Boyle was in his tent going over some last-minute maintenance reports. His fighters were not really damaged from battle, but were in need some serious engine repairs. Boyle was sitting at his desk sweating. The heat and humidity were rather hard to get used to, but it was better to have his base on the planet than on a station.
"Major, may I come in?" A voice said from outside his tent flap.
"Yes. Come in Lieutenant Vansen." Boyle knew the sound of all his squadron crew, even the repair crews.
"Shane, what is on your mind?" Boyle said standing up and walking over for a glass of water.
"The crew needs a pass. It's been thirteen weeks and no leave scheduled for them. Captain Bicardie was not quite sure how to approach you about this," Shannon said looking at her much-respected mentor.
"Very well. I guess I can give it to them a few days early. We will be going on a mission that may well cause the Mullurans to say, I give up." Boyle put his green tunic on. He leaned over Vansen who was sitting against his makeshift night stand. On the stand was a PADD. The PADD contained a 24-hour pass for all twenty-one members of the squadron.
The squadron was made up of not only the five pilots but the three ground crews per fighter and the crew chief. Boyle knew that his team needed to relax and get their mind off the fight ahead. He believed that life was short and live it to the fullest. Boyle walked out side his tent to see his unit in formation. The light on the planet was dim as the sun was about to set.
"Well, I understand you Devil Dogs want to have liberty. I have here twenty-one, 24-hour passes. I will grant them as of now. Only promise me one thing: remember me when you have your first drink. Detail dismissed."
The team then beamed onto Supply Base 901. Boyle looked around the station's commerce section and made his way up to the Easy Inn. He took a seat at the bar, and a Ferengi bartender showed up. "What will it be, Marine?"
"Pitcher of your best ale and a tall cold glass to drink with." Boyle didn't mind the Ferengi race too much. They were decent to him. The waiter returned with a pitcher full of a dark amber ale and a frost-covered glass. "Two slips of latinum." Boyle pulled out three slips from his tunic and handed it over. "Here. A little something extra."
The Ferengi laughed and gave a grin." You're a credit to the Hew-mon race, Major."
Boyle drank his first three beers fast and for his fourth one he began to think of Turkey Shoot - how they could have ended it so much sooner. Thomas was then bumped by a Marine he didn't recognize. "Hey, who are you with, Marine?"
"Sir, with Captain Anderson and Colonel Tarik." The Human male, drunk already, said, almost falling down. Boyle quickly grabbed him and sat him down on the barstool next to him. "Damn, how old are you?"
"Nineteen, Major." The Marine said starting to blink and rub his eyes. Boyle recognized the symptoms of being drunk for the first time from watching this boy. "Well hell man, are you drunk?"
"Sir, I am sir."
"How does it feel Marine?"
"Real good sir."
"How good?"
"Real god damn good, Major."
"Bull shit. Sound off like you got a pair."
"Real god damn good Major sir!!!!"
Boyle liked the spirit in Marines when they are young and encouraged it whenever. He then poured another beer and handed it to the Marine. "Sir, what about you?" The Marine asked.
"Son, a pitcher is a Marines drink." Boyle picked up the pitcher and downed the whole thing in a matter of seconds. A massive head rush kicked into Boyle's head; he loved the feeling.
"Barkeep, bring us a bottle of scotch," Boyle said, standing up and looking where most of his Marines were, which was the bar. Boyle took the cap off his scotch once it was brought to him, and threw it to the ground and took a big gulp. It burned from his head to his toes just as he liked it.
The Marines were making the Easy Inn as one of their own places - dancing, drinking, playing the variety of games. Boyle was on his second bottle of scotch when Colonel Tarik walked in to see where his Marines were going. The noise was starting to get a little loud even for a Ferengi.
"Well Major. I see you gave your crew liberty," Tarik said, making his way over to Boyle who was dancing by himself, and acting like he had a dance partner.
"What was that, Terik, Tarik" Boyle was definitely wasted. And Tarik could smell it. He fanned the air around him away. "Hey, come on, take a drink. After all, you kill Cardies and Jem'Hadar real good. Of course we all do. We're life takers and heart breakers," Boyle yelled rather loud.
Tarik took the bottle in hopes of entertaining Boyle, but Boyle insisted on him taking a drink. Boyle gave a big war cry and took the bottle and downed it himself until it was gone, then chucked it across the room hitting a wall and breaking.
Everything seemed to be fine until a few Starfleet people came in - mainly Banshee Squadron, and Lieutenant Deveraux. Boyle walked over to the bar next to Max Vasser, and ordered another bottle. The bar was out of scotch, so he ordered a bottle of Jack Daniels. Vasser got a whiff of Boyle as he said 'thanks for the bottle' and prepared to take a big drink. He then looked over at the other members of Banshee and spoke.
"Hey big ears. Yeah you with the jacked-up teeth. Buy these women a drink. It's on me." Boyle then took a big drink from his bottle.
"Thanks Major, but we'll buy our own drinks," Max said putting her money on the bar. Boyle was obviously wasted out of his skull and she figured it was probably a good idea to keep as far away from trouble as possible.
Her rejection made Boyle and Deveraux mad. "Hey, come on now! We killed many Cardies and Jem'Hadar the other day. Let me buy your drink!" Boyle slammed his hand on the Ferengi's hand as he went to take the latinum. Unknown to Boyle, eleven Starfleet security officers were waiting outside the bar.
"No thanks Major. We can pay for it ourselves," Vasser insisted, pulling Boyle's hand off the barkeep's.
"You know, where I come from, when a man or a women offers something, you take it. 'Cause that's a sign of rudeness." Boyle was so drunk, he wasn't even making sense anymore.
"Yez, zat is a zign of rudeness," Lieutenant Deveraux said standing beside Boyle. Boyle forgot about Max for the moment and turned to Paul and laughed.
"You got to be shitting me, Lieutenant. Your face is next to the picture of rude," Boyle said.
Paul pushed Boyle away from him, as Boyle was crowding too close. Boyle bumped Max's arm, knocking her drink all over her. Thomas turned to see what happened.
"Oops, sorry," Boyle said, then turned around to Paul again. "Look what you made me do, you stupid Squid!"
"Look who's talking, Jar-head!" Paul said. He realized he was in a bar with about forty-five Marines, and realized that wasn't a smart thing to say.
Tarik, over by the pool table, cursed out loud. "Oh shit."
Meanwhile, Max had been completely forgotten by the arguing men, and that suited her just fine. She scowled at the immaturity of men in general and Marines in particular, and set about mopping her drink off the front of her uniform. Sam, who was sitting on the other side of her from the men, was looking even more uncomfortable than usual at being in a crowded room. Lee, Jo and Kim were off somewhere, unaware as yet of what was happening.
While Max mopped, the argument between Boyle and Deveraux was getting louder and louder. They'd gotten to shoving each other after every insult, and Sam was starting to get real fidgety. Suddenly, she yelled, "Look out!" at Max.
Sam should have been more concerned about herself though. Behind Max, Boyle had been pushed past his tolerance level, and he took a wild swing at Deveraux, who dodged the drunken attack easily, and thanks to Max's esper clairvoyance, she'd already ducked too. That left Sam. The errant fist connected solidly with Sam's chin, sending her flying backward off her barstool onto the floor.
Shocked, Max sprang off her own stool ready for anything. She still didn't want to get in a brawl with a roomful of drunk Marines -- the altercation had already gotten the attention of everyone -- so she stepped between Boyle and Deveraux to try and serarate them before things got out of hand. That was her first mistake.
Deveraux was incensed at Boyle for having slugged a woman. "Sacre Bleu!" he hollered. "Take zhis, Cretin!" With that he belted forth a war cry and launched himself bodily at Boyle. Unfortunately, Max was right in his path, and this time her famed esper ability couldn't save her. Deveraux was bigger than she was, and he just steam-rolled over her in his frenzy to get at Boyle. Max went down hard, arms flailing, trying to keep her balance, but it was no use. Deveraux connected with Boyle and the two grappled wildly, overturning several nearby tables and dumping the Marines drinking at them off their chairs.
That was all the provocation they needed. The entire Easy Inn exploded in a spontaneous erruption of chaos as Marines and Starfleet alike sought the nearest person to punch. In all the mayhem, Sam managed to crawl under cover of overturned tables and chairs to the relative safety behind the bar, but in the center of the room, a brand new erruption tossed combatants aside.
Max had gotten out from under the scuffling feet of those fighting near her. Her hair was messed, her lip was bloody, her left sleeve was almost torn from her uniform, and she had mayhem in her dark eyes. "You boys wanna fight? I'll give you a fight!" she spat through the vicious snarl twisting her face.
Grabbing the nearest two people by the scruffs of their necks, she slammed their heads together. They went down in a twisted pile of arms and legs. She had no idea who they were and didn't care; she just needed to clear a little space around her.
A chair suddenly smashed across her back. She staggered forward but didn't go down. Bracing herself on a tipped-over table, she kicked backward as hard as she could and felt her foot connect. The chair-swinger went down holding his groin.
Max spun around looking for her next victim. A wicked smile was on her lips and an evil fire in her eyes. Bloodied and dissheveled, teeth bared, posed in a combat stance at the center of a ring of fallen bodies, she looked for all the world like some sort of supernatural warrior demon from the mythical past.
She hadn't had this much fun in years!
Her evil grin grew wider and more evil as she suddenly she spotted her quarry. Quickly clambering atop a nearby table that had somehow remained upright, she aimed herself and timed her attack. Screaming a blood-curdling banshee howl, she threw herself headlong through the air and landed righ on top of Boyle and Deveraux, and all three went down.
Meanwhile, Tarik tried to take control of the situation but quickly realized that the inebriated state of most of the bar occupants and the pent-up frustration of the past few months were combining to create a phenomenon with a life of its own. He narrowly missed being hit over the head with a bottle of Saurian brandy by a Science crewman who was too drunk to realize that he was even swinging at someone. Tarik delivered a swift upper-cut to the Science crewman's jaw, sending the drunk to the floor (which he probably would have found on his own anyway).
One of the Security officers had at this point waded into the fray, attempting to subdue the drunken mob with a phaser set on stun, but Security officers no matter how well trained were no match for a mob of drunken, battle-hardened Marines. Many of the Security men started to fall as well, and soon became embroiled in the general chaos. This has got to stop before someone gets killed! Tarik thought as he caught a civilian grabbing a discarded phaser.
Tarik picked up a broken table leg and began fighting his way through the crowd. Though he'd had quite a bit to drink himself, Tarik's Romulan physiology permitted him to drink almost any other sentient under the table. One sentient who could match him drink for drink, however, was currently holding his own.
A loud stream of Klingon profanity allowed Tarik to locate Mogan Bacardi of Hammerhead Squadron. Morgan was taking on all comers with a barstool and inflicting heavy damage on Science, Engineering, and Security personnel who made the mistake of challenging him. At this point, given the amount Morgan had drunk, challenging him consisted of being within a meter of his physical location. Tarik slipped around behind Morgan, but wasn't quite fast enough. Morgan swung the stool at him, knocking Tarik to his knees.
Morgan was about to finish Tarik off when he realized whom he had hit. "Damn, Colonel! Watch where you're going!" he said as he offered Tarik a hand up. Tarik refused, getting up on his own.
"Captain, we've got a situation on our hands," Tarik said, indicating the civilian with the discovered phaser.
"You're just now figuring that out?" Bacardi asked incredulously, until he looked where Tarik was pointing. "I see what you mean," he said as he threw a Science crewman over his shoulder.
"Try and keep people away from him," Tarik said. "We wouldn't want anyone getting killed and ruining our fun!"
"Understood," Bacardi said as he started moving in the general direction of the man with the phaser.
Meanwhile, Tarik was busy fending off attacks from people too drunk to realize just whom it was they were attacking. His Vulcan nerve pinch was used more than a few times--at least once, Tarik could have sworn later, on an actual Vulcan. On his way to the armed man, Tarik encountered Deveraux. "What the hell did you do this time?" Tarik asked Deveraux.
"Zhat jerk Boyle waz rude to one of ze Banshee pilots! Ah could not ztand to see a lady dishonored!" Deveraux shouted above the din and clamor. "Tabernac!" he swore as he broke a bottle over the head of a Marine private who tried to rush him.
"You an expert on defending womanhood?" Tarik asked as he gut-punched an Engineering crewman who had unwisely thought he could get the upper hand.
"Yah, yah, I get zhat a lot zhese days!"
"You deserve it!" Tarik said as he was knocked off his feet by another scuffling pair. A bottle flew through the air over his head, shattering the mirror behind the bar. Tarik got back up to notice that the man with the phaser was heading for the door. Without a moment's hesitation, Tarik took off running for the door and tackled the man. The man attempted to point the phaser at Tarik, who twisted it out of his hand without effort.
"You'll get this when you grow up!" he said, noting that the 'man' couldn't have been more than seventeen years old. Seventeen going on thirty...
Tarik looked up to see at least ten or twelve unconscious bodies between his position and a snarling half-Klingon Marine. "Good work, Captain! Have one on me!" Tarik yelled.
Bacardi smashed open the tap on a tun of bloodwine and held his open mouth under the flow. "Don't mind if I do!"
Two Science crewmen attempted to do the high-low attack with Tarik but Tarik kicked one in the face and simply threw the other aside by the front of his tunic.
Five more Security officers, coming in relief of the first officer who had not returned, entered the bar with phasers on stun. Things were getting out of hand, Tarik noted as he saw one crewman laying on the deck, his head in a pool of blood. Tarik immediately turned his phaser over to the nearest Security officer as the detail began stunning the worst offenders.