Seat of the Pants Logic

[Crash Calestorm 0]

Part of the happiness of life consists not in fighting battles, but in avoiding them. A masterly retreat is in itself a victory. - Norman Vincent Peale

 

City of Grayson

Market District

Temporary Command Post

 

Captain Calestorm stood facing her Chief Medical Officer. While not directly within the chain of command, the CMO was still a factor within the command structure.

 

And then, it all clicked in Cale’s mind. Seat of the pants meets logic….scary, but doable.

 

“….lucky for you, Doctor, I’m not in the mood to arrest anyone today. Nor do I care to be arrested should you be willing to take it that far.”

 

The conversations had gone hushed within the command post; duties were tended, but people were becoming aware of the tension.

 

As per usual, Calestorm never did things halfway; she turned and pressed her thumb and forefinger to her lips to belt out the ‘bosun’s whistle’, grabbing whoever’s attention the conversation didn’t already have. The middle-aged officer began to snap off orders to department heads, squad leads, senior officers, and whoever was within the proverbial line of fire that could get it all done and taken care of or contact the needed person.

 

“Gentlemen and Ladies and Other, we’re going silent* for the next Twelve to Twenty Four hours.” She’d gotten her emotion fueled Southern accent down to manageable levels.

 

“I want the recon and diplomatic teams recalled. The projected supplies are to be halted, for now. All ship to planet transporter activity ceases except for necessary personnel transport.”

 

She spoke to Lieutenant Honor-Scar, the Caitian in acting command of the aero wing. “I want all starfighters on dragon patrol,” she paused here, considering that still sounded nuts, Dragon patrol? Here there be dragons, “…recalled to the ship.”

 

The felinoid officer saluted with a paw to show that yes, she acknowledged the order, even though it did launch out of the proverbial wild blue yonder.

 

Crash felt a momentary longing for her days as a CAG. Didn’t matter though; you accepted the silver sleeve stripes as a captain, inherited the politics as well as the responsibility.

 

Her attention landed on the Communications Officer on-site. “Button up our wireless communications between the post and the ship, encryption blue.”

 

Calestorm’s final order zinged to ‘Scooter’ Wesley. “Commander? Mind the store-“

 

She grabbed her charcoal gray field jacket, hanging from a chair as she continued speaking to the Executive Officer, shrugging the garment on over her gold tunic, “-I’ll be speaking to Defender Phalen regarding possible alternate options for our PD* and their situation. I should return shortly, but comm me if you need me.”

 

She glanced over her shoulder, noting Lance Corporal Joseph Vega had begun to move in anticipation of his permanent escort duties. She still hadn’t been able to figure out the party responsible for his assignment to her as a guard…

 

Crash then winged a look towards the CMO and smiled wryly, though not unkindly. “Old dog. We can surprise with new tricks…”

 

* Refers to personnel movement/activities on the ground. On board the Comanche Creek, I'm sure every Electronic Warfare, Electronic Countermeasures, tracking program, etc, is still monitoring the situation on Grayson.

* Prime Directive

[Crash Calestorm 0]

The following log takes place prior to the 09.10.12 Sim; our TBS remains at 2 weeks…

 

Field medics carefully removed a dead body from the Iszard, the two legged lizardused for ground patrols by the Grayson Guard. The Grayson flag as well as the United Federation of Planets flag were tattered, haphazardly tied to thesaddle.

 

Thank the gods the Iszard had returned to the outskirts of the city in the early morning hours and not many Graysons, save for a handful, had witnessed the grim sight. The night watchmen had calmed the spooked animal, getting close enough to grab the reigns. The Grayson Defender had been informed of the incident and hein turn had informed his Starfleet counterpart.

 

Captain Calestorm had approached Defender Phalen, and her idea had been straightforward: send a diplomatic courier to Castle Luca, a joint representation of both Grayson and the Federation. He had cautioned her, explained that diplomatic overtures to Luca had been spurned in the past two years or so, though he was willing to hear her out.

 

It was the optimist in her, but the Captain had hoped the combined overture would work in favor of settling the dispute on this world. Logic would prevail, diplomacy, Count Luca would defer the situation and an outside moderating factor would be of benefit.

 

Defender Phalen, for his part, uttered nothing that resembled an ‘I told you so’.

 

The early morning air was chill and Cale wore no jacket; the cold kept her focused.“Kerry.”

 

The Defender glanced over at her from his standing position next to her. The two leaders stood at the entry area to the Town Guard barracks, off to one side as they watched the respectful handling of the body.

 

“Regarding your customs…when the family is informed, may I accompany?” It was part question, part statement.

 

“The trooper had no family. But, I’m sure my Guard would appreciate a few words atthe burial?”

 

She nodded silently in agreement; Phelan squeezed her shoulder lightly before walkingover to speak with his Chief of the Guard.

 

Calestorm leaned back against the stonework wall, every age line visible on her face. She gazed at the tattered remnants of the flag that she held gently in her hands; the red coloring of the flag had darker blood splatter from the volunteer soldier.

 

You served the UFP flag. You followed it. It was something that called you to serve, a pride in what you did, not easily explained. It was even harder to convey the sadness that could also be representative of the simple cloth.

 

 

*Classic TOS version of the United Federation of Planets flag/banner, red with stars and‘UFP’.