1945 hours, June 27
"Colonel, I'm receiving a hail from Captain Doublet."
"Thank God!" Tarik exclaimed. The station had taken a very serious beating, and Tarik wasn't sure how much longer they could hold out. "Put him onscreen."
[Howdy, Colonel! Am I too late for this soiree?] Doublet asked.
"Not at all, Captain. We've been having more fun than ought to be allowed by law! Commander Levi has the Prometheus battle bridge and is helping to establish a perimeter."
[Very good. We've dispatched our remaining Defiant-class vessels to set up a picket around the station. Whatever those Mullurans are carrying, they seem to have the Defiant-class's number!]
"The Mullurans are no longer a factor. Between our fighter squadrons and the efforts of your Commander Levi we've managed to destroy the Mulluran vessels. It's all Jem'Hadar from here on out."
[Not that that's a particularly comforting thought!] Doublet exclaimed. [Let your sickbay know that we've rounded up all of our available medical staff to help out on the station; you boys look to have taken a beating! The Norman Bethune will be at SB901 in twelve hours to evac the worst cases.]
The Bethune was an Olympic-class hospital ship, state-of-the-art for the Federation. It could accomodate up to 500 wounded and had a medical staff equivalent to a medium-sized hospital. "That news is comforting, Captain. Let's make sure that the Bethune finds us and not the Jem'Hadar at New Canada."
[You've done your part, Colonel; it's time for us to get back into the fight! After all, we can't have some damn jarhead doing the Fleet's job! Bad enough one of our own screwed the pooch on this one anyway,] Doublet said, the last with no small measure of distaste.
"If the Hell that Earth religions speak of exists, Duchamp has more than earned his place in it," Tarik remarked dryly.
[Of course Hell exists!] Duchamp replied with a tone that was half-jovial and half-contemptuous. [It'd better--I've just put my downpayment on a timeshare there!]
As the signal cut off, Tarik was puzzled as to Doublet's jovial mood when referring to eternal damnation. After all, the Romulan nether realm was no joking matter, and he saw no reason why the human version would be any different...
2010 hours, June 27
The task force had just deployed in defensive positions around the station when the second attack wave commenced. The Jem'Hadar had been reinforced by eight more battlebugs, bringing their number to fifteen. An imposing force, but nothing near what had originally faced the station.
The now-derelict saucer section of the Prometheus had docked at the station and Irwin Doublet took command of the theatre. Tarik still retained command of the station, however. "Okay, the fighter squadrons--Banshees, Hammerheads, and what's left of the 204th fighter wing will take the outer perimeter. I've got the April, Chekov, Harriman, and T'pan as our secondary perimeter. We'll hold the heavy iron--the Odysseus, Prometheus, Discovery, and Simon Bolivar as part of the inner perimeter. Each layer will provide fire support for the layer beyond it, with the station itself providing support for all layers," Doublet said, outlining his strategy.
"Our tracking data indicate that the Bethune is approaching the former location of Starbase 732. Shouldn't we send an escort?" Tarik asked.
Doublet thought for a moment, chewing on the cigar that seemed to accompany his most pensive moments. "They'll have to risk it on their own. We don't really have all that much left here, and we want to make sure there's a station for the Bethune to report to at the end of this. The science vessel Cousteau and repair tender Scott are in the vicinity; there is safety in numbers, even against the Jem'Hadar. Once we can spring something free I'll send it out to escort the whole lot in."
"Understood. I'll so advise the Bethune," Tarik replied. "How soon will the nearest warship be here?"
"The Victory-class Trafalgar is due in 14 hours. There's another task force mounting out from Starbase 805 as we speak, and a full-blown armada the likes of which hasn't been seen since the last time the Borg showed up in these parts is assembling at Vulcan. Starfleet's serious about this one, Colonel. Too bad they couldn't have been more serious at 732..."
"You did the best you could, Captain. It's not your fault your hands were tied."
"You did a pretty bang-up job here, too. If we'd lost SB901 the Federation would be dead meat in this sector."
"It wasn't all me," Tarik said. "I had good people here. And I had inside information." Doublet's eyebrows raised in shock. Tarik explained about Yeoman Fletcher's messages.
"If and when we get out of this, I plan on writing a commendation for that young lady," Doublet replied. "If you could give a statement in support of that commendation I'm sure a lot of people would appreciate it."
"She saved this station's ass," Tarik said. "I'd be more than happy to. Not that it will mean much to her family..."
"It never does," Doublet said. "Okay people, Round Two!!!!" he yelled as the situation board showed the Jem'Hadar beginning to approach New Canada once more.
2030 hours, June 27
The Jem'Hadar, crazed by their dwindling supply of Ketracel White (which had been stored aboard the Mulluran cruisers), wasted no time in rushing headlong into the pincushion defense set up by Doublet around the station. None of them made it past the second line of defense. Within fifteen minutes, the Jem'Hadar had been completely destroyed. A collective cheer went up throughout the station and all seven ships in the task force as the last battlebug was reduced to component atoms.
Troy stood guard at the triage area, a large cargo hold rendered only slightly less dismal by the presence of added medical staff from the task force. He heard the cheering echo down the corridors of the station.
"What's going on?" Troy asked a passing Security man with whom he split the guard detail.
"It sounds like we won!" the Security man, himself both surprised and relieved, exclaimed.
Troy couldn't help but start cheering himself. The cheer was picked up by the medical staff and even the wounded as additional news of the victory spread throughout the station.
In Sickbay proper, Kassia picked up on the sudden wave of emotion. It was almost too much for her and she very nearly collapsed, but still she kept working....
2130 hours, June 27
"Colonel, you look beat--get some rest," Doublet said. "We can take charge here."
Indeed, Tarik was beat. He'd spent most of the past 24 hours fighting the most terrible battle of his life. The time before that had been spent resolving the labor dispute on New Canada and fighting off a previous Mulluran attack, to say nothing of Vincent Kelly and his double. But still...
"If I may, sir, I will stay until the end of my scheduled watch," Tarik said, not about to give up even though he desperately wanted to.
"Damn, you're a stubborn cuss, aren't you?" Doublet exclaimed with a combination of frustration and admiration. "Typical Marine--don't know when to give up! I'd say you've given your all for the Federation. Now, get some rest or I'll have Sickbay declare you unfit!"
In seventeen years of active duty, Tarik had never been declared unfit for command. He'd been declared missing in action and presumed dead, but never unfit for command. And he wasn't about to have that record stained. "Understood, Captain. If you need me, just let me know," Tarik said.
"And I don't want to see so much as a requisition for kevas and trillium from you for at least six hours! The after-action report on this one's going to take a few days to finish anyway, so don't kill yourself over it. You did good here, Colonel," Doublet said, offering Tarik his hand.
Tarik took the offered hand and the two men exchanged a firm handshake when Security called them. [Security to the command deck--we've got a situation in the brig!]
"Anything you can't handle on your own?" Doublet asked.
[It involved Commodore Duchamp, sir.] The tone behind involved sounded ominous to both Tarik and Doublet.
"We're on our way," Tarik said. Doublet started to protest.
"I threw the bastard in there; if anything happens to him it's on my head," Tarik explained.
Moments later, they arrived at the brig. "I just turned my back for a moment, sirs," Commander Nugent explained. Commodore Duchamp had managed to strangle himself with his own tunic. "I had no idea he was thinking of killing himself."
"Nobody really knows how this sort of thing happens," Doublet commented.
"I can't say as if I'm upset, though," Nugent said.
"What do you mean by that, Commander?" Tarik asked. The station was still technically under his command; a formal inquiry into the death would have to be initiated.
"I spent my entire career with my nose shoved firmly up his butt. I tried to warn him of the Jem'Hadar buildup, but he wouldn't listen. And instead of going on my own initiative, I made sure to follow my patron's orders to the letter!" Nugent said with disgust. "And I didn't lift one damn finger to help, even when I could have made a difference."
"Tarik to Sickbay--we have a corpse in the brig. Send a detail to get the body to the morgue for autopsy at earliest convenience."
[Acknowledged.]
"Your role in all of this is yet to be explored, Commander," Doublet answered. "And you will answer for what you've done. Too bad he won't be answering to anyone but the Almighty," he said, pointing at Duchamp's body as though it were so much garbage.
2215 hours, June 27
Tarik stumbled around the remains of the commerce section. Smoking Jem'Hadar corpses littered the area; a cleanup detail would dispose of them in the next few hours.
Off duty now, Tarik spent his time numbly looking for something to eat. The replicators hadn't been brought back online yet, so Tarik hoped that one of the station restaurants would have something left over.
Most of the restaruants had shut down operations well before the attack, as their management and staffs headed to the shelters. One, though, was still open...
Tarik walked past the shattered facade of MacDonnell's and noted with bemusement that the clown was still intact. A sign that all is right with the universe after all, he thought as he searched behind the counter. A spoiled haggis and a huge pot of porridge were all that looked even remotely edible. Tarik ladled out a bowl of porridge and used the stun setting on his hand phaser to warm it up enough to eat. He ate this meager meal in silence, almost numbness. The bland food seemed to match his bland mood.
As he finished, he left a 20-credit note--the smallest he had--on the table next to his empty bowl. I should check on Kassia and Troy, he thought as he left the ruined restaurant, nodding to the clown in acknowledgement as he passed...