Star Trek: Enterprise: The Romulan War: Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Star Trek : Enterprise)

by Michael A. Martin

  DUNSEL STILL BEAMED WITH PRIDE even after he’d finished conducting the tour.

  “You’ve got a very impressive ship, Roy,” Captain Ketai Shosetsu said, nodding appreciatively to his fellow captain from across the table in Dunsel’s private mess, where a yeoman had just finished laying out a pair of steak dinners and beer glasses.

  “Starfleet’s latest and greatest, crewed by its best and brightest,” Dunsel said around a mouthful of food. “She’s got all the newest classified retrofits, straight from the Cochrane Institute and the Proxima Shipyard. I just wish we had a hundred more like her—especially with the coyote getting into the henhouse as often as it does.”

  Shosetsu raised his glass. “To Lieutenant Malcolm Reed of Enterprise,” he toasted. “If we had a few more like him analyzing Romulan tactics out on the front lines, then this war might be over by Christmas.”

  After taking a long swallow from his glass, Shosetsu noticed not only that Dunsel had gone quiet, but also that he was pointedly avoiding contact with his own glass.

  “What’s wrong, Roy?”

  “I’m not sure Reed did Earth any favors,” Dunsel said, looking troubled.

  “Well, he was the first one to work out the new Romulan carrier-and-fighter tactic.”

  Dunsel shook his head. “I hope that’s not literally true, Ketai. That he was first, I mean.”

  Shosetsu scowled slightly, pausing in his eating and drinking even as Dunsel resumed. “What are you saying, Roy?”

  Dunsel paused to eat another chunk of steak, then finally bowed to necessity and washed it down with some of his beer. “Just that the Romulans didn’t really start using this new tactic in earnest until after Reed pointed it out.”

  “Even if that were true, it would only underscore the importance of getting our countermeasures into place all across Coalition space as quickly as possible,” Shosetsu said, growing increasingly uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking. Dunsel had taken a dim view of Jonathan Archer ever since the Kobayashi Maru incident, and he had never been shy about expressing his thoughts on the matter in public. Now, apparently, some of his ill feeling toward Archer had spilled onto the captain’s senior staff.

  But to Dunsel’s credit, he was nodding as though conceding Shosetsu’s point.

  “Countermeasures,” Dunsel said. “Even the ones that turn out to be useless. Like everything we’ve tried against that Romulan remote-control hijack weapon so far, other than flat-out running away.”

  “Unfortunately, sometimes the only way to test a new countermeasure is to actually try it out in battle,” Shosetsu said. He paused to drain his glass. “Even the ones that turn out to be useless.”

  Realizing he was no longer hungry, Shosetsu pushed his plate forward slightly, leaving the meal half eaten. There are worse things than uselessness, he thought. Like paranoia and fatalism.

  The keening of an electronic boatswain’s whistle interrupted the uncomfortable silence that ensued. Dunsel walked to the companel mounted on a nearby bulkhead and punched the “receive” button.

  “Bridge to Captain Dunsel,” said a crisp, efficient female voice.

  “Dunsel here, Hendricks. Go ahead.”

  “Procyon’s systemwide warp-detection alarm has begun to develop an anomalous cascading pattern of node failures, all concentrated in a small volume of space near the system’s edge.”

  Dunsel frowned, evidently impatient. “What do you make of it?”

  “Captain, it looks a lot like the node-failure pattern that occurred in the Altair system just before the Romulan incursion there.”

  “Tactical Alert,” Dunsel said, speaking with a decisiveness that went a long way toward exorcising the bad feelings that had plagued Shosetsu throughout the meal. “Get me General Shran, asap. I’m on my way to the bridge.”

  Shosetsu rose from the table and followed Dunsel to the hatchway. Useless or not, he thought, here we come.

  Firstmoon, Fesoan Lor’veln Year 464

  Wednesday, March 10, 2156

  I.G.S. Weytahn, the outskirts of the Procyon system (Andoria)

  Shran hated it when Jhamel had bad premonitions, mainly because they had a terrible and inconvenient habit of coming true. The moment after he closed the subspace channel that connected him with the transceiver in the dwelling that he and his three shelthreth mates shared beneath Andoria’s northern ice fields, this morning proved to be no exception.

  As Shran strode briskly from his austere cabin to the bridge of his new command, the I.G.S. Weytahn, Subcommander Nras filled Shran in on the details of what had happened. Several adjacent sensor nodes on the outer periphery of the system’s warp-field detection grid had just gone down, and the pattern of new failures was spreading rapidly inward toward Andoria and her sister planets. Fortunately, the epicenter of the trouble was occurring on the same side of the system that the Weytahn was presently patrolling.

  Something very bad could be coming, and very quickly. And as the head of the newly formed Andorian Imperial Guard unit charged with the monitoring and defense of the cursedly unreliable defense grid that the cowardly Vulcans had so graciously “loaned” to the Andorian government, it was chief among General Shran’s new duties to repel whatever hostile force was on its way.

  “I will not permit this enemy to strike at our vitals by blinding our defense network,” Shran said, trying to encourage his restive crew as he took his seat at the center of the small but well-armed warship’s bustling command deck. “Add at least ten Yravas-class fighter craft to the support squadron, and take us out to the gap in the grid,” he told Thras, the helmsman. “I want to take a good look at whatever vermin are trying to burrow under our fences before we destroy them.”

  Of course this was no mere nuisance infestation of grelths; no one present could have had any doubt that the pests in question today were Romulans.

  “We are being hailed by both of the visiting Starfleet ships, General,” said sh’Rreev, the young shen who was running the Weytahn’s comm network, once the squadron had gotten under way. “They are requesting an informational update and offering their assistance.”

  “We should not be too quick to share the glory of this kill with the pinkskins,” said Nras, who was standing at Shran’s immediate right and speaking in an aggressive whisper. “Especially when the Romulans appear to be using a tactic our human ‘allies’ may well have invented for them.”

  Despite his best efforts to moderate his reaction to his executive officer’s words, Shran’s antennae betrayed him, standing almost straight up before flattening backward against the curve of his white-haired scalp. There had been a time not all that long ago when he might have agreed wholeheartedly with Nras’s greed for battle prestige, if not with his paranoia. But his new life among the pacifistic Aenar had taught him much about the wages of unchecked violence, the value and necessity of considering consequences, and, above all, the central importance of facing responsibility. And it would be irresponsible in the extreme to refuse the open hand of a friend threatened by a common enemy—especially an enemy who had already tried to pierce Andoria’s defenses on more than one occasion and had been repelled by mere luck and happenstance as much as by strength and military acumen. Increasing one’s reliance on friends might well decrease one’s reliance on luck.

  “They are our allies, Nras,” Shran said, carefully modulating his voice to reinforce the message already being sent by the position and electrostatic charge of his antennae—a warning to his overeager subordinate that he was treading dangerously. “Remember, the pinkskin who discovered the Romulans’ method of using sublight craft to pierce our defenses is Malcolm Reed, who serves under Archer aboard Enterprise. I consider Archer and his crew friends. And Reed is no more a Romulan collaborator than Archer is.”

  “As you say, General,” Nras said, though it was clear from the roused state of his own quickly shifting antennae that he still needed some convincing.

  Shran paused momentarily to reflect upon how
the attacks at the pinkskin colonies at Deneva and Altair, to say nothing of the Andorian world of Threllvia IV, had been preceded by almost identical warp-field detection failures. He also considered how much more forthright the pinkskins had been about sharing the best of their expertise, their personnel, and even their ships with Andoria than had any other Coalition member, including even the Tellarites. The humans had even sent the Andorian Imperial Guard and the other Coalition militaries the rough specs for several prospective countermeasures against the much-feared Romulan “remote-hijack weapon,” in the evident hope that the allies would soon begin collectively refining the initial designs by testing them in actual combat.

  Despite their aloof airs of superiority and the relative technological advancement they enjoyed in comparison to the pinkskins, the Vulcans still had much to learn from them about how to treat allies.

  Shran pointedly turned his back upon Nras, whose fuming silence filled the air like a static charge. “Put the Earth-ship captains on the screen,” he said to sh’Rreev at the comm station. “They will fly at our side today, if that is their wish.”

  U.S.S. Yorktown NCC-108

  Nearly twenty minutes had passed since General Shran had officially invited the two Starfleet vessels to join his squadron on its emergency excursion to the outer edge of the system’s lonely and deep-frozen Kuiper belt.

  Seated behind the Yorktown’s still-battle-singed helm console, Travis Mayweather watched the bridge’s forward viewscreen anxiously, knowing full well what he was about to see even before the squadron reached visual range of whatever it was that had already crippled such a wide swath of the local warp-field detection grid. Because the system’s white F-type primary star, Procyon, was somewhat brighter than Sol, the Yorktown’s computer needed to perform very little enhancement to the image that appeared moments later: a group of perhaps a dozen small, sleek fighter craft, each one’s belly displaying the bright red plumage and viciously sharpened claws of a predatory bird.

  “Fourteen vessels total,” said Lieutenant Albertson at tactical. “None of them giving off warp-field emissions, and therefore all moving at far closer to space-normal speed than to c.”

  “I am detecting one warp field, though,” Ensign Giannini said from the main science station. “But its point source is substantially farther out from Procyon than the current position of the incoming craft.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Mayweather saw Commander Tyler Mendez—Captain Ketai Shosetsu’s XO and the Yorktown’s second in command—turn to face the man who sat brooding in the big chair at the bridge’s center.

  “Let me guess,” Mendez said. “That warp field is emanating from just beyond the sensitivity limit of the system’s warp-detection grid.”

  “Confirmed,” Giannini and Albertson said in a near-perfect unison, both of them apparently rapt by the figures and images on their respective console displays.

  “This would seem to completely confirm Lieutenant Reed’s theory about Romulan tactics,” Captain Shosetsu said.

  “I agree,” Mendez said, nodding. “They park a warp-driven mother ship just outside the detection limit, then tiptoe right past the sleeping watchdogs with their subluminal ships.”

  “But they’ve tweaked their tactics a little bit this time,” Mayweather said, then stopped himself when he realized he’d crashed right into a discussion between the Yorktown’s two most senior officers.

  “Go ahead, Mister Mayweather,” Shosetsu said genially. “I want to hear your perspective.”

  “Now it looks like they’ve given their sublight craft the additional task of disabling chunks of the detection grid on their way in,” Mayweather said.

  “That could explain the hard radiation traces I’m picking up along the fighter ship’s trajectory,” Giannini said. “They’ve been using nukes on enough of the system’s detection nodes to create a substantial zone of blindness.”

  “The Romulans must have somehow gotten wind that Starfleet has figured out how they’ve pulled off so many sneak attacks right through the detection grids,” the captain said. “And they’ve begun to adjust their tactics accordingly.”

  “But there’s only so many nukes that sublight ships that small can carry,” said Albertson at tactical. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense to squander your whole arsenal before you even reach your target.”

  Albertson’s objection made sense to Mayweather as well—until he paused for a moment to think it through. “It won’t matter if the little ships empty their quivers before they get all the way to Andoria—not if their real mission is to cover the tracks of their warp-driven mother ship just before she swoops in. A bigger, better-armed warp-driven ship could do a hell of a lot more damage.”

  Mendez nodded, looking impressed. “Very good, Ensign. Damned clever, these Romulans.”

  Shosetsu scowled. “They may have out-clevered themselves this time. If they really are trying to set up a ‘zone of blindness’ to let their mother ship approach Andoria undetected, then they should have synchronized their attacks on the detection nodes a bit better. Let’s make sure their learning curve costs ’em this time. Ensign Fleming, raise General Shran on a scrambled channel, and make sure Challenger is in the loop.”

  The young woman at the comm console swiftly entered a series of commands. A moment later the azure features of the Andorian general scowled across the bridge from the central viewscreen.

  Mayweather hadn’t seen Shran since shortly before Commander Tucker’s death early last year. Back then Shran had been struggling to adjust to a new civilian life that had been forced upon him, at least in part, by the destruction of his Imperial Guard warship, the Kumari. Although Mayweather had not known him well, he recognized Shran’s contributions to the Coalition cause, and was glad to see that he had finally gotten back into the good graces of the Andorian military.

  “General Shran, I trust your sensors have detected the warp field just outside the perimeter of the detection grid,” said Captain Shosetsu.

  The general nodded grimly. “We’ve just picked it up, Captain. We have yet to establish visual contact, but we’re reading the warp-field emissions as a single vessel, probably a large bird-of-prey.”

  “Your sensors can see a bit farther than ours, General,” Commander Mendez said. “Can you tell if they’ve detected us?”

  “The Romulans have not reacted to our presence yet. The nearest warp-detection nodes may be shielding us somewhat from sensor beams being aimed into the system from outside. I will take the Weytahn to warp briefly, drop back to sublight within weapons range, and then engage the hostile ship. I want the Yorktown and Challenger to head back in-system with part of my fleet to begin taking out the inbound fighter craft. The Romulans may have already spent most of their armaments partially blinding the defense grid, but I do not want to risk allowing even one of those fighter ships to reach Andoria with so much as a single warhead.”

  Apprehension gnawed at Mayweather’s guts. Though he knew it wasn’t his place to question a general’s tactical plan, he couldn’t remain silent either.

  “I’m not so sure that’s such a good plan, General.”

  “Belay that, Ensign!” snapped Mendez.

  Shran’s eyes narrowed and both of his antennae thrust forward aggressively. His deep blue pupils seemed to bore straight through to the back of Mayweather’s head, as though daring him to look away. Though he stayed silent as ordered, Mayweather nevertheless held at least some of his ground by not breaking eye contact.

  “What do you mean, Pink—” Shran stopped himself, as though he had only now realized that not every human possessed pigmentation that could be even remotely described as “pink.” The notion gave Mayweather an almost irresistible urge to chuckle.

  “I know you,” Shran said, his eyes widening in recognition. “You served as Archer’s helmsman, aboard Enterprise.”

  After turning to take in the curt nods of both the captain and the exec, Mayweather resumed facing the screen. “Ensign Travis Maywe
ather, General. I’ve been... reassigned recently.”

  A predator’s grin crossed Shran’s face. “It would seem that Archer’s loss is our gain, Ensign. When you pursue those Romulan fighter craft, their pilots will be hard pressed to evade you.”

  Sensing that Shran’s recognition might have gained him a little additional leeway in terms of bridge decorum, Mayweather said, “With respect, General, the Yorktown should take the point against the Romulan mother ship.”

  “Stand down right now, Ensign,” Mendez said, his voice pitched for Mayweather’s ears alone. “Or I’ll relieve you of duty.”

  Once again silent, Mayweather turned in time to see Captain Shosetsu raise a hand. “Wait a minute, Commander. He has a point.” He rose from his chair and addressed Shran directly. “General, we have to assume that the Romulan carrier vessel out there is equipped with the remote-control hijacking weapon.”