Rain at last made her way into Douglas Mitchell's entirely too large office. Alynna and Mark were seated next to each other on his black leather couch, while Jack and the Fleet Admiral were busy at the replicator sorting out glasses for the much-needed round of beverages. Virnas, as she expected, was seated at the guest terminal, updating some sort of code that was a complete mystery.
Mark looked at Rain and noticed that she seemed out of place again, as she had been for weeks,
"You alright?"
She nodded, "I'm fine."
Not convinced, Mark put his hand gently on her shoulder, "You don't look fine. If you want to take the bench on this, I've got no issues with that. But if you're here, I need you here 100% Rain."
Rain looked Mark directly in his eyes, her own eyes a mixture of confidence, annoyance, and anger, enough to make Mark take a step backwards, "I'm fine, Mark. Just point me at the Romulans."
Alynna was next to speak, oblivious to the tension, "Hey, where's that big Klingon bastard of yours that was knocking over Vrax's tables on Bath'lor? Isn't he the guy you usually send out on these things?"
"Mor decided to fuck off somewhere a few hours before we got here. Not the first time he's done that, though he at least did me the courtesy of telling me he was leaving" Mark sighed, taking a seat on the couch again.
"It does kinda leave me in a sticky spot though. Rain here could do command stuff, but she's much more valuable to you shooting things. Vir's only an LT, and besides that, he's fucking weird. I'd send Robert Jackson along, but he's been shanghaied by Anna to draft some kind of sanction form for the Republic, and since my little collection of thugs is only two years old, there aren't enough officers with enough combat experience that I'd trust for this sort of job," he continued.
"There is always Ginny of course. She still owes me a trip to the dress boutique in Paris, no less," Rain added with a smile that – slightly – reassured Mark.
Less amused, Mark rolled his eyes, "Major Guinevere Tatum is currently in the ass-end of Beta Quadrant on Tirpitz, as you well know, Major Rain Kaimeao. And even if she weren't, it seems Scotty Hathaway is holding on to her and her team for dear life. He straight up told me that if I wanted her back for Exercise North Stream with Andoria next year, I'd have to wrestle her out of his cold, dead hands. Either he's in love with her or Ginny's going to be put up as the living example of how useful a Marine Combat Team is on a starship. And since Anna refuses to let me do the job myself, I'm left with just one choice for OC-BESG."
"Me, right?" Jack asked, turning to face the group with a drink in hand.
He was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept.
"That's right, Jack. You know how to shoot reasonably well, you've been in the field more than once, you're a certified Sandhurst graduate, unlike me you have neither a criminal record or a crippling addiction to Virginian women with purple hair, and for some unfathomable reason, people respect you."
"But since S1 isn't actually a real rank, I'm giving you a brevet spot as Brigadier General Jack Marshall, Officer Commanding, Boxer Expeditionary Strike Group. And if you remember your charts right, that puts you three grades over Rain and on the same level as my Auntie here." Mark said, with his own mixture of pride and confidence.
Jack was simply stunned. To go from a Starfleet Ensign to a Marine Brigadier was a meteoric rise in the ranks. Three years ago, he had seriously considered if he would ever be able to make Leftenant Junior Grade.
And yet, the opportunity had just been shoved into his face like a fist.
Risa had taught him one thing, always keep your composure.
"We'll get it done sir, Sharkies lead the way."
"You damn well better, Jack. Jokes aside man, this is beyond a big fucking deal for us. The Federation was attacked, and now we're being asked to hit back. This is everything that we've spent the last three years working on. If we get this wrong, we might as well give up and start parcelling out our territory to the highest bidder." Mark replied.
"That goes for you too, Rear Admiral," Douglas added after taking a sip from his beverage, "I know the Admiralty board has reamed you out more than once, but for whatever it's worth from me, I've always thought of you as the model for our own service. You understand something I've always believed in, that if you want peace, you had better be ready for war."
Alynna rose from the couch and smiled, "I'm glad someone does. And neither of you need to be worried. I'm still the only Admiral in the fleet who has a perfect war record. The Romulans won't know what hit them."
Rain stepped forward and between the two superior officers, "I'll shoot both of them provided something does happen, Mark. Shortly before I'll shoot myself, naturally."
Mark stood, set his drink down, and nodded to the group "You three better get going. A lot of work to get done and not much time to do it. Semper fi."
Rain and Jack both snapped off a sharp salute, returned by both Mark and – to his surprise – Mitchell. Alynna stood in place with her hands respectfully behind her back.
Mark would never allow her to call him such, but to her, he was still a superior officer, and she had just been dismissed.
As the three left the office, Virnas rose from his terminal and turned to look at Mark, "If you'll excuse me, Most Excellent General of Excellency, I must report to Kitty Hawk. I require Kitty's consultation on operational tactics and some advanced research plotting."
In a rare show of concern, Mitchell placed his hand on Virnas' shoulder, "Hey, how do you feel about all this? You're Romulan, aren't you?"
Virnas raised the brow of his one good eye, "Half, Admiral Mitchell. And that description is only for inferior minds to understand my existence more easily. I am neither Romulan nor Borg. My past is irrelevant. D'Tann's government refused to grant me citizenship five years ago. Sela and Tomalak's regime having a standing three million bar GPL bounty for my death or five million for my capture. I have no more connection to the Romulans than I do the Borg."
"I'm glad you feel that way, but other people might not. If any Starfleet officer gives you any kind of lip or push back, you call me directly and I'll sort it out personally," Mitchell said, still keeping his hand on the half-Cyborg's shoulder
"Your gesture of kindness is appreciated, but irrelevant. Other people's thoughts and opinions are also irrelevant. Desire for respect is irrelevant. I have been given a task to complete, and I shall do so. Any who attempt to intervene shall be destroyed. May I carry out my task now?" Virnas asked.
"You got that other thing I asked you for?" Mark, in turn, asked.
The not-quite Romulan or Borg nodded to his General, "Yes, the information is now on your wrist-comm. Excuse me, your Excellency."
As Virnas left the room, Dougie sat down behind his desk and placed a PADD on the desk.
He looked at Mark, "That guy is still creepy as all hell. But I see why you kept him around all these years. Did you know he was working with Hansen? Those two drafted up the main battery on the Vanguard class"
"He's been writing back and forth with her a few years now. Sometimes they scream at each other over things like whether or not we should be using Borg tech. But, they seem to get along. I guess sometimes you can't pick your friends, they pick you." Mark said, noting the "Hansen" Dougie was talking about was LC Annika Hansen, the service name for the now liberated Seven of Nine, who served as the Fleet Admiral's Chief of Anti-Borg Strategy.
A moment of silence passed between the two men. Mark decided to gamble yet again and broke it first, "I'm guessing you got something on your mind besides a repeat of the last Romulan War?"
Mitchell looked at the PADD on his desk, "I'd make the same guess about you. Who's gonna spill first?"
"It's your office," Mark shrugged.
Dougie sighed, and then slid the PADD over to Mark, "Fair enough. After this mission is over, I'm stepping down as CNC. And more than that, I'm taking my pension and hanging up the uniform for good"
Mark could only reply, "What?"
"I'm resigning, Mark. I've had enough of this shit. I can't do it anymore. So, I'm getting out while my nerves are still in one piece."
Mark looked at the PADD. It was Dougie's resignation letter, addressed to Anna:
Madam President,
It is with the upmost regret that I write this letter to you. At this time, I will be resigning from my post as Commander in Chief, Starfleet. Further, I also serve official notice of my intent to resign my commission as a Starfleet Officer.
I further regret if you take this notice with any personal offence, this is not my intention. Simply, I cannot continue to serve your administration and the United Federation of Planets with the effectiveness of skill and resolve that you will expect of all members of our uniformed services. As per the regulations of Starfleet, the Admiralty Board will be appointing a successor to my position no later than 7 days following your receipt of this notice. I trust that this individual will meet with your approval, and that you will show the same courtesy and respect to that person that you have so gracefully shown to me over the years. I further hope that my successor will also cooperate with the Federation Marine Corps and continue to work alongside the Federation's newest service to protect our nation and our way of life.
I wish to note for the formal record that despite my initial opposition to the creation of that service, of which you and I shared many regretful arguments over, the performance of the FMC has gone beyond my expectations. I've known General Marcus Castle for many years. It was my distinct honour to have him under my command as Weapons Officer during my tour of duty as the Captain of Lancaster, and I can think of no person better suited to the position of General of the Marine Corps. Despite the man's personal difficulties, I have no doubts of the General's dedication to his duties and his willingness to protect and serve the Federation.
Please accept my sincerest wishes to the success of your administration and to the continued prosperity of the United Federation of Planets. Should you need it, I will be pleased to offer any advice or opinions on any matter you feel I can provide insight upon. My personal correspondence details are attached to this letter.
Yours In Trust,
- Douglas Mitchell
Mark took a second and third reading of the letter, just to make sure he understood it fully.
Still uncertain, he asked, "What the fuck, Dougie? Why now? After all the shit you've been through? You survived the Breen, the Borg, and we'll both survive the fucking Romulans. Whatever else you might be, you're a tough son of a bitch. Why give up now?"
Dougie stood up and walked over to his trophy cabinet.
Every time Mark came to the office, he always regarded the cabinet as an ungodly monument to arrogance.
Douglas had his Olympic Gold Medals displayed alongside his Starfleet Decorations. Below that were framed letters from Federation Presidents and Ambassadors from a dozen worlds. Commendation notes, mentions in dispatches, even his Valedictorian from Oxford. Placed in the centre of the cabinet was a worn football.
Mark never knew what that was supposed to stand for.
Mitchell took the football out of the cabinet and showed it to Mark, "You see this? This is the game ball from the All-Earth Championship U-18 series, 2363. The Zefram Cochrane High School Night Wolves beat The Tokyo School for Gifted Gentlemen Phantoms 27-23, with the final touchdown pass thrown with twelve seconds left on the clock."
"The Night Wolves capped off the championship win with an undefeated season, the league's best ever passing yards, and the MVP of the league that year was Douglas Mitchell, first string Quarterback who threw eighty-five touchdown passes for that year and became the first U-18 player to win the Heisman Trophy."
Mitchell gripped the ball with a throwing hand, still in practice even after all the years had passed, "I had twelve seconds left on the clock, fourth down and fifteen yards. Kyle managed to get out from the line and went wide to the right. Three Phantoms were coming at me from the left, so I threw a long bomb high up, and Kyle caught the damned thing just as the play clock turned zero."
"He landed flat on his ass in the end zone, and I got crushed by three guys from a Gentlemen's School. Me and Kyle argued for three hours over who should take the game ball home. He won that argument, because I was the QB, and he was just a wide receiver."
Mark let Mitchell continue his story.
He knew that "Kyle" was Captain Kyle Washington, the now dead CO of Europa.
Mark had never met the man, but if he was a faithful friend to Dougie, he was likely a strait-laced Captain of the highest calibre, and had little time for a degenerate gambling mercenary like Mark.
"Kyle's mom called me just before the briefing. She's uhh, she's a nice lady. My uh, my own parents died in a shuttle accident after the game while they were on their way to pick me up. I don't know if I ever told you that. She took me in, cooked me pot roast every Sunday, sponsored me for the Academy."
Mitchell started to tear up but pressed on, "She...she was watching the launch. And she wasn't upset that her son was dead or anything like that. She just asked...fuck."
For the first time in his life, Mark saw the human being that was Douglas Mitchell.
The confident Fleet Admiral, who had turned Starfleet into the most powerful space faring Navy known to history, was gently shedding tears at his desk.
Mark simply sat in silence, not knowing what to say.
Dougie sighed deeply, and continued, "She asked me if Kyle remembered to take his football jersey with him on his new ship. She thought he might have left it at home and said she could send it to him, if I just told her where to bring it."
Douglas slammed his fist against his desk, "Fuck Mark, you know how many friends I've lost over the years? Kyle was my wide receiver. I was the best man at his wedding. I was gonna ask Jamie Briggs to marry me before the Breen blew Warspite apart, and Kyle was gonna be my best man."
"Do you remember that goofy kid who started on Lancaster as Engineer's Mate a month before you knocked me out? Jeremy Chintollos? The guy who was always whistling Rule Britannia. The poor bastard ended up on AR-558 and shot himself after Sisko pulled him off that fucking rock," Douglas said through tears.
"I signed up to explore space. I knew there was dangerous shit out there, and I was ready to fight. But I've been fighting for twenty fucking years. Since I put this uniform on, I've done nothing but fight. The fight's beaten out of me now. I've got nothing left in the tank. I've set us up to be able to fight for a few years now, but I can't be the one throwing the punches," said Douglas, taking a long sip of his beverage to the right of the football.
Mark knew how Douglas felt.
He'd lost more than his equal share of friends during the war. Mark was used to war and fighting and death.
But he realized that not everyone had the internal strength he did, or the group of friends that he had to support him.
It suddenly occurred to him that all this time, from Risa, to Tranbir Nine, to Bath'lor, and today, Douglas had only himself to count on.
"Who's gonna take over this office then? I hope they still let me visit, at least," Mark asked.
"That's on the Admiralty board. I can't directly appoint anyone, and they rejected my three suggestions already. They said your Aunt Alynna was too much of a maverick. They've never gotten over me stopping them from hanging Kathryn Janeway by her scruff, so she's out as well. And Micheal Tovey made a much smarter decision than I ever did and refused the Admiral's bars."
"So it'll be someone favourable to their wishes. As for the relationship with you, that'll be a bridge you have to cross."
Mark sighed to himself.
The Admiralty Board was one of the most influential power brokers in the Federation. Douglas Mitchell had operational control of the fleet as CNC, but he still had to report to the board on every action he performed.
He'd known for a few years now that the Board was at odds with the Fleet Admiral. Although the Fishies were slowly adapting to the new paradigm of his Sharkies, most of the twelve-man board were strongly opposed to the Marines.
They lacked the ability to overturn Federation law – and thus Mark had little fear for his own position – but whoever they chose to appoint in Dougie's place would be a frequent source of irritation for him in the coming years.
"So, what are you gonna do with yourself once you hang up the colours?" Mark asked, trying to keep Dougie's focus off of grief.
"I hadn't really thought of it, to be honest. I guess there's lots of things an ex-CNC could do. I'm sure the Nyberite Alliance or the Orions would pay top dollar for me take one of their cruisers. I could go back into sports maybe. I've still got a decent throwing arm, I'm sure the NFL or the Klingon League would offer me a try-out. Go home maybe? The Night Wolves haven't won a championship since my time, and ZCHS already asked if I'd come on as head practice coach this fall."
"Maybe I'll end up like you and start a thugs for hire outfit somewhere?" Mitchell said, calmer now but still sounding depressed.
"You'd make a shitty Merc, Dougie. But if you want, I'll send your resume over to Elysium and see what Salimov has for you. He could always use a guy that can make coffee."
Douglas let himself smile, relieving Mark of some tension, "I guess having you as a reference might help. I'll figure that out when it's time. So, what's on your mind?"
Mark turned his expression serious.
He sympathized with Dougie's feelings, but he had a job to do now.
And this job had be taken with deadly seriousness.
