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"Enemy in sight," said Captain Ramirez quietly.
A sound almost like a sigh ran around the Intrepid's Bridge. It could not be said that the tension increased, for it was already so great that it almost seemed to possess an existence in its own right, but every eye focussed with the utmost concentration on the first of the pinpricks to appear on the viewscreen, right now extended to maximum magnification.
The man seated at what had been the Engineering Station but was now the position of the First Officer, with his own newly-designed console ready in front of him, stared with a searing cold intensity at the screen. A flick of the fingers swept the previous display on his console into oblivion, relegating it back to Tactical; replacing it, the schematic of the ship appeared. The strings of readouts spooling down the side of the screen told him that everything was prepared, everyone was ready.
As ready as they could be, for the fight of their lives.
=/\=
Both sides had waited long enough; both sides wanted this over and done with. The two fleets sprang forward towards each other on the word of command like unleashed fighting dogs.
As one of Starfleet's most experienced Tactical Officers, Malcolm Reed had sat in on innumerable planning meetings preparing for this moment. He'd done his share of trying to predict what form the Romulan attack might take and to formulate what responses the Allied fleet should make to each variant of the situation as it might develop. He flattered himself that his advice – usually sound in such matters – had done something to influence the plans that had eventually been hammered out. He was equally aware of legendary German strategist Helmuth von Moltke's sage observation that 'No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy', and did not expect this occasion to be any exception. The Romulans had already shown their deviousness by routing their advance through this backwater of space; it was as much luck as judgement that they'd been spotted while still at enough of a distance to allow the defensive fleet to muster in good order to meet them.
He'd been Enterprise's Armoury Officer for so long that it still felt strange to glance to his left and see someone else sitting at the Tactical Station. He had absolute confidence in now-Lieutenant Em Gomez, who sat there looking as though fear was something that happened to other people. Her lovely eyes were fastened like those of a bivvering kestrel on the readouts in front of her, her fingers poised for the word of command.
He was glad he had Em with him...
The rest of his old comrades were dispersed through the Fleet, placed where they were thought able to do the most good; only Travis was still with their erstwhile Captain – now Admiral – Archer, aboard his flagship Endeavour. Malcolm was fully aware of exactly where each of their ships was deployed. Trip was the only one missing, his skills being thought to be more valuable back at the shipyards where work was still frantically going on to replace or repair ships lost or damaged in earlier skirmishes.
This was no skirmish.
He'd always had a problem with nerves waiting for the onset, though the long years of discipline enabled him to keep up an iron front. As he'd come onto the Bridge half an hour ago, nobody would have known from looking at him that his stomach was tying itself in knots; now he no longer remembered he had a stomach. As the distance between the two fleets closed, the familiar ice-cold surge of adrenaline seized him. Time slowed, and things became very clear and simple.
Closer. Closer. Closer.
His mouth was dry, his heart racing.
For one split second, he allowed himself to remember the existence of the two squares of printed paper in his breast pocket. Two photographs: one of his wife and son, the second (received only yesterday and piggybacked in on a technical upgrade) the latest image of his unborn daughter. Then, with the brutal ease of long practice and absolute necessity, he wiped them out of his mind as though they had never been.
Captain Ramirez was as still as a stone statue in the command chair.
That was the last thing he remembered before hell enveloped them: the absolute stillness.
"FIRE TORPEDOES!"
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