Minutes later he scrambled out of the switchback staircase and into the underground bunker, still winded from his hundred-meter sprint from the officers’ barracks to the operations center. “Someone talk to me,” he demanded.
“Klingon D-5 cruiser in orbit, sir,” answered Lieutenant Christopher Gabbert, the night-shift room boss. “Based on her power signature, we’ve identified her as the I.K.S. Che’leth.” It was Gabbert’s job to watch over all the other stations and coordinate all departments’ responses to whatever crisis might present itself.
“What buzzed the colony?” al-Khaled asked, slightly distracted by the sweat dampening his uniform jersey.
Gabbert called up several screens of sensor readings and flight telemetry detailing the path of the ship that had flown over the settlement. “Klingon transport,” he said. “Big enough to carry about three thousand people and a whole lotta gear.” The bearded operations specialist added, “Looks like they set down about fifty kliks away, near the Cardalian Mountains.”
“Dammit,” al-Khaled muttered. “Didn’t take them long, did it? They moved in as soon as they heard the colony refused protectorate status.”
Nodding in agreement, Gabbert said, “They’ve probably been hanging out somewhere between here and the Al Nath system, waiting for a chance to move in.”
“Get the Lovell on the horn,” al-Khaled said. “Secure channel.”
With a nod to the communications officer, Gabbert delegated the task. Seconds later, an active channel beeped on Gabbert’s master console, and he flipped the switch to the open position. The image of Captain Okagawa appeared on the main screen.
“Captain,” al-Khaled said. “Everything okay up there?”
“Yeah, we’re just peachy,” Okagawa said with naked sarcasm. “I was thinking of having the captain of the Che’leth over for a few drinks. What do you think? Sound like a good idea?”
Gabbert mumbled, “I could sure use a drink right now.”
Ignoring the room boss, al-Khaled focused on assessing the situation. “Is the Che’leth making any threatening moves against you? Has its captain hailed you?”
“Negative,” Okagawa said. “They made orbit and released their transport. They’re holding position on the far side of the planet. Looks like their colony team is right in your backyard, though. Everything all right down there?”
“A little shaken from their fly-by, but no real problems. Not yet, anyway.”
The salt-and-pepper-haired CO’s brow creased with concern. “Do you have a contingency plan for continuing the search?”
“Yes, sir, but it won’t be easy,” al-Khaled admitted. “Judging by how fast they moved in once the colonists opened the door, it’s a good bet the Klingons know why we’re here.”
“Count on it,” Okagawa said. “They’ll watch every move you make, and they’ll assume you’re doing the same to them.”
“Understood,” al-Khaled said. It was going to be a battle of wits from this point forward. Both teams would be launching multiple feints, diversionary operations to throw the other off the trail of whatever real finds they might be seeking to make. Whichever side proved better at bluffing and following clues at the same time would gain the advantage. One thing that would work in the Klingons’ favor, however, was that their “colonists” were likely imposters, just a superficial cover for their military and scientific mission on the planet; unburdened by the need to provide material support to a real, working colony, the Klingons would be free to devote all their time and resources to outflanking al-Khaled’s group. That was a challenge al-Khaled was prepared to face, but another matter worried him. “Sir, what are we supposed to do if the Klingon Empire makes a formal claim to this colony? Without protectorate status—”
“I know, Mahmud,” Okagawa said, looking markedly more fatigued by the mere asking of the question. “Unless you or one of your people feels like starting a war with the Klingons, you have to stay neutral down there. Just keep doing your job and stay out of the Klingons’ way.”
“That’s fine in theory,” al-Khaled said. “But if the Klingons come after New Boulder, my team won’t sit it out.”
A pained look deepened the frown lines on Okagawa’s face. “You don’t have any choice, Mahmud. Unless the Klingons take a shot at uniformed Starfleet personnel, we can’t interfere.”
“Not even if the colonists ask for help?”
Okagawa considered that for a moment. “If they send an SOS, we can respond. But it has to be an official request for aid from the colony leadership. Anything short of that, and we have to stay out of it. That’s an order. Clear?”
As disappointed as he was concerned, al-Khaled answered simply, “Yes, Captain.” After a breath, he asked, “Do you want to file the report with Vanguard, sir, or should I?”
The captain closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with his fingertips for a moment before he said, “I’ll do it. You’ve got a lot on your plate…. Besides, I already have a headache.”
Less than four minutes after receiving an urgent bulletin about the Klingons’ landing on Gamma Tauri IV, Ambassador Jetanien stepped out of a turbolift into Starbase 47’s voluminous and quietly busy operations center. The enormous Chelon diplomat moved swiftly across the main deck toward Commodore Reyes’s office, his immaculate scarlet robes fluttering dramatically behind him as he went. He tried to control the nervous rapid clicking of his beaklike proboscis, but it refused to be still.
In one web-fingered manus he carried a data slate loaded with the key details of the Klingons’ brazen action; in the other he held a hard copy of his unabashedly belligerent official rebuke of Jeanne Vinueza for inciting such an outcome.
As Jetanien passed the supervisor’s deck, the station’s first officer, Commander Jon Cooper, looked down at him from the circular elevated platform. For a moment the fortyish officer looked as if he were going to say something, but then he shook his head and turned his attention to his station on the hub, an octagonal bank of terminals and control panels that dominated the middle of the supervisor’s deck.
No one seemed willing to get in Jetanien’s way until he approached within five meters of Reyes’s office door. Then the diminutive but unyielding shape of Yeoman Toby Greenfield appeared in front of him. The top of her head was level with the middle of his chest. Looking up with proud determination, she said, “The commodore is in a classified briefing.”
“This cannot wait,” Jetanien said. He tried to walk around her, but she sidestepped adroitly into his path.
“You’ll have to be announced first, Your Excellency,” she said, her voice polite but firm. “Commodore Reyes’s orders.”
“Young lady, I don’t have—”
“My rank is lieutenant, junior grade,” Greenfield said. “You can call me Lieutenant Greenfield. Or, if you prefer, you may also address me as Yeoman Greenfield.”
Flaring with impatience and imperiousness, Jetanien was about to launch into a verbal riposte when he noticed that Greenfield’s declaration had drawn the attention of nearly every Starfleet officer and crewman on the deck. He clutched his chattering beak shut a moment, inhaled, then exhaled and bowed his head as he remembered his manners. “Quite right, Lieutenant. My apologies. It will not happen again.”
Tilting her head in a half-nod, she replied, “Apology accepted, Your Excellency. Shall I announce your visit?”
“Please do, Lieutenant.”
He waited while Greenfield moved to her console, inserted a small Feinberger transceiver into her ear, and opened an intercom line to Reyes’s office. She spoke in whispers, nodded to herself while listening to a response, then removed the small device from her ear. As she pressed a control to unlock the office door, she glanced at Jetanien. “The commodore will see you now, Mr. Ambassador.”