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"Calm Before the Storm" by Lady Rainbow Rating: PG-13 for language. Thanks, Pesterfield! :) Five “At least we ain’t sittin’ in the Brig anymore.” Matt Hayes glared at Trip Tucker, who sat on the padded couch in the Waiting Lounge, but bit his tongue. He knew that Trip was being the eternal optimist, but Trip wasn’t the one who’d had his wedding day screwed up. Hoshi, Liz Cutler, and T’Pol were due to fly into San Francisco this morning; he didn’t want to imagine Hoshi’s reaction when she found out what had happened here. If she hadn’t already heard, which was completely possible. The news coverage was just as bad as he’d expected, but oddly enough, the reactions hadn’t been as violent as he’d thought. Matt guessed that Jonathan Archer had worked some kind of miracle in tempering the public opinion. In fact, Matt was astounded at the upswell of support for him and Hoshi. Still, Trip was trying to find some humor, despite the situation. Matt glanced at Trip over his shoulder and said, “That’s a good thing. Mom still thinks an hour or two in the Brig will do the soul good.” “Your mother’s still thinks like a cop.” “Mom’s been through a lot.” Matt didn’t want to get into his family’s history, although Trip, as a close family friend, knew most of it already. “I’m worried about what this’ll do to relations with Andoria, Vulcan and Tellar.” “Whaddaya think Admiral Forrest is gonna do ‘bout this?” “Hard to say,” Matt admitted. “I don’t think Starfleet’s going to ground Enterprise and Columbia, no matter what the politicians want. I know we’re still going to have a job after this, but—“ Trip chuckled and added, “—captainin’ a garbage scow isn’t your cup o’tea. The prospect of bein’ cannon fodder in the outreaches of space isn’t appealin’ to me, either—“ A sonorous baritone interrupted them. “I can assure you, Lieutenant Commander Tucker, that neither you nor Captain Hayes will end up on a ‘garbage scow’. No one blames you for the altercation last night. On the contrary, you have garnished a sizable amount of emotional appeal on your behalf.” “Soval!” Trip dropped his feet onto the floor and sat up straighter as Soval entered through the door. Neither man had heard the click of the lock or any other noise to announce the Vulcan’s presence. “When’d you get into town?” “Last night.” The shadow of a smile played on the ambassador’s lips. “Unfortunately, too late to intervene in the ‘festivities’, so to speak. I have talked to Captains Gral and Shran, as well as Admiral Forrest and Admiral Gardner. In fact, the two Admirals wish to speak with you now. So, gentlemen, if you would please—“ “No problem. I’m more than ready to get outta this comfortable rat trap,” Trip muttered under his breath. Matt silently agreed with him; granted, it wasn’t the brig, but it felt like jail anyway. Starfleet Headquarters was a labyrinth of halls and corridors. No matter how many times Matt was here, he worried about being lost, in more ways than one. The prospect of an Admiralty sent shivers of dread down his spine. This place sucked the life out of you, with its insane politics and shortsighted policies. Admiral Matthew Hayes. Ugh. I’d rather retire first. Or be dead, before that happens. Angry voices snapped him out of his morbid thoughts. He glanced at Trip, who looked at him with an expression that mirrored his own sudden dread. As long as Matt had known Travis Mayweather, he could count the number of times on one hand that Travis raised his voice...and Matt would still have fingers left over. A woman replied; the soft steel within it both impressed and irritated Matt. Trip rolled his eyes in frustration. “Aw, Gawd, can’t the woman ever leave him alone?” he groaned. Trip was about to intervene, but Soval put a hand on his shoulder. “Let them settle their differences,” Soval warned in a low tone. “This is a personal matter.” Matt cautiously peeked around the corner of the hall and saw Travis glaring down at his ex-wife. Gannet Brooks put hands on her hips and looked up at Travis with a look of cold disdain. Matt had seen that expression on Hoshi’s face during their arguments; it clearly shouted, “You men are idiots if you can’t see what’s in front of your faces!” “I’m walking a fine line for you, Travis,” Gannet said, her tone devoid of any emotion. “I don’t agree with my boss’s new policies, but losing my job is the least of my worries. I nearly resigned, but your friend Archer convinced me to stay.” “Gannet,” Travis said softly. “If ENN finds out what you’re doing—“ “Despite what you think of me now, I do have some integrity.” Her mouth quirked into a self-depreciating smile. “Frankly, Archer’s right...there has to be a voice of reason. Your little tangle with these Romulans has scared the Powers that Be absolutely shitless—“ “Such language, Gannet,” Travis teased. “I’m off the air, so I can say anything I damn well please here.” Her eyes sparkled with humor. “Anyway, I chatted with Captain Gral, and we worked out our disagreements. Shran’s still upset with me, and I don’t blame him for that. I just want you to know that I’m still on your side, Travis, but I gotta do things that you might consider...well, questionable.” His tone was slightly bitter. “Hazards of the job, right?” “Bingo.” She reached up and touched his cheek. “Commander Straight Arrow. You’ve always been so honest and open, Travis, and I still love you for it.” “Someone has to keep you honest,” Travis replied, with a hint of irony. “Yeah.” Her face sobered and her eyes became sad. “Can you tell Captain Hayes for me, that I never meant any harm, and that I hope his wedding day goes well?” “I’ll tell him.” Travis put a hand on her shoulder. “Gannet, I’m not gonna mother-hen you, but please be careful, okay? I can’t be around to protect you anymore.” She opened her mouth to retort something, but changed whatever she was going to say. “I will. I promise. See ya later, Commander Straight Arrow.” “See ya later. Shrew.” “Arrogant elephant.” “Elephants never forget.” “And neither do shrews. Why do you think we’re such scrappy fighters?” Gannet laughed; it rang clearly as a bell. “Good bye, Travis.” She turned and went down the hall without a backward glance. Soval waited a few heartbeats, than stepped out into the hall. “She is extraordinary, is she not, Commander?” Travis whirled around in surprise, a blush under his dark complexion. “Yeah, Ambassador. She is.” “Then why do you insult each other to be affectionate?” The deadpan expression made Travis laugh. “It’s a routine we have—used to have. It’s complicated.” “I will indulge my curiosity later, then.” Soval inclined his head. “Is all in order?” “Far’s I know.” Travis nodded and started further down the hall. Soval glanced at Matt and Trip for them to follow. They did so, and caught up just inside the doors to Admiral Forrest’s office. Forrest smiled briefly at Matt, but that smile vanished as quickly as it came. That was a bad sign, a very bad sign. “Admirals,” Matt said and snapped to attention. Both Trip and Travis did the same, and all three saluted at the same time. Forrest nodded. “At ease, gentlemen. Captain Hayes, you’ll be gratified to know that Starfleet Security has finished their investigation and have declined to press charges against you or any of your guests.” “That’s good to hear, sir,” Matt replied neutrally. He studiously ignored Trip’s unspoken, “They’d better have dismissed the charges!” “The Andorians and the Tellarites have also issued formal apologies to those injured in the fistfight,” added Admiral Gardner. His face was arranged in a pinched scowl, as if he’d eaten something rotten. “They didn’t have to, but Earth’s governing Council insisted, as a concession to allowing Captains Gral and Shran to stay on Earth, as well as their crews. It’s not an admission of guilt, but you can bet that some people are taking it that way.” Trip’s face flushed, but he was still doing a good job of controlling his outbursts. Travis stood quietly, with clenched jaws and fists. “And what comes next, sir?” Matt asked, though he had the feeling he already knew. “Starfleet and the Earth Council have decided to accelerate your departure schedule,” Gardner answered. “Captain Hayes, the repairs on Columbia will be completed by the middle of the week, and crew briefings are scheduled for this coming Wednesday and Thursday, with departure on Friday.” “Gettin’ rid of ‘em, eh, sir?” Trip asked, with dry humor. The irony wasn’t lost on either admiral, and at least Forrest had the good grace to wince. It was Saturday morning; which left less than four days until Columbia would be deployed again. Soval raised an eyebrow, but everyone noticed that the Vulcan hadn’t admonished Trip for the remark, and his silence said more than any word on his part. Gardner’s scowl deepened as he said with tight control, “It’s for the Columbia crew’s safety, Lieutenant Commander Tucker. We have reason to believe that Captain Hayes is in danger from extremist groups and despite what’s happened—“he flashed Matt a thin-lipped smile, “—we don’t want anything to happen to you, Captain.” Matt counted to ten, first in English, then in Andorian. It didn’t help, so he added it in Vulcan. “Which means we’ll either have to rush the wedding, or cancel it completely.” “Don’t cancel it, Matt,” Forrest interrupted. “You and Hoshi are meant for each other. Not to mention that your mother read us the riot act—“ he gave Gardner a significant look, one that Gardner ignored, “—and threatened to drop both of us into the Kobler minefield on Mars. Stark naked. Without EVA suits. And half an hour’s worth of oxygen.” “That much?” Matt asked, deadpan. Trip stifled a chuckle, Travis grinned widely, and Soval inclined his head, as if trying to imagine the sight. The Vulcan seemed to decide he really didn’t need that image and shook his head. “In that case,” Soval said, “I believe we have a bonding ceremony to go to, gentlemen, and in that case, we should—“ His voice failed, suddenly, then his eyes went wide. Trip’s reflexes were the only thing that saved Soval from an embarrassing spill onto the floor. The healthy bronze-green glow on the Vulcan’s face drained steadily until it was bone-white. “Ambassador?” Forrest was at Soval’s side in a heartbeat, while Gardner only stared in horror. “T’Pol,” Soval croaked. “T’Pol—“ Gardner’s head snapped up at Matt. “Your fiancèe and her bridesmaids were supposed to fly in to San Francisco, weren’t they?” That was when Forrest’s and Matt’s communicators went off at the same time. T’Pol felt the vibrations through the shuttle walls before she heard the engine misfire. The cabin rocked violently from side to side; food and drink went flying off trays and onto the walls and floor. The “Fasten Seatbelts” light began blinking and alert screens at each seat assignement came to life. “What’s going on?” Liz demanded, as she strapped herself into her seat. “It sounds like an engine misfire,” Hoshi commented. “Hold on—“ The cabin lurched again, then dropped out from under them. The passengers screamed in terror as they grabbed the arms of their seats for dear life. The shuttle leveled out as the pilot’s voice crackled on the speakers, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are diverting course to Los Angeles Spaceport due to engine problems. Please put on the safety vests located under your seats and confirm the nearest exit to you...flight attendants, code nine-two. Repeat, code nine-two.” T’Pol slid a hand under her seat and found the lump of fabric. She shook it out and put on the yellow life vest, securing the straps. “Captain? Lieutenant?” “We’re secured, T’Pol,” Hoshi reassured her. Liz turned her head and reassured a pair of terrified children sitting directly behind her. The little girl, no more than eight or nine years old, was having trouble with her own life vest. Liz unhooked herself and quickly helped the girl with her vest. “Mommy,” the girl whimpered. “It’ll be all right,” Liz soothed. “You’ll see your mommy.” “I’m scared.” “Yeah, so am I.” Liz managed a smile as she sat back in her seat. She reached around behind her and offered her hand to the girl. “Hold my hand?” “‘Kay.” The girl reached over and grasped Liz’s hand. Hoshi fought down a smile; T’Pol thought, Lieutenant Cutler’s empathy is amazing. Doctor Reed was prudent to take her as an apprentice. The screech of tortured metal rose in volume and T’Pol winced as it grated on her sensitive hearing, but that sensitive hearing allowed her to locate the problem. Not too far behind her, possibly just under the wings. The starboard engine coughed, coughed again, then settled into an irregular hum. The shuttle listed toward the left, then straightened out. T’Pol knew that the pilot most likely had wrenched the stick completely to port to compensate for the ailing starboard engine. “We are in sight of Los Angeles Spaceport,” reported the pilot. “Please assume the crash position.” Liz glanced over her shoulder and told the children, “Bend all the way down and put your arms around your head, just like this, and whatever you do, don’t look up, okay?” They whimpered in fear, but obediently did as Liz demonstrated. T’Pol glanced at Hoshi. The captain crouched down with amazing flexibility. T’Pol caught Hoshi’s expression: scared, worried, yet determined. So calm, just as she was when we faced the Romulans. T’Pol sighed silently at the irony: to survive the Romulans, only to die on a Terran shuttle. We will not die. The sudden certainty gave her a strange calm. Not here. Not now. Another voice chimed on the intercom. “SFO 1147, you are cleared to land at LAS Runway 112. Repeat, LAS Runway One-One-Two. Assistance vehicles are standing by.” The pilot sounded as if he handled this kind of emergency every day, and T’Pol was impressed at the Vulcan business-like attitude. “Roger that, LAS Control. We have secured all passengers. Speed at 250 kph—“ T’Pol swallowed her fear and wrestled it down with a Vulcan mantra. 250 kilometers per hour is only about 150 miles per hour. Despite herself, she busied herself with calculating the angle of approach, the forces involved, the speed needed to insure the shuttle’s survival... The cabin was eerily silent, though T’Pol heard murmuring among the passengers, prayers for their safety, mantras, reassurances to loved ones nearby. The sound of the engine gradually built up to a hum, then a roar, then it filled T’Pol’s entire world... “Brace for impact!” the pilot shouted. A second later, the shuttle hit the runway with a scream of overstressed metal. Smoke poured into the compartment; the thick duraglass viewports cracked but held. Sparks rained down on them from the ceiling, dusting her back and sending needles of pain down her spine. T’Pol closed her eyes tightly and put her Fate in the Universe's hands. |
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