Unnamed Project, 2381 Nova-class plot, Prologue
Posted: Tue May 26, 2009 3:33 am
Saladin Class Destroyer, U.S.S. Martel, Registry NCC-554, March 2270
Ditrophine System: Near the Klingon Neutral Zone
"Get us the hell out of here, Mark! Evasive maneuver, anywhere!" a deep voice rumbled, struggling to be heard above the cacophony of alert klaxons, explosions, and metal being torn apart.
"I'm trying, sir, she's barely responding. Controls are shot to hell!"
Muscles tensed and veins swelled on Lieutenant Mark Asbury's hands, as he pounded another course correction into the ship's guidance systems. Adrenaline was surging through the young officer's body, tensing not only his hands, but the muscles on his face. Teeth clenched, he continued to try to will the Martel out of the path of the incoming fire, sweat reflecting the red light of the alert system flashing in the chaotic scene that was the Martel's bridge.
As if struggling against the commands, the Martel lurched to starboard, barely avoiding another torpedo that screamed from the trailing Klingon cruiser.
"Mark, what's the warp status?!" the baritone voice bellowed as Captain Donald Tracey managed to hold back choking on the smoke that was quickly filling the bridge of his ship.
"Gone, sir, I'm sorry."
"Damn it. Keep moving then. Woodrich, why aren't we firing?"
"That shot that crippled the warp engines took out our torpedo launchers," an exacerbated Marla Woodrich cried out.
"Phasers?"
"Power relays to the phasers are shot," lamented the young tactical officer whose once blonde hair was now matted with blood and soot.
Damn it. This wasn't what Donald Tracey had expected when he was alerted to the bridge. Forty minutes ago, Tracey was dosing off in the massive easy chair he had in the quarters. A gift from Admiral Sorenstam, the mahogany-colored made of rare Denebian leather and filled with some sort of material that seemed to induce sleep, was a welcome respite from the monotony of patrolling a far reaching area just outside the Klingon neutral zone.
As he began to drift into a light sleep, a page from the bridge summoned the now-agitated Tracey, who mirthlessly made his way to his ship's control center. Tracey tucked in his shirt and rand his fingers through his sandy brown hair as he ordered the turbolift to the bridge. Entering the bridge and looking over to the science station and the source of the disturbance, Lieutenant Fitch. The over-eager youngster was the Beta shift science officer, always jumping at the slightest chance to impress her crewmates.
As it turns out, Fitch might have had a reason for paging the Captain, even in his off hour. Tracey quickly learned that the Martel's sensors had detected an immense neutrino surge for a split second that seemed to disappear. A second, more intensified scan, showed the source of the neutrinos to be a miniscule area in space a few hundred thousand kilometers off the bow of the Martel. No more than an inch across and nearly lacking a third dimension, the source of the emissions might have gone undetected by someone less alert than Fitch. The scan also found a presence of verteron particles within this new-found anomaly.
Curious, but Tracey had no doubt Fitch and the beta shift could handle this in the mean time. He was just about to leave the bridge for the evening, when from seemingly out of nowhere, proximity klaxons sounded. Damn it, so much for some peace in my chair, Tracey thought, unaware that within moments, his chair, along with much of that section of Deck 5 was destroyed, as were the few moments of peace Tracey had found in his quarters.
Out of nowhere, a D7 Battle cruiser had appeared, within seconds, opening fire on the unsuspecting Starfleet destroyer. Jolting side to side as torpedoes hit the Martel, Tracey did all he could to stay on his feet. The initial onslaught killed Fitch as well as two of the other bridge crew, leaving just Tracey, Asbury, and Woodrich alive.
Thoughts flooded into the head of Tracey as Asbury took the helm and Woodrich tried her best to put the shields up. Could this have been a decoy by the Klingons? Such traps weren't unheard of, as the Klingons had previously baited enemy ships into an ambush. Still, it didn't make total sense; while the Ditrophine system was only two light years from the Klingon neutral zone, it was still neutral space.
The motives mattered little, though, Tracey quickly accepted, struggling to get to his command chair. In an even fight, the Saladin Class was outgunned by a D-7, but taken by surprise thanks to the Klingons' goddamned new cloaking technology, the Martel was now fighting an uphill battle, a very uphill battle.
Damn it.
"Alright, Woodrich," Tracey said, his thoughts snapping back to the present. "Any ideas, people? Mark, keep us moving as much as you can."
"Captain," Asbury chimed in. "If I can turn us around, we still have the forward port torpedo launcher. What if we pull a Gaffney Maneuver at close range? If we can hit their bridge, it might cripple them."
Woodrich's groan could be heard even above the noise of the bridge. "It'll kill us too, Captain, if we're too close."
The Gaffney Maneuver was required reading at the Academy, but to Tracey's knowledge, hadn't been used successfully since it was first devised. Named for Benjamin Gaffney, a Starfleet captain of a ship in the early 23rd century. When fighting against a Gorn vessel and desperately outgunned, Gaffney had ordered three photon torpedoes to be stacked within the launcher, essentially like grapeshot. The maneuver had worked, but the resultant explosion had taken most of the U.S.S. Johannesburg's saucer with it. A subsequent attempt at the maneuver by Captain Orton of the U.S.S. Godfrey a number of years later in a situation against some Orion pirates resulted in an explosion within the launcher, resulting in the death of the entire Godfrey crew.
"We're dead anyway," an angry Tracey shouted, "Give word to stack a couple torpedoes. Get all non-essential personnel to escape pods. Mark, drop the ship below their line of fire, as fast as you can, course zero-five-three mark four-nine. When you've dipped down, see if you can spiral us up underneath them. Get the escape pods launched and charge the forward part of that damned ship. We're going to take some serious disruptor fire, so Woodrich, get us full shields forward. When we're within a couple hundred meters of their forward hull, fire the spread as close to their bridge as possible."
Tensing further, Mark began the maneuver starboard and downward. The ship rocked, still lurching forward, from a near-hit by the Klingon ship as abandoned ship orders filled the speakers.
"Sir, we've got some pods launching, but at our speed, that's going to be a bumpy ride. We may lose some."
"It's the best we can do, Mark. Woodrich, are the torpedoes loaded?"
"Aye sir," Woodrich coughed, barely audible.
"Here it goes. Mark, get us up close, and jettison the log buoy."
The underside of the Klingon ship came into more detail as the Martel spiraled forward towards it attacker. Flashes of light from the disruptor began to blur viewscreen, some hitting the Martel as she came closer to the Klingon aggressor. Tracey clutched his chair attempting to brace himself for the torpedo quickly coming towards them. Ignoring the various explosions filling the bridge, Martel squinted, now nearly close enough to see the seams in the D7's hull.
As they came up below the battle cruiser, another explosion rocked the ship, as a Klingon torpedo ripped the Martel's lone warp nacelle in half. Swallowing hard, Tracey gave what he knew might be his final order.
"Woodrich, fire!"
The hiss of torpedoes launching, accompanied by their red glow as they found their target, was the first relief Captain Tracey had felt since being pulled from his favorite chair.
"Aft view!"
Tracey, Woodrich, and Asbury looked at the cracked and sparking viewscreen only to see a series of explosions tear the bridge of the Klingon cruiser apart, causing the war dragon to spin in space, now motionless. They had done it.
"We got 'em, sir," Woodrich gasped, hardly able to believe the daring maneuver worked.
"Captain, wait," Mark said, brown eyes wide with fear, voice filled with portent, "there's a problem in engineering."
Turning around to face his captain for the last time, the words struggling to come to Mark Asbury's mouth.
Tracey knew what was coming from Asbury next. Damn it.
"The warp core, it's about to-"
The final word never made it out of Mark's mouth. A white light of immeasurable flashed through the bridge. A shockwave ripped apart the battle-scarred ship atom by atom, spreading as it emanated from the warp core of the Starfleet ship. Those aboard the ship did not have time to even think as their world came to an end quickly and painlessly. Those onboard the escape pods, unfortunately, had just enough time to see the pristine white of the shockwave pouring toward them, before their world, too, was torn apart on a molecular level by the anti-matter explosion.
Soon, all that was left was silent blackness, interrupted only by still smoldering bits of flotsom and jetsam, and a small, unexplained source of neutrinos..
Ditrophine System: Near the Klingon Neutral Zone
"Get us the hell out of here, Mark! Evasive maneuver, anywhere!" a deep voice rumbled, struggling to be heard above the cacophony of alert klaxons, explosions, and metal being torn apart.
"I'm trying, sir, she's barely responding. Controls are shot to hell!"
Muscles tensed and veins swelled on Lieutenant Mark Asbury's hands, as he pounded another course correction into the ship's guidance systems. Adrenaline was surging through the young officer's body, tensing not only his hands, but the muscles on his face. Teeth clenched, he continued to try to will the Martel out of the path of the incoming fire, sweat reflecting the red light of the alert system flashing in the chaotic scene that was the Martel's bridge.
As if struggling against the commands, the Martel lurched to starboard, barely avoiding another torpedo that screamed from the trailing Klingon cruiser.
"Mark, what's the warp status?!" the baritone voice bellowed as Captain Donald Tracey managed to hold back choking on the smoke that was quickly filling the bridge of his ship.
"Gone, sir, I'm sorry."
"Damn it. Keep moving then. Woodrich, why aren't we firing?"
"That shot that crippled the warp engines took out our torpedo launchers," an exacerbated Marla Woodrich cried out.
"Phasers?"
"Power relays to the phasers are shot," lamented the young tactical officer whose once blonde hair was now matted with blood and soot.
Damn it. This wasn't what Donald Tracey had expected when he was alerted to the bridge. Forty minutes ago, Tracey was dosing off in the massive easy chair he had in the quarters. A gift from Admiral Sorenstam, the mahogany-colored made of rare Denebian leather and filled with some sort of material that seemed to induce sleep, was a welcome respite from the monotony of patrolling a far reaching area just outside the Klingon neutral zone.
As he began to drift into a light sleep, a page from the bridge summoned the now-agitated Tracey, who mirthlessly made his way to his ship's control center. Tracey tucked in his shirt and rand his fingers through his sandy brown hair as he ordered the turbolift to the bridge. Entering the bridge and looking over to the science station and the source of the disturbance, Lieutenant Fitch. The over-eager youngster was the Beta shift science officer, always jumping at the slightest chance to impress her crewmates.
As it turns out, Fitch might have had a reason for paging the Captain, even in his off hour. Tracey quickly learned that the Martel's sensors had detected an immense neutrino surge for a split second that seemed to disappear. A second, more intensified scan, showed the source of the neutrinos to be a miniscule area in space a few hundred thousand kilometers off the bow of the Martel. No more than an inch across and nearly lacking a third dimension, the source of the emissions might have gone undetected by someone less alert than Fitch. The scan also found a presence of verteron particles within this new-found anomaly.
Curious, but Tracey had no doubt Fitch and the beta shift could handle this in the mean time. He was just about to leave the bridge for the evening, when from seemingly out of nowhere, proximity klaxons sounded. Damn it, so much for some peace in my chair, Tracey thought, unaware that within moments, his chair, along with much of that section of Deck 5 was destroyed, as were the few moments of peace Tracey had found in his quarters.
Out of nowhere, a D7 Battle cruiser had appeared, within seconds, opening fire on the unsuspecting Starfleet destroyer. Jolting side to side as torpedoes hit the Martel, Tracey did all he could to stay on his feet. The initial onslaught killed Fitch as well as two of the other bridge crew, leaving just Tracey, Asbury, and Woodrich alive.
Thoughts flooded into the head of Tracey as Asbury took the helm and Woodrich tried her best to put the shields up. Could this have been a decoy by the Klingons? Such traps weren't unheard of, as the Klingons had previously baited enemy ships into an ambush. Still, it didn't make total sense; while the Ditrophine system was only two light years from the Klingon neutral zone, it was still neutral space.
The motives mattered little, though, Tracey quickly accepted, struggling to get to his command chair. In an even fight, the Saladin Class was outgunned by a D-7, but taken by surprise thanks to the Klingons' goddamned new cloaking technology, the Martel was now fighting an uphill battle, a very uphill battle.
Damn it.
"Alright, Woodrich," Tracey said, his thoughts snapping back to the present. "Any ideas, people? Mark, keep us moving as much as you can."
"Captain," Asbury chimed in. "If I can turn us around, we still have the forward port torpedo launcher. What if we pull a Gaffney Maneuver at close range? If we can hit their bridge, it might cripple them."
Woodrich's groan could be heard even above the noise of the bridge. "It'll kill us too, Captain, if we're too close."
The Gaffney Maneuver was required reading at the Academy, but to Tracey's knowledge, hadn't been used successfully since it was first devised. Named for Benjamin Gaffney, a Starfleet captain of a ship in the early 23rd century. When fighting against a Gorn vessel and desperately outgunned, Gaffney had ordered three photon torpedoes to be stacked within the launcher, essentially like grapeshot. The maneuver had worked, but the resultant explosion had taken most of the U.S.S. Johannesburg's saucer with it. A subsequent attempt at the maneuver by Captain Orton of the U.S.S. Godfrey a number of years later in a situation against some Orion pirates resulted in an explosion within the launcher, resulting in the death of the entire Godfrey crew.
"We're dead anyway," an angry Tracey shouted, "Give word to stack a couple torpedoes. Get all non-essential personnel to escape pods. Mark, drop the ship below their line of fire, as fast as you can, course zero-five-three mark four-nine. When you've dipped down, see if you can spiral us up underneath them. Get the escape pods launched and charge the forward part of that damned ship. We're going to take some serious disruptor fire, so Woodrich, get us full shields forward. When we're within a couple hundred meters of their forward hull, fire the spread as close to their bridge as possible."
Tensing further, Mark began the maneuver starboard and downward. The ship rocked, still lurching forward, from a near-hit by the Klingon ship as abandoned ship orders filled the speakers.
"Sir, we've got some pods launching, but at our speed, that's going to be a bumpy ride. We may lose some."
"It's the best we can do, Mark. Woodrich, are the torpedoes loaded?"
"Aye sir," Woodrich coughed, barely audible.
"Here it goes. Mark, get us up close, and jettison the log buoy."
The underside of the Klingon ship came into more detail as the Martel spiraled forward towards it attacker. Flashes of light from the disruptor began to blur viewscreen, some hitting the Martel as she came closer to the Klingon aggressor. Tracey clutched his chair attempting to brace himself for the torpedo quickly coming towards them. Ignoring the various explosions filling the bridge, Martel squinted, now nearly close enough to see the seams in the D7's hull.
As they came up below the battle cruiser, another explosion rocked the ship, as a Klingon torpedo ripped the Martel's lone warp nacelle in half. Swallowing hard, Tracey gave what he knew might be his final order.
"Woodrich, fire!"
The hiss of torpedoes launching, accompanied by their red glow as they found their target, was the first relief Captain Tracey had felt since being pulled from his favorite chair.
"Aft view!"
Tracey, Woodrich, and Asbury looked at the cracked and sparking viewscreen only to see a series of explosions tear the bridge of the Klingon cruiser apart, causing the war dragon to spin in space, now motionless. They had done it.
"We got 'em, sir," Woodrich gasped, hardly able to believe the daring maneuver worked.
"Captain, wait," Mark said, brown eyes wide with fear, voice filled with portent, "there's a problem in engineering."
Turning around to face his captain for the last time, the words struggling to come to Mark Asbury's mouth.
Tracey knew what was coming from Asbury next. Damn it.
"The warp core, it's about to-"
The final word never made it out of Mark's mouth. A white light of immeasurable flashed through the bridge. A shockwave ripped apart the battle-scarred ship atom by atom, spreading as it emanated from the warp core of the Starfleet ship. Those aboard the ship did not have time to even think as their world came to an end quickly and painlessly. Those onboard the escape pods, unfortunately, had just enough time to see the pristine white of the shockwave pouring toward them, before their world, too, was torn apart on a molecular level by the anti-matter explosion.
Soon, all that was left was silent blackness, interrupted only by still smoldering bits of flotsom and jetsam, and a small, unexplained source of neutrinos..