Tarik was in his office conferring with Hartman and Anderson regarding some long-standing problems.
"All right, what's this I've heard about Santigo?" Tarik asked.
"The little freak's a malcontent," Hartman said. "He signed up, he doesn't like it, but he doesn't have the guts to ask for a discharge. In the meantime he's making everyone's life miserable and not doing his work, but he always manages to say just this side of the rules so there's not a lot of options for dealing with him."
"I understand he went as far as Captain Wallace with his request for a transfer. The Captain, of course, refused," Tarik said, knowing that more than likely Wallace had hit the 'delete' option on his message board after receiving such an unauthorized and improperly formed request.
"I have been told that, sir," Hartman said, already plotting his own plans for Santigo.
"I want that man on a heavy labor detail," Tarik said. "If that doesn't rid us of him of him, and convince him to do what he really wants to do, then we'll opt for a general non-medical discharge."
"Uhh...Major, there really isn't much heavy labor to be done here on the station."
"Who said it would be on the station?" Tarik replied. "Lieutenant, we now come to your first formal assignment as a Marine officer," he said, addressing Anderson as he tapped some controls on his desk console. A map of the New Canada colony and the associated mining complex appeared.
"Negotiations are underway between Starfleet and the colonial government for a permanent base on the planet's surface," Tarik said. "Previously we've been able to use areas on the planet well away from settlements for heavy weapons and air-ground combat training. Now Starfleet is prepared to enter into a 99-year lease with New Canada for the purpose of setting up a military reservation." Tarik tapped another control, and a map grid magnified significantly.
"This area, just south of the Rubicon River, has been identified as a primary candidate for a base. It's proximate to the settlement without being too close for comfort and affords a variety of terrain for training situations. This flat area three kilometers below the river can be set up as a landing field for Banshees and other small craft. The purpose of this base is to ensure the security of the colony should SB901 be destroyed, moved, or compromised. It will also serve as a primary evacuation point for both the colony and the station should we have to do that again--hopefully not in the near future!"
"I see," Anderson said, noting his Security reports on the evacuation and the utter chaos that had ensued. Having trained personnel on the ground would have facilitated the matter greatly. "Where do I come in?"
"I want you to use your security training to negotiate with the local constabulary and to set up a perimeter around the base. Commander Loran will have overall command of the construction crew; we'll supply whatever backbreaking labor Engineering needs to pull this off. And this, brethren, is where the heavy work detail for Santigo comes into play."
"I see," Hartman said. "Take all of our malcontents and malingerers and give them the most miserable, godawful shit you can find for them to do during construction!" The older noncom smiled broadly as he thought of the prospects.
"To a certain extent, yes. Most of the work is going to be done by actual construction teams run by Engineering; we might get some civilian construction workers from the colony as well. Hartman, identify some people you think might be good sapper material; while we're working rather than fighting with the engineers for a change I'd like to get advantage of some of their training. There are other things that need to be done, though: ditchdigging, waste disposal, and so forth. Until this project is actually underway, assign Santigo to the station's waste processing facility. That should teach him to appreciate is current position. If he hasn't improved sufficiently by the time base construction begins, Santigo beams down to help dig ditches."
"Understood, Major," Hartman said.
"Meanwhile, I'd like a complete inventory of what each platoon needs, already has, or has too much of. While we've got the base quartermaster on our side I want us fully equipped, even if we aren't yet fully manned again."
Both Hartman and Anderson assented. "Very good. I will expect the inventory by 1700 today. I suggest we get moving!"
The two other Marines left the office, and Tarik was left alone with his message traffic for the day. There were three items in the mail, and an incoming transmission. The transmission caught Tarik's eye. He selected that message and was prompted for not only his general security code, but also three other identifiers.
[Good morning, Major--or should I say Lieutenant Colonel now?]" a face from long ago said, smiling. It was none other than General Luis Sandoval, the Commandant of Starfleet Marine--who, fifteen years earlier when he was a Lieutenant Colonel, had been Tarik's commanding officer.
"Good morning, sir. Thank you, sir," Tarik said.
[I had wanted to travel out there to preside over the promtion ceremony personally, until I was informed you didn't want one. But nonetheless the rank is yours now.] Tarik was amazed to be hearing from so exalted a personage. He had deliberately refused a promotion ceremony; if any promotion of his had ever been bought in blood, the jump from Major to Lieutenant Colonel certainly qualified. More than a third of Tarik's command had been wiped out at Thermopylae--which didn't even begin to compare with the casualties the Spartans had suffered almost two thousand years earlier defending a pass by the same name, but still it was more than he felt comfortable wit
"You honor me beyond my merit," Tarik said.
[You speak as though you had some!] Sandoval laughed, seeking to cut the tension. [There is a special project I'd like you to work on. This is perfectly voluntary; if you choose not to accept it will be no mark against you, but I think you'd be crazy to turn this one down!]
"May I ask, sir, what this is"
[Read the file from Captain Degataryev that you received today. It'll explain all.]
Tarik had heard about Vladimir Degataryev, although he'd never met the man. Degataryev had left a very promising career with the Bolshoi Ballet company on Earth to join the Marines during the Dominion War. Beyond that novelty, however, Tarik knew little about the man.
"Very well, sir. May I ask what level of classification at which I should operate?"
[You're operating at Level 5 security with need-to-know; a datafile will be there for you tonight to review.]
"Understood, sir," Tarik replied.
[Very good, Colonel. Review the files I'm sending you and the message from Degataryev and let me know if you're still interested in this project.]
"Aye, sir."
[Good luck to you! This project is one of those can make or break a career! After your tour at SB901 is over with, you could find yourself in Starfleet's R&D division, or back guarding the mothball fleet at Starbase 562. It's now your choice,] Sandoval said as the screen flickered out.
Tarik opened the file from Degataryev. These crazy bastards finally did it! was all Tarik could think.
Instead of the tall blond Russian the rest of the universe knew Degataryev as, Tarik was presented with the image of a huge, monstrous man-shaped thing that seemed to be quite content at levelling the city and opposing foces around him.
Tarik need not have thought further. One look at what he was seeing would revolutionize ground combat forever!
Immediately he sent off a top-priority transmission to Sandoval: "I'm in!"
To celebrate, Tarik went to a restaurant he had attempted to try earlier. MacDonnell's wasn't exactly packed, but it was doing a steady business.
"Good day to ye, lad!" Angus Macgyver responded. "What'll ye have today!"
"Mutton stew with hot cross buns on the side," Tarik said.
Macgyver yelled the order to the back as Tarik took a seat below a tapestry of the famous MacDonnell clown doing something involving sheep. Tarik had hoped Kassia would be free but she was still wrapped up in her studies and trying to keep her shop in operation. Another fortune teller had decided to set up business on the station and it was starting to cut into her business. He smiled as he saw the garish, kilt-wearing clown in front of the restaurant.
A young couple--two Starfleet maintenance workers--walked into the restaurant. As soon as the young lady passed the clown she jumped in startled excitement. "I told you, Jim, not in public!" she said, embarrassed.
"There's nobody else who could have done it around here!" Jim protested.
"But someone did something!" The two friends were starting to get into a heated arguement.
It never fails, everytime I come here... Tarik thought.
"Excuse me," he said as he went up to them.
"Oh, sorry sir! We didn't mean to disturb your lunch!" Jim replied. The woman with him looked down at the ground, even more embarrassed.
"No need to apologize, Yeoman. You friend is right, though: I saw what happened, at least part of it. Something did pinch her."
"See!" the woman said.
"Madame, your friend is also right. He never once touched you," Tarik replied. "In fact, I'm not entirely sure what happened!"
"Huh?" both of them went. They were about to sit down when another 'yelp' sounded from the entrance to the restuarant.
"Sarah! Are ye all right?" Angus answered immediately.
"Och, I'm fine now, sair," she said. "But I'll be damned if that statue didn't do something to me! A fine time for me to be wearin' me kilt in the traditional style!"
Three more restuarant employees--the evening shift--all reported a pinching sensation. A Klingon woman, visiting the station for the 20th Annual Bat'leth Competition (round of 128) nearly decapitated the clown with her bat'leth.
"Very interesting," Tarik thought as he tapped his combadge. "Tarik to Science department, there's something going on at Macdonnell's you might want to analyze."
[Aye, sir. We're on our way!]
By the time the technical crew arrived, though, little if any evidence remained of what might have been causing the pinching incidents. We can rule out Deveraux at this point, Tarik thought, chuckling to himself.