"What the hell happened up there?" Tucker griped into the handset as a charging handle was work on an assault rifle behind him.
"It wasn't the cruisers, one of their raider type craft came in cloaked, dropped the field and beamed in personnel before we could close to interdict." Nassir's voice streamed back through.
"Had we even detected that one?"
"No sir, likely made it in system cloaked already, we weren't even looking for cloaked craft so it slipped right past us until it was within passive resonance range."
"Any idea how many it beamed in?" Trip asked, pulling the charging handle on his M-7 back a fraction to make sure the weapon was in battery.
"More than ten, less than a hundred...?" The reply was lilting, perhaps a little embarrassed, with an almost sardonic current running through it.
"Gee...thanks..."
"It's in imprecise art, Skipper...want me to get the major to detail another platoon for you?"
Trip did a quick hand count of his available magazines and checked to make sure his grenades were properly secured. "What're the cruisers doin'?"
"Stand off range, power to shields and weapon systems."
"Did'ya at least get a track on the assets they beamed in?"
"That hurts, sir." Al-Sistani quipped back over the ULF.
Tucker almost wanted to remind the commander the degree to which the situation was tactically significant. But then again, this was Commander Nassir Al-Sistani, probably the best attack boat Skipper that had come out of MCS in the last ten years.
"We placed their beam-in location at grid reference niner five one three three zero elevation zero eight meters." Nassir answered before Trip could formulate a diplomatic way to chide his XO.
"That's-"
"Aye, sir, one point zero five klicks east north east of your position."
Tucker spun immediately on his heel to see Corporal Sears, Dunn, and Paz approaching with Kaitaama and four of her ministers and a troop of bodyguards in tow. There was also a man with her that he didn't recognize, about her age with a confident bearing and clothing befitting one of high station. Of course...this had to be the first...whatever he was...her husband.
"I would love it if you could give me a head count on hostile movers." Tucker said back into the ULF hand piece.
"Negative visual, you have low and mid altitude cloud cover." Nassir replied again.
Trip paused, chewing on his lip, what should he do now? They could all beam out right now and be done with it, but that meant that they had symbolically abandoned the planet and its people. Besides, grabbing the Queen and...King-thingy...and a few ministers was hardly enough to ensure consistency of the government. No, they would have to win this the hard way if they wanted to keep the Klinks' grubby fingers off the planet.
"Get on the p-keck and get our sitrep to Sanderson and request permission to seek reinforcement from Task Group: Deguello. A.G. has gotta have at least a few boats he can kick over."
"Aye sir, maintain current demarcation and AO?"
"If plausible," Tucker replied with a steely edge to his voice, "keep us apprised of your situation. We are at task group redcon one, combat effective, how copy?"
"Solid copy, skipper, under command authority I am tapping the strategic event reserves for the one oh fives, sir."
Trip nodded, more to himself than to his XO who had no way of seeing it. If things weren't as they were on the planet he would have cut Nassir free to go chase down and run off the Klingon Cruisers. Part of him wanted at least a platoon with him, but he had to keep reminding himself that these Marines were the best of the best, not like the line doggies he had fought with during the 47 war...and even they had been more than adequate to defeat Klink infantry. These MARSOC didn't consider anything less than five to one odds a challenge, not that they usually wanted a challenge. The fact that a section could effectively dismantle an enemy platoon in a matter of minutes was why they were what they were. They were brass knuckles in a fist fight, a gun in a fencing match...they weren't here to fight fair, they were here to win.
"Roger that, Alamo, out."
Besides, it would be easier for them to move without a bunch of Marines to draw attention. Three sections, twenty one Marines...it had been more than he had when he landed on Vulcan and while he had never been on any operations with these boys, he was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were as good as Hayes' men. In a moment of grim retrospection he had to consider that if Wayne Shelby had MARSOC at his disposal on Vulcan they likely wouldn't have been forced to leave a section behind as a blocking force during the walk-out of the Vulcan High Command.
That wasn't going to happen on his watch...
The Romulans had been an unknown quantity; unknown tactics, unknown capabilities, and of course they had the Marines massively outnumbered at the time. When it came to the Klingons there had been entire books written on the subject, hour upon hour of course work devoted to countering extant warrior fiefdom threats in an extra-stellar strategic setting. Just about everyone in MARSOC with more than two stripes had been involved in the 47 war and anyone who hadn't had been properly drilled on what to expect. The only thing the Klinks really had to recommended them as a respectable threat was a willingness to attack without reason and with pronounced ferocity. This was the expectation, this is what they trained for, and it was a simple task because for all their bluster and bravado, they couldn't hold a candle to augmentees when it came to pure ferocity.
The scars on Trip's back and side began to ache sympathetically, the worst injuries he had ever received in the line of duty and badges of honor in their own right. The fact that he had them meant he had been the one survived...the ultimate in "you should see the other guy." His knuckles felt a bit of a twinge of their own; the other guy...Trip had smashed his face, quite literally, back into his brain pan. Dumbest thing that Klink had ever done was not aim for his neck when he had the chance.
And the dumbest thing these particular Klinks had ever done was invade a planet with an MCS battleship in orbit. He wasn't particularly sure why he seemed to hate the Klingons so much more, hate didn't even fit in the vocabulary when he thought about the Romulans...maybe it was because they were so much like Vulcans, so much like T'Pol. God...anything to be with her again and away from this kind of crap detail.
I'm a Goddamn engineer...what the hell am I doing here?
The whole idea had been to start a life, a family, to stop being a self-guided piece of ordnance or machine operator, to be a person, husband, father, next-door fucking neighbor, PTA member, gold club membership holder...whatever it may be, just anything that wasn't this.
"Captain Tucker..."
Trip turned to see Kaitaama and her must-be husband standing close by, the man had addressed him.
"Yes, yer majesty?" He held to protocol as best he could, trying to reconcile the strange twinge of territoriality he was feeling.
"What is your plan of action?"
"We'll try'n round up as much of your government as we can find then get y'all up to the Tirpitz. If we can ensure continuity of your government it'll be a helluva lot easier to maintain' your national sovereignty while we kick the Klingons out."
"How long will that take?" He inquired, his expression showing more than just a hint of misgiving.
Trip let a bit of a cruel smirk on his face, he may not particular like what he was about to say, but damn...if it wasn't the truth, "Depends on how many Klinks're in orbit...anything less'n three thousand and my Marines'll finish 'em off if my XO doesn't kill'em all before they can make planet fall."
For the first time Trip took the man into stock, he was easily about four inches shorter and his face and build seemed to indicate he had led a soft life up to this point. He was about one shade lighter in terms of skin tone than Kaitaama and the premature graying at his temples gave him a sort of distinguished air...he looked the part of royalty. Trip couldn't help but reflect on the differences; this was a man who could tell you which fork was which at a formal setting, he would know art, culture, protocol. And here Trip was, the barely civilized Florida boy in combat utility uniform armed to the teeth, on the planet for the sole purpose of killing the enemy.
Still, he couldn't help but feel the creeping sensation of jealousy, resentment and he couldn't put his finger on why. He never really felt any strong emotional connection with Kaitaama...she was a fling, no more, no less. He found her attractive, exotic, interesting...the sex was pretty awful, she clearly had no idea what she wanted or needed, it left all the guess work to him, but by the same measure he didn't want her to be in a bad relationship. The fact that this guy was sleeping around while she had been holding out, unrequited, for her dashing Star Fleet engineer...
No...
It wasn't just wrong, it was fucked up and wrong.
But then again, it was possible he never asked for any of this either. What if he loved someone else and was just as stuck, just as forced into this relationship as she was?
What if all he had ever wanted was to be married to someone he loved?
What did you do when your status, your culture forced you to be with someone else?
What did one do when there was never any love there to begin with?
At least on Vulcan one or the other could have declared a Kal'i'fee. In many ways, Trip had been blessed...the woman he loved, suspected he always had loved had been within his grasp, events transpired in such a way that he was able to secure her when she reciprocated that love in her own kind of understated way. Neither of the two Kriosian nobles could say the same, so it was the torture of knowing that they could never truly be with the ones they did love while having to settle for one another. Maybe, if they were lucky, he would manage to at least find friendship in one another, maybe a different kind of affection that would allow them to support one another.
"I had hoped that wouldn't be necessary, Captain Tucker." He answered with more than a hint of distaste apparent in his expression.
Trip shrugged, "It's kinda a raw deal no matter how you look at it, sir. I dunno how y'all's history has unfolded with the Klingons thus far, but based on what we've seen, just about the only way t'handle 'em is matchin' violence for violence, usually preemptively."
"Unfortunate."
Trip's mouth drew into a wan line, his eyebrows arched matter-of-factly, "Yeah, we've been gettin' a lot of that the last ten years, sir."
1LT Pritchard stepped over, his expression predictably grim, "What is our course of action, sir?"
Tucker turned to make eye contact with Kaitaama then back to her husband, "With your permission, your majesties, we'd like t'start locatin' as many of your higher rankin' officials in the immediate area as possible so we can move y'all to a secure location for extraction."
"How will we move such a large contingent?" The Kriosian queen inquired, slightly baffled by the proposed course of action.
"On foot." Trip replied. flatly, matter-of-factly, this was a foregone conclusion.
Kaitaama gawked at him, "We're walking?"
He couldn't help himself, "That's usually what 'on foot' means."
"Trip!" She let it slip, invoking a look of quiet consternation from her spouse.
"Based on what we figured out earlier today, there are like...twelve principals in the immediate area, all within one mile distance of the palace, we'll be lookin' at about seven miles total travel, there are probably as many as a'hundred Klingons in the immediate area, bein' mobile will make trackin' us complicated for 'em."
"Contact forward!" Lance Corporal Peterson howled.
"Pritchard, take point, Peterson, Gordon, suppressive, buy us a few minutes then beat feet, copy?" Trip shouted back, then turned to the Kriosians, "We gotta move now."
Sergeant Gordon wasted no time bringing his M-430 to bear on the advancing Klingon section, advancing, crouched, down the column lined walk way, their disruptors already drawn. The chattering bray of the machine gun echoed within the marble halls, reverberating then echoing out into the gardens and courtyards to alert the night that a fire fight was occurring.
The eight Klingons dove for cover, it wasn't terribly likely that they had been part of the 47 war, but the sound that the LMG produced seemed to brook little in the way of curiosity. The sound was as aggressive as the weapon's performance profile. The heavy weight 8.6mm bullets skipped off the marble, kicking up small amounts of debris as they struck the hard surface and began to shatter. The two Marines backed away slowly, putting more distance between themselves and the Klingon squad as Gordon squeezed off short bursts and Peterson covered the sector with the integrally suppressed M-7 mod 2.
For every ten feet the two Marines backed up, the Klingons quickly slipped around the columns to move forward. Perhaps there was a forty seven vet among them, as they seemed intent on avoiding presenting themselves to the potential fire from the two Marines.
"Fall back, standard cover drill, P..." Gordon declared between discreet bursts from the 430.
"Roger that." Peterson turned and dashed thirty feet down the walkway before taking up position next to a column. It was just the thing the Klingons had been waiting for, and, consequently, Sergeant Gordon as well. He knew better than the Klingons themselves what they would do, and as if on cue one of the younger Klingon warriors stepped into the open to take advantage of the momentary shift of Marine personnel. Gordon put the sights right at the Klinks knee and squeeze, a full break trigger depression and return, six rounds total, right on target, allowing the muzzle to climb without resistance.
The first of the 220 grain projectiles struck the advancing warrior in the right thigh about seven inches above the knee.
The second struck at the left inner hip joint.
The third hit him, again, on the right side, in the lower abdominal region.
The fourth struck in the upper gastric, just below the diaphragm.
Fifth round went into his upper left chest cavity, clearly hitting the lung and visibly exited through his back just above the scapula.
The sixth and final struck him in the face just above the brow, right in the middle of the forehead.
He was limp before he'd even finished falling. When he hit the ground there was a sickening slap of his head striking the marble and the blood began to run.
"Shit!" Peterson bellowed as he sent a pair of the lighter weight assault rifle bullets down the hall to suppress any further rushes, "You fucked him up, sar'ent!"
It took a moment for the remaining Klingons to realize what had happened to their comrade until that odd-colored blood of theirs began to run unchecked across the marble tiles and into the adjacent flower beds. Upon realization that their fellow warrior was dead they began letting out incoherent howls of alarm or rage, it was impossible for Gordon to tell.
"Willie Pete." Gordon shouted.
"Yut!" Peterson pulled the grenade from his LBE, jerking the pin free with his thumb then tossing the device down the walkway where it emitted a pop and a loud crackling hiss as the thick white smoke began to pour out of it.
Gordon didn't waste a moment, turning and running back to where Peterson still had his carbine up to cover the sector. Behind them the Klingons began barking orders at once another and shouting, that was more than enough for the Marines who both began charging down the corridor turning only for a moment to lay shots into the Klingons' sector when they cleared the smoke.
Suvak could feel the fact that the fever was abating, in less than a day he would be able to leave the monastery and resume his duties, putting this part of his life behind him for another seven years. It wasn't that he hated sex, didn't enjoy engaging in it, he just hated not being in control of his sex drive, it was supposed to be a choice not a sickness. Still...he had to admit she was very proficient, as skilled, if not more so, than any human woman he had been with, arguably better than the Deltan who had treated his first fever.
He thrust forward frantically, his breathing growing labored as he felt completion approaching, a series of groans leaving him as with one final push wave of building need broke, the sudden agony, the matching sensation of unvarnished pleasure, and the thundering sense of relief. Beneath him V'Rel rolled her head back, letting out her own sigh of satisfaction.
"You are exceedingly adept at this, I believe our people would be better served if you shifted your focus to the Elmuvak-Shaukaush." She said as he allowed the strength to leave his arms and legs.
"My particular area of proficiency lies elsewhere." He stated between heaving breaths.
"And that would be...?"
"Classified." He managed every ounce of his dignity for that single word.
V'Rel said nothing further, finding the moment of physical closeness agreeable. His arms were still wrapped around her, and hers around him. In many ways he mated like he was Elmuvak-Shaukaush, but with more passion and conviction. It was quite uncommon for a Vulcan male.
"Is your skill in the sexual arts a natural talent or have you had experience in the area?" V'Rel asked matter-of-factly.
"That is marginally insulting." Suvak answered with a hint of amusement in his voice.
"I do not understand."
Suvak rolled away, coming to rest on his back, "It is a human affectation."
"So you have spent a great deal of time among humans?" V'Rel sat up, to look down at her current partner.
Suvak gave her a visual once over, again appreciating, in an understated way, how pleasing she was physically. She seemed to sense his admiration and blushed just a little, the olive shade accentuating her skin. "That is where the experience comes from."
"You have mated with human females?"
"No...I had recreational sexual congress, there was no more an attempt at mating that was made between you and I."
V'Rel arched a brow, "Is that a habit of yours?"
"Not since returning to Vulcan."
"You have answers for everything." She quipped.
"It goes with the job." He fired back, part of him wondering if she would be adverse to cuddling as he found the practice satisfying.
V'Rel stared off at the wall for a moment, her expression contemplative. "A number of years ago we had a Vulcan woman arrive here whom we believed had attempted to mate with a human."
"T'Nal?" Suvak sat up, leaning on an elbow.
"That was not her name." V'Rel answered, folding her legs into the lotus position but making no move to rise and clothe herself.
"How many years ago was this?"
"Approximately twenty now...maybe twenty one." She squinted a moment, trying to recollect more precisely, "Yes, just shy of twenty one."
"What leads you believe that she attempted to mate with a human?" He arched a curious brow.
"She kept talking about blue eyes."
Suvak grunted, something that almost approximated a chuckle in his mind, "My cousin is mated to a human...he has blue eyes."
V'Rel straightened at the revelation, "I have never heard of anything of the sort."
He furrowed his brow, "Surely the news even reached this monastery. There was something of a scandal involving it all."
V'Rel arched her brows in reply, tilting her head slightly, "We pay little heed to the outside world, there is more than enough to keep us suitably distracted here."
"He was responsible for ensuring that the High Command was able to escape and then was in command of the garrison forces that held the Romulans at Shi'kahr until reinforcements from Earth could arrive."
V'Rel arched an amused brow, "Is that embellishment?"
Suvak sat up, looking right back in her eye, "No...I was there..."
"While my knowledge of humans is limited, nothing you have said seems particularly singular in that regard, they do seem to be a martial people." She spoke evenly, calculating her words.
"Not all of them, a majority of their people are not warlike at all, they just don't tend to travel to Vulcan."
She considered the words, there was some appreciable logic there. Majority of the trade between Vulcan and Earth did not require humans to ever set foot on their world, similarly, their shorter relative lifespan meant it was much more convenient for Vulcan scientists and scholars to travel to Earth. "It is strange then that she would choose to mate with a member of their military."
"They had a child together."
V'Rel couldn't hide her surprise at this revelation, it was indeed unheard of. "They were able to produce a child together?"
Suvak nodded, "Yep..." He took some relish in using the human term, it's like was not at all part of the Golic tongue, there was even a fair chance she would not be able to understand the word.
"May I ask your cousin's name?"
"Certainly..." Suvak paused, allowing himself one last coup while his emotional reserves were still near their minimum and grinned, "But I am not sure I can tell you."
Duras looked over to Colonel Khorr in barely varnished disgust. The house of Toral had offered to provide support for this venture if, and only if, a diplomatic accord could be reached with Krios. Krios would better serve the empire as a willing addition than a planet bullied into submission then stripped of wealth. Duras didn't understand where this sudden and inexplicable drive to expand the empire was coming from. Their borders had been mostly stagnant for decades, the number of great houses was slowly diminishing, not increasing. Territory and administrative districts were slowly but surely being expanded as the remaining houses gobbled up the remains of the fallen and the borders slowly crept ever outward.
More than anything, they did not need another war with the humans. Some had just assumed that their victory seven years prior had been the result of failed strategic policy on the part of the invading Klingon force and dumb luck on the part of the humans. Duras knew better. He had thrown his lot in with the forces attacking the human colonies over his father's protestations. The fact he had made it out alive had cured him of adventurism when it came to the humans. The fate of the Romulans had just further reinforced it; the humans had crushed their invasion force then started a campaign that had left their war capacity completely gutted. Duras had insisted that now was the time for them to carve out a portion of the Romulan empire, exploiting the existing infrastructure and fortifying against potential counter-invasions by the weakened enemy.
When the human Warship had appeared in orbit, he had almost left, pulled his forces out and abandoned the world entirely. Now Khorr's blundering had put the first monarchs and their ministers on the run, escorted by human soldiers. One of Khorr's men had identified them on the basis of their equipment and the patch worn on their uniforms as the humans' elite war fighters.
Why had the fool chosen to abandon diplomacy? They could have milked concessions from the Kriosian monarchy...left them independent but garnered favored trade status, the ability to traverse their space, perhaps even a garrison of Imperial warriors.
But all that was rapidly disappearing as a chance...Khorr's fast raider had managed to beam down two thirds of its compliment of one hundred and eighty warriors before it had been blown to pieces along with the warriors that had remained aboard by the human warship in orbit. Duras' two cruisers were now in jeopardy...if the human warship attacked, all scans seemed to indicate that it could destroy or cripple all of the cruisers before sufficient enough system failures could repulse it. If that event occurred, he swore to himself that he would kill Khorr personally.
[!-Author's Note-!]
Frailty, thy name is writer's block...and its pretty much hitting me across all fronts at once. This was supposed to be the point where I'd have published another TCD2 chapter, but it's one of those "how do I transition" moments so I just went ahead and ran with this. Know where I want to go, just don't know how to get there...bear with me.