Buzzing

[Crash Calestorm 0]

The investigation into the SS Slipstream mystery had been kicked off, and the Comanche Creek crew had hit the ground running. Captain Calestorm had misgivings regarding the whole situation however.

 

She had initially balked at taking the assignment, even going so far as to tell her commanding officer to get someone within Fleet command to deploy Wonder Boy and the Wonder Crew -- a sarcastic reference to the newly minted Captain James Kirk and the newbie USS Enterprise command crew -- to handle the situation, in order to earn their pay a little instead of constantly enjoying the spotlight as the flagship of the Starfleet.

 

Admiral Coyote had not been impressed with Calestorm’s attitude. And so, the USS Comanche Creek and the semi-recalcitrant captain had been sent off to the Markis sector in order to check out the quote ‘ghost ship’ unquote.

 

The local Markis sector authorities had deployed their silver and red runabouts and scout fighters, and were holding the reporter shuttles and scout ships at a loose perimeter vector. The reporter affiliate ships were permitted to take wide angle sensor shots and wireless readings of the Slipstream, but none of the vessels were allowed to break the line in order to get closer to the derelict transport ship. The area was being treated as a standard crime scene while the ‘Creek officers carried out their orders.

 

Crash Calestorm huffed out an annoyed breath through her mouth, sending a quick fog flashing across the clear faceplate of her red and black hued flight helmet before her internal suit scrubbers cleared the moisture; all this fuss over one little old missing -- and found -- transport ship, and the local reporters and news crews were practically frothing at the mouth to get some sort of news story. Granted, the piranhas probably smelled blood on the galactic wind.

 

The initial disappearance of the transport ship had been a controversy, and Starfleet had been accused by the bereaved families whose relatives had gone missing of not handling the investigation very well, and leaving many unanswered questions as to what really happened to the transport vessel. Then, the attacks by the renegade Rihan Nero had changed all those concerns, and people across the sectors as well as the officers of the Starfleet were more concerned with survival. Now, the Slipstream had re-appeared these few months later within the outer borders of Federation space, and the same old questions were popping up again, promising political fallout against against the Starfleet.

 

Admirals like Shauna Coyote could speak the language, and had the talent of being able to make sense of the various nuances and threads of a domestic political situation. The situation with the Slipstream promised to be one such political-cluster frag situation. Difference was, Calestorm trusted Coyote…she wasn’t so sure about some of the other high level admiralty types working on the situation though.

 

Crash had no time for reporters or political writers or those who had a talented tongue; the lot of them put a fancy spin on words, discussing the same topic over and over again without ever really giving the reader or viewer concrete facts. She was a big fan of the plain, straightforward written and spoken word, and figured the universe would be a simpler place if the inhabitants said what they really meant and meant what they really said.

 

The SS Slipstream had hit some bad luck during the initial transport trip and then went missing, simple as that. Calestorm was confident that her crew would find the answers that were needed to eventually quiet the situation and the mystery.

 

With Commander Wesley leading the away team to check out the interior of the so called ghost transport ship, Captain Calestorm had decided to deploy out in an undercover role with Lieutenant Mrkath and his fighter squad in order to fly along with the combat air patrol. Even though the fighter squad wasn’t exactly flying into combat, the combined Goshawk and Haribon class star fighters would maintain a perimeter and maintain a protection grid around the Slipstream that would further bolster the efforts of the Markis police force.

 

With Mrkath in command of the fighter squad and Cale undercover as a pilot within the combat patrol, the captain was free for a short while. No command responsibilities. Her knee didn’t ache. It was just her and the Goshawk class fighter, flying about and keeping the wolves at bay and the external situation under control as the drama unfolded. Piloting would never get old for her, and the pleasure flowed through her veins with her blood and exhilarated her.

 

Mrkath and Cale had done a flyby of the Slipstream once the away team had beamed over, and the visual results were a bit unsettling; the steel hide of the ship was pitted and clawed, the marks biting down deep into the hull which suggested that some sort of grappler device had been shot at the ‘Stream.

 

The general opinion among the Comanche patrol pilots was that the passenger transport had been forcibly boarded and the passengers somehow taken, but that was up to Wesley and the boarding team to determine and confirm the theory.

 

After the recon flyby of the transport ship in question had been completed, the captain had temporarily re-deployed her star fighter, leaving the ‘Creeks CAG in a standard patrol position at the derelict vessel, and taken her star fighter off on a patrol flight path towards the easterly police perimeter. The local patrol officers had reported that some -- not all -- of the reporter affiliate shuttles and scouts were getting antsy, feinting and moving to jump the perimeter line in order to get close to the Slipstream and the unfolding mystery.

 

It was time for an old school flyby of gentle smack down proportions.

 

With a smile bordering on predatory, Calestorm zoomed out and into the perimeter line, inverting her Goshawk star fighter. She completely buzzed across the nearest line of civilian reporter vessels, getting way too close and zooming past a mid-sized runabout shuttle and several larger sized scout class shuttles. The ploy worked though, and the offending reporter ships scattered.

 

Crash got some annoyed wing dips in response to her fly by, and some rather interesting chatter could be heard on the public comm channels, although several of the local patrol officers sent some wing dip ‘kudos’ her way as well in response to the situation.

 

With an answering wing dip of her own to all parties involved, the undercover captain repositioned her Goshawk and set off again to link back up with Lieutenant Mrkath and field any incoming reports from the field team on the derelict as they continued the interior investigation of the ship.

[RAdm S.Coyote 0]

Note: I do not own the Star Trek character of Lieutenant Kevin Thomas Riley (copyright ‘The Naked Now’ and ‘The Conscience of the King’ of the Classic/Original Series and various novels), I just play in his universe. Take Me Home Again Kathleen…

 

= = = =

Lieutenant Kevin Riley wasn’t exactly a good singer.

 

Atrociously painful was a good description of the young man’s tone and voice. But, with all the craziness of the last few hours as the investigation into the disappearance and reappearance of the transport vessel the SS Slipstream, Admiral Shauna ‘Skipper’ Coyote found some comfort nonetheless in the tone deaf notes of the song ‘Take Me Home Again Kathleen’ that drifted onto the air through the open entryway into her office.

 

The lieutenant was a crackerjack administrative aide however, and Coyote considered herself blessed to be working with the young man, his lack of a singing voice aside.

 

Shauna had been holed up in her office at Starfleet Command in San Francisco for the better part of the day, fielding reports and inquiries regarding the Slipstream. With the First Threat Response Program responding to the situation on behalf of the Fleet border patrol, Coyote was the senior officer on the front line as the domestic political situation continued to grow in scope and scale. The public -- and certain officers within the Starfleet -- wanted answers to this mystery, and the admiral was at ground zero.

 

Suddenly, the rendition of ‘Kathleen’ dropped off, and a few seconds later Riley’s lanky frame appeared in her open doorway; his facial expression was caught somewhere between curiosity, dread, and professionalism.

 

The admiral ticked her head over towards her aide. “What’s up Lieutenant?”

 

“Well…we just got two complaints from a couple of the Markis sector news affiliates. One from Net Channel Six News, the other from The Evening News with Terri ‘Trix’ Trixan…the satellite station for Six.”

 

“Why?”

 

“A pilot did a fly by across the perimeter patrol line that the local authorities have surrounding the Slipstream. Trixan is actually attempting to downplay the pilot’s actions, but I'm guessing her boss still told her to make the report. Channel Six is the real problem, complaint wise.”

 

The admiral nodded once in approval on the reporting actions of the news anchor. “I’ve never worked with or met Trixan personally, but I’m not surprised that she’s running a bit of damage control where she can. She’s a former Fleet pilot from the Spec Ops Task Force, and it’s not easy to get being a jump jock out of your blood.”

 

The younger Human male hesitated at the lull in the conversation, fingering the flat silvery-gray digital data tablet that he held nervously. He really didn’t want to convey this next bit of information.

 

Coyote buried her face in her hands as she spoke, muffling her tone a bit. “Let me guess, there’s footage?”

 

“Uh, yes Admiral, from the external sensor video from the Evening News shuttle. It’s definitely one of the Goshawk fighters from the Comanche Creek tweaking the perimeter. According to the flight number on the hull, it’s not technically assigned to any of the pilots, so…we can’t really pin down who was piloting it.”

 

“Thank God for small favors. Has it been released on the public news net yet?

 

“Uh, yes. News Six must have an editor on raktajino coffee, although the actual footage hasn’t been cleaned up and enhanced as of yet. The incident happened less then forty five minutes ago, and Channel Six already has the piece airing. It’s the usual spiel sir: Crazy Starfleet pilots, not taking a sensitive investigation seriously, going all cockamamie and mocking the plight of the Slipstream, etcetera.”

 

“Fine. Go into standard damage control. Contact News Six, and gently ask them yank the footage and the story…forward any complaints from the station affiliates to me. Send the footage to me.”

 

A few minutes later, Riley had text mailed the video footage to Shauna’s private Fleet command account, and the FTR program lead watched the rough and grainy news feed. The footage showed one lone Goshawk class fighter weaving towards the east perimeter line that had been established by the local Markis sector news networks and then flipping in order to buzz the news shuttles and runabouts from an inverted position; there was no mistaking the form and control of the fighter, the slight yaw of the wings to the right. Coyote had witnessed this particular pilot in action on dozens and dozens of occasions. She noted that the tint was engaged on the cockpit canopy, further obstructing the identity of the Comanche Creek pilot as an added precaution.

 

Riley stood quietly in the open doorway to Admiral Coyote’s office, watching in silence as the older woman perused the footage and waiting until the video loop had completed before venturing a comment to his obviously stewing boss.

 

“You know sir, I know I’m probably speaking out of turn, but Captain Calestorm is a good pilot. I mean, that footage is really something…to have that same skill set as an Old Lady…she totally flipped the reporters the bird. What I mean is, she really did literally flip the fighter, you know…”

 

Coyote, who was herself an ‘old lady’ and didn’t agree with her line captain’s interpretation of crowd control, shot a death look towards her personal aide. If looks could kill, the lieutenant would probably be a composite gooey paste on the carpeted decking of the office. Riley shut himself up right quick.

 

“She buzzed mobile reporter vessels during a sensitive investigation. That is, as you young people say Mister Riley, ‘not cool’.”

 

The tall, dark haired woman had unfolded herself from the leather desk chair and started walking slowly and with a predatory gait across her office, going towards Riley as she spoke and pointing a slender finger to punctuate her spoken words.

 

Lieutenant Riley knew it was time to exit, stage left and very, very quickly.

 

“…and you know, I totally have some reports to catch up on. And I’ll contact News Six…pardon me Admiral…” He zoomed out of the office as if he had warp nacelles interwoven into his uniform, leaving Coyote alone with her thoughts.

 

Calestorm was at heart a good person, and was very good at what she did for the border patrol. But, the end result outdid any methods that she employed…which at times was a useful personality trait, and worked well for the rough and tumble missions of the Fleet border patrol that the captain was tasked with.

 

Yet that same methodology was a blatant reminder as to why the line captain would never make it beyond the commodore rank, at best.

 

Shauna spent a few moments pacing back and forth across the medium sized expanse of her office, working off some of the ticked off adrenaline that had infused her veins and getting her annoyance under control. She had left her office window on clear mode, not caring what workers in the outer office area caught random flashes of her gold command tunic as she walked back and forth. Once she has worked off the annoyance, she sat down again at her desk and set about to get some more work done.

 

One official text mail was to be sent to the news networks in question, apologizing for the fighter incident but all the same not really admitting to the issue that the Comanche Creek fighter pilot had caused in the first place -- the joys of knowing how to make domestic political speak work for you. In the employ of a master political tactician like Coyote, the simple word could be deadly direct and formal.

 

The second text mail was of a more personal/official nature, sent to her long time friend and fellow officer and the content was rather…scathingly oriented, and carried with it the promise of a one on one follow up visual conference.

 

Take Me Home Again Kathleen…

Edited February 15, 2010 by RAdm S.Coyote