A Quiet Toast

[Crash Calestorm 0]

This Pre-Log is set on the bridge deck of the Comanche Creek, and the time frame is set just a few weeks prior to the ship’s official launch from the Earth Orbital Spacedock.

 

For the moment, Captain Ashton Calestorm was alone. No yeoman, no aides, no personnel configurations and reconfigurations, no brass except for the one lone admiral who was due to meet her for an impromptu pow wow between old friends on a very special ship.

 

The USS Comanche Creek was currently at station keeping in one of the berths at the Earth Orbital Space Platform. In a few short weeks, the ‘Creek would officially be released and pulling out on what would be her first official mission and maiden voyage for the Starfleet’s First Threat Response Program.

 

The turbolift arrived at Ashton’s destination of choice -- the main bridge deck. Once the exit and entry way door wooshed open, Cale stepped off of the transport conveyance and onto the bridge decking, her boots making a satisfying thumping noise as the soles contacted with the dark gray decking. She began a slow walk about the bridge, enjoying the quiet of the moment as she became further acquainted with the ship that was to be officially hers.

 

All the control equipment was now in place, and the corps of engineers were running the final check tests in order to declare the ship space worthy. It was all down to the wire now, and Calestorm had to admit that she felt a thrill of excitement at the prospect of taking this bad boy ship out into the black.

 

The bridge module layout of the Comanche was the standard console and layout configuration that the Kelvin class models had been for the last thirty years or so. But, like the modernized hull plating of the main saucer, secondary hull, and engine nacelle sections, the internal equipment and computers were all modern, updated and top of the line. In her thirty odd year career, taking command of a new ship was a treat, as all of her previous assignments and commands had been with a previously ‘broken in’ ship. It was kind of like getting hand me down toys and clothing from an older brother or sister, but on a much larger scale. The Comanche Creek was new, felt new, looked new, and smelled new: the smell of new decking materials, carpeting, furniture, computer wiring and various other equipment extensions permeated the entire ship, and it was downright intoxicating.

 

It was possible that she was breathing in too deeply and was on a header from that ‘new car smell’, but Ashton had to freely admit to herself that it felt damn good to get first dibs on a line ship.

 

The hard deck plating clanged under her booted feet as Ashton continued the slow walk around the first and second levels of the concentrated bridge area, pausing here and there to run a hand or finger over a darkened computer screen console or a section of one of the control stations. She lingered at the Helm console for a moment, and smiled to herself as she recalled her own duty stints as a Helm officer…it all seemed like a lifetime ago. Then, her inner thoughts warped back into the present and the modern concerns that she now faced as a Starfleet captain with the border patrol.

 

The First Threat Response program had been in development for a good five years now, and project leader Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote had been with the program almost from day one. The admiral had chosen the Kelvin class ships -- originally employed as scientific survey ships -- as the template for the first FTR launch ship due to the nature of work that the border patrol ships would be needed to do. The Kelvin class had always been reliable, scrappy, and tough as nails, and therefore, the long lived survey hulls had been morphed and slotted into a bad ass border patrol frigate configuration.

 

Her ship. Her responsibility. Her command. The USS Comanche Creek was not Ashtons first stint as a ships commanding officer. But, the command was unique as the ship and her crew were to be the lead examples for the successive line of FTR ships that were due to launch over the next few years according to the projected timetable. The program launch timetable had been hot listed after the Nero attacks, and now it was up to Cale and her crew to prove by example that the border protection program was viable in practice.

 

She heard the repressed mechanizations coming from the transport tube as the main bridge turbolift returned to the command deck; a gentle swish of the entry and exit door indicated that the conveyance was in the process of disgorging its current occupant. Cale turned her head slightly without looking directly back at the new arrival.

 

Rear Admiral Shauna Coyote, her dark hair pulled back into a regulation braid, cocked her head to one side and regarded her longtime friend and comrade with a good natured smirk plastered across her facial features. “Captain Calestorm. Permission to come aboard?”

 

Her deep throated tone of voice was calm and sure, and held a bit of playful amusement that could not quite mask her genuine overall pride at the moment. Her sharp Old Americas Native Indian olive complexion and features were relaxed for a change, away from the hustle and bustle and paperwork of the main FTR control offices. As the project lead, Coyote was under an enormous amount of pressure, and the responsibility showed in the dark circles that had formed under her eyes from lack of sleep and stress.

 

Calestorm was backlit by a few of the bridge consoles that were running at half power, and the light blue glow outlined her 36-24-36 frame. Like Coyote, she wore the female cut version of the regular duty uniform -- command gold tunic, black trousers, black combat boots. She still retained her athletic build from their piloting days. Tall for a woman at five foot nine inches, long and lean muscular build, wheat colored hair in a combat braid pattern and shot through with some sliver strands. Her lean face was still considered pretty, but the light colored skin had started to show the wear and tear of the command track these last few years, with crow’s feet forming at the corner of her eyes and a few faint age lines showing about the mouth.

 

The way that Cale carried herself, which hadn’t changed much since her early twenties, was a tell tale sign though, and could be blatantly apparent to any sort of Starfleet recruiter worth their salt: Ashton held a quiet confidence within her, she was command material, the quarter deck breed, and the type of officer that Coyote needed to recruit in order to make the FTR project as a whole work.

 

Now, Ashton turned slightly to regard the visitor with a smile, and caught site of the amber colored bottle Shauna held in one hand and the squat glasses she triple finger gripped in the other. “Permission granted for you, and your bourbon, to come aboard, Rear Admiral Coyote.”

 

With an ease born of long practice, the two women settled down to have a quiet drink together, with Coyote sitting on the red backed and white/gray chair intended for the navigator officer and Cale ensconced on the chair right next to her, located at the Helm console partition of the main forward control consoles. Shauna popped, and Ashton poured.

 

Ashton would not plant her rear end in the command chair, not until the official launch. Not so much a traditional reaction, but leaning more toward personal superstition and respect for her newly minted ship. Coyote understood, respected Ash’s decision, and therefore didn’t press the issue.

 

They toasted the ship and the mission, and then settled in for a few quiet minutes of sipping at their drinks and alternately swirling the amber colored beverage in their respective glasses. Calestorm and Coyote were old friends and combat comrades, and could easily settle into the quiet type of silence where no one needs to fill a gap in the conversation.

 

While Cale often enjoyed having a quiet drink with a friend, she was more often then not plagued by the so called ghosts of the past during these quiet moments, such as fallen comrades who were no longer of this world, but very much alive in your dreams, missions off the record and gone wrong, or regrets over paths not taken. She had learned to control these ghosts…somewhat.

 

After an appropriate amount of time had passed, she ventured a question to her friend. “Do you miss piloting a starfighter Skipper?”

 

“Every day when my chronometer alarm goes off and I wake up Crash.”

 

“ … then why’d we leave the ranks Admiral?”

 

“Because we look really pretty and fashionable in our command gold uniform tops with the extra command braids on the sleeve cuffs?”

 

Calestorm smirked and raised her glass to her commanding admiral. “Smartass.”

 

“Always. And I learned to be a smartass from you, Mister Calestorm, so remember that.”

 

“You always were a smartass; I just refined you up to new heights of smart-assery … is that an actual word?”

 

The two female flag officers continued to talk about old times as well as the new situations and adventures that the Comanche command might entail…and a hope for the future through protection and peace. Ashton liked to think that all missions were peaceful, but the reality from a lifetime of service showed that it could indeed be a rough universe out there.

 

Admiral Coyote then sobered a bit, and regarded her lead line captain with a definitive expression cutting across her fine boned facial features. She was well aware that she would be sending one of her oldest friends out into the unknown. “Crash, you’re my first FTR Captain. I wouldn’t have chosen you if you didn’t have the qualifications, but just wanted to say again to you, that I also chose you because I know what you’re like, and what you stand for. Go forward boldly and protect our borders, Captain Calestorm.”

 

Sensing that now was not the time for a usual wisecrack, and it would bode well overall to remain respectful and silent, Cale merely clinked glasses with her friend and commanding admiralty officer in response to the heartfelt statement and pep talk.