Betazed, Alpha Quadrant, 2372
Admiral Koaddar Ma'adeen stood on the bridge of the USS Solaris, the flagship of Starfleet's 10th Fleet, his eyes scanning the flickering lights of the distant stars through the large viewport. The planet Betazed rotated peacefully below them, bathed in the glow of the nearby sun. Ma'adeen had deployed the Galaxy Wing and Steamrunner Wing—an impressive array of Galaxy-class and Steamrunner-class battleships—for what was intended to be a routine training exercise in the Kalandra Sector. The 10th Fleet is one of Starfleet's most elite forces, and under his command, it had not seen action since the threat from the Dominion Cardassian Alliance.
But something didn't feel right. There was an unease in the air, a tension that Ma'adeen, a Betazoid, he could sense it. The crew of the Solaris worked diligently at their stations, but beneath the professionalism and the standard Starfleet decorum, he could feel their anxiety.
"Admiral, sir. They're hailing us," reported the Andorian communications officer, his antennae twitching as his fingers danced over the console.
"Hailing us? From where?" Ma'adeen asked, his voice steady but laced with suspicion. This wasn't part of the drill.
"From a ship that just exited out of an anomaly," the officer replied, his eyes wide with confusion. "Three ships, Admiral. One large wedge-shaped vessel and two smaller, oval-shaped ones."
Ma'adeen's brow furrowed. Whoever had just appeared was not from any known Starfleet faction. He turned to face the Andorian. "Put them through."
As Ma'adeen walked toward the center of the bridge, the image of the wedge-shaped ship filled the view screen. Its size was imposing, and its design unfamiliar. The *Solaris* had encountered many enemy ships over the years, but this one was different. The Federation's sensors had registered its entry, but the ship's silhouette did not match anything in their databases.
A flicker of light and a shimmering distortion coalesced into the image of a man with silver-white hair, dressed in a camouflage military fatigue. His is calm but carried an unmistakable air of authority.
"I am Admiral Tom Chandler of the Tau'ri Federation Navy, commanding the Nathan James," the man said with a measured voice, as though he expected to be challenged.
Ma'adeen took a step forward, his gaze locking onto the hologram. He wasn't one to trust easily, especially with the Dominion lurking in the background of every Starfleet operation in recent months. "Never heard of you," he said very suspiciously.
Chandler gave a slight nod, as if he had expected that response. "I expected you to say that."
Before Ma'adeen could probe further, another holographic image materialized beside Chandler. This one, Ma'adeen recognized instantly. The man wore the distinctive Starfleet uniform of a captain.
"Captain Sisko," Ma'adeen said, his voice laced with both surprise and a hint of annoyance. "There better be a good explanation for this."
"Admiral," Sisko began, his voice steady but urgent, "this is Admiral Tom Chandler of the Tau'ri Federation Navy's Rapid Reactionary Task Force."
Ma'adeen's gaze shifted between the two men, his mind working quickly to assess the situation. "I can see that," he replied as he narrowed his eyes. "But why are they here—above Betazed?"
"Sir," Sisko continued, "they've received intelligence of an imminent Dominion attack on Betazed. The Dominion is planning to seize control of the planet and its population."
Ma'adeen's posture stiffened. He hasn't heard rumors of a renewed Dominion push in the Alpha Quadrant, but nothing concrete had reached Starfleet Command. The fact that Sisko, a trusted officer, was involved gave the claim weight, but still, Ma'adeen was not one to act on rumors.
"They want what?" he said, more to himself than to the others. His mind raced as he considered the implications of a Dominion occupation of Betazed, a key member of the Federation and home to billions of empaths Betazoids. The Dominion would undoubtedly exploit the population's abilities to gain an advantage in their war.
"You think Starfleet's 10th Fleet can't handle a few Cardassian and Dominion ships?" Ma'adeen shot back, his voice tinged with irritation as he scowled at Sisko. His pride in his fleet was evident; the 10th hasn't seen combat, and he wasn't about to let anyone suggest they couldn't handle an incoming threat.
"Admiral Ma'adeen, I'm not from your universe," Chandler interjected, his voice calm but urgent. "A fugitive—though I'm not sure what to call an ascended Goa'uld a fugitive, but I digress—he controls the Dominion, and we're here to stop him and apprehend him."
Ma'adeen's eyes narrowed further. The Goa'uld, he have never heard of a Goa'uld. But an ascended Goa'uld? That was something new.
"Say that I believe you," Ma'adeen said, his skepticism palpable. "How do I take you at your word? Why should I trust you?"
Chandler held his gaze, unflinching. "In three hours, hundreds of ships will be at Betazed's doorstep," he said. As if on cue, the holographic image of a Klingon warrior shimmered into existence beside Chandler. The figure was unmistakable, Commander Worf, his fierce gaze and battle-hardened presence filling the bridge.
"It's true," Worf growled, his voice a deep rumble that echoed across the bridge. "The Dominion will attack Betazed soon. You must prepare."
Ma'adeen's mind raced as he weighed his options. He didn't like this—none of it. But there was no denying the truth in Sisko and Worf's words. The Dominion is ruthless from what he read, and if they were truly planning a full-scale assault on Betazed, his fleet alone might not be enough to stop them.
"Very well," Ma'adeen said, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. "If what you say is true, I'll prepare the 10th Fleet for combat. But make no mistake, Admiral Chandler, Captain Sisko, if this is some kind of trick..."
"It's no trick," Sisko interrupted, his eyes resolute. "They're here to help and I vouch for them."
Ma'adeen turned to his tactical officer. "Signal all ships to go to red alert. I want every vessel in the 10th Fleet ready for battle within the hour. We'll meet this Dominion fleet head-on."
The crew of the *Solaris* sprang into action, alarms blaring as the ship shifted to combat readiness. Ma'adeen turned back to Chandler and Sisko. "I'll need your ships on the front lines, alongside mine. We'll repel the Dominion together."
Chandler gave a sharp nod. "We'll be ready."
As the holograms of Chandler, Sisko, and Worf faded from the bridge, Ma'adeen took a deep breath. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing down on him. Betazed, his homeworld, hung in the balance. This was no longer a training exercise. This was war.
Commander Worf stood on the bridge of the Nathan James, the battle-hardened Klingon warrior poised with his hands behind his back as the looming threat of Dominion and Cardassian forces crept ever closer to Betazed. His blood surged in anticipation. It had been too long since he had felt the true heat of battle, too long since he had flown through the heart of a warzone. He turned to Admiral Chandler.
Worf turned to Admiral Chandler. "Sir, permission to fly one of the fighters?"
Chandler gave him a thoughtful look, though his response was quick. "I have no say in the matter. You're not under my command," Chandler said, his voice laced with a hint of respect. "But I won't stop you."
Worf nodded deeply, gratitude expressed in his customary brevity. "Thank you, sir."
Admiral Chandler turned, calling out to one of the officers nearby. "Green!" He called out to Lt. Danny Green, snapped to attention. Standing beside him was his wife, Captain Kara Foster Green, commander of the Nathan James.
"Escort Commander Worf to the hangar bay," Chandler ordered. "Give him a quick primer on one of our medium fighter-bombers."
Lt. Green saluted sharply. "Aye, sir," he said before turning to Worf. "Right this way, Commander."
Worf followed Green without hesitation, his stride as determined as his will. The transporter hummed as they stepped onto the platform, and within a flash of light, they were instantly transported to the hangar bay.
The doors swooshed open, revealing the expansive space teeming with activity. Engineers scrambled to prepare the fighters, mechanics shouted orders to each other, and pilots were already climbing into their cockpits. In the center of the hangar bay, Worf's eyes fell on a sleek, arrow-shaped medium fighter-bomber, its sharp lines and heavy ordinance giving it a predatory appearance.
The canopy of the craft slid open, as Worf allows himself a moment of appreciation for the advanced technology. It was unlike anything he had seen before.
"You've never seen anything like this, have you?" Lt. Green said, noticing the flicker of surprise in Worf's eyes.
Worf turned. "Starfleet would never build anything like this." He said as he continues. "It's not a military organization."
Green stepped up to the fighter and gestured to the open canopy. "Climb in," he said, tossing Worf a helmet. "You'll need this."
Worf caught the helmet, his brow furrowing. "For what purpose?" he asked, examining the strange headgear.
"The helmet," Green explained, "responds to your synaptic patterns. It imprints you with the controls of the fighter. Think of it as a neural interface."
"It looks small." Worf said as examines the helmet.
"It will automatically adjust to your preferred fitting." Lt. Danny Green
Worf hesitated for only a second before nodding. The scanner on the helmet took his measurement and it automatically readjusted the size to fit his head and the ridges on his forehead. He had never experienced this kind of technologies, though this was clearly more advanced. He donned the helmet, feeling its weight settle on his head, and climbed into the cockpit of the bomber.
As he settled into the pilot's seat, the canopy closed above him, sealing him inside. The interface on the holographic HUD sprang to life, bright lights and readouts flashing across his vision. As promised, the helmet responded to his thoughts, mapping the controls to his mind as if they were an extension of his body. He could feel the bomber's power coursing through him as if it were an extension of his own warrior spirit.
"Have any idea of your call sign?" Lt. Danny Green asks the Klingon warrior.
"Call sign?" Worf have an inquisitive look on his face.
"Yes,' Green responds. "It's what fighter pilots use instead of their rank and name."
Worf thought a second and replied. "Targ." In a monotone voice.
Green chuckled. "Targ it is." He tapped on a nearby console. "Computer, register call sign: Targ Alpha One."
"Targ Alpha One added. Commander Worf identified." The disembodied voice of the computer said. "Plasma beam cannon online, plasma pulse cannon online. " said a disembodied voice of the Naglfar computer.
"This is not a drill," Captain Kara Green's voice suddenly crackled over the intercom, cutting through the background noise of the hangar bay. "All pilots, scramble! Alpha, Charlie, Echo squadrons, scramble, scramble, scramble!"
The klaxon blared, signaling that the battle had begun. Fighter pilots rushed to their ships, and the sound of engines powering up filled the bay. Worf's heart raced, not with fear, but with the exhilaration of the fight that lay ahead.
"Ready, Commander?" Lt. Green asked, standing by the bomber as Worf's systems calibrated.
Worf gripped the control sticks, the HUD displaying the entire battlefield outside the hangar. The enemy ships were mere moments away from exiting hyperspace, and Worf could feel his blood quicken at the thought of meeting them head-on. He looked up at Green, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"Let them come," Worf growled.
Lt. Green gave him a sharp nod and stepped away as the bomber's systems whirred to life. The antigrav system hovered as the fin that acts like a landing struct turns into a wing. Plasma Cannons from both side of the wingtip retracted. The powerful thrusters roared, lifting the bomber off the deck as the launch doors slid open to reveal the star-filled void beyond. Worf, now completely attuned to the bomber, guided it forward, joining the squadron of fighters already screaming out of the hangar and into space.
The expanse of the battlefield stretched before him as the fighters and bombers formed up, preparing for the inevitable clash with the Dominion fleet. Worf's instincts kicked in, scanning the tactical readouts and mentally syncing with his wingmen. His hand itched for the control panel, though he barely needed it—everything responded to his thoughts, the neural interface making the bomber an extension of himself.
And then, in the distance, the first flashes of light pierced the dark. Hyperspace windows opened, and from them spilled the Dominion fleet—hundreds of ships, more than even Worf had expected. Cardassian warships and Dominion attack vessels fanned out in perfect formation, already moving to engage the Starfleet and Tau'ri forces.
Worf's grip tightened on the controls as the Dominion fleet began firing. Phasers and disruptor beams crisscrossed the void, explosions rippling across the field as the first volleys struck their targets.
"This is Commander Worf," he barked into the comm, his voice sharp and focused. "All bombers, follow my lead. Target the Attack ships."
The bombers fell into formation behind Worf as he pushed the throttle forward, feeling the rush of acceleration as his bomber cut through the stars toward the enemy squadron of Dominion attack ship. The beetle like ship with a purple glow on the underbelly. The familiar hum of weapon systems activating filled the cockpit as he prepared to launch his first strike.
Ahead, the Dominion ships loomed large, their shields shimmering as they absorbed incoming fire. But Worf is undeterred. The Naglfar bomber is armed with enough firepower to punch through even the toughest shields, and Worf intended to use every last bit of it.
As they closed the distance, the bombers unleashed a barrage of plasma beam and plasma bolts, each one streaking toward the Dominion attack ships with deadly precision. slicing through their shields and crippling the several squadron of Dominion attack ships.
But Worf isn't done. With a snarl, he banked hard to the left, targeting the Cardassian Galor class ship that just pushed through. His bomber's beam cannons lit up the void as they raked the ship's hull, carving deep into it's structural integrity, slicing it up like butter. With its neutrino ion engines propelling it toward the enemy like a predator closing in on its prey.
The fighters and bombers of the Tau'ri Federation swarmed around them, aiding Starfleet's Galaxy Wing and Steamrunners, as they are locked in a deadly dance of destruction. Phasers and disruptor beams sliced through the blackness, leaving twisted wreckage in their wake.
Worf's hands, though barely needed thanks to the neural interface, tightened instinctively on the controls as he banked the bomber hard to the right, narrowly avoiding a disruptor blast from one of the Jem'Hadar fighters that streaked past him. His instincts took over, his warrior's heart pounding in rhythm with the thrum of the bomber's engines. He was one with the ship now, a deadly force hurtling through the chaos of battle.
"Commander Worf," came the voice of Captain Kara Green over the comm, calm and authoritative amidst the storm of war. "Focus on the Attack ships."
Worf just witness a polaron beam slice through the Solaris saucer section that came from a Dominion battleship. Then the Nathan James fired their plasma beam at the attacking battleship, weakening their shields in just two shots before the Dominion battleship exploded.
"Understood, Captain," Worf responded, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins. "All bombers, on me."
The bomber squadron fell into tight formation behind him, their arrow-shaped craft slicing through space like spears aimed at the heart of the Dominion fleet. Ahead of them, the 3 squadrons of the Dominion attack ships, 4 attack ships in a diamond formation.
"Attack pattern Omega." Worf ordered the squadron on the comms. Omega pattern is a strafe on 4 different directions.
The bombers flank left, right, pulled up and dive toward the 3 squadron of Dominion attack ships, firing their beam alongside with the burst of plasma cannons.
"YEE HAAW!" Worf shouted in excitement.
A volley of plasma bolts erupted from the bombers, streaking toward the Dominion attack ships like flaming arrows. The bolts slammed into the ship's shields with tremendous force, causing the energy barrier to ripple and buckle. A wave of plasma beams fired from the F-322 fighters and Naglfar Bombers decimated the attack ships.
"I thought you were raised in Russia?" Lt. Green said over the comms.
"I visited Texas, I find Russia boring." Worf responds
Nine Cardassian Hideki fighters joins the fray as soon as they exit out of hyperspace, but only getting cut down by the Nathan James's pulse cannons and the Hank Landry class battlecruisers. Two Hideki fighters escaped the onslaught and begins pursuing the bomber squadron