Elusive Salvation (Star Trek: The Original Series)

by Dayton Ward

This was not born of a desire to shirk responsibility, Nogura knew. Instead, it was an outgrowth of Morrow’s attitude that his senior staff should be able to function without the need to call him for advice and consent on every little thing. He preferred to delegate authority—while remaining conscious of the fact that as the Starfleet Commander, he could not defer responsibility—so that key decisions were made faster, rather than waiting on an ultimate arbiter: him. This required a level of trust in subordinate leaders that many of his predecessors had not engendered, and in Nogura’s opinion, Starfleet and the Federation had suffered for it. Never again, Morrow had vowed, and it was a mind-set and direction for Starfleet’s senior leadership that Nogura lauded.

  “How come your office is nicer than mine?” Nogura asked, making a show of admiring the sizable room and its lavish appointments.

  Morrow chuckled. “If you want the office, you’ll have to take the job that goes with it.”

  “Thank you, no. I’ve already done that once.” Nogura held up a finger as though remembering something. “No, twice, now that I think of it. Can’t say I liked it.” He gestured to Morrow. “You’re a better fit, but if I’d known they were going to upgrade the office, I’d have kept the job a bit longer.”

  He paused at the window, taking in the scene. At this time of late evening and with the sun long set, the city was illuminated and alive. Nogura recalled many nights from his youth as a fresh-faced, newly minted Starfleet ensign, on the town with friends and with an entire life and career ahead of him. Those days were further back in his past than he cared to admit, but the memories were as vivid as though his first shore leave was yesterday. Back then, he could stay up all night, drinking and carousing and perhaps even getting into a spirited bar brawl or two, all while doing his best to evade the shore patrol from nearby Starfleet Headquarters or the Academy.

  Where had all the time gone?

  The days had melted into years with startling speed, Nogura mused. That life and career that had seemed to stretch ahead of him to infinity had unfolded in dramatic fashion. Starfleet had put him to work early and often after he had demonstrated a consistent aptitude for unconventional and even brash thinking. By the time he was second-in-command of the Thermopylae, he had acquired a reputation for a total lack of fear when addressing or confronting superior officers—including telling them when he thought they were wrong, which was often. The captain of the Thermopylae had recommended him for accelerated promotion and command of a starship, forcing home to the upper levels of Starfleet leadership that more leaders like young Heihachiro Nogura were needed in the center seat, on the front lines and the edge of the frontier as the Federation welcomed new friends and confronted enemies familiar and untested.

  Captaining starships had given way to commanding starbases and fleets, and eventually advancing to the admiralty, where he even had served in Morrow’s role as the Starfleet Commander on two separate occasions. It had not taken him long to realize that while he might be capable of excelling in that assignment, it was not a role that called to him. Like some officers who felt most at home in command of a starship, Nogura had come to understand that his talents lay in big-picture thinking. To that end, he had immersed himself in the thick of Starfleet’s operations and strategic planning as they dealt with escalating threats from the Klingon and Romulan empires as well as other adversaries ranging from the Gorn to the Tholians.

  And those are just the ones I can talk about.

  “I know that look,” said Morrow, sitting with his feet up and nursing his preferred beverage, scotch. “You’ve been pacing like an expectant father for the past five minutes. Sit down and have a drink, Heihachiro. You’re making me nervous.”

  Rather than take Morrow up on the offer, Nogura instead chose to renew his pacing. “I don’t like waiting for other people to do things. It seems like all I do anymore is wait while other people do things for me. I was never very good at this part of the job.”

  “Understandable.” Morrow sipped his scotch. “I’ve never been good at that either, but that’s what admirals do. We give people orders, then sit around while they go and carry them out, hoping they’ll do the job we gave them without screwing up, killing themselves or anybody else, or starting a war. We sit, we wait, and we worry.” Then he offered a sly grin. “Or, we pace and we worry.”

  “It’s not as though we don’t have anything to worry about,” said Nogura. “After all, I didn’t wake up this morning thinking we’d be staring down the barrel of an interstellar incident.”

  Morrow nodded. “I read the reports. We’ve been contacted by the Ptaen Consortium.”

  “That’s a mild way of putting it.” Recent updates from the Federation Council and the Diplomatic Corps had been a bit more reserved as far as reporting this new development. Nogura had long ago learned the art of reading between the lines of any official correspondence generated by the council or any politician, to say nothing of some of the more verbose members of the admiralty, in order to get at the underlying issue.

  “They’re not very happy that the Iramahl have made new friends,” he said as he continued his pacing, reaching Morrow’s desk and turning to head back the other way. “And they’d be most appreciative if we minded our own damn business and stayed out of their affairs. Of course, we were expecting that. What I’m worried about is whether the Ptaen decide this is worth pulling in some of the friends they’ve made over the years.” He glanced at Morrow as he talked, watching his friend swirl the contents of his glass while contemplating the fireplace.

  “There’s no way the Ptaen come out on top in any sort of protracted conflict with us. You don’t think they’d try to drag the Klingons into this, do you, Heihachiro? Even the Klingons know better than to let themselves be manipulated into doing someone else’s fighting.”

  Nogura grunted. “Perhaps, but it’s not like the Klingons have ever needed a reason to pick a fight. Their honor code might keep them from acting at the behest of the Ptaen, but that doesn’t mean they won’t find some other reason to kick some dirt in our faces while using this as the excuse. If there’s one thing I love about the Klingons, it’s how they’re so consistent with their inconsistency.”

  A considerable portion of his career had been spent trying to figure out what adversaries such as the Klingons might be planning. Though the Empire had been relatively quiet in recent years, its disdain for the Federation continued unabated. Despite the best efforts of Starfleet Intelligence, much of the Klingons’ goals and machinations remained a mystery, aside from the obvious. The desire for conquest had fueled their march across space for centuries, and though they tended to behave themselves with respect to the Neutral Zone established between imperial and Federation territory, there were notable exceptions to the agreement between the two governments.

  Nogura was certain the Klingons had to be plotting something, if not a direct action against the Federation, then perhaps an effort at expansion that might place at risk nonaligned systems or those who had expressed interest in Federation membership. The truth was that the Empire was beginning to feel hemmed in by adversaries on multiple fronts, most of whom wanted no conflict. With their ability to expand their territory and harness the resources necessary to fuel their mammoth military becoming ever more limited, it was only a matter of time before the Klingons felt the need to take a more aggressive approach to protecting their interests.

  And won’t that be fun.

  “Has the Klingon embassy had anything to say about this?” asked Nogura.

  Morrow shook his head before finishing the last of his drink. “Not a word, which is surprising. I was sure their ambassador would take advantage of this to say something. It makes me wonder if he’s on vacation, or dead.”

  The comment elicited a small smile from Nogura. He was more than familiar with Kamarag, the bombastic Klingon ambassador to the Federation, who could almost always be counted on to spice up Federation Cou
ncil meetings. Though he tended to bloviate to the point that Nogura was certain sensors would detect a pronounced drop in the council chamber’s oxygen levels, Kamarag was never boring.

  “Either way,” said Nogura, “you can be sure the council and the diplomatic people are already figuring out what they want to say to the Ptaen as well as the Klingons. We should probably start crafting our own message for the council, as well.”

  Rising from his recliner, Morrow crossed to the small wet bar tucked into one corner of his office. “Probably not a bad idea,” he said as he reached for the scotch bottle and refreshed his glass. “And it wouldn’t hurt to give them an updated report on the status of our border patrols and anything of note from our outposts along the Neutral Zone. Let’s get Kirk in here.”

  “He’ll love that.” Nogura moved to the viewscreen set into the office’s back wall and the communications station accompanying it. Activating the unit, he said, “Nogura to Starfleet Communications.”

  The viewscreen flared to life, and the image of a young human female in a Starfleet uniform appeared.

  “Starfleet Communications. This is Ensign Dagmar, Admiral. How may I assist you?” Her smile and eyes were bright and wide, and she was just a bit too eager for this time of night, Nogura decided.

  Trying to ignore how her voice sounded even younger than she looked, he replied, “Patch me through to Admiral Kirk. He should be at home.”

  “One moment, Admiral.” Her image was replaced by a graphic of the Starfleet Headquarters logo. Then her moment passed, along with a second and then a third, by which time Nogura was wondering if the ensign had forgotten him. Just before he could ask about that, Dagmar returned to the screen. “I’m sorry, sir. Admiral Kirk doesn’t appear to be at home. At least, he’s not answering the call.”

  “Patch me through to the Enterprise, then.” Nogura knew that Kirk looked for any excuse to revisit his old ship. Having it in Earth orbit with his best friends aboard while they helped with the current Iramahl situation was the perfect opportunity to escape his office, even if only for a few hours.

  Once more, the viewscreen’s image changed, this time to reveal a face Nogura recognized, though it was neither Jim Kirk nor the Enterprise’s captain, Spock, sitting in the command chair on the starship’s bridge.

  “This is the Enterprise. Commander Hikaru Sulu in temporary command, Admiral. How may I help you?”

  “Where’s Admiral Kirk, Commander?” asked Nogura. “Come to think of it, where’s Captain Spock?”

  On the screen, Sulu appeared nervous, as though he was about to say something Nogura did not want to hear. Then he replied, “The admiral and Captain Spock are presently . . . away from the ship, sir. I’ve been placed in command until they get back.”

  Nogura frowned. “Get back from where? I don’t recall authorizing shore leave for either of them. Commander, you wouldn’t be covering for them, by any chance, would you?” Before Sulu could answer, he stepped closer to the screen. “That could end up being a dangerous career move, son.”

  Morrow moved to stand beside Nogura. “Commander Sulu, why don’t you save us all the awkwardness you’re hoping to avoid and just tell us what Admiral Kirk and your captain are doing while leaving you there to mind the store?”

  To Nogura’s surprise, Sulu actually seemed relieved to receive such an order. “I apologize for this, gentlemen. Admiral Kirk gave me explicit instructions to tell you everything you wanted to know once you attempted to contact him. He’s authorized me to give you a full briefing of his activities while he’s away from the ship.”

  “Why didn’t he contact us before taking off to . . . where exactly is he, anyway?”

  Drawing what looked to be a very, very deep breath, Sulu replied, “Sir, it’s not so much where he is, but when.”

  It took an extra moment for the response to sink in, but when it did, Nogura felt his jaw go slack.

  “You’re telling me he and Spock have . . . when?”

  Time travel. Again.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Sulu. “After their discussion with the Iramahl envoys, the admiral and Captain Spock theorized that while the missing scientists likely did not live beyond the twenty-first century, they might still be alive in the twentieth century. So, they enlisted the assistance of . . . some friends of ours from that time period to help find them. Perhaps you recall our previous encounters with a pair of humans, Gary Seven and Roberta Lincoln.”

  For Nogura, Kirk’s meetings with the walking riddle that was Gary Seven were among the most fascinating accounts recorded in the admiral’s lengthy and rather remarkable Starfleet record. Nogura at first had found the reports in Kirk’s file more than a bit fantastical, but Enterprise sensors and computer logs had recorded Seven’s inadvertent visit to the starship during an actual, honest-to-goodness Starfleet-sanctioned mission to the twentieth century. What had begun as a strictly hands-off, observational mission of Earth and humanity during one of its most turbulent periods had ended up with Kirk and Spock assisting Seven to prevent a nuclear warhead from detonating in the planet’s atmosphere. Since that first encounter, Seven and his assistant, Roberta Lincoln, had managed to find Kirk and the Enterprise more than once by traveling through time. They even had requested their assistance back in the twentieth century. It all tended to make Nogura’s head spin, and it was more than enough to give anyone working for the Department of Temporal Investigations bellyaches for days.

  “Tell me something, Commander,” said Nogura, struggling to maintain his composure as he pictured Jim Kirk giving DTI a new round of fits. “Why didn’t you report this to us sooner?”

  Shifting in the command chair, Sulu looked around the bridge as though seeking support from one of the officers around him before replying, “I was under orders, sir, not to say anything to anyone but you or Admiral Morrow, and only then if you contacted the Enterprise.”

  Nogura made a mental note to have a long talk with Kirk, assuming the admiral returned from wherever he had gone, about his penchant for pushing the limits of operating “unless otherwise directed.” The man’s atypical definition of that term had gotten him into trouble with his superiors more than once. Of course, Kirk was often correct in the decisions he had made or the actions he had taken, but that did not excuse his maverick approach.

  But isn’t that why you promoted him and looked after him all those years? Isn’t this just the sort of unconventional thinking Starfleet needs?

  While Nogura did believe that, there were times when such attitudes threatened to cause more problems than they solved. There was no way to know if that was the case here. Only time—

  Don’t you dare say it.

  Holding up a hand, Morrow said, “Now hang on. Are you saying that Admiral Kirk has some means of contacting these people? In the twentieth century?”

  Sulu forced a smile. “Well, Admiral, here’s where the story gets really interesting.”

  Twenty-Three

  The Pentagon—Washington, DC

  August 14, 1985

  “Tell me, Major, how exactly an alien spacecraft just disappears out from under the noses of two dozen people.”

  Standing at attention before General John William Vessey Jr., Daniel Wheeler forced himself to keep his voice level and maintain his bearing. Yes, it was true that he was—for the moment, at least—the commanding officer of the United States government’s preeminent covert operations unit and tasked with an assignment unlike anything else in the American military arsenal. Neither of those things granted him free rein to mouth off to superior officers, and while telling the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff to kiss his ass might bring him momentary satisfaction, it was sure to drop a bomb on what otherwise had been a laudable military career to this point. At best, he might be able to get away with it once, perhaps twice, but it was a card best kept for just the right moment.

  This was not that mome
nt, Wheeler decided.

  “We don’t know what happened, General,” he said. “One moment we were standing on the ice, studying the ship and preparing to excavate it, the next minute I’m looking up at the sky and an airman is standing over me asking if I’m all right. All of us—every single member of the team—were incapacitated, for a period of nearly ninety minutes. There were no injuries or fatalities, but the ship itself was gone. We have no explanation for what happened, sir.” He paused, then added, “It’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever encountered, General, and that’s saying something.”

  Sitting behind his large oak desk, hands folded as they sat atop a blotter that was remarkably free of papers or anything else that might suggest he did anything within this room except interrogate subordinates, Vessey grunted in disapproval. Wheeler knew better than to say anything else at this point. Though the general was a slim yet still fit man in his early sixties and his thin light brown hair had gone gray, his eyes still burned with an intelligence and intensity that evoked fear in younger men. Vessey’s reputation for being intolerant of waste or inefficiency in any aspect of military operations was common knowledge, as was his loathing of anyone who attempted to make excuses for failure. A combat veteran of World War II as well as the conflicts in Korea and Vietnam, Vessey had begun his military career as an infantry soldier in North Africa, receiving a battlefield commission to second lieutenant in 1944 after Operation Shingle, the amphibious landing and ensuing campaign against Nazi forces in Anzio, Italy. A long and distinguished career had unfolded after that, culminating in his appointment by President Ronald Reagan as chairman for the JCS. Vessey also held the distinction of being the lone remaining four-star flag officer who also had seen combat in World War II. The width and breadth of his military experience was staggering, and Wheeler genuinely respected the man, who like him had risen through the ranks as an enlisted man before earning a commission.

  After nearly a full minute of silence, Wheeler heard Vessey exhale. “At ease, Major.” Wheeler relaxed, and the general waved him to one of the leather chairs positioned before his desk. Once he was seated, the general leaned back in his leather chair, resting his hands in his lap.