several minutes. Cass looked skyward, an eerie feeling that they were being watched triggered by Souter's comment that the alien was 'looking for something.' "That it?" she asked finally. "All she wrote." His tone had shifted to backwoods casual. "Pack it in, Montana." She keyed the shuttle channel. "Bear actual, this is Bear one. Returning to base. ETA 30."

Lost in Translation A Granger-Silver log <Continued from "Frankly my dear, it's just a ship."> The galley was active and it smelled like a mixture of last night’s dinner, approaching breakfast and years of meals before, but there wasn’t much available for the midwatch. A plate of cold cuts, sliced bread, apples, bug juice and old coffee. Also a few slices of pie if you didn’t want to make a sandwich. Or dry cereal; the milk dispenser was empty. Cass grabbed a cup of coffee, nuked it, and chose a table off the beaten path while Gage grabbed an apple and glass of fruit punch kool-aid. “That ain’t gonna help,” he remarked, gesturing at her steaming mug as he sat across from her. “Yeah, well, don’t think I’ll be drinking much.” She sniffed it, winging him a glance. “If this were a ship at sea I’d say they made it with bilge water.” Gage smirked, apparently recognizing the reference. Cass cradled the cup between her hands and gave its contents considerable scrutiny before pushing it away. “Yeah, not going to be drinking much.” “Got something on your mind,” Gage reluctantly ventured. “What is it, Cass?” Hands wiping down her face, they pausing at her chin before resting on the table. “Remembering Viper Strike,” she began wearily, her voice low. “Remembering what we talked about in New Topeka.” After a moment she leaned back, her tone resolute. “You gave me a hell of a scare back there,” she said. “I did?” “Yeah,” she continued, studying his face. “And from that look I'm guessing you don’t have a clue why.” Gage shrugged, giving her that look. Thought that’s why I asked. “Your face was pale,” she began, like she was reciting something out of a text book. “It was contorted. You hadn’t taken a breath for several minutes. Didn’t look like apnea; it looked like...,” she stopped short, unable to say it. “Like I was dead? Sure,” he gibingly finished, smirking at her expense. “Got an overactive imagination there, Cass.” She froze, staring, mixed emotions from his BS playing on her face. “And now I’m trying to figure out if I should kill you myself or say yes.” Gage briefly fell silent and his smirk vanished. “Wow. Kill me or say yes? Can’t tell you which one I like better,” he retorted somewhere between impish and sincere. She looked away, dejected, but her jaw remained taut with repeated clenching as she thought something through. After several minutes she turned back, pushed herself to a stand and reached for her cup. “Sorry I bothered you, sir. Think I’d better go,” she said quietly, then turned and left. Gage watched her walk out and frowned at the turn. Yes was a hard word to hear. Their attempt to figure things out had ended in a stalemate almost two months ago. They hadn’t had a moment alone since. Felt like a long time and not much had changed. She was still pussyfooting, only this time death was the alternative instead of a simple no and it sounded like a bad joke. No would’ve been easier to deal with. It happened on the day that was supposed to be his last assigned to the Creek. A messenger showed up announcing that a shuttle was waiting to transport him to the Creek berthed in orbit of New Topeka. He’d no sooner dismissed the crewman when there was a second knock at the door. He opened it expecting to see the messenger again. There was Cass whom he hadn’t seen or heard from after that day on the beach. She’d been thinking things over, she said, and wanted to talk in private. She admitted then that she was attracted to him, too. Emotionally, intellectually, physically: she wasn’t sure. But she hadn’t considered a relationship before and wasn’t sure she wanted one or that it’d work. She didn’t want to pursue something superficial, did she? She doubted that he really meant what she remembered him saying. Suggested they should keep their minds open to the possibility that their feelings were just a reaction to recent traumatic events. They should think things over carefully, given he was transferring and both had careers to consider. She just didn’t know: it was too much to process and she couldn’t make a decision. She couldn’t think of a good reason to if they weren’t going to be on the same ship much less the same sector. No one questioned why the shuttle’s departure was delayed by a little over half an hour, but he sort of wished they had. He was conflicted; found it hard to think clearly with Cass around. He couldn’t make peace with the risks she faced and being there to witness her injuries or death was a personal kind of nightmare. But he couldn’t fight how he felt; trying just magnified the problem. His meeting with Captain – scratch that – Commander Calestorm on the Creek didn’t help the situation. He had no choice but to work with her, and on learning that his report date had been pushed back indefinitely, Cass balked. Don’t force her to make a decision she might regret: she needed time and space to think. They agreed to remain professional and parted in an awkward silence that hadn’t waned for Gage. Yes meant he had to admit that he hadn’t understood what Cass really said that day. He’d only heard her doubt and reluctance. It stayed with him, chafing while she’d carried on like there was nothing between them and added insult to injury. He’d begun to accept that an answer, favorable or no, wasn’t coming. Convinced that for some reason she just wanted to ignore the situation until he was gone, and ready to tell her he frankly didn’t give a damn. That amounted to a lot of disappointment, frustration and pride to forget all at once. “Cass,” he called out as he passed into the corridor, jogging to catch her. The turbolift door had just opened. She looked in, then stared indifferently down the corridor at Gage. “Hold up, Cass,” he said, blocking her exit with his arm. “How was I supposed to know you were serious?” Cass stared at the closing door. “Oh, I don’t know,” she retorted sarcastically. “Maybe because I was worried when you weren’t breathing. Maybe because I wasn’t laughing, wasn’t smiling, wasn’t even close to making a joke.” “Cass, I stopped trying to make sense of what’s going on,” he tried to explain. “Maybe that’s the problem,” she continued, “making sense of it. Been trying to make sense of a lot of things lately and it’s not happening. Figured most of the universe doesn’t make sense, so the hell with it.” His arm dropped. “So you were waiting it out until I left.” “Didn’t know what else to do,” she gave a half-hearted shrug. “It seemed easier, but it wasn’t. Made everything harder, because....” frustrated, she let it hang. The lift returned, forcing her to move aside for a few exiting. She stepped away from his roadblock and moved to the end of the corridor. “Yeah, guess it did,” he cynically replied, ignoring the three filing out of the lift behind him. “You left me hanging, acted like nothing happened ‘cause you’re afraid to say no. Harsh, Cass.” “No,” she corrected. “Could’t say no. Didn’t know how to say yes. Still don’t.” “Noticed,” he shot back, fixing her with a hard look. He shook his head, frowning a thin line. “No,” he resolved and closed in, hand shooting to the bulkhead and blocking her into a corner. “You’re not getting off that easy this time.” Out of reflex she plastered herself against the wall. Arms raised and every sense on full alert, her eyes automatically darted around to gauge his strategy and look for an opening. Her body tensed and she struggled to contain her fists. He leaned in close, half-smirking out of long-standing frustration. “You’re gonna say something if I have to drag it out of you,” he lowly warned and, catching her raised hands in his, he kissed her. Damn the spectators and protocols. Cass gasped, the sound quickly stifled by his lips meeting hers. Her first thought was how the hell does he expect me to say something with my mouth covered, but it wasquickly replaced by oh, what the hell.... Slowly, she began to yield, refusing to make sense of it, refusing to think of anything but the moment. Giving her a second to catch her breath, he mischievously grinned, his mood improving as her reaction told him what she couldn't. "Hell, talking's overrated," he decided and tightly pulled her close, kissing her again. She seemed ready to both float away and melt in his arms when he snuck a glance at his watch. Two hours before your next shift can feel like a long time on a ship if you're not busy. But not long enough.

Call Me A Silver-Granger Log It was early afternoon, gray waves lapping the west coast where hundreds of colonists had retreated for a warm Saturday. Orbiting somewhere above, veiled by daylight, the Creek silently rested, haunt of a reclusive, tinkering wizard. They had two months of leave remaining after debarking the Buffalo Gap; enough to travel to exotic places and find more exciting things to do. He could’ve spent a week or two with his brother and sister-in-law in South Dakota before reporting to his new post. But Gage gave into old habits, choosing to spend it on New Topeka’s military installation, aimlessly wandering through neighboring cities in the Creek’s unseen shadow. Reminiscing about another coast years ago: shivering at Coronado, surfing at Pacific Beach, strolling the Gaslamp, butting heads with a couple wannabes at Ruby’s on the Oceanside Pier. Now he had memories of another coast to add: Crossing the line when he kissed Cass; the awkward moments after. Stuffing the last of his belongings into his seabag, he knew he should’ve gone home. He’d made a mistake. He hadn’t acted on her behalf. Her traumatized mind barely held together trying to process what happened. Five minutes? Ten? Half an hour? Gage wasn’t sure how long he sat on that rock, watching Cass stare at the sand until the silence became oppressive. “Look, Cass,” he said just to keep his sanity, “I like you. A lot. Tried not to, but I donno what for and not sure this is a good sign. Was sure you’d try to snap me in half.” A cynical half-chuckle escaped, then he sobered. “Wasn’t thinking,” he admitted. “My transfer’s up in a few weeks. I’ll understand if you wanna avoid anything long-term.” He glanced at her for a sign, but her eyes still bored holes in the sand. “Or short-term.” Another glance and he added in one breath: “With whiskey. Or at all. Hey, Dulcinea, you want me to leave?” “No,” she blurted, putting up a hand. “you don’t have to leave. It’s.... I’m.... Just gi’me a sec.” The free hand returned to brace against the rock, her expression constantly changing as she continued to stare at the sand. “Don’t know what to do,” she said finally, “don’t know what to say." She looked up, giving him that puzzled look again. “I never thought....” "Never thought what, Cass? That a good lookin' guy like me would wanna a girl like you?" “No, sir. That anyone would. It's not even been on my radar. Ever." Gage nodded. “Got a lot on your mind.” He considered her for a moment before he stood. “Get better, Cass. Call me when you’re ready for that drink,” he said and strolled up the beach for the boardwalk. Call never came. Maybe better that it didn’t. She didn’t need more to think about and slow her progress right now. They were both married to their careers — Cass by choice, Gage by contract. Would never have worked. A knock interrupted his thoughts as Gage secured his duffle. He glanced at the door, allowing that fleeting idea that Cass was on the other side. A crewman held out a slate when the door opened. “Transport’s waiting to take you to the Comanche Creek, sir.” “The Creek? Why?” “I don’t know, sir,” the man shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.” * * * * * Halfway down the corridor, sea bag in hand, Cass waited. Slate went in. Slate came out. Door closed. “You said you were fighting something all the way through the course, and I get the feeling it was something besides your experience during the mission, something more personal than that.” Cass liked the shrink. Didn’t like the question. “Personal?” “Personal. Like a relationship.” The psychologist rocked back in her chair, her hands apart, “Like an unresolved personal relationship.” Cass stared at the wall. The doctor waited. “Yeah,” Cass finally replied, “something I have to deal with on my own. Because it’s personal,” emphasis on the personal. She stood in the corridor until the crewman was out of sight, then approached the door, dropped her bag, and knocked.

Attachment “You dealing, Cass?” She thought a minute before responding. “Aye, sir.” He gave a slow nod, dropped his gaze and reached into his pocket. “Your dad said... if anything ever happened to him... I was to give you this.” Cass turned to face him; her eyes darted from his to his outstretched hand as he handed her two pins, one worn with age, the other not so worn but definitely old. She’d seen them before. “That one...” he pointed to the newest, “... his expert rifleman badge. First he ever got. He was so proud.” Tigard paused, lips pressed together. “That one... one-seven-one Guadalcanal. Passed down from your ancestor, Jonathan Wester Granger. Hell of a family you have, Cass. Your dad was so proud of you. Want you to know that. And if ever you need... anything. I’m here.” [One Shot, One Kill] Early evening brought a lull in activity at New Topeka Base Operations as most were either in the mess hall or had gone home. Cass had been in the corridor for what seemed hours, waiting for Starfleet Intel’s vultures to finish picking Frank clean. Her face bore a few fading bruises and her legs ached, but she couldn’t bring herself to move from the deserted waiting room as she fingered two objects, taking particular care to not damage either. The door opened and Frank Granger stepped out, two plain-clothes Intelligence officers close behind him. “Ma’am,” said Frank, coming to a respectful attention three feet from Cass. “Staff Sergeant,” she replied with a nod as the officers passed, “we need to talk.” The soft door whoosh signaled the officers’ departure and Frank relaxed. “Hey, Buddy. Thought you’d be at the mess. Your mother and I were getting ready to join you.” “Not exactly hungry,” she replied tersely without anger. “Got something for you.” He dropped his gaze to stare at the emblems in her outstretched hand: two pins, one worn with age, the other not so worn but definitely old. “Where’d you get those, Buddy?” “General gave ‘em to me, sir.” Regardless of rank, she’d always called him ‘sir.’ Old habits died hard, especially when it came to family. “Brigadier General Tigard?” “Yes, sir. Figure you need ‘em back.” Another few minutes of staring and Frank’s gaze met his daughter’s stoic expression, his brow wrinkled with incredulity. “You thought we were dead.” “Yes, sir,” she said, her voice faltering. “Ticonderoga went down with all hands at Vulcan. Didn’t know you were TDY* with Fleet Intel. No one did. For a long time. Verification came two days before Viper Strike.” “Buddy,” Frank said, slowly closing her fingers over the pins while the opposite arm pulled her into a firm embrace. “Cass,” he whispered in her ear, tears flowing freely, “I had no idea.” Cass returned his hug but strained against her pent-up emotions, so many accumulated over time and compounded by the latest mission. She finally freed some, but not all, afraid she might break completely and she couldn’t afford it. At least not now. After several minutes he pulled back, his hand still holding her fingers closed over the pins. “Buddy... you keep them. You’ve earned it.” __________ *TDY - Temporary Duty

Heart for the Fight* As far as perks, New Topeka Colony didn’t rate. If you stretched your imagination, on a scale of one to five it might be a two, but just barely. You throw in its BP/FTR training facility, though, and from the military perspective it was over the top: six full stars of straight-up raw down-and-dirty. Coronado Island paled in comparison. There was the colony, there was the base, then there was what they called the backside (all implications intended): one entire hemisphere dedicated to high-security Starfleet Border Patrol First Threat Response training. The land on the backside had always been part of the base, used for camping trips, Sunday hikes, or the occasional secluded rendezvous. But in the same way that U.S. command realized Pearl’s battleship row was not a good idea after 12/7/1941, after Vulcan, Starfleet realized that having all their training bases on one planet was courting disaster. Different century, same principle. Because of its strategic location and its BP/FTR presence, New Topeka was first on the list for development and had quickly been established as the goto place for high-level training. From frozen wasteland to arid desert, putrid swamp to iceberg heaven, broad plain to unforgiving shale peaks, it offered the entire range of training possibilities. Put that with a state-of-the-art medical facility and you had a first class training base. Cass’s medical watchdog kept an easy jogging pace just behind her as they worked the level five obstacle trail through a mountain pass. Over the last few weeks she’d worked the trails from level one to five with medical in tow to monitor her physical and neurological responses and to “keep her on the straight and narrow,” as Doc Pantoja had put it two days after Viper Strike: “How you feeling today, Warrant,” he said, slipping onto a stool next to her bed. “Like kickin’ some Klingon ass, sir. Wondering if that intel I paid for’s gonna give us s’more action.” “Looking for payback, Gunner?” “Damn right, sir.” His eyes never left hers as he leaned forward, elbows resting easily on her bed, slate in hand. “Not going to mince words with you, Marine. Going to tell you straight up, like it is, so you know what we both have to deal with if you decide to go outside the wire* with your recovery.” The doc had saved his share of battered bodies during his eleven year career. He’d become somewhat of a legend, but he didn’t seem to recognize it and probably didn’t care. Cass couldn’t fault him for wanting to get everything in order before her release, but he sure didn’t mince words. She figured he didn’t want her to pull an Operation Homecoming: a team-initiated unauthorized pre-release escape that stemmed from the whole warrior ethos thing, the never quit attitude pounded into Marines from day one: I will always place the mission first. I will never accept defeat. I will never quit. I will never leave a fallen comrade. She’d seen half-dead marines pulling their buddies out of harm’s way before collapsing from their own injuries, some even dying in the effort. But they kept on the mission. They were never out of the fight. They never quit. It gave them that edge over the enemy that was needed at the time and gave them the extra push they needed to see the engagement through. It gave them determination, and determination led to courage under fire. Problem was, it spilled over into the recovery process and could hamper it big time. They were more likely to go outside the wire thinking they could handle it all themselves. Operation Homecoming. Ooorah. Cass came to the crest of a hill, scaled a 19’ rock face, then began the descent toward the trailhead, Garuda keeping an even distance, always watching. “A’right,” Pantoja began, tapping a stylus on the slate, “see those tiny spots here, here, and here? They’re only a few of the places where surgical needles were inserted into your nerve junctions, like acupuncture with a different objective.” He paused at her shudder; his tone softened. “The needles themselves didn’t do much damage, but the pulses overstimulated your nerves, and that’s where the problem is. According to those readouts up there,” he pointed to an overhead monitor, “your nerves are still firing pretty constantly at odd times of the day and night. Am I right?” “Yes, sir,” she admitted, staring at the sheets. “They’re, uh.... workin’ overtime.” Cass rounded a curve, ascended a steep muddy incline, darted around a few stumps and over a log barrier then down again, into a twisting serpentine. Her combat boots were heavily caked with mud, her legs and arms soaked, her hair dripped with questionable material and her face bore that natural look that only swimming through a swamp can give. A quick glance as they negotiated a hairpin in the serpentine showedGaruda close behind, checking her bio-readouts on a mud-spattered arm monitor. It’d been over a week since she’d had a neurological misfire and though she was winded and every muscle ached, her nerves seemed to be working just fine. “I’m going to take a wild guess that you’re having nightmares and headaches as well.” She nodded. “The nightmares? That’s what our resident shrink is for. The headaches will pass; they come with the territory when we’re talking about traumatic brain injury - in your case, mild concussion. “Anyone ever say you had a hard head, Gunner?” Caught off-guard with the question, Cass looked up to a semi-smirk that reminded her of Silver. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” he said, bemused, “but I’m not talking bullheaded here, I’m talking about your genes.” He flicked to another screen. “These scans show an amazingly solid cranial structure. Judging from the external soft tissue damage you should have had at least a crack in your skull, but there’s not a sign, so next time someone calls you hard-headed, Gunner, they’re right. “But,” he interjected holding up a finger, “that doesn’t mean there’s no damage. As I said, mild concussion,” his free hand waggled, “maybe some other things we want to watch for a while. Bottom line: I’m sure you’ll get your payback, but not right away. After a few weeks and some psychological counseling for the trauma, we’ll re-evaluate. In the meantime, I’m keeping you here another night or two, then releasing you to our shrink, maybe some light duty, depending on the scans. Got it?” “Got it, sir.” That was five weeks ago. Today Doc Pantoja stood at the door of the check-in hut at the trailhead, slate in hand, watching Cass and Garuda cross the line. She had run the 10k level 5 course in good time. Not record, and not even close to her personal best, but they weren’t looking for that. Garuda synched with Pantoja’s slate and they compared notes while Cass walked a cool-down, her hands resting easily on her hips. Their verdict: extended performance without neural misfire, collapsing, muscle spasms, and a few other things in doc speak she didn’t understand. She’d be ready for Creek within the week, and she’d be looking for Klingon payback. ___________________________ *Heart for the Fight - title of a book by Brian Stann, Marine Silver Star recipient and mixed martial arts instructor. * Dr. Jose Pantoja: Used with utmost respect in honor of the selfless dedication to duty under fire by U.S. Army SGT Jose Pantoja, medic, 3rd Platoon, Bravo Company, 2nd Battalion, 87th Infantry Regiment, 10th Mountain Division while attached to FOB Bermel, Afghanistan. *Outside the wire: military slang meaning outside the protected perimeter of a facility or encampment.

[This log has been edited for graphic violence. For the full version, please send a message board PM to Cassie Granger.] SEREality (Edited Version) A Silver-Granger Log It was in moments like this that I gained my intimate knowledge of fear. It starts in the pit of your stomach then travels up and down your spine making every movement an effort. I had to break through those terror-formed blocks of ice.... I could not let them destroy who I was. ~Brian Stann, Heart for the Fight You can be prepared, but you're never ready. No amount of Survival Evasion Resistance Escape training can ever prepare you for what happens when you're actually captured by an enemy force. No matter how realistic your training is, no matter how brutal your captors pretend to be, no matter how many evil thoughts they plant in your mind or how much they pretend to enjoy battering your body or watching you drown, somewhere buried in the back of your mind is the knowledge that the instructors and observers are on your side. You'll come out battered and bruised in body and ego, but you'll survive. They're not going to let you die. Reality is that when you're really captured, they don't give a damn. Unless you're a tradable high value target, all they want is what you know. Then you're as disposable as yesterday's garbage. Marine Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger was prepared, but she wasn't ready. Not by a long shot. Cass awoke to a hand jerking her head back. A harsh voice growled a question she didn’t understand, then repeated it as a sharp blow to the side of her head slammed it into the chair back. Her head spun and blood trickled down her jaw. The headache was back. A string of several other versions of the same question followed one upon the other, each accompanied by a sharp heavy blow. Her left eyelid began to swell; her mouth filled with blood. Yeah, the room was spinning now. Finally she understood, "Who are you? Who do you work for?" repeated again... and again... and again... with the same punctuating wallop, allowing no opening to respond. He was on a power trip, enjoying his work, his domination over a helpless captive. Instead of trying to respond, Cass concentrated on relaxing against the blows, timing his swing and turning her head so they’d do less damage. He didn’t seem to notice for a while, but then he suddenly changed his rhythm and landed a massive clout. He’d been playing along, playing her game, allowing her to believe she was fooling him. She forced herself to think, to keep from blacking out. Then he stopped. Cass raised her eyes against swollen eyelids to glimpse her captor: short and stocky, missing several teeth, a deep scar running from left temple to jaw. Unkempt hair and body language that betrayed overwhelming excitement at what he might accomplish with her shouted sadism, if not insanity. He half reminded her of the neighbor’s crotchety old English bull that terrorized the neighborhood when he got loose. Weird thought. She tried, but couldn’t shake it. Bulldog barked an order into the darkness and a strap from behind secured Cass against the chair back. Then it began in earnest. Pins surgically pierced strategic areas of her back, pecs, sides, neck, and jaw. She grit her teeth against it. Her body involuntarily jerked as each stab hit a major nerve junction. As they attached the energy cables her legs began to shake. Cass fought to keep her mind in the moment, to keep those paralyzing blocks of ice from forming by forcing herself to think of anything but what might come next. Anticipation led to fear; fear led to terror; terror led to any number of things from spilling the beans to total mental breakdown. Spilling the beans was not an option; she vowed she’d die first. Total mental breakdown meant losing all reason, going into a catatonic stupor. If the team got to her they’d have to carry her out, and she would not put them at risk for a vegetable. "Now, you will tell me..." the man finally spoke, breaking her concentration with a slow, deliberate cadence, "...everything." He grinned, leaning close to her battered face, exposing his remaining teeth, most of them rotten, their putrid stench overwhelming. "You will tell me who you are... who you work for... how you found our camp... everything...." He nodded into the darkness. The initial pain was subtle as they engaged the electrodes. It built slowly, every increase making her suck in a breath and tighten her jaw despite her efforts to relax. The slow progression was a classic psychological ploy. Theoretically it would tease her into believing they’d reached maximum. When they increased the charge and she realized it wasn’t maximum and she should begin to wonder how far they would go. As the charge continued its upward swing she should question her ability to endure. Theoretically. A solid block of ice formed in her belly. As the pain increased, icy tendrils slithered up her spine and wrapped itself around her resolve.... “Breathe through it, Buddy. Breathe through it.” Frank: extracting a scorpion’s tail from her shoulder. The trail head was several miles back; descent from the plain was a good 500 feet; the outskirts of the colony lay at least ten miles farther, way out of range of communication. Though he’d administered a broad spectrum anti-venom, he had to remove the stinger and bleed it out or she’d be dead before they hit the trail head. “Breathe, Buddy. Slow, deep breaths. That’s it...” her dad worked his knife, expertly prodding the area for extraction, careful to cut around the venom sack without pressing on it. “Hang in there.” The dial clicked. The pain shot through her temples. She wanted to scream then. She wanted to scream now. She would not give them that satisfaction. They would not... ….destroy ...who she was. “Fear is contagious. So is courage. Suck it up.” The click of a dial behind her came an instant before the pain skyrocketed. Jeers and laughs echoed against bare walls. Her resolve turned to anger at the taunts. An adrenaline surge took her back to Coronado Island. Brutally cold storm-fed surf penetrated to the bone. Her muscles cramped and every step, every movement took supreme effort, the kind of effort that needed more than raw determination. Wave after wave pounded them on the rocks, her foot wedged in a crevasse, each breaker twisting it mercilessly while she struggled to work the boat and keep herself from drowning. Coronado became a living, breathing monster; her anger surged against it. Her head pounded against the back of the chair. “Too slow. Too slow,” the instructor barked from the safety of the shore, his arms folded casually across his chest, his eyes shrouded in reflective sunglasses, his face an emotionless mask. “Get back in there. Do it again.” Sudden short, intense bursts jerked her body like a marionette. They laughed uproariously, enjoying the show. Someone danced in her peripheral vision, clapping to the rhythm of her body jerks. The words human, PetaQ, and pathetic weaklings came between jeers. Coronado paled against the monsters in the room. Mental images of the MIAs they had just rescued flashed violently, their emaciated bodies riddled with the signs of torture. She imagined the fate of those not rescued, the ones now languishing in the hell-hole they knew as Rura Penthe.... Cassie’s face flushed as her anger turned to unbridled rage. …. I humbly serve as a guardian... ...always ready to defend... ...those who cannot defend themselves.... I serve with honor on and off the battlefield.... I will never quit! I persevere... and thrive... on adversity.... If knocked down, I_will_get_back_up..., every time. I will draw on every remaining ounce of strength... ...to protect my teammates... ...and to accomplish... the mission.... I am never... ...out of the fight....* The pain rocketed and her rage erupted into an involuntary scream. The pulses stopped. Suddenly. But the pain lingered long after as she sucked breaths through her clenched teeth, her mind reeling with rage, her entire body engulfed in shudders, the real world fading away. "Now," Bulldog said casually, taking a seat before her as her breathing slowed to pants. The room still spun but her mind jerked back to reality. “Are you ready to tell me who you work for, or shall we revisit the nature of your neural pathways?" Cass blinked, a surreal thought about his widening vocabulary stuck among the swirling images in her mind. He waited. After several minutes Cass managed to lift her head, her eyes swollen and cloudy. Squinting didn’t help. Still looks ugly. "Who do you think I work for?” she managed, barely getting the words out. “Who else would steal your Rihan pets and your Federation cargo from under your nose?" Another vicious jolt sent her body into spasms. As soon as her head cleared he was in her face. “Tell me..,” he breathed, “is it Moroth?” He paused for some time, as though judging her reaction. “Is it Gudag?” Another pause. “What about Kregar? Is it... Kregar?” “Who do you think it is?” Her head was still spinning when the next jolt wracked her body. "It’s Kregar, isn’t it,” he hissed when the burst subsided. He bent toward her and followed her lolling head with his face, exhaling his putrid breath. “It has to be Kregar!" Shouting an obscenity, he heaved his chair into the opposite wall, took hold of her hair and jerked her up, bellowing, "Where is he? Where have they taken our prisoners?" Cass gasped as he released his grip. "You know where he is," she spit out, sucking a breath to brace for the next round. But the hum of the generator had gone silent. “Yes. I do, hu-man,” he replied with forced calm, turning his head this way and that, pushing his face to hers, taunting. “In fact, I’ve always known. The far moon of alGuhl is not as barren as it looks, eh? He thinks he can hide there? I’ve known for a long time and have left him alone. He has his operation; I have mine. Until now we have had an... understanding; we have shared the goods." Jerking her head up again, his grin grew deadly and his tone intensified. "He will pay for this! You will pay for this! “Kill her,” he said into the darkness as he propelled her head against the back of the chair one last time. “Slowly. As slowly as you can.” He spat in her face, turned and stormed out. ___________________________ *Excerpted from the U.S. Navy SEAL Creed. * * * * * The compound was quiet again, but hadn’t returned to the complacent readiness in which they’d originally found it. The initial assault had put them on alert, shaken the idea that they were safe behind the Klingon border. Security had doubled and all eyes were on the jungle, roving patrols sweeping the perimeter at short intervals. They expected a second assault. The mortar crew and lookouts on the cliff-top were among the first eliminated, their concealed position revealed in the recorded footage from the raven.* Ropes were anchored and the team began their descent into the compound, eliminating three more emplacements on the way. From somewhere in the jungle, Daniels reached out and Quigleyed* a pair of guards. The team was in the compound now, advancing smoothly, aware that the window was steadily closing; at any moment the compound would become aware of their presence. More tangos down. The team split. Gonzales and Frank Granger going the left, O’Neill and Sam Ducharme going to the right, each carrying a share of explosives to destroy key targets within the compound: communications equipment, stockpiles of ammunition and supplies, HVTs.* The rest slipped between buildings with one objective: the hut near the center of the compound where the enemy held Cass. A few minutes later, Bulldog rounded a corner of the hut outside, confusion the last thing he felt as he crumpled into the soggy dirt. Crossing the open, Souter sidestepped the body and briefly paused, eyes trained down the side of the building as the others advanced behind him. Bringing up the rear, Moa tapped his shoulder and Souter fell in behind him. Gage crossed to the opposite side, eyes out as the others stacked up on the frame, keeping clear of the door. Moa gently checked the latch. The door opened with a light push and the enemy soldier behind Cass collapsed before he realized who opened the door, life draining between the floorboards. The team filed inside, clearing the single room and easing the door to a crack. Gage stared at her slumped form, keeping back as the others swarmed in, his jaw setting as their medic kneeled by her chair. Tasha’s hands wavered, uncertain where to begin and a hint of shock in her eyes as they darted over her teammate’s body, battered and riddled with wired needles. Souter pulled out his knife and gingerly cut the drying leather binding Cass’s wrists. Moa searched the body behind her for the key to the shackles securing her ankles. Gage ripped the cable harness free from the shock machine — all he could do to keep from kicking over the equipment and alerting the enemy. Gage keyed his radio. “Main, this is Viper actual. Target secure. Status to follow.” “Help me get these out,” Tasha lowly asked Souter. They began working the needles free, Tasha pressing her lips into a thin white line and Souter looking grim. Cass’s head lolled as she began to come around, the presence of the team apparently triggering consciousness. “Assets?” she mumbled on an exhale, “assets?” “Safe,” Souter replied. He didn’t mention that they’d stumbled on the body of the prisoner that got trapped in the compound with her. “Good,” she breathed, then relaxed into their hands as she slipped in and out of consciousness. “Come on, Cass,” Gage’s voice suddenly pierced through the haze, close. “Taking you home.” “Rog’... that... sir,” she managed and struggled to push herself to a stand. “Easy.” Hands steadied and lifted Cass into a pair of arms. “Let’s go,” Gage directed. Tasha wiped her hands on her fatigues and collected her weapon. Souter took point. The heavier sound of Moa’s boots brought up the rear. They slipped back into the cool humidity of early dawn and moved at a steady pace toward their rally point. The first explosion was close, somewhere behind them. Numbers guarding their exfil point thinned and the rest were cleared out in a crossfire between Daniels and those inside. The cliff towered over the compound in silence as the team slipped away, evading their pursuers. More explosions, farther away this time, as panic and fire erupted at the compound. The sudden rush of air across her face as the SPIE* rig shot from the ground toward the hovering shuttle brought Cass around. It banked away from the compound as the bird reacted to the pilot’s sure touch while his steady voice called, “Main, Adder. Package secure. Inbound, ETA ten minutes. We need medical on site in the bay. Say again, we need medical in the bay. How copy?” The muffled voices of the shuttle crew and her teammates as they unhitched her harness and lay her gently on a stretcher, then wrapped her securely for the trip home: the sounds of freedom. Silver, Daniels, Gonzales, Hammond, O’Neill, Souter, and Momoa: her family. The bond they shared went beyond blood. Built on implicit, steadfast trust, it was rooted deep within the soul and transcended life and death. Their reassuring presence and the lulling thrum of engines were her last thoughts before Tasha’s cocktail worked its magic and she slept. ____________ *raven: small Unmanned Aerial Vehicle or drone *To Quigley: to use one bullet of a sniper rifle to kill two men. *Tango: Used in place of the letter T for clear voice communication; in this case it refers to a target. *High-Value Target: any person or resource vital to an enemy’s operations. *Special Patrol Insertion/Extraction: a harness rig, used to rapidly insert and/or extract from an area that does not permit a hovering aircraft to land.

Insertion A Silver-Granger Log Briefing 0700 - USS Buffalo Gap Operation Lost Souls: Viper Strike Hearing the names of their targets for the first time, all eyes snapped to the photos that flashed on the big screen. But if anyone knew or suspected Cass’s connection to the names there, no one showed it. Major Ishiiu continued, haloed by the monitor in the dim lighting. “You’ve heard this all before, but let’s go over it again. Operation Lost Souls: Viper Strike is a personnel recovery and target elimination. Story is these guys,” he pointed at the screen, “infiltrated a Klingon-Romulan gang known as the nIyma — or ‘ghosts’ — in an attempt to track down several MIAs. We know nIyma’s main source of income comes from human trafficking and body parts,” he explained and no one objected to the racial term. “Fed wants clean up once you secure your packages. Source says there are 15-20 of them, well-armed. Mostly projectile weapons, some Klingon disruptors. Expect resistance. Assume they know what they’re doing.” “Targets are here,” he said, pointing again at the screen as the image shifted to long-range sensor imagery of a compound surrounded by dense jungle. “No update on their status, so expect to carry them out. “You’ll notice the site’s changed. Overall plan has not. Last location was the origin of our targets’ beacon, but latest Intel confirms they’re here. The Buffalo Gap will reach the Klingon border on Thursday and remain on patrol. Shuttle launches at zero-dark-thirty on Friday. At zero-four-five, you’ll cross the Klingon-Federation border, waypoint Cantor. You’ll HALO on the first pass here,” he pointed at a location coded Nicobar, “land here and hike in. Your shuttle will land at the primary extract, here, and wait.” He briefly eyed Shalin and then continued. “The team’ll enter the compound and locate our targets. Granger will verify before securing the packages.” Several eyes finally shifted from the screen and a dozen tablets to Cass, but the Major carried on without pause. “You’ll destroy the compound, then hike to the primary extract. Rally points and secondary extracts are here and here. “Any questions?” Major Ishiiu nodded at the silence. “This is a covert op, gentleman. Sanitize your kit. Leave your personal stuff at home. We still have MIAs to recover from Rura Penthe, so we want everyone thinking these guys were hit by a rival gang.” * * * * * * Not many words passed among them as the team formed up in the bay. The plan called for a fly-by in a purpose-built stealth shuttle: minimal signature, no warp engines, no transporters, no big guns. They’d get one pass to minimize the time spent airborne and the chance of being spotted. Teams were geared up for a HALO space-dive from 500 km. The shuttle would land three klicks from the compound and wait. All gear stowed on the shuttle and ready, the team lined up, each checking the other’s jump suits’ seals, pressure, airflow, oxygen mix and feed, and helmet locks. A thumbs up signaled good-to-go, and they filed into the shuttle, took their seats and the shuttle crew finished prepping for launch. After checking her seat, Cass looked up to meet the gaze of Silver square on; the luck of the draw sat him directly opposite. His eyes were stoic; hers were resolute. Anything that had happened between them had vanished as they both focused on the mission. A voice on the overhead speakers cleared them for launch, giving final instructions. Apparently, the pilot had opted to pipe the radio traffic. The pilot replied and the shuttle hummed, shaking as they lifted from the flight deck under power. In seconds, they cleared the hanger doors and were on their own. “Shuttle 027, you are clear of Buffalo Gap airspace,” control droned on the cockpit radio. In a routine insertion (if there was such an animal), Souter would have had his earplugs in, music blaring as he bounced his head to Gadston Alset’s most recent country-western chart-buster. He’d probably have been mouthing the words or, gods forbid, actually singing along, ignoring the cat-calls and lewd hand-signals from the rest of the team. Gonzales would have had his head buried in a well-used copy of Atlas Shrugged or The Great Gatsby, an incongruity that was hard to miss. O’Neill would have been juggling whatever he could find or fidgeting with the latest puzzle-knot bestowed on him by Hammond, the platoon’s master puzzle-maker. Tasha would have been fashioning another puzzle that she’d toss him if he ever finished. Everyone had a diversion, used to relax before mission insert. Going in sterile precluded that. Taking anything identifiable wasn’t an option, nor was leaving it on the shuttle in case the shuttle was compromised. So they sat and stared, talked among themselves or slept. Just over fifteen minutes to jump, Cass dozed. “2 minutes to drop,” a voice announced from the overhead and the crew chief gave the signal, securing a mask over his face and preparing for release. “Prep!” a senior NCO yelled. “Head on,” added someone nearby. Helmets were donned and collectively clicked into place. They stood and filed into two lines down the center of the cabin. Buddies made final checks on their suits then gave the ready signal. The crew chief watched, snapping the control that sucked them against the bulkhead and opened the cargo door. “Viper, drop in ten,” the voice droned in their helmets. “5.” “4.” “3.” “2.” “1.” The chief flipped a lever and they shot into the void, aimed head-first at the planet below. Walk in the park.

“On the menu for today....” WO3 Cassidy Granger, SFMC << Warning: Not a good idea to read this when you’re eating. Queasy stomach folks might want to pass it by. Just sayin’. >> As soon as the ship left orbit en route to FTR CENTCOM,* Comanche Creek’s Marines resumed their normal duties except for Operation Lost Souls asset extraction team. Their preparations had begun over a month ago, but in the initial phase they worked a regular shift schedule: Alpha on, Bravo off, and Charlie in FORECON OPS,* planning and honing their skills. As soon as the ship left Grayson, an encrypted message came across the MARDET CO’s* desk and Major Ishiiu pulled the team from shifts for total focus on the mission. Not much was heard from them outside FORECON OPS. From now on they would eat, drink, sleep, and breathe the mission. Mission prep included a refresher in SERE: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape. Were the situation not so serious, Cass would have razzed the city guys big time during the survival part. Their lack of wilderness experience and their comfort with... comfort... tended to make them just a tad squeamish because it meant a literal shift back about 35k years to hunter-gatherer. Well, maybe not that far back, but you get the picture. This time, though, Cass was all business. What most of them had encountered in basic SERE training was a little different than what they’d be doing to prepare for the extraction mission, but the essence was the same and no doubt the team would have flashbacks to their first encounters with reality. They’d be taking a shuttle down for asset extraction, and, granted, every shuttle and fighter is equipped for emergencies. You go down, and a few things might survive the crash: medical supplies, containers of water, water purification tablets, a range of survival gear for camouflage and shelter construction, communications equipment (unless it got smashed up on the landing), emergency transponders (not encouraged if you’re in hostile territory), printed standard communications in various languages with a pronunciation guide, maybe a meal or two including energy bars, and a map of your combat or recon area. In advanced SERE you’re dropped into backend nowhere without all that. You have a knife, a compass, and a basic emergency med kit (sealed, so the instructors/observers know if you used it or not - but that’s a different story), and you survive, considering yourself lucky to have those three things. You find water, food, and shelter, and you survive for a few weeks up to a month while you make your way - without being detected by your instructors - to a designated location for extraction. Those lucky enough to be tapped for SPECOPS* or considered high capture risk, get the special advanced version, aka Level C, and that includes a hell of a lot of things you probably don’t want to know about. Most come back a hell of a lot lighter; most come back alive; all come back with a major attitude adjustment and a whole different perspective on the word starvation. ‘Course before the drop you’re trained in woodcraft, improvised tools, navigation, camouflage techniques, resistance techniques (which includes resisting torture), emergency first aid and communications, plus a few other things you might need to survive. You learn about and get to experience the tough calls, like eating a fresh kill raw because a fire would bring attention to your presence, or deciding not to drink that questionable water because going thirsty is a heck of a lot better than coming down with dysentery, cholera, typhoid, flukes, flatworms, or tapeworms. Then there’s the whole not finding water part, especially in desert environments. That’s when you improvise, squeeze water from stones (yeah, it’s possible), you start drinking body fluids and eating parts of an animal or plant you never considered before and probably never will again. Or eating a worm, grub, or insect because there are no larger animals around to speak of. Like I said: basic attitude adjustment. Whole new perspective on the word starvation. But I digress. SERE training might semi-prepare you for an unknown planet, but it’s better to get the skinny on it before infil if you can. Class M planets, like the one the extraction team were tackling, have basic similarities; they have the usual variations of plants and animals just like the continents of earth have basic variations of plants and animals. But when you’re talking about survival you really want to be just a little more specific. If you can. You try to find out where to go and where to stay away from, what plants and animals you can get up close and personal with and what you really shouldn’t, what you can eat and, especially, what you can’t. With the assistance of the science department the teams got a darned good idea of the natural environment they might have to endure for a while if things went sideways, backwards, or shot to hell. The area they would be working in was mostly jungle with an abundance of insects and fleshy ground-dwelling creatures - grubs, worms, larvae, and the like, so those would be a good choice, if not downright tasty. Several varieties of fruit, woody plants, marsh grasses, and leaves worked, too. The place was crawling with lizards - literally - and several small and large mammals, all mostly harmless but peppered with the usual predators. The things to stay away from? Well, the predators were a good start, especially the larger carnivores that might decide humanoids would make a good main dish, if a bit gamey. A few species of fish used deadly poison for protection, so a keen eye was a good idea in any water areas. Several species of viper inhabited the ground, trees, and water (yeah, the water was looking more and more like fun and games). Then there was one two-legged reptile about 3 meters tall that resembled tyrannosaurus rex minus the nasty attitude - unless it was mating season. At other times they seemed to keep to themselves, but just its ability to get nasty helped the team decide to give it a wide berth. All in all, it would be an adventure they might not want to get into, but the good thing was that, if they had to, they could survive. And, in Cassie’s estimation, a jungle was always better than a desert. ============ *FTR CENTCOM: First Threat Response Central Command *FORECON OPS: Force Reconnaissance Operations, a deck dedicated to operations of the Marine Reconnaissance Platoon attached to USS Comanche Creek *MARDET CO: Marine Detachment Commanding Officer *SPECOPS: Special Operations

Ring That Bell Cassidy Granger, SFMC The view hadn't changed, but it’d been a while since Cass had seen it from this particular angle. Rafters. Lights. Ropes. Mat beneath her head. Yeah: same gym, same ship. "Hey... you okay?" Gonzales? One slow blink. Another. View’s the same. "Hey!" A hand gripped her shoulder. She blinked again. Squeezing out an, "I'm good," truth be told, she wasn’t sure, and the words weren’t all that convincing. He helped her to a sit and the room didn’t spin. Always a good sign. "Sure you're okay?" "Yeah, Gonzales. I'm good. Just...” a grimace squeezed her eyelids tight and she held up a hand, “...gi’ me a sec." Snatching an offered towel, she rubbed it across her face and down the back of her neck then flipped it over one shoulder to hang there as she stared at the mat. Across Creek’s Marine gym, a few dozen eyes returned to business, apparently satisfied with her condition. "Damn, Sunny,” said Hector as he settled next to her on the mat, “that move's pretty basic. It’s never tripped you up before. You’re really off your game today - what gives?” He paused and leaned in, evidently for a quick pupil check. She shook her head. How could she explain it when she couldn’t explain it herself. It wasn’t just one thing, it was a bunch, an accumulation of incidents and mixed messages, a can full garbage she had to sort through to find the evidence, the reason.... "I'm good," she snapped after a minute, "just... tired, Hec. Gonna pack it in." A quick personal assessment and Cass took an assist to a stand then headed toward the locker room. But even an ice-cold shower couldn’t shake that last image - the one at the top of the heap. It’d been playing over and over and over in her head. “Guy was a pain,” Gage remarked dryly, evidently amused as he glanced the stranger floating downstream. “Now you’re done flirting, can we go?” Flirting. Hell. Bracing herself against the shower wall with one hand, Cass lost all track of time as the water poured over her head and cascaded down her back. The room that was packed when she came in had emptied out, and still she stood there, numb, not feeling a thing. Finally a familiar hand from behind flicked the water off and a towel hit the back of her head. “Been here a half hour,” a deep masculine voice whispered in her ear. “Not only wasting water, but get it any colder and you’ll go into hypothermia. We need to talk.” That was it, plain and simple. When Cass turned away from the shower head Moa was gone. Wrapping the towel around herself, she wandered slowly toward the lockers, still not sure where she was headed, or if she even cared. The Grayson SNAFU, intense mission prep for the upcoming asset extraction (if they ever survived Grayson) and whatever was going on in her head concerning the team mashed into one major reality check that wasn’t helped when she passed by the row of lockers and saw Silver stretched out along the bench, looking just about as good as she felt. A fresh set of fatigues later, Cass sat face to face with Moa in a corner of the FORECON OPS briefing room. He was her stabilizer, the one who sensed problems often before she knew she had any. Now, some folks said Moa was a gentle giant and some called him Grizzly, but all had a profound respect for the Maori warrior. True, he could be gentle on occasion, especially when he allowed his South Pacific lilt to take over. His deep voice became downright mesmerizing, especially to any females in theater - vulnerable ones, that is - and he deployed it pretty often when on leave. But you don’t swoon your way to Gunnery Sergeant in the Corps, and you sure as hell don’t get into 1/1, FORECON, that way. Gunny Gleason Momoa could be downright terrifying if he had to be, but he could also modify that terror to make a point. Somehow, the black of his eyes got deeper and his voice took on an edge that sent the heftiest Marine back to Boot. When making a point - a life point, he called it, something that would save your life one day - he kept his voice quiet and his tone smooth while lookin’ you in the eye like a tiger does when it’s not quite hungry enough to pounce but it’s thinking about ‘maybe later.’ When Cass met his gaze he had that ‘maybe later’ look that got his superior officer’s attention. But at this point she sure didn’t need much. He leaned into her personal space, folded his hands in front of him, and rested his forearms on a pair of massive quads. “It’s like this, Cass,” he said, using her first name for emphasis, his eyes dark as the Mariana trench, “it’s your responsibility to advise Silver; It’s mine to advise you.” His tone was quiet and direct, but concerned and respectful. “Something’s interrupting your concentration. Gonzo shouldn’t’ve been able to get close to you, much less deck you. That last run through the course, you bottomed out. The kill house? Not even going there. “Thing is, Cass, Whatever it is, it’s gnawing at you big time and needs to be dealt with now. You need help?” his hands spread open, relaxed, like a shrug, first pointing to himself then across the room. “I’m here. Major’s here. Don’t expect you to share specifics with me, but we both know that when it’s boots-down the only thing that’s got to be in our minds is the mission. Nothing else.” He kept eye contact for several minutes, giving her an opening if she wanted it. Problem was, she wanted it, but hadn’t a clue what to say or where to start, so she said nothing. Finally he stood, slid the chair into place and rested a hand on her shoulder before leaving. Cass continued to stare into space after he left, then finally stood, turned, and headed back to the locker room.

If I could find assurance to leave you behind,I know my better half would fade.And all my doubt is a staircase for youUp and out of this maze.The first step is the one you believe in;The second one might be profound..I’ll follow you down through the eye of the storm;Don’t worry I’ll keep you warm.I’ll follow you down while we’re passing through space;Don’t care if we fall from grace,I’ll follow you down. You Forgot Poland A Calestorm-Silver-Granger Log The meeting ended on discord, with the skipper essentially saying, “If you don't like it, go back to the ship." Well, maybe not in so many words, but making the mission voluntary amounted to approximately the same thing. Of their shore party’s joint protection detail, Yamanaka voiced her desire to volunteer first and Gage didn't look pleased as the numbers increased. Leaving LCPL Tasha Hammond, one of the team’s best field medics, tending to Lieutenant Belo, Gage motioned to Cass. “What’re you doing, Cass?” he asked lowly, meeting her halfway. “Putting the best option on the table, Sir,” she replied in the same confidential tone. “Figure the PD is already down the drain and if we don’t want to do any more damage, covert is the best option.” Her face still flushed with the adrenaline rush of the recent operation, finger tapping on the side of her Mk11. Gage stared at her with an uneasy expression, evidently at a loss as he glanced between her gaze and twitchy finger. “So you’re volunteering, Cass?” Head ticked to the side, Cass shifted uneasily and waited for a few to move out of earshot before meeting his gaze straight-on. “D’you catch their expressions during the briefing, Sir? Especially Souter, Daniels, and Hammond? They were fairly droolin’ over the prospect of action. Stepped across the line right away. Hell, Hammond’s 23, Souter’s just over 21, and Daniels...” she shook her head, “...they grabbed him fresh from secondary, gave him the fast-track short-course initiated after Vulcan. Not sayin’ he’s not capable, but he’s... he’s just 20.... I don’t agree with this... side mission... but if I don’t volunteer and the rest of the team does? I can’t let ‘em go without me.” She glanced around, the damned if you do, damned if you don’t look clear. Her finger stilled and she relaxed her grip on the weapon as she took a firm stance, facing him once more. “Sir, we both know it’s damn dicey putting anyone at risk without knowing the full story, and we sure as hell don’t know the full story here. That’s why I proposed covert, hoping we’d figure out what’s going on while we’re on the move.” She gave a snort. “Am I afraid of dragons? No. Afraid of Count Luca and his cronies? Hell, no. Afraid of what this might turn into if we ever get back and the suits get hold of it? Damn right I am. We have serious mission creep here, and we both know how that turns out: too many lost, and courts martial for the survivors. Don’t especially relish the thought of us spending the rest of our lives in a dark hole.” Having fixed his full attention on Cass and understanding her dilemma from the look on his face, Gage sighed and glanced toward Calestorm in apparent thought. He then lifted a finger and gestured for Cass to follow, his intentions undisguised as he approached their ambitious Captain for a private conversation. Whether she would be up to it remained to be seen, but at least they could try. Cass followed, but kept a respectful distance, within earshot and speaking range if need be. “Skipper,” Gage greeted, “you gotta minute?” Calestorm turned her attention to the askee of the question. “Watcha got, Quick?” “Need to discuss this side-mission, sir.” The Captain silently acknowledged the request; they moved into a small office set off the main conference room; intended for guests, it was a perfect size. The entry door, made of a local wood and carved tastefully, was left slightly ajar, but no one would disturb them. Always to the point, she didn’t hesitate. “Lay it on me, what’s on yer mind?” “Well, sir, not gonna get another argument from me on the P-D; moot point, given they’ve had the tech for awhile,” Gage began and then fixed a grim look on Calestorm. “But with all due respect, skipper, we’re still strangers here. And you’ve known Phalen for what? The better part of 45 minutes? We’ve barely touched the sociopolitical landscape on this block, much less the planet. “Say we’re wrong. What happens when we destabilize the region? Luca’s friends retaliate or the dictator next door that Luca held off for years moves in after we leave. Or, maybe, we’ve just removed the last thing standing between Phalen the Conqueror and the next Grayson Reich. How do we know today’s attack wasn’t the Doolittle Raid over Japan after Pearl Harbor? “Consider your reaction if you’d stumbled into Yokohama that afternoon,” he continued unabated. “Forget what you know about World War II. Bombs’re dropping, ground shaking. You talk to frightened, propagandized Japanese that studied in grade school how US Commodore Perry forced his way into their country a hundred years earlier. Is it remotely possible that you’d believe the US was the aggressor? “What makes you confident that we’re committing our forces to the right people or should be committing at all?” Calestorm considered her response, looking from the CSEC to the Marine and back, before directing her answer to both officers but more so to Quick. “It ain’t a perfect situation, tactical or otherwise. Yes, we may very well be helping out the quote bad guys. But then again, if you do have a perfect situation, isn’t that a sign to run like hell?” She blew a breath out through her nose and then continued. “I believe what Defender Phalen has told me. The Graysons are in need of help against Count Luca. We’re able to provide that help. That’s what we do.” “Don’t have to beat the drum, sir,” Gage firmly but courteously returned. “I get it. Think everyone wants to give a damn; right the universe. But frankly, sir, you’re going off half-cocked. We’re off mission, bound for disaster; and you’ve put your crew in a bad spot, if not potentially alienated a lot of them. Shaken their faith in your decision-making paradigm. What would you do if no one supported you, sir; do it alone? “No one wants to question you, but this isn’t why we came here. This isn’t our fight and there’ll be a price to pay if we get involved.” “We’re not afraid to make sacrifices, skipper; it’s part of who we are. But whether we join you under orders or our personal cognizance, we’re liable for what happens here. We’ve an ethical duty to question the unlawful actions of our superiors and peers. We took oaths to uphold our laws and standing orders. To do the right thing morally and legally. What good’s an oath you can’t keep?” Gage shook his head, rubbing his chin. “No, skipper, it’s more than that. Not just our careers and lives on the line: it’s their lives,” he said, pointing at the window. “They didn’t sign up for this. We incite a greater conflict with Luca and there will be casualties; not all of them ours. They’ll have to live with the result; not us. Don’t need us to make it worse with good intentions. “And what happens at the next Grayson? Can we fix every socio-political mess? How many times will we try before things really get screwed up?” Gage shifted a few paces to the left as he shook his head again. “Don’t expect a perfect situation, skipper. Expect my CO to use more than her gut. Expect a bit of objectivity and sound judgment and I’m not convinced I’m seeing it. With due respect, if we're gonna do this, committing on more than a 45-minute chat and a simple conviction would’ve been a good start.” “As for me being in or out: I won’t abandon my team. We’ll provide overwatch ashore and get you out if it goes sideways. Just want to know one thing: Is it personal? We jumping in knowing next to nothing because they rained on your parade or conjured up some ghost from your past?” Crash quieted, her gaze wandering to the medium-sized clear and stained glass office window ; after a few moments, she returned her attention to Silver. “That backup’ll be ‘preciated. With regard to putting the crew on the spot? It’s their job. The decision to assist Grayson remains mine and I’ll ask for volunteers. I’ll make that decision perfectly clear should there be any Board of Inquiry from the Brass.” “As for the Graysons themselves not asking for any of this....I’d say ‘It’s already here...’” she mentally revisited the image of the elder black dragon belching acid, then went on. “Not that my personal background or quirks is really anyone’s business, I can say this: If I went around talking to all the ghosts from my past I’d either be flat out crazy by now or I’d be at the Leavenworth penal colony.” She quieted again, but didn’t elaborate on the cryptic statement and instead answered the main question with, “I trust the Defender. My gut reaction’ll have to be sufficient for everyone.” “We’re staying for at least the next few weeks. We’ll be working with the Graysons, learning more about their culture, historical background, defenses and weakness. We can use that diplomacy as a cover to allow SEC and the MARDET to recon the outlying areas. We question the populace, gather Intel on what Count Luca - and the Graysons - have really been up to.” Gage tipped his head with obvious resignation and some dismay. “Hope you’re damn sure about this, skipper. We may end up doing a lot more harm than good and once the ball’s rolling, we won’t be able to stop it.” .If I could find assurance to leave you behind, I know my better half would fade. I’ll follow you down.

Tail Wagging by PFC Daniel Souter, SFMC FORECON “Danny.” Souter turned his head toward the tree he was leaning against and casually pressed his ear bud. “Yeah, Boss.” “You got eyes on?” His response was drawn out and carried the hint of laughter as he tossed a grin toward a passing child. “Yeah, mid-city near the market. He’s sleeping,” he said as he pushed himself away from the tree trunk and shifted the straw he was chewing from from one side to the other, “or at least he’s trying to look like it. Giving me a chance to check out the local wildlife, gather some intel. Weird planet, I’ll give you that. Weirder population. Feel like I been dropped into an old-time video game.” The snort was just short of derisive. “Different, Danny. The word is ‘different.’” “If you say so, Boss. Want me to blend?” “Stay put. Let them come to you. Midday should bring out most of the population. Move when he does, and stay obvious. You’re probably not the only one who’s watching.” “Gotcha, Boss.” The connection closed and Danny returned his attention to the crowd. Creek’s helmsman seemed relaxed, oblivious to the potential danger in the market place. A lone stranger, unarmed, sitting under a tree in the open market? Didn’t matter how polite the population acted, there was always a hidden element waiting for an opportune moment to take whatever advantage they could. Dan’s job was to tail him, to be sure nothing happened. Right. Now, there are several ways to do a tail. One is to stay hidden. You try not to let your package know you’re tailing and you only interfere if need be, the top of the list for ‘need be’ meaning direct physical protection. Overwatch without the rifle. If you want to tail and protect at the same time, you don’t sneak around, you’re obvious. You let everyone around you know that you’re with that guy, that the person who looks alone is not really alone. This option was usually the best because what looked like a lone target became a duo and anyone wanting to take advantage of one might think twice about two. At least that’s what the head shed* decided, and they had exactly the right person for it: Danny Souter, PFC. The platoon called him ‘the blender’ - not the type you fix food with, but the one who can blend into a role like he was born to it. To begin with, he was pretty nondescript. At 5’6” he was pretty short for a Marine, but short did have its advantages. Put that with brown hair, brown eyes, and a casual manner and you have the perfect recon specialist. But wait! There’s more! Growing up in rural Montana gave him a lot of experience in hiding and blending in: in a group of buddies to get away from a certain female who wouldn’t leave him alone, in town when the carnival arrived and he was supposed to be working in the field, and in the Rockies dodging black bear who’d tired of berries and put fresh meat on the menu. And he had a lot of experience playing the ‘unwanted friend’ or, in the case of his childhood, the ‘unwanted tail-along younger brother.’ He could pout, hang his head, look really, really sad (a favorite ice-breaker for his buddies ), and feign a lot of other things that would make any mother believe it wasn’t his fault. Except for his own mother, but that’s another story. Anyway, today Danny was playing the ‘unwanted friend.’ Dressed as a disheveled farm boy, the antithesis of Shalin’s middle class, every time Shalin looked in his direction or dodged out of sight, Danny would flash the most pathetic expression he could muster and run clumsily after him, giving an occasional limp or stumble for good measure. By the looks of the townspeople it worked; he’d seen several glance from him to his package and some even looked like they took pity... well, as much pity as the upper-class gentry could on a hick farm boy. So Danny stayed put, back against a tree, .38 tucked in his trousers just beneath his tunic, occasionally glancing toward Shalin and sinking to the ground to mimic his ‘friend’ who had ‘disowned him’ for some reason. And he watched. ========== *Either senior command or the officer(s) in charge on the ground.

Dispatched A Silver-Granger Log Gage was popular. He just couldn’t help it. The charm, the physique, the boyish grin he deployed all too easily and, from conversations overheard in the chow hall, his animal magnetism had way too many females distracted and flocking around him. Like groupies to a rock star, paparazzi to a model, flies to a.… Wait. That’s not exactly the image we want here. Or maybe we do. Anyway, he was popular. And because of it he never got much rest, which explained the rings around his eyes as he inspected the kit in the FORECON OPS armory set aside for the upcoming mission. But at second glance there weren’t any shadows beneath his eyes. In fact, he looked surprisingly rested for someone who appeared like he hadn’t slept in months a couple days ago. Left corner of his mouth unconsciously turned up, he lifted an upper receiver and squeezed an eye shut, peering at the mirror shine of the lightweight barrel. Cass did her best to ignore him, but ignoring just didn’t work with Silver. “How now, Maid Jean? What news have you from the Black Fox?” he quipped flatly. Contact left. Attack pattern Delta. Execute... execute... execute. “Black Fox sends his regards, Sir. Waiting at rendezvous point alpha,” she replied, a droll expression half-hidden by the locker door until she closed it with a muffled thud and leaned one hand against it, facing him. A leather satchel slung across the front of her suede tunic from shoulder to hip, tailored buckskin breeches fit snugly into leather hunting boots, and a Tatang hung sheathed on her right hip. “Chosen your haute couture, Lieutenant? I figured you for the jaunty feather-in-the-hat and tights type.” A wide-eyed grin followed on the heels of the remark. He slid a reassembled bolt carrier group into place, eyes remaining on the task in front of him. “You got some twisted fantasies, Cass.” “You look rested, Sir. Mission ready,” she continued, strolling down the length of the table towards him. The impressive assortment of antique and modified weapons had drawn everyone’s attention. It took quite a bit of warrant glare to convince the rest of the team to take a number. “You get first choice, Sir. We’ll take what’s left.” He stared at her for a moment before returning to the rifle. Resetting the takedown pin, he pulled the charging handle and function checked the rifle through several clicks of the selector and trigger. He then set it on the table and straightened from the stool on which he’d been leaning. “Take what you want. Don’t worry ‘bout me,” he flatly remarked and walked aside the table toward the exit. Cass stepped to the table and hefted the M21 SWS.* Thorough examination and action check showed it close enough in weild and appearance to pass muster for a hunting rifle while doubling for overwatch if needed. It blended well with her outfit and would be a good complement to the 9mm hidden by the loose fit of her tunic. An extra magazine and box of cartridges, and she was out the door. Not far ahead in the corridor, Gage glanced up at the door as he conversed casually with Lieutenant Shavra. Dressed in a black and bright red corseted piece that looked more like gothic, Victorian underwear, black jodhpurs and deep brown boots, the deck officer obviously planned to accompany the away team. But her appearance had Gage rubbing the back of his head and a bemused ‘where do they keep all this stuff?’ clearly written on his face. Reacting to something she’d said, he put a hand to her back, guiding her into the armory. They stopped at the lockers and racks and Gage surveyed the selection. “You ever shot a firearm before?” he asked. “I haven’t,” Shavra replied with a bit of chagrin. Gage let out a sound of amusement and a smile. “Have to stick to what you know,” he remarked, pulling a small type 1 phaser out and passing it to her. “I can’t take that,” Shavra objected. “It could contaminate their natural development as a civilization.” “Don’t show it to them.” “But what if I’m forced to use it, Gage?” Gage started at her for a beat. “Don’t tell them it came from space,” he said, tucking it into a small pocket in her corset. Shavra gave him a disapproving look and not necessarily for what he’d done, but what he’d said. “Look,” he deflected, signing the sheet for the phaser. “We could debate the non-interference stuff all week. But weapons are do-or-die tools, not share-’n’-tell. If we have to shoot, it means somethin’ went sideways and it’s all over but the cryin’.” By the end, Shavra’s head had subtly listed to the side and she fixed him with an appeased intrigue. “What?” “It’s fascinating the way you construct your arguments. You have me - almost - convinced.” Gage blinked and glanced at the others in the compartment. “Okay. Let’s go,” he said, ushering her back through the door and into the corridor. ============ *SWS - Sniper Weapon System

Incredibad A Silver-Granger Log Gage frowned at Sovok. “Whatever, Elrond,” he answered cynically, unimpressed by his assertion that T’Aral’s request to be left alone should be honored. Cass turned aside to hide a threatening smirk. SOP for any kind of protection required eyes-on. Forget the bad guys. Nature has a mean streak, and if you're alone no one will know that you got electrocuted, fell through that hole you didn't see, or had a heart attack. Still, Elrond had just become a damn good call sign for one Vulcan officer. “Just don’t let Frodo go wanderin’ off to Mount Doom without a buddy,” Gage remarked as he strolled away, the irritation evident in his body language. “Stay on your...toes.” Frodo. Right. Time to hide another smirk. “Souter. Daniels. You’re with the doc,” Cass snapped, her expression changing as Silver passed between them. “Stay close. Eyes-on.” A quick affirmative nod from each Marine and she double-timed to catch up with her superior. “What happened, Cass? Can’t count on you going everywhere in pairs anymore.” “Funny thing about that, Sir. Went out of fashion along with bustles, floor-length skirts, and turtlenecks. Must've happened when they realized they needed us in the Corps.” Gage smirked. “We got different ideas about need. Last I checked, you’re still wearin’ miniskirts and slinkin’ off to the bathroom in groups.” Cass checked the charge on her phaser rifle, felt for the 9mm holstered at her side and patted the Tatang strapped to her thigh. “Sounds like you’re due for an upgrade, Sir,” she replied, falling in step next to him. “You’ve lived a sheltered life. Standard combat BDUs look a hell of a lot like yours and the Marine latrine’s not gender specific.” She flashed a grin. He gave her a sideways glance. “Think you just like bein’ the exception, Cass.” “Like bein’ a Marine, Sir.” Her grin faded as they approached their destination. Gage stopped abruptly and turned into her path. “Why?” he asked forcefully, wearing a piercing expression devoid of humor. A quick two-step avoided their collision. “Why what, Sir? Like bein’ a Marine? We’ve been over this territory, Sir, and it seems like we might have bigger fish to fry today than discuss my lifestyle preferences?” Gage frowned again and muttered as he entered the bridge: “.....should punch you in the jeans.” “... like a ton o’ pigeons,” Cass whispered from behind, dyin’ to see his face. Gage scowled and from the look of it the topic was bothering him, but his reaction faded before Cass could see it. He’d caught sight of Commander Wesley, gazing intently at nothing and then mumbling about the time that remained before the boarding party returned to the Creek. Paused aside and clear of the entry, Gage glanced curiously at Moa. The Gunnery Sergeant gave him the okay signal, then a quick tap to his temple. Cass slipped to the opposite side of the bridge, giving the area a visual as she moved, then turned to nod a clear. “Like a boss,” Gage sarcastically remarked on Moa’s temple tapping; evidently more concerned with assessing the behavior of his crewmates and how it would affect the mission than re-clearing rooms for ghosts. “Gonzales is still with science in their lab, Sir. Should I check it out, get a sit rep?” Gage turned his head in a deliberate movement and stared at Cass over his shoulder. Instant recognition of the look relaxed her against an intact console. “Last report was ten minutes ago. Not due for another twenty. Figure they’re fine for now.” “Get ‘em on the radio if you’re worried, Cass; we’ll go from there. An’ remind me, next person suggests going off alone: I’ma revise their levis,” Gage finally replied as he stepped back through the hatch into the corridor. “We on a boat...don’t you ever forget!”

Been gettin' the razz from one particular person ::grin:: about my Oorah. Got the official word here, for all you Fleeters: Hoorah = Air Force Oorah = Marines Hooyah = Navy Hooah = Army Just sayin'. Oorah!

Good, Bad, and Downright Ugly It was big. It was black. It was cold. And yeah, if you were into creepy you could add that to the list. Interesting? No. Dangerous? Definitely. Cass ran her hands to her hairline, resting her forehead in her palms while her eyes continued to scan each monitor, warning klaxons screaming inside her head. Everything inside the Gygax Barrier, with the exception of Luttrell and Comanche Creek, had died with all hands long ago. So why the hell stay? What was it that made them stay here. Curiosity? And isn’t that what killed the cat? Still, there was some value to being here. Now they knew what happened to the few vehicles they could identify, and they could report their findings. That was the good part. Problem was, there was a whole lotta bad and most of it was downright ugly. And we’re not talkin’ about the scenery. The bad part? There was a reason why everything in here was dead, and Cass figured if they stuck around long enough it’d be too late. The ugly? For starters, how about the wanting to stick around and find out? Fear? You got it. Afraid? Not in the least. Fear’s one thing. It’s alarm. Apprehension. Fear slips the body into red alert. Afraid? Yeah, it’s alarm, but it’s scared, spooked, and startled. It means loss of control, letting the fight-or-flight kick in: cowardice. Not in her vocabulary. Given the fear factor connected with this particular situation, Cassie’s combat focus kicked into high gear. Everything, down to the last speck of dust large enough to damage or bring down a shuttle (Luttrell) or starship (Comanche Creek) showed on her screens, each plotted with an evasive maneuver and an exit strategy, ready to be engaged as soon as command gave the word. Which didn’t seem to be coming anytime soon. They’d found the coordinates, let the goo go, and still they pressed through the graveyard hunting for.... what? Were they all mesmerized by the “thrill of adventure?” Gees, if they wanted adventure there were plenty of ways to get it besides putting the whole damned ship, plus the Luttrell, in danger. So she sat. She focused. Ready to react in half a second. Adrenaline surged to a pulsing rush. And still they pressed on, into the void, into the dead space they were calling Gygax. Named after the guy who created a monster. Right.

Thought I'd put in a good word for a show that really pins down Nav and Helm coordination. For anyone who has to deal with being helm when there is a navigator, either in a TOS advanced game (Hood and Creek - any more?) or in an academy, it can be a bit of a stretch. Anyway, The Weather Channel's latest, "Hurricane Hunters," shows expertly how navigation works with the pilot to guide him/her through the storms, plus it's a great illustration of flight under adverse atmospheric conditions, period. Gotta hand it to 'em - first rate show.

Surviving CHiT Dedicated to Danny, Axe, and Yankee, who died in Operation Redwing, and to the 16 who died in their rescue. Also to DASY, Southern Boy’s faithful dog. They’re called units for a reason. The prefix uni- comes from the Latin unus, meaning one. The word is found in united, unity, unification. It means any group of things regarded as one entity, single, indivisible. A unit is a group that works as an indivisible whole. As the team moved through training maneuvers in FORECON OPS Cass could sense each member and they, her. Each judged and reacted instantly to the movements of the other by the slightest shift of weight, a characteristic tick of the head, a quick flash in peripheral vision, or a com click. Through repetitive training, day after day after day, they came to know each other and predict their movements instinctively - by their cadence, their smell, their breathing, the weapon they used and how they moved with it, and by their body stature. Each could spot and visually identify the other from a considerable distance. When together, they moved as a unified, indivisible, synchronized whole, each member intimately aware of the skill set of the other, each member depending on and reacting to the other as though they were connected, as though they were one fast-moving, decisive machine. Repetitive training produces a synergy, a chemistry that evolves into a unit choreography, a rhythm and muscle memory that leaves the brain open to observe and assess situational changes in nanoseconds. To over-simplify, it’s like riding a bicycle. Your hands have one skill, your back, legs and feet have others, your inner ear eventually equalizes to achieve balance, your brain adjusts, the skills of each muscle group and sensory organ are merged, and the parts of the body work together to achieve the act of riding without falling so you can concentrate on your route and the obstacles in your path. The difference is, of course, that the sequence of moves needed to ride a bicycle is simple and over time the muscles forget very little. The sequence of moves needed to use a weapon or operate as a unit in a focused mission is complex; intense situational repetitive training is needed to sharpen and fine-tune that muscle memory or it becomes clumsy, awkward, and, at its worst, forgotten. The schedule had tightened for the eight assigned to Operation: Lost Souls, and it got tighter as they approached wheels up. For the present, the team worked during a shift: Alpha on, Bravo off, and Charlie in FORECON OPS. As the deadline approached they would be pulled from everything for total focus on the mission, day in, day out. They would eat, drink, sleep, and breathe the mission.... ...all under the watchful eye of their officer in charge (OIC), CPO Elmo Tasker. Major Ishiiu knew all too well that one member of the asset extraction team - namely Cass - was, to put it nicely, damn short on team-work, and the presence of a new team member, Ensign Silver, complicated the issue. To fix the problem he’d put together as rigorous a training detachment that he could from the platoon, then he put the entire platoon behind the operation to train the eight who would go on the mission. The platoon always trained together, but it seemed to Cass that their numbers had doubled since she was last down there, and the trainers were out for blood. The Major chose CPO Elmo Tasker, the “old man,” for several reasons. He’d seen so much action there was no way he could fit all the ribbons on his uniform, and his stint at Coronado earned him a reputation as a feared instructor, able to wither the toughest candidate with one look. His sharp tongue and grating bark stayed with them way into retirement. Every last man in the platoon respected him, bar none. He could get the job done, get it done well, and in record time. With the extraction window of opportunity closing in, that didn’t leave a whole lot of wiggle room for extensive training, and if anyone could do it, Tasker could. The more you sweat in training the less you bleed in combat. Hell, Cass wasn’t just sweating, she was already bleeding and seriously thinking of investing her retirement in medical supplies. But it had the desired effect: give back what they give you, only make it worse for them. You get backed against a wall, back them up against it and cave it in. They press at you, you press back. Harder. During the mission nothing was taken for granted. Sure, they had a plan, but 98% of the time whatever plan that had been put together went south, so they’d damn well better be prepared to go with it. They’d be prepared to infil half a world away or into the middle of hostiles; they’d extract the same way, night or day, fair weather or foul. Not knowing the assets’ condition, they were prepared to carry them out, possibly stretching their medical skills to the limit. The infil point was dense jungle, snaked with waterways cutting through deep chasms and swamps in between. If things went south they’d have to be prepared for it all, so they trained as best they could with what they had for all terrain, all possible scenarios... ...which brings us to the CHiT. Creek’s FORECON OPS wasn’t exactly a planet, but Tasker had a knack for making it real enough. Yeah, he was that good. Keep in mind that a planet’s natural water supply is seldom like a training pool and consider how many streams, rivers, or lakes are really clear and clean. Some of the rivers on-planet were class 5 rapids, but most were meandering, muddy, and choked with vegetation. And the swamps? Yeah, you guessed it. For several days the main graduated terrace pool in FORECON OPS had a... questionable smell, to put it mildly. And it wasn’t all that mild. In all his wisdom, Chief Tasker had commandeered everything from Creek’s CHT: Collection Holding Transfer tanks, also known as the recycle tank or, in more plain language, the sewer. So now, not only did the Marine locker room and showers reek of industrial grade liniments and some home remedies with questionable ingredients that were liberally applied to sore, aching muscles, they had that most distinctive CHiT smell - pronounced just like the other four-letter word. ‘Course, the teams did use rebreathers, but that left the rest of their bodies and whatever they were wearing that day ready to return to the recycle bin. Problem was, you can’t just toss your body into the recycler, so you have to deal with it... as best you can. Today during Charlie shift, Warrant Officer Cassidy Granger had dealt with it as best she could. She’d used everything at her disposal - as did the rest of the team - and endured the raucous, though good-natured jeers from the training detachment (expected and taken in stride). If they’d had bleach aboard she probably would have tried that, but what they had at their disposal did a passable job for engineering personnel and maybe security (where their chief could station ‘em away from everyone else), but on the bridge? Not even a brand spanking new uniform could hide the smell of liniment and residual... Eau de CHiT. And Alpha shift followed smack dab on the heels of Charlie. Ooorah! Cass stepped out of the lift still in focused team mode, nodded smartly to the Captain and Exec, relieved the kid at nav, and logged in. Heads turned, noses wrinkled and some coughed. Not her problem; she was doing her job. Anyway, she was kind of enjoyin’ giving the Fleeters a small taste of her Marine life. She figured maybe the liniment would clear their sinuses, and the CHiT? Eyes focused on her consoles, she stifled a grin, remembering Rule #6: Don’t apologize; it’s a sign of weakness.* <<TBC in sim>> ===================== References: Lone Survivor: The Eyewitness Account of Operation Redwing and the Lost Heroes of SEAL Team 10; Luttrell & Robinson; Little Brown; June 2007. Service: A Navy SEAL at War; Luttrell & Hornfischer; Little Brown; May, 2012. ---------------- *Gibbs’ Rules to Live By; N.C.I.S.

FORECON OPS* Initial Planning Session 001 USS Comanche Creek Stardate 2260.56 - 0500 hours A Silver-Granger Log The main FORECON OPS table monitor spread a 3D image of a mix of jungle, temperate rain forest and marsh across the board. Assorted rivers, streams, & sharp chasms cut through at odd angles making it look like the insane creation of some deranged mind... and the perfect place to hide. The mercenary compound was sequestered in a valley surrounded by concealed emplacements atop sheer cliffs. Even with limited surveillance available, FORECON’s construction team had gathered enough intel to form a preliminary working mock-up of Slaver Central. Thermal tracking over several 22.6-hour days led the team to pinpoint likely sleeping quarters, mess, outhouses, and general use buildings, including an... “Ammo dump?” “You got it,” said Gonzales, a point of his finger drawing Cass’s gaze from the mockup to the ridgeline on the flat table monitor. “Fifties here... here... and here. Two-forties there... and there. Hell of a thing. Like stepping back a few centuries.” The M2 .50 BMG (Browning Machine Gun) was earth-manufacture, used through the 20th and well into the 21st century. Generally referred to as a 50, it came in several variations and was effective against infantry, light armored vehicles and boats, light fortifications, and low-flying atmospheric craft. The M240 was a medium belt-fed machine gun, but extremely reliable and just as effective. Given their emplacements, they had the entire valley well covered. “Doesn’t make a whole lot o’ sense to put a compound buried like that,” she said, stretching her back out. “Even with the amount of firepower cliffside there’s no easy egress, plenty of cover for infil, and it’s pretty much open to attack from orbit. Hell, one moderate blast would take the limestone cliffs down and bury the compound. “A trap? False compound rigged to look like the real thing? Maybe they held the ‘Fleet prisoners there before taking them to Penthe? Or an escape route? Maybe inside the mountain? Something we can use for infil? CQB* inside a tunnel isn’t exactly the best plan.” She paused, giving Silver the once-over. He didn’t seem to be on his usual game. Gage stared at her for a good thirty seconds. “Or maybe it’s exactly what it looks like,” he finally offered. Cass nodded. “A compound. Secluded. Hard to get in, hard to get out, easily defended.” “By scumbags who don’t think we’re crazy enough to risk war to get ‘em.” A tick of her head showed Cassie’s agreement. “Heard an idea along those lines. Like to run it by you, Sir?” “Shoot.” “Intel suggests we go in as a rival slaver band, and they have a few good reasons for that one. Wind of Starfleet in the area can raise all kinds of red flags.” Gage gave her a blank there’s-something-growing-out-of-your-head stare. “You been on this ship too long, Cass.” “Just repeating Intel’s suggestion, Sir. Actually, more than just a suggestion; pretty convincing argument. ‘Fleet intrusion might trigger an interstellar war. Don’t think we want that with the Klingon Empire being just a mite more advanced than we are, and you can be damned sure Vulcan wouldn’t help us out on that one. That, and if the Klingons get wind of ‘Fleet infil, they’ll ratchet up their security on Penthe big time, make the second part of the op near impossible. “We don’t know much about Rura Penthe,” she continued, not letting Gage get a word in edgewise, “but we do know it’s a helluva place. Chatter says it’s a dilithium mine, deep underground, a labyrinth of passages patrolled by the rats of the Klingon Empire for guards with pet predatory animals that look like saber toothed tigers. No stockade, no guard tower, no electronic frontier, but there’s no need. A magnetic shield prevents beaming to most of the surface and what’s left is so frozen it freezes flesh well before the 30-30-30,* so if you’re put topside you don’t survive long. I’m sure they’d at least put a few warbirds in orbit if they knew we were coming. A few more ‘Fleeters to interrogate, work the mines, or use as a bargaining chip would be a pretty good deal I expect.”* Gage exhaled and faintly scowled, but it seemed like a good sign when he didn’t have an immediate reply. He pensively stared at the map for a good minute. “We’ll go as mercenaries,” he resigned. “Fewer details to mess with this late in the game. Fit right in when we shoot whoever can’t give the password.” Cass gave a nod. “Altering the ROE,* Sir?” “I don’t care what some desk jockey says,” Gage remarked with a hint of irritability. “This is what the plan is. “No prisoners, no questions. If they don’t give the right password, they’re a threat. You shoot to stop the threat. Get it?” “Got it.” Her eyes flicked to Gonzales, tongue in cheek. “Good.” Gage’s shoulders dropped and he rubbed his face. “Gonzales, say words.” “Words.” He grinned. A slight shudder rolled through Gage’s shoulders as he grinned at no one and then grimaced at the intensified headache. “A’ight, listen up. We’ve got a few weeks at best. Time for a walkthrough; start at the top. Uh--” He paused, leaning on the tabletop and staring intently at the map. Cass watched him for a few, exchanging an occasional glance with Gonzales. When Gage didn’t continue she turned to Gonzales. “Bring me fresh?” she said, raising her coffee mug toward the briefing room. As soon as the sergeant was out of earshot, she stepped closer to Silver and spoke in a confidential, though direct tone. “Accident in engineering, Sir?” “Huh?” “That nasty knot on your head’s still bleeding, and your lack of concentration says a lot about how hard it was.” Brow knitting, Gage brushed a hand over the lump hidden in his hair with a grunt and scowled at the red streak on his palm. He cursed under his breath. “You had it checked out yet?” she pressed, eyes fixed on his. “Didn’t know it was bleeding, to be honest-- Why are you looking at me like that?” “Think it’s damn obvious why.” At a look from Cass, Gonzales made a sharp about-face with her coffee, back to the briefing room. “My devilish smile and new haircut?” Cass leaned a hip against the table monitor, arms folded, her tone even and non-confrontational. “I’ll be blunt, Sir. No bull. Major’s put you in charge of this mission. He knows you’re capable. I know you’re capable. But the big undercurrent on the team? Do you know you’re capable and are you gonna keep your head in the game. I can tell you right now, if you’re sporting any kind of concussion beneath that thick skull of yours, he’ll jerk you off this mission so fast you’ll have more than a concussion to think about. “Sir,” dropping her arms to the side, Cass turned to face him full on, eyes sharp, voice low, “we need you on this. You’re trained for this and have more experience than any of us. Get your sh*t straight and your head in the game.” “Gee, didn’t know you cared,” Gage retorted and slipped into a nearby chair. “It’s just a headache and a little blood, Cass.” “Look at me,” she said, following him with an eyes-on signal. “Cass,” he tried to ward off her concern as he lounged in the chair, closed eyes veiled by his hand. “Look_at_me,” she said, her tone intense, still low. “What’s wrong? Pupils dilated so you can’t stand the light? Headaches? Can’t focus or think straight, not even for a normal conversation? Damn, Gage, cut the crap. Even I can diagnose that.” “You’re blowin’ it outta proportion, Cass. It’s just a bump,” he said, refusing to give in. “Uh huh,” she said, planting her hands firmly on the armrests. “You want out of proportion, I’ll show you out of proportion. You need to be checked out or not?” “Why, Cass,” Gage remarked in a Georgian drawl. “This is neither the time nor place to lay hands on your superior officer. But if you need an excuse, I can think of a time and a place.” He grinned widely at her, clearly amused with his wit. Cass waited a beat before pulling herself slowly to a stand and, without a word, she returned to the table monitor. “He’s fine,” she growled to Gonzales, who had returned and was pretending he wasn’t watching... by sipping her coffee. “Get me another cup and we’ll move this along.” Gage exhaled and returned to the tabletop. “You said you had an idea for insertion, right? Let’s hear it.” “Aye, Sir. Cassie’s hand flicked through a few images, finally settling on a wide-angle, a good distance from the compound. “Insert here, about five... maybe five and a half klicks from slaver central, which will make a good hump through pretty dense terrain. We’d go in light, grab and go.” She stepped back from the board to grab her coffee, allow Gage access, and get his take on the matter. “Good contingency,” Gage nodded. “Gonzales, what’d intel say? Any chance we can disrupt that shield for beam in?” He gestured at the compound on the tabletop. “Go for the surprise - not that I’m allergic to long hikes through unfamiliar territory.” Hector stepped to the monitor and arranged several images for a closeup of the shield generator. “Would be easy enough if we had a team on the ground or could get word to the assets... but from orbit, not all that easy,” he began, then paused suddenly at one image. “Here’s something,” he said, “shield’s not powered in this image, then...” he pulled up another, “it’s operating here. Not sure why it’s on and off. Remote activation? Doubt it; generator’s too old. Piece ‘o crap, really. More likely there’s a glitch or a power issue. Maybe they use it during certain times of the day or night? Makes me wonder what shape the rest of their equipment is in. “What’d you have in mind, Sir?” “Beam in here.” Gage pointed at a blind patch within the compound and then slid his finger across the map and tapped. “Alternative would be here, just outside. Less time we spend on the ground, the better. Harder to see or hear us coming. Quick in and out.” “Definitely doable,” Hector replied with a firm nod. “We can monitor the use, see if there’s a pattern, and if there isn’t, monitor until we hit an off sequence, then beam in.” Gage nodded. “Since we’re doing most of the footwork, hook up with sci while we’re at it. They’ve got the hardware for the job.” “Roger that, Sir.” _________________ Notes: FORECON OPS: Force Reconnaissance Operations Center CQB: Close Quarters Battle 30-30-30: the 30-30-30 rule; at 30 below with a 30mph wind, flesh freezes in 30 seconds Rura Penthe: Information on Rura Penthe taken from Memory Alpha and Memory Beta ROE: Rules of Engagement

Game Plan A Silver/Granger Log Silver had a lot of questions, and they were all legit. So did Cass and the rest of the teams who pretty much blundered their way through the mock up, scratching their heads. The basic five Ws - who, what, where, when, why - plus the how were missing, so how could they make any sense out of what they were looking at... unless the major didn’t know either. Yet. When he sent them out it was more of a get out so I can think look than a go to it one. Ishiiu’s expression was the exact opposite as they settled in for the briefing. A mix of relief and apprehension met her gaze as Cass glanced around before taking a seat. Ishiiu pulled up an operational plan on the monitor behind him and took a stance to the right. “Take a look at the board, gentlemen,” he began. “This file’s been encrypted to your personal network drives, where you can study it in detail on your own time. We're looking at an extraction of intel agents. Normally this would be a job for the first-string guys, but we're closer so it’s time to step up our game.” A hand-wave at the monitor brought up a split-screen - a familiar star system on one side, planetary target on the other - while the other hand picked up and activated a laser pointer. Background shuffling died on the spot; the laser beam shifted from point to point on the screen as he spoke. “Word is our agents were following up on rumors that several MIAs from the battle of Vulcan have turned up on the local slave market. Tracked our MIAs to this location,” his pointer triggered the screen to zoom in on a planet in the system, “and crossed the border back in November. That was the last message their handler forwarded before she went missing under suspicious circumstances. Company’s still investigating. Independent sources have since verified that our MIAs were in the area near the border at some point. “Two days ago the Company received a distress signal from their agents, used only for emergency extractions. Triangulated to this location, just inside the border.” The split-screen zoomed in on another planet, an isolated group of buildings materializing in dense vegetation. “We know the signal's legit. It's been verified, but thanks to a convenient computer glitch caused by the handler’s panic code, the Company can't read their files. We don’t know who the agents are, so you won’t be able to identify them visually or verify personal info. The geeks say they're working on it. For now, you'll have to detain and question everyone on site. Sole confirmation will be a pre-set challenge and password known to the agents. “We also don’t know their condition, so be prepared to carry them out.” Ishiiu’s eyes met Cass straight-on, then shifted to Gage. “Ensign Silver, welcome to Alpha team. You, Granger, Momoa, and Gonzalez are the extraction team. “Questions?” Major Ishiiu’s gaze swept the room before it stopped at Gage. “That work for you, Ensign Silver?” Gage smirked faintly. “Yes, sir.” “Carry on,” he said, then fixed his eyes on Cass, a tick of his head calling for a private conversation. “Sir?” “Exactly how much do you know about Ensign Silver, Sunny?” “Quite a bit less than you do, Major, not having dived into his record. But I will say this. He might be ‘Fleet, but he’s SEAL. You don’t get through that without the chops, sir. Rumor is he’s seen quite a bit of action.” “Rumor,” Ishiiu repeated, as though mulling it over. One hand rubbed across his chin, regarding her for a minute. “Trust him with your life?” “Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, Major." “Very well.” His expression remained concerned, but then he always had that direct, piercing, no-nonsense look about him. Cass figured you didn’t make FORECON* CO without it. Still, she half wondered what bothered him - short of Silver's smart-ass attitude, of course. But they all had attitude, some more so than others. It was a basic qualification for new guy survival after BUD/S.* Minus the smart-ass part, unless you wanted to be choked out, or worse... “Carry on.” Gathered and waiting for Cass, the other members of ‘Alpha’ team were conversing out of earshot. Probably scuttlebutt, given the way their sudden laughter ended when Cass approached. Gage didn’t bother trying to check a yawn; it didn’t look like he could have if he’d tried. Cass took an easy stance to listen. “Okay.” Gage glanced at his watch and briefly rubbed the back of his head. “I need sleep. We’ll meet back here in about four; do some PT,* get some range time, do some immediate-action drills, and start in on the basics: small-unit tactics, CQB,* combatives, the works. Get it?” “Yes, sir,” came the universal response. “‘Got it’,” Gage corrected with a feigned cringe. The team just stared at him in confusion. “SEAL thing,” Gage joked without much success, and then adding a cool, “Hooyah,” he strolled for the exit. ======================= *FORECON - Force Reconnaissance *BUD/S - Basic Underwater Demolition/ SEAL *PT - Physical Training *CQB - Close Quarters Battle

Just Shoot Me A Silver-Granger Log Cass might have been NAV on Creek, but her primary MOS was Marine Recon Sniper. But you learn a hell of a lot more things in Marine Recon than sniping, one of the handiest being the use of anything for a weapon. A lethal weapon. The other was that there’s no such thing as downtime. Off-duty was the place to clean your weapons, check your gear, hone your skills. On the bridge at general quarters with nothing to do slipped Cass right into downtime and honing her skills. Now, you have to understand that anything is a weapon means just that. Even a straightened paperclip can be flicked into a bullseye from three meters. Given the right target, it’s lethal. And the globular cluster in the middle of the viewscreen? Looked a hell of a lot like a bullseye and her stylus was just what she needed to take it down. She stilled her body, took mental aim, the stylus poised, ready to flick... “Stand down general quarters. Go to yellow alert.” You’ve never seen a Marine hand over her post so fast, toss the rebreather into the decon and make a dive for the exit. A minute or two later and she was entering the Marine gym, ready to take down another Everlast. Something else you have to understand: there’s a Marine gym and FORECON* OPS deck on Creek for a reason. In general, Marines minus action equals disaster in the making, and Marine Recon Specialists minus action, well.... Let’s just say that putting a Marine Recon Sniper on the bridge at GQ with nothing to do but sit and stare into space was like having a half-pulled grenade. But you probably figured that one out already. Add to that a state-of-the-last-decade Fleet-issue rebreather that made her sound - and feel - like a villain in a low-budget scifi movie? Might as well pull the pin the rest of the way. She entered the Marine gym just short of a full-out sprint. “Granger!” The shout of Major Ishiiu, 2nd Platoon FORECON, Marine CO, pulled her up short. “Grab your gear. FORECON OPS. Ten minutes.” Lying on the bench between lockers with his straddled feet on the deck and scowling at the overhead, Gage rubbed his weary face. Cass gave a curt nod. “Ensign Silver,” she said, moving down the line and throwing the door to her locker open. “Pardon me, sir. Gotta run.” Gage lifted his head and smirked at her. “Any time you’re ready, Cass.” Shifting to her secure locker, she pressed her hand on the reader, spun the dial, and opened it to grab a few more things before slamming the door and arranging her gear. “Sir?” “Wouldn’t want to rush you or anything,” he quipped as he swung a leg over the bench and sat up. Ruck slung over one shoulder, assorted weapons tucked in and strapped to her body, she stopped to face him. Gage didn’t look like the ‘red-shirt’ Cass knew, dressed in new combat utilities and geared up in spare kit. Now, another thing you have to understand is that warrants and NCOs like Cass have practiced looks for just about everything. Cass had one for hiding her surprise, but this time she didn’t have to deploy it. She had more than a feeling this might happen. Silver’d been voluntold, and hell... he even seemed half happy about it. “Ready when you are, sir.” “Was ready ten minutes ago,” he easily retorted. Standing and perching his right boot on the bench, he stifled an honest yawn. He put on a good show, recently showered from the unkempt hair, shaven face and old spice smell, but he couldn’t hide the exhaustion. “Roger that, sir.” She grinned. “After you.” “Huh uh,” Gage smirked and gestured. “Ladies first.” “All due respect, sir... I’m not a lady. I’m a Marine.” The smile dropped, her tone became direct, her gaze stern. “If you say so, but I don’ wanna take an accidental fist in the back. Rumor has it you’re rough on equipment.” “Rumor says a lot of things, sir.” Gage grinned. “Could just carry you; see what that rumor says,” he quipped as he mischievously invaded her space, lingering before he casually strolled ahead. Let it slide, Cass... let it slide. She eyed him a minute before shaking her head and falling in step behind him. The next few hours were going to be very interesting. TBC in sim. ---------------- *FORECON: Force Reconnaissance Company, a Marine force that provides military intelligence, supports a landing or joint task force, and is fully capable of operating independently behind enemy lines performing unconventional special operations using air, land, and waterborne insertions and extractions. Creek’s SFMC FORECON unit is 2nd Plt, Force Recon Co, First Recon Bn, First Marine Div, First Marine Expeditionary Force.

Roger that, ma'am. But you do know the viewscreen is gorilla glass? It'd bounce right off but scare the hell out of Shalin. Makes you wonder what 'xactly was running through my head when I flicked it.