I
remember reading, some years ago, that Tolkien had
experienced trouble plotting The Lord of
the Rings, and that he'd "left the Fellowship for a year-and-a-half at
the Bridge of Khazad-dum," or something
to that effect. Smaller talents experience similar problems in lesser degree,
evidently: It took me quite some time to ecide
precisely where Tales of the 13th
Fleet was going… and whether they'd actually succeed in getting there.
As no doubt many of you will recall, not
all of the Fellowship left Moria.
Take that for what it's worth.
Lee said
again with absolute calm, "General, you must look to your division."
Pickett said tearfully, voice of a
bewildered angry boy, "General Lee… I have no division."
-
Michael Shaara
The Killer Angels
USS Athene's crew tensed for battle... and in a way, so did she.
Athene differed very
little from the “name” vessel of her type, USS Akira. She and her sisters had been developed and produced along
with the
Of course, when
your starship is designated a “strike cruiser,” that particular game’s
essentially over before it begins.
A multi-spectral,
high-energy shield grid provided formidable protection, and generous layers of
ablative hull armor, similar to Defiant's,
insulated critical systems in the event the screens failed or were overwhelmed.
Athene's phaser array had been the most powerful
available for starship use when her keel was laid. Even today, it ranked as one
of the heavier primary weapons displacements any Starfleet vessel proffered,
and provided an unobstructed 720° field of fire.
Her magazine held a full complement of Type-VIII photon torpedoes; or, rather,
it had when the war began.
By now, that
supply had been significantly
depleted.
Some irreverent
wit had dubbed her design (and that of the similarly structured Steamrunner-class) "the catamaran," and,
as with most pithily annoying nomenclature, it had stuck. Certainly she did not
strongly resemble the "normal" Federation starship; and this
difference was a point of pride for her proponents even as detractors derided
and mocked the entire design motif, saying "she looks like a warship"—such
tantamount to a ringing condemnation when one considered the source.
Mounted at her
dorsal apex was a mission pod containing the principal torpedo launchers, while
Athene's primary hull housed a "shuttle
bay" more reminiscent of that on a thru-deck aircraft carrier than a
Federation starship. Stored therein were her most notable and distinctive
weapons—a squadron of Shrike-class attack craft. These were in perfect
operating condition, and impeccably maintained—a source of great pride for
their maintenance crews…
…but not
exactly so for their pilots.
Even now, they listened as
one—neophytes, blooded veterans and old hands alike—as their task force
commander spoke briefly on the eve of battle:
"We've learned a lot about the Jem'Hadar over the last few years. I don't have to tell any
of you that they're pretty formidable enemies. I keep hearing endless variants
on, 'They're the ultimate warriors.' Well, I'm here to tell you: That's not
true. The Jem'Hadar are not warriors.
"Warriors forge and hone their
skills… they're not programmed with them.
"Warriors face their fear… and
overcome it. They don't have it bred out
of them.
"Warriors understand that battle is
a means and not an end—that living for war is no life at all.
"Warriors know why they fight; they
don't have to be told.
"Warriors' blood burns hot… and
needs no drug to kindle the flame.
"The Jem'Hadar
are efficient soldiers—nothing
more. In this battle… the warriors are mine.
"Make me proud."
Lieutenant (junior grade) Keith Masters
(call sign "Midas") heard it all through the cockpit's comm
panel, but his thoughts in reaction were probably not what Mantovanni
had hoped to inspire.
Then give us a chance to do that, you pompous
windbag.
He, along with the other members of the
5,517th Tactical Assault Squadron (the "Myrmidons"),
brushed off the "rah-rah" and waited for what really mattered: Their
orders.
They weren't long in coming, and Keith
strained to tell from the tone of his CO's voice whether these would differ
from the others they'd received over the last few months.
Lieutenant Commander Stephen Shaw (call
sign "Achilles") cleared his throat and snapped, "All right,
showgirls, listen up." For an instant, he hesitated, and each
hawk-jockey leaned forward in the saddle, anticipating.
"We're on standby."
The last syllable hadn't even faded from
the speakers before their private frequency exploded with a flood of
infuriated, and indelicate, chatter.
"Son-of-a-bitch…!"
"You've got to be fucking kidding m–…!"
"Damn it, not again…!"
Keith listened silently. Steve'll give it about three more seconds before…
"All right, that's enough. You know the drill: 'Ours not
to question why…'"
They'd all heard that particular line
more than once since the war began, but even Tennyson was wearing thin.
Yeah, but we're not doin'
or dyin',
Steve, Keith thought. That's the problem.
For three months, and over a number of
engagements, the Myrmidons had sat and chafed, their fighters safe in Athene's belly, while the combats raged outside.
Never, on any occasion, had they been called into the fray, instead going from
"standby" to "stand down" time and again.
And so it was this time, too. An hour
later, the "all clear" sounded, and a collection of stiff and sullen
pilots descended from their perches, having followed the battle… but once more
having not participated.
It took a distinctive personality-type
to fly a small attack craft, and there weren't many shrinking violets among the
breed. The grumbling hadn't ceased; and as they trudged into the squadron
dayroom, its tone had become decidedly resentful and, in some cases,
insubordinate.
"I don't give a shit if the
old man is supposed to be a 'tactical genius.'
We're a resource, and we're not being properly utilized. That's
just plain stupid." This came from Lieutenant (junior grade)
Victoria Reston (code name "Nike").
"While I, too, would prefer
participation, I do not believe Captain Mantovanni's reputation is unfounded.
Perhaps there are circumstances of which we are not aware."
Keith rolled his eyes, and thought, Gee,
there's a surprise. T'Virr is supporting
Mantovanni. Never know they were both raised on Vulcan, would you?
Vicki was even less impressed with that
particular stance than he had been.
"Oh, bullshit. It's one of
those philosophical things, and you know it, T'Virr!
Mantovanni doesn't like fighters—thinks they're 'inappropriate to the
modern line of battle,' or some idiotic crap like that—and is ignoring
us! What other explanation could there be?"
Lieutenant T’Virr
(call sign "Artemis") gave a predictable initial response—an arched
brow— and then supported that with a quiet, resolute, "What I know,
Victoria, is based on logic and educated speculation. I do not claim to
understand the source of your… insights."
Keith, knowing Vicki far too well,
stepped between the two women before the exchange could escalate into a
dogfight.
Or would that be a
"bitch"-fight?
Commander Shaw, who was probably in as
good a mood as the rest of his squadron, nevertheless couldn't indulge the
upset, nor allow it free rein.
"All right, catharsis is over for
today. Vicki, stop ranting; T'Virr, don't egg her
on."
The Vulcan protested mildly, "Such
was not my intent." Nevertheless, she glanced back to her debate partner
and offered, "I understand your frustration, Victoria, and to a certain
extent, share it."
Reston reached back to free her mass of
blonde hair from the single pin that had artfully restrained it. She grinned,
grudgingly, and teased, "S'okay… but I
thought frustration was an emotion."
As always, T'Virr
won the exchange.
"Exposure causes contamination… and
I am exposed constantly."
The resultant laughter broke the
lingering tension, and the squadron settled into a more relaxed cool-down.
Eventually, though, the room emptied but
for Masters and Shaw.
The latter decided it an opportunity.
"This is getting worse," Keith
noted, careful to keep most inflection from his tone. He didn't want Shaw to
think emotionalism was tingeing his
opinion.
That fear was unfounded.
The reply was a succinct,
"Yeah."
"You have to do something,
Steve."
"Yeah."
Two for two. Now it gets interesting.
At last, Keith ventured, "Maybe you
should talk to Captain Forrest."
Stephen Shaw proved himself eloquent as
he'd been.
"Yeah."
Luciano Mantovanni leaned back in his
ready room desk chair, seeking a moment's respite from the pile of data-laden PADDs strewn on his desk: Strategic/tactical updates;
long-range sensor sweeps; logistics reports; maintenance/repair dockets;
requests… requirements… demands—an ubiquitous, endless array of
electronic "paperwork" all needing his "immediate"
attention, review and approval.
He closed his eyes…
…and in that instant, of course, the
door chime sounded.
For a few seconds, the idea of simply
saying, "Go… away," held him in thrall.
Eventually, he settled for a slight sigh,
and a murmured, "Come in."
Sera MacLeod's "Good morning,
sir," would have barely registered as a cursory salutation, if he hadn't
detected an undercurrent of disapproval in her tone.
Mantovanni chose to ignore it.
"You have something for me,
Commander?"
The undercurrent became an undertow.
"I do, sir. Other than brief visits
to the bridge and sickbay, you've remained in your ready room for 39 hours and
18 minutes. I must assume that you've been awake and working for that entire
span.
"Logic suggests that you're tired,
hungry…"
"I’m neither."
She arched a brow. "…and,
obviously, irritable."
Mantovanni summoned what he thought
might resemble a reassuring grin.
"Sera, I'm fine. I have a
bed right there," he reminded, vaguely motioning to said alcove, then
gesturing further. "I have a replicator just behind me—all the creature
comforts necessary."
Liberty's operations chief seemed unimpressed
with that.
"'Creature comforts' serve only if
the 'creature' actually 'comforts' itself… or, in this case, himself.
You have never before, to my knowledge, availed yourself of the sleeping
facilities provided for your convenience… and considering that the bedclothes
are pristine, I shall ignore your hope that I would infer their recent
use." An irritated grunt served as confirmation of his none-too-inspired
ploy. "I also took it upon myself to check your replicator logs for the
past 48 hours."
His warning glare gave her only slight
pause.
"You've had three cups of
cinnamon-laced cocoa, the last of which you requested over 17 hours ago."
A hint of acid touched his, "You're
not my mother, Commander; and we both have far more important things to do
than quibble over my eating and sleeping habits."
She inclined her head in seeming
agreement, and acknowledged, "Indeed we do." A moment later, she
continued, "I am, however, taking time from my work because this
task force's captain chooses to ignore the needs and limitations of his
physiology. If you weren't being childish, Cicero, I wouldn't
feel it necessary to 'mother' you."
Mantovanni abruptly realized that he'd
have to throw her a bone, or the conversation could get ugly.
"Your observations and
recommendations are noted, accepted… and appreciated. I promise I'll…
see to my needs."
"No… you won't." When his brow
arched, she hastened to add, "I'm not calling you a liar, but harried
starship captains are well known for pushing themselves unnecessarily—as you
have done. Hatshepsut informed me that she's addressed this with you twice
in the past 15 hours. We have little doubt you mean to take care
of yourself, but we have no doubt you'll continue 'forgetting' to do so:
I had Dr. Aiello run a surreptitious medical scan while you were in sickbay
yesterday; he wasn't pleased with the results. Thus, M'Raav suggested the
action I took ten minutes ago… and both Commander Bagheer and Captain Donaldson
endorsed it, as well."
Suddenly, Mantovanni had an inkling
where this conversation was going… or, rather, had gone.
"And what 'action,' may I ask, was
that?"
Sera tapped her comm badge, and
announced, "You may enter now."
The door slid open and in walked a woman
whose entire being, both appearance and posture, bespoke the phrase "no
nonsense": She was short, and at first glance, a bit pudgy… but a second
look forced Mantovanni to amend that initial impression to "solid."
He silently wagered she'd won more than a few hand-to-hand encounters in her
time—a time that obviously extended some years back, considering her rank.
MacLeod kept the introduction succinct.
"Captain Luciano Cicero Mantovanni…
Senior Chief Petty Officer Ingrid Kepler."
The two continued to evaluate each
other.
"Sir."
"Chief."
Much to Mantovanni's amusement and
dismay, the cool blonde with the even colder blue eyes nodded slowly, as if
having taken his measure, and informed them both, "Don't worry, Commander
MacLeod. He looks tough, but I've… handled
worse."
He got the distinct impression the woman
had been about to say "broken."
No doubt she'd employed the obvious
stereotype to her advantage over the years: Kepler,
after all, seemed the cultivated picture of Germanic discipline. Vaguely, he
wondered where she'd misplaced her riding crop.
Sera, perhaps guessing at his line of
thought, suppressed a grin, and observed, "The chief has been both a cook
and a small arms instructor during her Starfleet career—which eminently
qualifies her to serve as your new steward."
He'd guessed where this had been headed
too late. Still he made an attempt to overturn it.
"Starfleet did away with
stewardship and yeomanry some years ago, Commander," Mantovanni noted
dryly. "You're exceeding your mandate, here."
She easily countered with, "It also
did away with chief science officers and commodores. Yet here I am, serving as
both chief of operations and head of sciences… Commodore."
Mantovanni knew he could win this battle
eventually, but that it would be long, bloody and far too costly. Besides,
though he didn't particularly want to admit it, Sera was right.
"'A cook and a small arms
instructor,' eh?" he echoed.
Kepler didn't hesitate in her response. "Ja."
The captain guessed, "I suppose
that means that if I don't eat…"
"I'll shoot you."
Sera seemed to think that was funny.
Unsurprisingly, Luciano Mantovanni
didn't…
…and, considering her stern expression,
neither did his new steward.
INTERLUDE ONE
Shalra was a Vorta,
and thus had few, if any, vices… but possessed numerous qualities only her
fellows and masters would credit as virtues. She'd been created for the express
purpose of serving the Founders with efficiency and enthusiasm, and had done so
to the fullest extent of her granted attributes.
That didn’t mean, however, that her
faith was blind.
She had once speculated to her fellow Vorta, Sethon, that godhood
didn't necessarily imply infallibility. His horrified expression and response
had amused her.
"You insult the Founders with your…
your…" he'd hesitated, sputtering—incoherent with indignation and
disbelief.
"…blasphemy?" she'd supplied helpfully. "Hardly.
If the Founders were perfect, they would not require servants. I was
made to glorify their divinity with my actions—not sing empty praises
and insult my intellectual betters."
Sethon had bristled at that, but not responded
in kind: The Vorta often measured their relative
competence by the number of clone replacements they'd required. Shalra was the first issue of her genetic matrix and had
lived for almost 120 Terran years—a point about which the only weeks-old Sethon Four had been none-too-subtly reminded. She'd well
known his status as it related to the limited number of duplicates authorized
to all but the most extraordinarily competent Vorta.
And from what she'd seen in the
months since the war had begun, the odds were good that there would be no
Sethon Five. He'd botched the assault against the 13th
Fleet at Teska IV, and it was only Gul Ocett's quick-thinking and
resolve that had enabled even a handful of ships to escape.
Of course, depending on the result of
the subspace communication in which she would soon be involved, there might not
be a Shalra Two,
either: Weyoun might not be a Founder, but his
influence was immense. He had the ear of the Founders themselves. Displeasing
him could mean an abbreviated career or an arrested existence.
As she activated the subspace link and
waited on her superior's pleasure, Shalra took a deep
breath and steeled herself to argue for the continuation of both.
Dukat, leader of the Cardassian Union, smiled
and referred to the PADD he held.
"Let's briefly review the last few
months' happenings, shall we?"
Ocett didn't make the mistake of thinking it
was a question.
"Disruption of convoys in over ten
sectors… annihilation of a strategically significant military service port…
internment or destruction of more freight tonnage than was lost during the entire Tzenkethi War… defeat or
decimation of four deployed task forces… diversion of over 375 vessels
from the front in order to safeguard supply routes and attempt to encircle
them…"
It had been difficult not to cringe. Ocett was well aware of the facts; she'd been present
for too damned much of what he'd just read.
Despite all of it, though, Dukat seemed at ease. The man was still smiling.
Somehow, Ocett
found that less than reassuring.
"This '13th Fleet' has been quite
industrious, I'm sure you'll agree."
There was nothing to be said but,
"Yes, sir." Ocett refused to call him
"Legate" if she could at all avoid it.
"I must admit," he continued, in that patronizing tone
he'd favored since their days as students at Command Academy, "that if
the war weren't unfolding quite successfully everywhere else, your inability to
resolve this little problem would be much more aggravating. As it is,
this has grown from a simple annoyance into a genuine impediment.
"The fact that even a handful of
these ships are still… at liberty… after all this time has boosted morale
throughout the Federation and Klingon Empire. We might have broken them in the
first two months of the war if not for this. They're… how would my friend
Benjamin say it?… 'folk heroes.'"
"Yes, sir."
Ocett had, only a few years before, been the
one on the verge of promotion to legate, while the man she now faced via
subspace had found himself in a political whirlpool—fallen from favor and cast
out of both the Central Command and the Union itself. Governments and
circumstances change, though, and now he stood atop the apex of achievement, at
the pinnacle of fortune… and, she had no doubt, upon the edge of disaster,
resting as he did against the teeth of the Dominion dragon.
"But I've always liked you."
No… you've always wanted me. There's a difference.
"I'm gratified, sir."
"You have a keen intellect."
And a lean body. If I closed my eyes,
you wouldn't even be able to tell me what color they are, Dukat.
"The better to serve Cardassia…" after a moment's pause, she added, "…and
the Dominion."
Only then, and only for an instant, did Dukat's unctuous smile waver.
Direct hit, she thought.
"Perhaps a position on my staff
might suit you."
Retaining her equanimity in the face of that
implication taxed her self-control more than anything she'd ever faced in her
life.
That was… utterly innocuous and
completely vulgar all at once. Some things… some creatures… never change. Don't you
have enough Bajoran woman on which to slake your lust,
Dukat?
She'd had enough.
"I would want to truly merit
such a position, sir—while not leaving unfinished business behind me. Perhaps a
temporary promotion to command all the forces converging in this sector would
allow me to end this troublesome situation."
He knew her intent…
…but would it amuse or anger him?
She was disgusted—with both him and
herself.
Years in the service… promotion to gul… a military record that the majority of
my classmates would give their firstborn to have… and despite all that I’m
playing power and penis politics with a man whose matter-of-fact abuse of his authority is legend
among both Bajorans and Cardassians.
Yet, like it or not, he has the power.
After a moment's thought, his smile grew
even more self-satisfied.
"I think we understand each other, Ocett."
When Dukat's
visage faded from the screen a few moments later, Kirith
Ocett couldn't, at first, decide whether to laugh or
scream.
She was afraid, on both counts, that if
she started, she'd never stop.
***
Sera MacLeod studied the data from her latest long-range sensor
sweep, and contemplated the two-edged sword of superior vision.
Granted, seeing your enemies before they got a look at you was
often a tremendous advantage; sometimes it allowed for devising stratagems
based on what you saw and they didn’t.
On the other hand, when what you saw was overwhelming force you could neither elude nor overcome,
all it did was let you know your worries were justified.
Sera must have noticeably sighed or shifted in response to what she’d
seen, because a moment later, Bagheer’s presence at
her side, and growl in her ear, let her know misery now had company. To most of
the bridge crew, the sound was inaudible, but still disquieting—like an implied
but unspoken threat. Vulcan hearing was extremely acute, though; she’d never
let on, but was usually all too aware of her X-O’s current state of temper.
Or distemper.
Like most creatures evolved from arboreal primates, Sera didn’t
always react well to a predator suddenly on her flank—practically at her
throat. With an effort, she prevented her shiver from becoming a shudder.
“At ease, Commander,” Bagheer rumbled. “Vulcans aren’t on the menu—currently.”
She smiled, and answered with, “Hoping for a policy change from
the Tzenkethi government?”
Bantering with Bagheer was entertaining—if a touch nerve-wracking.
He leaned nearer the ops console, as if examining the data stream, and draped
himself along the periphery of her personal space.
“If necessary, I’ll make policy.”
She could detect the difference between a growl and a purr rather
easily, and when he shifted from the former, her tension instantly lessened.
Clearly he’d noticed her distress… and this concession was as close to an
apology as Sera was likely to get.
Of course, when they settled into examining the data, Bagheer’s growl returned.
This time, she was inclined to growl along with him.
***
“And there’s no way we
can avoid them all.”
Matt Forrest knew he was belaboring the obvious, but frustration
had begun to win past his military bearing: The conversation he was having with
his commanding officer had, thus far, not gone well.
He’d located Mantovanni in Astrometrics,
wandering almost aimlessly through a tactical display constructed from recent
scans of the surrounding sectors. Forrest had always found three-dimensional
maps of this sort a little off-putting; he preferred data on a PADD or a
viewer, so he could brainstorm without feeling like he was in the middle of
one.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t read it just as well this way, though.
It wasn’t good news: There were hundreds of ships comprising seven different assault groups
converging on their position, the weakest of which outgunned them almost
two-to-one.
“What was it you said a few months ago about being ‘a colossal
pain in the ass’?” Forrest had observed. “I do believe that’s the ‘Hemorrhoid
Removal Contingent’ headed our way.”
His commander had simply arched a brow, grunted noncommittally and
continued his musings.
“I’m here to discuss optimal use of my fighter squadron, sir.”
That salutation had gotten a reaction.
“’Sir’?” Mantovanni had echoed. “Should I have you report to sickbay for
an evaluation of your mental state? Inconsistent behavior in a subordinate is
ample grounds for an exam.”
Forrest had grinned. “Not
necessary… Commodore.”
“That’s better.” Whatever warmth the Sicilian’s voice had held seeped
away before he’d added, “There’s nothing to discuss. The fighters are
antiquated, poorly shielded, lightly armed and not exactly what I’d consider
sturdy craft. I can’t see risking their pilots simply to perform the function
of ‘momentary distraction.’”
“It’s what they do,
Cicero. They’re excellent fliers, one
and all; most of them have been in Shrikes
for years—some for decades.”
Mantovanni had folded his arms.
“Their skills aren’t in question, Matt… but the fact some have been flying these ships for that
long is a telling point. They’re older than the Excelsior-class, for God’s sake. From what I’ve read, certain
officers have been recommending replacement designs for them and the Peregrines since the mid-point of the First Cardassian War. Now, here we are, a generation later, still using these
two models as our primary small attack craft.
“Hell, I’ve flown a Shrike-class ship. They have little use
on the front lines. They’re 23rd century technology.”
Forrest had then replied unthinkingly.
“Some people feel the same way about you.”
He’d practically cringed right after saying it, but Mantovanni had
merely smiled, as if conceding the point.
After a moment, Athene’s skipper had ventured, “Their maneuverability and
speed serve to make them less vulnerable than you might think.”
Still, there was no answer.
Matt tried again. “What about…? What about arming them with torpedoes? Not the micros they
have now, but… removing that entire weapons package and swappin’
in a few photons each? That would make them a viable threat to capital ships.
The Maquis
did that with the Peregrines, and
they served pretty well, from what I hear.”
It was then he’d made his observation about the impossibility of
avoiding an engagement.
Now, a few moments later, they were back-to-back, observing their
environment… and watching each enemy task force draw infinitesimally closer by
the minute.
“And I don’t know what you’re plannin’,
if anythin’… but we need the ships—desperately.”
At last, Mantovanni answered.
“Flying a Shrike-class
fighter against Jem’Hadar gunships
is at best a fool’s errand and at worst, a conscious decision to opt for
suicide. I can’t ask them to do that.”
His friend laughed.
“I sometimes forget… you were never really a pilot, Cicero. Many of us possess arrogance to a degree that makes
that of a mere starship captain—present company excluded, of course—seem that
of a well-mannered prep school student. They want to be out there… and not just because they wish to contribute
to the cause. They all know… know…
that they’re not going be the one to
buy it fightin’ the Jem’Hadar.
They’re too good.”
He summed up his argument. “So… we need the ships… they want to be
involved… I think they can contribute. Have I missed anything?”
“You haven’t used ‘Commodore’ in a while.”
Forrest suppressed a chuckle, but smiled again. “Forgive me… Commodore.”
“Your recommendations are noted, Captain.” The tone was final, and
for a moment, Matt had no idea whether he’d gotten through or not.
After Mantovanni told him his plans, he still wasn’t sure.
***
Bela Tiraz wasn’t an overly expressive man…
but that was not at all to say he was emotionless or even uncaring.
Understatement simply seemed to fit him as well as the carefully tailored
uniform he wore. A crew often takes on
certain of a commander’s characteristics—following his lead, as it were—and
that of Ptolemy was no exception.
They had fun, and quite a bit of it… but it was usually quiet and dignified, like
their captain.
Over the last few months, that quietude
had become even more determinedly purposeful, as if a concerted silence might
enable them all to escape the Fates’ notice.
Thus far, it had worked. Casualties
aboard Ptolemy had been light—a few radiation burns, a couple of broken
bones.
The ship herself, though, hadn’t fared
quite so well; and his X-O’s report told Tiraz her
ongoing recovery was, in some ways, still slightly more of a convalescence.
“Again
that same problem?” Bela inquired.
“Indeed,” Suvak
replied. “The damage we took at Teska IV, while not
extensive, has been exacerbated by subsequent combats. Lieutenant Michaels’
repairs, though imaginative, have been only marginally successful. He describes
the primary generator as ‘functional until someone gives it a dirty look,’ and
the auxiliary as…” he paused, and Bela steadied
himself for one of his chief engineer’s ‘Michaelisms’
“… ‘twitchier than a virgin at a beach house after the senior prom.”’ Suvak took refuge in an expression of Vulcan dignity,
almost implying he didn’t quite understand that last metaphor. The slightly
arched brow and intimation of a smile, though, put that idea to rest.
The amusement was momentary, though,
and almost immediately washed away by cold reality.
“In other words, we could suddenly find
ourselves without aft shields during the next firefight.”
“Unfortunately, true.” It was rare for Suvak to assume the role of apologist, but he did, with,
“They would certainly have been replaced at a dry-dock, had we access to one.
Unfortunately, such facilities—along with time and non-replicable parts—are at
a premium. I consider it a remarkable effort that it is functioning as well as
it has, in light of our current situation.”
From tactical, Selennia
Vox volunteered, “I’ll play some more with the
distribution grids on the other generators; they should be able to partly
compensate for our problems with shield six. The structural integrity field
could probably also spare some power.”
Tiraz nodded... but his frown didn’t disappear.
His engineers knew their jobs, and
would have done whatever was feasible or
possible, with even a bit of the impossible
thrown in for good measure. Pride would not have prevented them from plumbing
their bigger sisters for whatever supplies or assistance could be gotten or
scrounged… but each ship had its own problems, each staff its own repairs… and
ultimately, you did the best you could with what you had.
And their best had still left Ptolemy with a noticeable, exploitable
weakness. Stopgap measures were all well and good, but….
He told Suvak,
“Make certain Captain Mantovanni is aware of our… continuing situation… so he
can factor it into his strategy for the upcoming engagement. This is going to
make our withdrawal somewhat more problematic.”
The Trill, Vox,
attempted to lighten the moment again.
“Already planning our retreat, sir? The
battle hasn’t even been fought, yet.”
Bela said nothing, because he knew captains weren’t supposed to
express such sentiments as he’d just had.
Either way… I don’t think it’s going to be much of a fight.
***
Once again, Stephen Shaw had a duty to which he wasn’t looking
forward—at all.
“I’ve got good news… and I’ve got bad news.”
He glanced around the squadron dayroom, and briefly examined each
pilot in turn. They’d been disappointed so often he wasn’t sure whether the
phrase “good news” had even registered—though he was certain “bad news” had.
“We’re off standby, Myrmidons. We fly in this next battle.”
It took a while to penetrate… but the murmurs of relief, approval
and even enthusiasm gave way immediately when Lieutenant (junior grade) Laura Molitor (call sign “Atalanta”)
asked, none too gently, “So what’s the bad
news?”
Sugar-coating wouldn’t do any good, Shaw knew.
“Only six of us will pilot.
The rest will navigate and handle ops for the fliers: Two-man crews.”
The grousing soon gave way to sidelong looks, as the 5717th’s
members immediately began sizing each other up. Shaw watched in fascination as
Lieutenant Aliarra Sih’tarr’s
antennae each made an independent circuit of the room—almost like a personal
sensor sweep—before reorienting on him.
“And which of us,” the Andorian woman (call sign “Rhea”) asked,
“will actually fly?”
That opened the floodgates.
Everyone had an opinion; and, of course, their method of choice
invariably favored themselves in some fashion. Shaw heard, in rapid succession,
most experienced (this from the four or five who’d been doing this the
longest), highest-ranked (Sih’tarr pointing out that
“Rank hath its privileges”), lowest-ranked
(“After all, you guys are too valuable
to risk,” Ensign Davor countered) and even all-female
(this half-jokingly, or at least he hoped so, from Vicki Reston).
Shaw once again, as he had when hearing about the method of
deployment, toyed with the idea of drawing lots. He had twelve great pilots and
didn’t want to offend—or worse, damage the all-important ego of—any. He wasn’t one to shirk responsibility,
though... and while they were all talented, some were just a hair better.
“Athene… Nike… Rhea… Midas… Hector…
you’ll fly—along with me. Pick a re-up who works well with you. We’ve all been
paired off with each other dozens of times in sim, and during exercises, so there shouldn’t
be any personality conflicts.
“Pre-flight briefing at 1700 hours, so tactical prep complete
before then.
“And those of you who aren’t flying… don’t take it personally.”
He didn’t know why he’d said it. He did know it hadn’t done a bit
of good… because in their place, God knew, he’d have taken it to heart.
Stephen Shaw silently cursed at Maitland Forrest, Luciano
Mantovanni and the gods, for having forced him to cut his beloved squadron in
half.
He knew they’d never be the same.
***
Dukat was beaming… and, as a consequence, Ocett
was uneasy.
“Kirith,” he said reassuringly, “you’re entirely too hard on
yourself. I’m actually…” and he paused for emphasis, “… quite pleased with you.”
The fact that
he was employing her pet phrases wasn’t exactly reassuring.
“You’ve more
than earned a position here at Terok Nor. I must admit, I’ve been imagining us
side-by-side, striving towards a mutual goal… and achieving it together.”
He
leaned forward, and Ocett almost drew away from the
screen. Even through a viewer, from dozens of light years away, Dukat’s combination of oily charm and unwelcome
suggestiveness seeped through her façade of indifference, and it was all she
could do not to shudder.
The
cliché was entirely accurate: The man made her skin crawl.
Still,
he was her superior—if not intellectually, then politically—and she owed the
rank and uniform respect.
Some
part of her, though, found strength from indignation, and Ocett
delivered a smile she was certain wasn’t the kind for which he’d been hoping.
“While I
imagine that could be quite rewarding, I do have unfinished business here. There are yet four enemy vessels
at large… and, once again, that rabble
gave better than it received: Gul Jevar
lost two of five cruisers and nearly a squadron of Hidekis, in exchange for a single
starship and a handful of fighters.”
Cardassia’s leader replied with a dry, impatient, “I have eyes, Kirith;
I read the report.
“But according to Jevar’s
account of the battle, one of the remaining four is limping badly, and two
others are damaged beyond repair, short of their commandeering a drydock—which I assume will not occur.”
Behind
him, Dukat’s hulking shadow, Damar,
grinned at the implication of her incompetence.
As if you
would have done any better, you brutish imbecile. If I recall correctly, your idea of subtlety, Damar,
is drinking from the glass instead of the bottle.
“No, sir,” she hastened to reply. “Even with Liberty fully operational, they lack the
firepower to overwhelm even the most lightly defended facility in either this
or the surrounding sectors.”
That restored Dukat’s
humor.
“Then
their effectiveness as a battle group is essentially past. All they can do is
attempt to reach the Federation border, make one last, futile attempt at a
convoy… or hide like a clutch of voles.”
Ocett’s reply wasn’t as emphatic as perhaps it should have
been… but Mantovanni had burned her once too often.
“That is my
preliminary assessment as well.”
Dukat cocked his head, still smiling.
“‘Preliminary assessment.’
“Well, then, I suppose I should allow you time to
make a final assessment, shouldn’t
I?”
His
face changed; and for the first time, it displayed that studied malevolence for
which he was known.
“Finish them quickly, Ocett.
Even my patience with an old
friend has limits, and this little vermin hunt has grown tiresome. Your future
is still a bright one, but you must take hold of it… and the ‘13th
fleet’ is in your way.
“They’re
almost helpless. Find them, and destroy them—for Cardassia...”
She
waited for the inevitable conclusion of that statement… but it never came.
Instead, he made it more intimate, and frightening.
“…for
yourself… and for me.”
The
transmission ceased, and she watched the screen as a Cardassian insignia
replaced the face of a man who clearly thought himself the personification of Cardassia.
Shalra, who had, as always, watched the interaction in
anonymous silence, placed a hand on her shoulder.
“His usefulness
will end, Ocett. He is the type of monster that
eventually devours himself.”
Ocett nodded, and sagged back into her seat.
“The question, Shalra, is whether he’ll devour me first.”
***
Matt Forrest
was angrier than he’d been in a long time, and sick at heart, as well.
Before him in
his ready room stood a quartet of exhausted, demoralized, embittered officers…
and he knew the next few minutes probably weren’t going to improve anyone’s
outlook.
As a matter of
fact, the future was looking pretty damned grim for all concerned—including him. Still, he resolved to
remain professional and impartial—frosty.
Perhaps there
was a resolution to this situation he hadn’t seen.
“You know,” he said, allowing his drawl to become
more pronounced, “I’m known for what I’m told is a fairly relaxed command demeanour. People say I’m easy to talk to—that Athene is what
they call ‘a happy ship.’” He flashed a glance at his X-O, but there was no
help there: Maria looked as
distressed as he felt… and her
expression told him the approach he’d taken sounded like rambling.
That’s probably ‘cause it is ramblin, darlin’.
Two of the
four, both rigidly upright, were beginning to look a little pale.
Irritated, he
snapped, “At ease. I don’t want any
of you faintin’ from lockin’
your knees—at least not until I’m done.”
Briefly, he
reconsidered his approach.
“I went to bat
for y’all over this,” he announced, rather matter-of-factly. That tone lasted
for all of two seconds. “Please tell
me I did the right thing—that there was a damned
good reason for what happened three hours ago.”
One, for an
instant, averted her eyes, and actually shuffled her feet.
For
some reason, it was enough to provoke his temper. He pitched headlong off the
careful, too-thin tightrope of patience he’d been walking, and found himself
just short of a full-blown conniption.
“Ensign, do I have your undivided attention!?”
Even
Petrova flinched; she’d never seen, let alone heard, him in such a state.
“Sir! Yes, sir!” the girl replied, stiffening
back to attention, eyes bright with something that might have been either fear
or anger.
Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.
“Good. Because I’m going to ask you a
series of questions… and you will answer them to my full and absolute
satisfaction—with alacrity. Do you
understand?”
“Aye, aye, sir!”
“That’s two-for-two, Ensign. You’re off
to a flyin’ start… but they get more difficult from
here.” He drew a long breath, then exhaled; it felt like he was letting half of
it out through his ears.
“Now… why in hell did you break formation?”
***
Stern glares of
coercion… eloquent, emphatic gestures… and that Stentorian voice—a voice that been
described as having two distinct tones: “Donner und Blitzen” and “Gotterdammerung”—all were impressive
weapons in Ingrid Kepler’s arsenal. And in pursuit of
her primary duty—to make certain her commanding officer took proper, or at
least better, care of himself—she had employed them all liberally, with a
middling measure of success.
Now, though… no
one would have recognized her.
She set the
tray down on the desk, and moved to stand next to him as he stared through the
ready room view port—seeking answers, or perhaps solace, in the void.
Gently, Ingrid
set a mug full of broth in his hand. Much to her surprise, before she could
command, or even cajole, he absently drew it to his lips and took a sip.
“Plomeek,” he murmured.
There was a
touch of approval there, she noted.
The slight
smile it had evoked, though, was gone an instant later.
“Do you have
children, Ingrid?”
He’d surprised
her with that.
“Ja,” she answered.
“One son, one daughter… and currently, one starship captain.”
This time, the
grin lasted a little longer… but it, too, soon faded.
“What would you
want to hear from their commander if they’d…?”
She risked a glance at his desk.
So that was it.
He was attempting to compose letters of condolence. Ingrid knew
Mantovanni was the kind of man who would agonize over every word in each one…
and that the mere idea of form letters, even ones personalized with a few
specifics per casualty, would be to him, dereliction of duty—at best.
“Other than one letter in particular, sir, wouldn’t the responsibility
b–”
“The commander,” he interjected, “is recovering from injuries sustained
during the battle. This, unfortunately, falls to me.”
Falls on you, you mean, thought Kepler, frowning. Along
with everything else, it seems.
“I have your permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Always.”
“Good.” She folded her arms, again becoming the quintessence of maternal
formidability.
“You’re a great starship captain and a superlative tactician… but as a
high-level administrator…?” She shook
her head disapprovingly. “Being a fleet commander, sir, does not mean micromanaging. You’re not qualified to write these letters;
you didn’t know most of these people. Also, it’s not critical this be done now:
We’ll not be delivering them any time soon… and by then the person who should do it will be back on her feet
and capable of shouldering this.
“It may not be pleasant… but it might just be cathartic.
“In addition… I’m not sure she’ll appreciate what you’re doing here,
either.”
He stiffened.
“I’m trying to make things easier for her.”
Kepler was undeterred: He was hearing her… he was even listening… but recent
events had left them all reeling, and, in many ways, as their leader, he had a
share in everyone’s uncertainty.
This, though, was something he could do;
and he had latched onto it.
Unfortunately, in Kepler’s view, it was the wrong thing to do.
She gave careful thought to her next words… but decided to proceed.
“You asked what I’d want to hear in a letter like that.”
That focused his attention even further.
“I did.”
“My answer is this: Exactly what I did
hear—that my husband had fought bravely, that he had many friends who missed
him and that his actions had made a difference. And I heard it from someone
who’d known him, who’d fought alongside him, who’d seen him fall—someone who
could recall a friend, rather than eulogizing a stranger.
“It made a difference to me.”
She could sense he was about to offer sympathy… and that brought her
back to the here and now. Before he could speak, Ingrid offered a suddenly
brisk, forbidding, “If you’ll excuse me,
sir,” and headed for the door.
Before it opened, she gestured to his mug. “Now finish that.”
Both their smiles were grateful: His for what she had said…
…and hers for what he hadn’t.
***
Keda’ratan was that rarest of Jem’Hadar Firsts:
One whose relationship with his Vorta was not
antagonistic, or even adversarial.
Calling them friends
would have been going too far… but, certainly, they worked together admirably well.
Shalra had numerous Jem’Hadar
under her command, but unlike many of her ilk, she had always relied upon Keda’ratan’s military acumen and his unerring way with the
men.
For a Vorta, her sight was unusually
keen.
When last they had spoken, though, their... association… had almost taken a turn for the worse.
“You will allow the Cardassians the lead position in this battle,”
she had said.
For a moment, he had almost balked.
“We are the Jem’Hadar. We are the
vanguard; it is our right according to The Way of Things.”
“It is also The Way of Things,” she had replied, “that the Vorta command and the Jem’Hadar
obey… but you are The First, and I defer to your judgment.”
Before he could speak again, though, Shalra
had explained her reasoning—at length.
He, much to his amazement, had found it sound—both tactically and
strategically.
“Very well,” he had conceded. “We shall proceed as you recommend.”
She had nodded her satisfaction and terminated the transmission.
Now, days later, as Keda’ratan completed
his annotations to the sensor logs recorded during the battle and prepared to
transmit them, he again marveled at his continued good fortune. For two years,
he had been a Revered Elder… and rather than placing him at the forefront of
some engagement, in hopes that he would die and give way to a more easily
manipulated First, Shalra had instead made him more
of an attaché and advisor. He still engaged in battle—he was Jem’Hadar, after all—but she had not betrayed, abandoned or
even wasted him. To her, he was more than a commodity.
He was an asset.
From a Vorta, that was indeed a
compliment.
Victory is life… he thought, and depressed the Send
button.
…and life is good.
***
Starfleet memorial services for lost
vessels were usually crowded affairs.
This one, though, was an exception. It
wasn’t that the living had no regard for the dead—far from it. In this case, it
just meant the former were overwhelmed with work that had to be done, and soon, if they actually wished to stay living.
The survivors, in other words, were
focused on surviving.
It didn’t help matters that there were no
deceased over which to mourn: The “13th’s” escape from the scene of battle had
meant leaving the bodies of those lost to their fate… and that was bitter
fruit, indeed.
Each captain attended. Even together with
those retrieved from the dying ship before her end, though, they seemed a mere
handful—so few mourners for so many dead.
The seven survivors had chosen a single
representative to speak for them… and from her expression, it was a duty she’d
accepted reluctantly.
“We all understand that people die during
a war.
“But we also think it’ll be those other people… and barring that, hope
that it won’t hit so close to home: Better a stranger than an acquaintance…
better an acquaintance than a friend… and better a friend than someone you…”
she hesitated, and then stressed the last word, “…love.”
“You see, I know what my captain thought
when he died, because I knew him.
“He thought, ‘Better me than them.’”
Selennia Vox had meant
to continue, but she faltered, then. Joined Trills saw far more death than most
over the course of their myriad lives, and many assumed they possessed an
advantage in dealing with such things—that it got easier.
After seeing her in that moment, though,
everyone present knew one thing.
It never
got easier.
When Luciano Mantovanni had finished his
briefing, two of the three captains present in the ready room were agitated. Liberty’s commander briefly wondered whether he was losing his touch: Usually, by
this point, he’d aggravated everyone.
Erika Donaldson, at least, seemed to find his opinion as agreeable as she
always had.
“You can’t do that!”
For the first time in a long time, Matt Forrest agreed with her.
“While I usually, eventually,
come down on your side in these discussions, Commodore, this time….”
His drawl had become even more pronounced.
Krajak, at least, supported him—though that wasn’t surprising considering
the decision he’d just announced.
“It is reasonable,” he proclaimed… and when Erika shot him a glare, bared his teeth in a
casual sneer.
She looked singularly unimpressed.
“‘It is reasonable’… this from
a Klingon eager to die in battle. Now there’s
a ringing endorsement.”
In reply, Krajak flexed his fingers, as if
looking to loosen the fit in his leather gloves. The message—that he’d briefly
toyed with the option of wrapping them around Donaldson’s neck—wasn’t lost on
any of them. While it wasn’t precisely an idle
threat, though, it wasn’t a serious one, either.
More like the Klingon
version of catharsis, Mantovanni thought.
“Captain Donaldson,” he said, “wasn’t it you who just a few months ago
recommended we make for the border instead of fighting? Well, now you’ve got
your chance to do just that.”
Now she looked even less
impressed.
“That was the Federation
border,” Donaldson countered, “not the
Tzenkethi!”
The Sicilian arched a brow, and afforded her a slight smile she didn’t at
all appreciate. “Semantics.”
Before she could further express her indignation, he continued, “We’re
out of alternatives. Your ops chiefs’ damage assessments make clear that both Adventurous and Athene are barely warp capable, let alone combat ready. Ch’Moch can cloak, her weapons systems are
fully operational, and she’s now faster than either of the other two vessels
still… under my command.”
Mantovanni couldn’t believe he’d almost said, “…in one piece.”
Donaldson pointed at him, and waved to include Krajak
in the gesture.
“You haven’t explained where you
two are going while we limp
towards evisceration at Tzenkethi hands.”
“Paws,” Forrest corrected, and earned himself the nastiest look Erika had
yet leveled.
At least she’s
distributing them evenly, Mantovanni thought.
“No,” he then agreed. “I haven’t.”
The subsequent silence let them know he had no intention of doing so.
Forrest smiled.
“Don’t be upset, Cap’n Donaldson. We’re
obviously now on a ‘need-to-know’ basis… and as we won’t be a goin’, we don’t ‘need to know’—especially since it’s a plan
of which Krajak approves.”
The Klingon offered a toothy confirmation.
Usually, Matt Forrest’s gibes found their way unerringly beneath
Mantovanni’s skin, but today they missed their mark. He ignored the invitation
to rebut, and instead added, “Commander Bagheer will accompany you aboard Athene, which
will be lead ship during Liberty’s
absence. Please give Captain Forrest the same respect you’ve always… hmm…” Mantovanni reconsidered his
statement. “Please afford Captain Forrest the respect due his position, Captain Donaldson.”
It lightened the moment. Forrest chuckled; Krajak
laughed openly. Even Erika, though her cheeks brightened, took it as it had
been intended, and offered a sheepish grin.
Mantovanni replied with that spectral smile, and a crisp, “We’ll see you
at the rendezvous.
“Dismissed.”
Forrest lingered, though, as Mantovanni knew he would.
“You read my report concerning our last engagement—specifically as
pertains to my pilots?”
“I did.”
Athene’s skipper came around the desk and found his way to the window—precisely
where his CO had been spending much of his recent time.
“I’ve held off on any disciplinary action pending an opinion from ‘on
high.’”
Mantovanni nodded.
“I might have done the same thing, Cicero, at that age, in that
situation.”
Again, he received a nod and nothing more.
“Do you want me to handle it?”
At last, Forrest got an answer.
“No. Tell them…
“…tell them we’re all living
with our choices… and that any disciplinary action will wait pending a return
to Federation space. I’m not about to speak ex
cathedra or turn over a drumhead and render judgment on this.
“I kept them grounded. I let them loose.”
I take the blame.
Now Forrest asked the question he’d dreaded.
“What about their flight status?”
The question had caught him by surprise, and Mantovanni actually
laughed—a brief, harsh sound more like a smoker’s cough.
“If I’ve got to keep doing this…
so do they. Restore them to active duty… your discretion on their missions
until I return.”
“Yes, sir.”
He really had nothing further to say, but for a few moments, Matt
Forrest held his ground, wondering whether he would see this man again.
“At least we got away, Cicero. That’s a victory, of sorts.”
For a moment, he thought Mantovanni might say, “Tell that to Ptolemy’s crew,” but he spared them both
that.
Instead, he found something better, and worse.
“‘Another such “victory”…’”
Forrest knew the reference well enough to finish.
“‘…and we shall be undone.’”
EPILOGUE
Excerpted from Jane's Fighting
Ships, Special Edition:
Naval Engagements of the late 24th
Century:
Most naval historians of note long
considered the decision to fight at what has been designated the Trevan Withdrawal one of the few strategic missteps of
Luciano Mantovanni’s long career. Until that point, Mantovanni had taken care
to deploy only when possessed of numerous tactical advantages, the element of
surprise or both—thus adhering to solid principles of engagement.
Yet despite at this time having neither
of these, the “13th Fleet” challenged a numerically superior Cardassian force,
commanded by a competent leader in Gul Jevar; and while the results of the engagement were
favorable insofar as absolute losses in ship tonnage, Mantovanni’s beleaguered
battle group could ill afford any
loss by this point of the war.
In addition, the encounter had been
deemed by these selfsame experts not only unnecessary, but easily avoidable.
One of the Federation Alliance’s few technological superiorities throughout the
Dominion War was a distinct speed advantage: While Cardassian and Jem’Hadar vessels labored to achieve warp
nine-point-six-five, for many Starfleet and Klingon ships this was a
sustainable velocity. Mantovanni had exploited this for months, eluding pursuit
and denying his foes the decisive meeting they were now desperate to attain.
Clearly, then, standing their ground in this instance was deemed to have been
foolhardy at best… or, worse, a blunder that could have cost thousands of
lives.
The judgment of history, however, is
rarely final, in that new evidence requires a reevaluation of perspectives long
considered inviolate. The 50th anniversary of peace with the Dominion brought
with it the long-awaited declassification of uncounted gigaquads
in data—a literal treasure trove for scholars in which to happily wallow… and,
occasionally, surface with information calling into question theories long
accepted as “facts.”
Mantovanni’s renowned tactical
sleight-of-hand and famed reluctance to speak with either journalists or
biographers had led to specious conclusions being drawn as to the motivation
behind his decision. While most had believed it a simple error in judgment, a
few detractors had even gone so far as to accuse him of hubris—that his unprecedented successes behind enemy lines had
caused him to believe his “generalship” irresistible, a la an even more famous commander, Robert E. Lee, whose
ill-considered deployments at the Battle of Gettysburg in all likelihood
changed the course of American history.
Long months of sporadic but intense
combat, though, had taken their toll on the “13th Fleet.” Despite brilliant and
heroic measures by the engineering staffs on each vessel, three of the five
remaining ships had begun to show the strain: Hull micro-fractures caused by
repeated weapons fire and near-constant use of high warp (problems which would
have been a simple matter to repair in dry-dock) became causes of serious
concern.
Thus, Mantovanni’s options were not palatable: Attempt to avoid each of
the three task forces bearing down on them with a series of high-warp evasive
maneuvers that, while successful until that point, now ran a serious risk of
catastrophe aboard one or more vessels, bringing all three opposing units upon
them simultaneously; or select one enemy battle group at random, attempt to
cripple it, and escape through rather
than around.
Liberty’s commander
chose the latter.1
Jevar’s command, while not inconsiderable, was
the smallest of the three pursuing the “13th.” It numbered two heavy Keldon- and three
medium Galor-class
cruisers, these supported by 14 fighters (a dozen Hidekis and a pair of Jem’Hadar “bug” ships). It was an essentially Cardassian force,
employing Cardassian tactics, and Mantovanni utilized that to his advantage as
best he could.
Despite their numerical inferiority, the
“13th” assumed an aggressive posture. For the first time since the war had
begun, Mantovanni ordered USS Athene’s commander, Maitland Forrest, to deploy that
vessel’s squadron of Shrike-class
attack craft, and split it in two: The first flight of six provided cover for
the two most vulnerable starships, Adventurous
and Ptolemy; while the second assumed
the point.
Taking a page from the Jem’Hadar school of tactics, the six lead fighters, stuffed
with antimatter and remotely guided, swept in for a kamikaze run on their targets, the Keldon-class vessels. Caught by
surprise at this decidedly un-Starfleet like maneuver2 neither
ship’s point defense reacted with the swiftness and efficiency necessary, and
each took a direct hit—knocking out their warp capability for the battle’s
duration, and some days afterward.
Meanwhile, the “13th” opened fire on the
Galor-class
starships, concentrating attacks on enemy nacelles, and immediately put one of
the three in a condition similar to its Keldon brethren: Still combat-capable, but going nowhere
fast.
The Cardassian reply was immediate, and
also cannily directed: Instead of concentrating their attacks on the heavily
armored and shielded Liberty (a
tactic that had cost them valuable time at Teska IV)
they instead hit hard at the three other Starfleet vessels, inflicting moderate
damage on each.
The Hidekis swarmed about, harrying Liberty, nagging at Ch’Moch and attempting to strike
at USS Ptolemy’s vulnerable aft
quarter, where her shield generators had begun to flicker under the strain of
combat. For a time, the Jem’Hadar fighters remained
at a distance observing, which, according to eyewitness accounts, was a source
of significant anxiety and confusion to the Federation side.
The remaining Shrikes’ role at this point was critical: Ptolemy was essentially shield-less to the rear, and Adventurous not much better off. When
one of the Jem’Hadar fighters entered the battle,
making a run for Adventurous that
seemed an attempt to ram, one of Ptolemy’s
protectors peeled off momentarily to engage it, trusting that his fellows could
handle the role as literal screeners for a few seconds.
It was an understandable mistake… and
the opportunity for which the Jem’Hadar had
maneuvered. The second fighter slashed in past the desperate cover fire of the
two remaining Shrikes… and, its nose
nearly on point with the larger vessel’s shuttle bay, slammed into Ptolemy’s secondary hull.
Incredibly, the doughty little Nova-class held together for almost ten
seconds—enough time for Liberty’s
pilot to execute a roll that brought the two ships belly to belly, where she
matched speed, lowered shields, beamed away all the survivors she could and
accelerated into warp milliseconds before Ptolemy’s
warp core breach.
By this time, Mantovanni’s plan had been
partly successful: All five of the opposition’s large vessels had some sort of
damage preventing use of their warp drive (two were so injured the decision was
later made to scuttle them)… and the “13th” fled the scene, the Hidekis in hot
pursuit. Over the next few minutes, these were whittled away one by one… but
not before inflicting such harm as made both Athene and Adventurous wounded to the point of uselessness.
The numbers had favored the “13th,” but
the reality of the situation was grim. Five vessels had, for all intents and
purposes, become two… and drove Luciano Mantovanni to a decision the consequences
of which even half a century later he is probably still best known—at least to
Cardassians.
- James Herriford
FOOTNOTES
1 – To this day the Cardassian Union, despite increasingly warm relations
with the Federation, is notoriously reticent about releasing any war-related
materials for public dissemination. After repeated inquiries, though, Central
Command historians finally confirmed that at least four more task forces were
converging on the “13th’s” position from beyond Liberty’s sensor range.
2 – Hindsight indicates that Jevar should have
been prepared for something of the sort: Mantovanni had used a similar tactic
at Teska IV, employing the otherwise near-useless Oberth-class USS Lowell to bring down the shields on a
Dominion battle cruiser. Still, Jevar indicates in
his memoirs that “this flagrant disregard
for Starfleet engagement protocols startled me, especially since the craft
employed had been undamaged when the maneuver was executed.”