In Ur Hanga Bay, Stealin' Fiterz

[Crash Calestorm 0]

The following plot log takes place after our one month TBS, just prior to our 04.18.11 Sim…

 

“Why is it whenever someone says ‘with all due respect’ they really mean ‘kiss my ass’?” – Gunnery Chief Ashley Williams, Systems Alliance, 2nd Frontier Division (Mass Effect, 2007)

 

USS Comanche Creek

Captains Quarters

21:00 Hours (09:00 PM)

 

It was later in the ships second shift and Captain Calestorm had retired to her quarters for the night. After a workout in the ships gym and a shower, she had slipped into a Starfleet issue hoodie and sweats and settled in to wrangle some personnel reviews for the upcoming quarter.

 

What she hadn’t expected was the override code to chime and the entry way to her quarters to slide open, admitting assistant security officer Karl Stone.

 

Hopping up from her desk chair and walking quickly around the bulkhead mounted desk top surface in order to face the younger man, Calestorm exclaimed, “Ensign?!”, her tone equal parts concern, surprise, and maybe a little bit of anger. Commander Wesley, CSEC Haruno and CMO TAral were the only officers who held access to the override codes for the captain’s quarters in case of emergencies.

 

The big man nodded once, his crew cut hair catching the overhead lighting in the blond highlights. “Captain. Your presence is required at a meeting. I’m here to escort you.”

 

“I wasn’t aware of any meeting, Ensign Stone.”

 

“Yes Sir. Your presence is still requested.”

 

Her tone went icy, cutting through the air. “Ain’t the way we do things around here Ensign.” Cale moved to touch the desk mounted intercom unit. “Requested? Like Hell. Not ‘til I get some answers.”

 

“I wouldn’t do that Captain; it’s best if we keep this between ourselves. My orders are to escort you to a pre-set meeting location out of sector.”

 

“Last I checked Mister Stone, your orders were exclusive to the command structure of this ship.”

 

“With all due respect, not this time. Sir.”

 

It was his tone and the manner in which he delivered the words, not so much the words themselves; the hair stood on the back of her neck.

 

Her knife lay on the small table next to her bunk – too far to make a dive for it. In one motion, Cale swiped a digital slate off the desktop, turned and flung it at Stone, rushing the ensign as she did so; distracted by the recorder slate, Stone batted it away and only just managed to deflect Calestorms one/two punch combination.

 

The ensign grabbed two handfuls of her sweat jacket, transferring her momentum to pin her security against the bulkhead; the impact was hard enough to rattle an attached shelving unit, shaking the modest collection of personal mementoes and Federation starfighter models that Crash kept on display. Stone held her in place against the surface with one forearm firmly clamped to the back of her neck, his other hand holding her arm out by the wrist. Cale recognized the immobilization as a textbook MACO military police technique…which was interesting, but not conclusive.

 

He spoke close to her ear, his breath tickling her skin. “Sir, I really don’t care in what condition you arrive in. It’s just as easy for me to break your wrist, but I’d rather not go that far in my motivations.”

 

Her cheek pressed against the cool surface of the bulkhead, the older woman’s voice came out muffled. “Well….damn, Aren’t you little Mister Sunshine.”

 

He grunted. “I’ll take that as an acknowledgement. Now listen very carefully to me; we’ll be taking one of the Tomcat EC fighters. You’ll be piloting, and I’ve already disabled the transponder beacon so don’t get any cute ideas…”

 

= = = =

At the later hour, the corridors had been scaled back to late evening lighting, and were empty save for the random sighting of the skeleton shift personnel.

 

Crash made another go at her escort only to have her ass again handed to her. As before, Stone employed a standard Marine hand to hand tactic in order to deflect her attack. .

 

Stone hauled her along, one hand clamped to her arm, and the other holding the upper lobe of her ear in a vice grip that completely convinced her to cooperate. Seriously, it was amazing how that one small bit of cartilage could control an entire body. In some amused part of her brain, she was having recall of a particularly fun afternoon from her sophomore year at Ghost Falls High that had ended with a trip to the principal’s office in much the same manner…but that was a story from another lifetime, and Calestorm had more immediate concerns.

 

Arriving at the access hatch that lead onto the main hanger deck, Stone pulled them both up short. “We go in, suit up, and access the fighter after a short list check. I suggest you not try anything here Captain; I’d hate to see any of your deck technicians compromised in some way.”

 

“I understand. Now get your hands off me Boy.”

 

= = = =

The hanger bay personnel on the graveyard shift were seeing to repairs and upgrades on the shuttles or fighters. The captain was a frequent enough visitor to the deck so as to not arouse any suspicion even at the later hour, though when she began the checklist prep on the designated fighter, several of the enlisted deck hands moved forward to help. A few short -- though respectful -- orders from the captain moved them off and about their nightly duties, though it was clear that the techs were puzzled at the dismissal.

 

Deck Chief Wilson (and she was beginning to wonder if the man ever slept) however had not moved, even after the orders had been given. “Sir?” His tone held puzzlement, concern, annoyance at being kept out of the loop.

 

She shot a hard look to Stone, daring him to protest or try something in front of so many witnesses; the ensign looked right through her. Calestorm then locked eyes with Wilson. “Give it thirty and then inform the Ex Oh that I’ve left the ship for a…off-site issue that needs tending to. And give the CAG my apologies for not filing a standard flight plan.”

 

Wilson took note of the rigid set of her jaw line and nodded once. “Aye sir.”

 

= = = =

The launch from the ship was smooth, though the captain had to do some fast talking to the ‘Creek officer on duty at Flight Ops. What she really wanted to tell FOPS was that she was being hijacked by some dumbass, but what she actually reported was a similar version of her explanation to Wilson: a matter needed her attention off ship. At the later hour, civilian and Starfleet traffic over the New Topeka colony planet was light. Covert was the catch phrase of the evening, and to all visual appearances, there was nothing out of place about one of the ‘Creeks EC fighters heading out for what looked like a late evening patrol.

 

As the two-seater Tomcat pulled further away from the home ship, electronic countermeasures suite operating at full power, Calestorm was vacillating between the standard questioning in an attempt to get some answers, and wanting to scare the hell out of Stone by doing stunt ‘oh my God, we’re going to impact!’ flybys of every solid structure in the immediate vicinity.

 

She opted for short term diplomacy. “You know Mister Stone, in some rare cases, treason is still considered a hangin’ offense.”

 

The ensign’s deep voice held the first glimmer of amusement she’d heard from the man. “I wasn’t aware I was committing treason Captain.”

 

She half-turned to fix Stone with a pointed look, his clear amber faceplate identical to hers. “Breaking and entering. Willful disobedience. Extortion. We sure ain’t goin’ to a church social.”

 

“With due respect Captain, you’ll be properly informed once we arrive at our destination and not before. You should be coming up on the first marker buoy. Maintain impulse warp, and adjust our course to point five – head towards the Northern Topeka sector perimeter.”

 

Cale entered the course correction into the main inset keyboard on the control console with one gloved hand while her right hand manipulated the joystick to adjust the vector of the external jump jets and maneuvering thrusters.

 

“Ensign, I’d like to properly inform you.” She muttered.

 

Outer Rim

Unknown Sector

01:15 Hours (01:15 AM)

 

After completing an estimated three hour trip out into the outer sectors, Tomcat 16 had set down in a non-descript hanger deck that serviced a non-descript ship. The interior, like the exterior, had at once been Federation in design, Saladin class if she was any judge of her ships, a forerunner of the Kelvin class. On the flight in, Calestorm had noted the vessel had had no registry number on the hull and certain weapon mounts had been modified to modern configurations.

 

Stone led her through the corridors to a standard sized briefing room; he positioned himself at the entry way in order for the flush mounted retinal scanner to scan his iris. The scanner transferred the information into the ship wide security protocols, and the doorway whooshed open to admit Stone and his reluctant charge into the interior of the briefing room that lay beyond.

 

Still clad in her flight suit, Calestorm adopted a stiff parade rest while Stone stayed at her side. The three individuals sitting about the briefing room table – two Human males, one Caitian female – stared at the blossoming black eye on the silver blond haired female and then turned their collective attention towards Ensign Stone.

 

He responded with a gruff, “She jumped me and two security techs. She’s here, nothing was specifically said regarding condition,” as explanation.

 

Cale winked at him with her good eye and commented, “Third time’s the charm.”

 

Stone shot the older woman an un-amused glance and then took up a guard position just inside the entry way door.

 

The dark skinned male sighed in exasperation while the Caitian allowed a small, possibly approving smirk to show on her muzzle. Both responses disappeared quickly when the older man glanced at his colleagues.

 

He then turned his attention again to Cale, making the introductions and taking the overall lead in the conversation. “Good evening, Captain Calestorm. My name is Smith.” He was light skinned, with steel gray colored hair cut in a severe box crew.

 

“Of course it is.”

 

He indicated the female Caitian officer with a nod of his head. “This is Jones.”

 

“Right.”

 

He indicated the younger, dark skinned male sitting to his left. “And this is Alias.”

 

“Uh huh.”

 

Like civilian service ships such as the Reed Mitros’s SS Hard Six, the three strangers wore the standard black trousers with black tunics; the tunics held no rank ornamentation or indication of their branch of service.

 

Steel Hair indicated one of the red backed chairs set around the meeting table; the chairs were well maintained, though the style was more common to the ships of the 2230’s. “Will you please sit Captain.”

 

Crash maintained her ramrod straight parade rest, tilting her chin to a defiant angle. “No.”

 

He sighed, and then continued speaking while he flipped through the screens on a flat data slate with a finger. “According to your record, you did work for Starfleet Intelligence within the Field Officer Recovery Program, correct?”

 

“Seeing as how those assignments are classified, I don’t see how it’s any of your business Smith.”

 

“With all due respect, SI is our business, Captain Calestorm. Or do you prefer Crash?”

 

“I’d prefer to be back on my ship.”

 

Steel Hair smirked. “We aren’t here to negotiate. The little known, seldom used, Reserve Activation Clause has now been implemented.”

 

“So you’re telling me that I’ve been drafted.”

 

The felinoid softly snorted through her nose. “That’s one way of putting it Calestorm.” Her slight smile showed fangs.

 

The captain picked up right away on the Cait’s cocky manner; it took her a few seconds to place the similarity, but this felinoid was very similar in personality to Ensign Honor-Scar, though much more low key. Crash kept her expression neutral as she processed the similarity, with the younger officer staring right back at her.

 

Smith interrupted the silent exchange. “We have a situation unfolding on the planet of Neural that seems to be perfect for your recovery skill set as well as your border patrol crew.” He slid a flat data notebook down the table in her direction. Crash made no move to pick up the digital device, and instead pinned Smith with a flat look.

 

He seemed unfazed, and continued speaking. “In 2248, a Federation Starfleet survey ship was sent to covertly gather data on the planet’s pre-Industrial time period. In 2256, a permanent civilian anthropological survey team was sent to observe the Hill People and Villagers via concealed outpost. These scientists are led by Doctor Janice Lester, and the team reports regularly to Starfleet Command. One of the final reports transmitted suggested that the outpost might have been compromised in some way, and regular contact with the planetary survey team has since stopped. That was four months ago - we need you and your crew to investigate the Neural situation and retrieve any of the surviving observational team.”

 

The border patrol officer had made no move to accept the digital data slate. “If you want the services of my ship and my crew, you need to go through my commanding officer.”

 

The golden furred Caitian answered, her voice more carefully neutral now and the common purring tone of her people evident. “It would be best that we circumvent Admiral Coyote in this instance.”

 

Calestorm raised an eyebrow, verbally acknowledging the little furball’s statement but not taking her attention from Smith. “I see….”

 

To Be Continued...

 

Notes:

Ensign Karl Stone: First appears in “Agent”, Comanche Creek Briefings & Logs (08/07/10)

EC: Electronic Countermeasures

The character of Janice Lester is copyright Classic Star Trek, CBS pictures