Call for the Son-of-a-bitch

The Blue Steel was paid-off and broken up scrap in 2360 as Starfleet began to reorganize and expand in the early part of the decade. Blackjack Ashcroft was raised to Rear Admiral that year and joined the staff of J.P Hanson at Starfleet Tactical.

"He was a rough son-of-a-bitch," J.P recalls in an interview prior to his death at Wolf-359, "Blackjack was never afraid of getting his nose dirty or getting into anyone's face when he thought he was right. Blackjack was blunt, straight-to-the-point, everything I like to see in an officer. He was intolerant and distrusting of everything that wasn't Starfleet, or anything, anyone, that suggested Starfleet couldn't get the job done. Hell of a card player too."

Indeed, Blackjack's reputation during his time at Starfleet tactical was as a bold, aggressive and hard-driving man of action. Even before the Borg, Blackjack had pushed through a renewed drive of war-fighter planning and tactical innovation throughout the fleet. During war games exercises, Blackjack's Red Team was notorious for battering their way through any sort of defences that stood between them and their objectives. His fondness for gambling continued unabated even in flag-country, hosting even larger poker and blackjack tournaments in the mess hall at Starfleet Command in San Francisco.

Though his position was – by strict technicality – a desk job, Blackjack followed J.P's example and flew his flag with the USS Melbourne, often accompanying the Melbourne to various trouble spots and bushfire incidents over the next few years. When Bill Ross was deciding on who to send to oversee a critical evacuation of a failing colony in 2362, he asked J.P whom the older man thought that Ross should send.

J.P pointed at his Chief of Staff's picture and replied, with a wide smile on his face, "Call for the son-of-a-bitch. Blackjack can take care of that."

Little did J.P know just how prophetic that statement would become.


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"No Time For Us"

For all the rising his star was doing in San Francisco, Thomas Ashcroft might as well have buried himself in the sand in the eyes of Beaufort, South Carolina.

"Blackjack? Stupid nickname. That son-of-a-bitch had no time for us," Lieutenant General Sera Thorne of the Federation Marine Corps explained to me, "I get that not everyone in Starfleet is a big fan of the Corps. I'm not really a fan of 99% of Starfleet. But Ashcroft? He made no secret of the fact he had no time for us. I suppose in one way I can respect that. At least he had the balls to say it to my face."

As part of the Treaty of Algeron signed in 2311 following the Tomed Incident, The venerable Starfleet Marine Corps was formally split off from the fleet's control into its own service as part of the general demilitarization effort of the Fleet. Over the next half-century, the Federation Marine Corps (taking on the change in first name to reflect their new mission scope) had developed a unique set of tactics, weaponry, uniforms, culture, and identity. One that, more often than not, bumps heads with Starfleet.

"The criminals, rejects and misfits Corps," one Starfleet officer who requested anonymity said, "Criminals, because they recruit people arrested by Fed-Sec over jail. Rejects, because over two-thirds of their officers are Starfleet academy washouts, and misfits? Do I have to explain that? Try taking one of these jar heads to a formal banquet."

The contrast between the two services couldn't be more obvious. Starfleet has always carried themselves with an air of formality and quiet professionalism, true when I ever a visit a starship. Jackets are tucked, pants are pressed, shoes are shined, and the hallways are clean.

On the other hand, the FMC – who call themselves Sharkies, in reference to a mission patch belonging to the old United Earth MACO force and as an adjective for their own nature, rapidly gained a reputation for loudness, rowdy behaviour, wild partying and a lack of decorum (in the best possible terms).

"What do you expect?" Thorne continued with a smile, "Do you have any idea how hard I train my guys? I'll say this, for all that Starfleet Academy claims they're the top of the mountain, I've washed out every single Cadet who comes to Camp Nath for cross-training. If I didn't let the boys blow off some steam now and then, they'd explode."

Despite it all, I can say that Starfleet and the Marines do manage to get along. You couldn't force either of them to call the other friend at the end of a Phaser, but they would never have called the other an enemy until a few weeks ago.


─•~:~•─


"I should have shot him when I had the chance."

Blackjack Ashcroft had zero time for the FMC. While the balance of the Admiralty has mixed opinions on the Corps – ranging from mild neglect to gritted-teeth admiration – Blackjack was one of the very few in the sea of stars at San Fran who wanted nothing to do with the "bootnecks."

"Most of us had gotten used to them at this point, some of us even managed to find a use for them, as much as none of us wanted to admit it," James Layton, former head of Starfleet Tactical recalled from his cell on New Zealand, "Blackjack would have none of it, however. He refused to have a Marine liaison on his staff. If there was a meeting with the Corps, he'd find any excuse not to be there, if he had even bothered to give an excuse. But I think the incident with President Fowler was the first time I recall Blackjack ever being open about his hatred."

In 2361, then Brigadier Sera Thorne became the first Marine to be inducted into the Grankite Order of Tactics. The citation of this award reads verbatim:

On the field of battle, victory is awarded to those few who understand the mastery of chaos. The Order is built upon the virtues of sound thinking, bravery, perceptiveness, cleverness, and fearlessness. Let it be known that a member of this Order will be the deadliest tactician an enemy will face in the field of battle.

Thorne had utterly humbled Starfleet Security in a war games exercise that was described as a "Complete and total embarrassment for us," in the words of an unnamed Security officer, "Brigadier Thorne took every rule we'd spent almost two centuries writing, threw the book in our faces, spat on the book when it landed on the deck plate, and left us pissing in the wind to chase our tails."

Exercise Parable in years past normally took place over three days, in something like the old Global Swat Challenge of ancient Earth. The Team of fifty Marines under the command of Thorne not only broke every previous record held by Starfleet Security, but they also completed the exercise – taking control of a simulated enemy starship and starbase – in twelve hours. Sera, dressed in an almost cute white skirt and black FMC class-a dress jacket, stood to receive her blue award from President Greg Fowler.

As she walked down the aisle, Sera shook hands with each notable who's-who in Starfleet. But when she reached Blackjack Ashcroft, his hand wasn't extended. And in an even more shocking display, he stood up and walked out of the hall, right past Sera in the process.

A shockingly petty display of disrespect that might not have been out of place in a bar. But as President Fowler demanded Blackjack return, his response was a single raised middle finger as he left.

"Not to say I haven't fantasized about doing that myself," Sera, who notably supported his opponent Jarresh Inyo in the 2366 election, "But to do that, at an official function? It spat on me, it spat on the Corps, and even if he didn't realize it, it spat on Starfleet. Took a pair of brass ones to actually do though, I'll give him that much."

I asked Sera, after Blackjack's finger heard round the Federation, if she'd known then what has become evident now, if she'd have done anything different that day.

Her voice, almost on the point of breaking, was incredibly quiet when she answered. "I should have shot him right then and there when I had the chance."


─•~:~•─