Behind Enemy Lines

by John Vornholt

  “Stay here, Geordi,” said the captain. “We’re going to need an experienced hand on the transporter.”

  Chapter Seven

  ON BOARD THE Tag Garwal, Sam Lavelle took personal control of the conn, deciding to pilot the antimatter tanker himself on their first test flight. Taurik sat nearby on ops, monitoring ship’s systems. The towering Deltan, Tamla Horik, was on tactical, manning the tractor beam in lieu of weapons. Grof, the two material handlers, and the transporter chief were also available, but Sam knew that he and Taurik were basically the bridge crew. In fact, the others weren’t even on the bridge but below, fussing over the transporter, mining probe, and recombination storage chamber.

  He was glad this wasn’t a Jem’Hadar ship, because he didn’t think he’d have time to get used to an eyepiece for visual input instead of the more traditional viewscreen. Cardassian technology was roughly equivalent to Federation technology, and they had all studied Miles O’Brien’s compendium of Cardassian technology.

  It helped that today’s mission wasn’t very difficult. They were to disengage from the docking sphere and take a short spin five thousand kilometers into space, where they would grab a dummy cargo bin with the tractor beam and bring it back. Sam presumed all of this would take place under the watchful eye of the military vessels docked around them.

  He tapped the comm panel on the arm of his chair. “Lavelle to crew. We’ve run through our checklist, and the bridge systems are ready for launch. Does anyone need a delay?”

  “No, get moving,” grumbled the voice of Enrak Grof. “We’re ready.”

  “Affirmative,” said Sam, pressing another button. “This is tanker Tag Garwal to station control, seeking permission to launch on test flight zero-zero-one.”

  On his screen came the familiar face of Joulesh, the Vorta, looking delighted with his charges. “Tag Garwal, you are clear to launch. We’ve rerouted incoming traffic for you. Good luck.”

  Sam didn’t know whether to thank Joulesh for his precautions or not. All of them had flown more difficult flights than this as second-year cadets, and he anticipated no problems. He supposed that Grof was right about one thing: they were constantly forced to prove themselves to their captors.

  “Retracting airlock and disengaging,” said Sam. He wiped Joulesh’s grinning face off the viewscreen and put up the view from the nose of the tanker. Sam felt as if he should be nervous, but it was such a relief to be back at the conn of a ship, doing what he had been trained to do. Without hesitation, he fired thrusters and slowly piloted the bulky tanker away from the spacedock.

  Once they were cruising at full impulse power through space, Sam couldn’t help but to look at Taurik and smile. The Vulcan, of course, gave him only a blank stare, and he was forced to look at the Deltan to convey his pleasure. The bald female beamed back at him, sharing his joy at this momentary taste of freedom.

  Sam set his course and put the ship on automatic pilot to insure it was working properly. Once they got to the black hole, they would be depending a great deal on the automatic settings, and there would be no room for error, human or machine. He carefully monitored their progress, and they covered the five thousand kilometers in what seemed like seconds.

  Looking like a trash bin floating in space, a large rectangular object loomed ahead of them, and Sam slowed to one-third impulse.

  “Ready tractor beam,” he ordered.

  “This is too easy,” grumbled the Deltan. “Graviton levels steady, tractor beam ready.”

  Sam brought the ship to a full stop and used his thrusters to reverse her heading. “All right, latch on.”

  The Deltan plied her controls as Sam watched the invisible bonds twist their cargo around and draw it closer to the tail of their ship. “Tractor beam holding,” reported the Deltan. “Levels steady.”

  “I would love to take it to warp,” said Sam, “but I think that would surprise our trainers too much. I’m setting course back to the dock.”

  Reluctantly, Sam piloted the craft and its dummy cargo back to the sphere they had left about ten minutes earlier. The successful but rapid conclusion of their test flight left him feeling oddly disappointed, and he didn’t want the mission to end.

  In some respects, this was the cruelest punishment of all, he decided, waving a tantalizing glimpse of freedom and normality under their noses before forcing them back into their cage. He began to understand how Enrak Grof had evolved into a collaborator. It would be hard to give up feeling useful and responsible—to go back to being a prisoner awaiting death.

  “We’re docked,” he announced to no one in particular. “Mission complete.”

  He heard footsteps clomping up the ladder, and he turned to see the rotund, beaming face of Enrak Grof. “Excellent!” bellowed the Trill. “Very efficient piloting, Lieutenant, and excellent work with the tractor beam, Commander.”

  The Deltan scowled. “My baby sister could have retrieved that cargo bin.”

  “Baby steps are what we must take,” said Grof, “until we are allowed to take the big step.”

  The Trill flashed Sam a look, and then he climbed back down the ladder. There was something in his choice of words and his expression which made Sam wonder how hard he would resist an escape attempt. When the moment came, it would be hard to predict how any of them would react. It would either be escape or death, so they would have to choose the moment carefully. If Grof resisted, they would be forced to deal with him themselves.

  There were more footsteps, and Joulesh poked his web-eared head over the top of the hatch. “I wish to convey the Founder’s extreme pleasure with your progress,” said the Vorta. “Two more test flights, and we believe you will be free to make history.”

  Whose history? wondered Sam. Who will end up writing it?

  Jean-Luc Picard materialized inside a narrow, low-ceilinged tunnel that linked the subspace relay station to the barracks of the permanent garrison. He was glad that Letharna had warned him to duck, or his head would have materialized inside a concrete ceiling. More black-garbed guerrilla fighters were standing by in the transporter room of the Orb of Peace, in case they were needed, but the initial assault team consisted of himself, Letharna, and two young humans who looked Bajoran.

  He and his crew members were armed with phasers set to heavy stun, although they hoped to slip in, broadcast the alert, and escape without being detected. Letharna was armed only with the isolinear rod. In a crouch, she motioned them to follow her as she scuttled down the dank tunnel toward a shadowy doorway.

  Feeling unexpectedly nervous, Picard nodded to his subordinates to follow her, while he brought up the rear. The tunnel was intended for use during bad weather, to move from one building to another, but it had apparently fallen into disuse. According to Letharna, it wouldn’t have sensors capable of detecting a small force beaming down, but the tunnel was giving Picard an uncomfortable feeling of claustrophobia. He didn’t have enough knowledge of the station to take over the point from Letharna, so he had to trust her. Trusting Cardassians, even dissidents, did not come easily.

  He thought of another Cardassian he had trusted, Joret Dal, a Federation operative who had infiltrated the Cardassian military. Dal disappeared in a shuttlecraft with Ensign Sito Jaxa, attempting the same thing his team was trying to do—sneak into Cardassian space. Was Dal found out, or was he a double agent? They would never know. What a tragedy it had been to lose Ensign Sito, recalled Picard. Putting people in danger was his least favorite aspect of command, especially when he lost the gamble, as he had with Sito Jaxa.

  A moment later, the captain arrived at the solid metal door where Letharna and his two officers were gathered. Confronted by a card entry system, Letharna drew a handful of Cardassian security cards from her belt, and she intently fed them into the slot, looking for one that would work.

  “They don’t change the codes that often,” she whispered. “After all, their nearest neighbors are on another continent, with no way to get here.”

  While she worke
d on the door, Picard checked his chronometer. He was worried that if the operation took too long, their ship would move so far in its orbit that it would be out of transporter range. Then the ship would have to backtrack, possibly raising suspicions.

  He was about to tell Letharna to hurry up, when the lights on the door turned white and the lock clicked. Letharna pushed the door open, and it squeaked on rusty hinges. Stealthily they climbed a flight of metal stairs.

  On the move again, Picard felt more confident. When they got to the open door at the top of the stairs, Letharna dropped into a crouch, and Picard moved into position behind her, his Bajoran hand phaser leveled for action. They crept into a large bunker filled with electronic equipment, computer stations, and the chirping sounds of a constant stream of subspace radio traffic. The only window was a narrow slit in the wall which afforded a partial view of a giant parabolic antenna on the outer grounds. Although it was night, the floodlights outside were as bright as day.

  No one seemed to be present in the bunker, and Picard felt a mixture of relief and dread. Just as before, it was going too smoothly. He motioned to one of his officers to remain by the door, and she did so, crouching down on the upper landing. The other officer followed Picard and Letharna as they crept through rows of shelves, boxes, and electronic equipment.

  Suddenly they heard voices mixed in with the subspace chatter, and all three of them dropped to their bellies and remained prone as two Cardassian guards entered from an outside door. Laughing, the guards seemed to share a joke as they checked the readouts on a console by the door.

  Picard saw Letharna draw a long, curved knife from her bosom and clutch it in a trembling hand. He quickly tapped her leg. After getting her attention, he shook his head vigorously, then he held up his phaser, hoping she would get the idea. Letharna had a look of bloodlust in her dark eyes which he had seen before in Cardassians. Looking somewhat disappointed, she nodded at him.

  A moment later, Picard felt a tap on his leg, and he looked back at his young officer to see him urgently pointing. The captain turned to see one of the Cardassians strolling nonchalantly across the room, checking various readouts as he went. He was coming closer.

  For the moment, they were hidden by stacks of equipment, but there was no way of telling when the Cardassian would walk down their aisle. There was also no way of knowing how long these workers would remain on duty in this bunker, and time was running out.

  With both of his comrades staring at him, awaiting a decision, Picard made one. He held up his phaser, motioned to his officer, and pointed to the guard making the rounds. Then he pointed to himself and motioned to the guard farther away on the main console. A sense of urgency gripped the captain when he saw his target insert an isolinear rod into the receptacle on the instrument panel.

  He jumped to his feet, seeing his comrades do the same. Picard took quick but sure aim and unleashed a red beam, which streaked across the room and struck his target in the back. The Cardassian gasped and slumped over his console, unconscious.

  Picard heard shuffling and crashing sounds, and he turned to see that his officer had missed his target. The second Cardassian scrambled down the aisle, making a dash for the exit, and there was another flash of movement to Picard’s right.

  With a total disregard for her safety, Letharna leaped over a computer console and pounced upon the escaping guard. Picard watched in horror as she neatly slit his throat with her curved blade. His body slumped uselessly onto the floor, yet she continued to shake him, looking annoyed that the life had so quickly seeped out of him.

  “That’s enough!” hissed Picard, grabbing her arm.

  “He was going for the alarm,” she said defensively.

  “That could be,” muttered Picard. As disappointed as he was in her rash actions, he still needed Letharna, so he swallowed the rest of his words.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” said the officer who had missed his target. The young man looked quite mortified.

  “Dispose of his body,” said Picard. He took the young man’s phaser and set it to vaporize. The officer nodded and went about his grim task.

  Letharna was already at the main console. She grabbed the unconsious guard and tossed his body to the floor; then she sat down at his place. Picard looked nervously over her shoulder and studied the unfamiliar readouts.

  “Can you do it?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, that was never in doubt.” Letharna gave him a sardonic grin, and for the first time Picard saw a look of madness in her sunken eyes.

  “I have control of the whole station from here, the whole security grid—the whole planet!” With confident fingers, Letharna worked the instruments. “Do you know how long we’ve waited to get in here?”

  Picard tried to curb his anger and impatience. “The message to the warships,” he reminded her.

  She removed the rod from the console and replaced it with the one given to them by the village leader. “This should give us access to the interrupt codes. Yes, there it is. You want them to receive a general alert that will cause them to return to base?”

  “Yes,” breathed Picard, worried that Letharna was beginning to look upon this as an opportunity to right as many wrongs as possible.

  As she entered commands, an urgent beeping caused all of them to jump, and Picard looked accusingly at the blinking communications panel. Letharna kept working, a delighted grin on her face, and Picard finally slapped the panel to silence it. A moment later, a stream of spoken Cardassian erupted from the panel, and he tapped it again to squelch that.

  “Hurry,” he breathed.

  “Your part is done,” she said. “Now I have to collect as many new codes as I can, while we have this chance. I’m going to fill up this rod.”

  The man on the floor groaned, and Picard adjusted his phaser to a heavier stun and drilled him at point-blank range. A second later, they heard footsteps running outside the bunker, and Picard knew it was time to go.

  He looked around, took stock of the situation, and tapped his comm badge. “Orb of Peace—five second delay, then six to beam up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Picard motioned to his officer stationed by the tunnel, and she hustled over. He heard more footsteps and voices outside, plus the comm panel began to beep again. “It’s time to go,” he told Letharna.

  “One more minute,” she growled, her fingers working furiously.

  Picard grabbed her precious isolinear rod and yanked it from its slot. The screen went blank. Enraged, Letharna screamed and jumped up with her knife over her head, but Picard shot her in the stomach. Stunned, she slumped to the floor, and Picard caught her falling body just as their molecules turned into a swarm of swirling fireflies. When the Cardassians burst in a moment later, they found no one.

  Captain Picard, two humans disguised as Bajorans, and two unconsious Cardassians materialized in a heap on the transporter pad of the Orb of Peace. Picard staggered off, setting Letharna gently on the floor and tucking her knife and her isolinear rod into her belt. The blacked-garbed officers quickly surrounded the fallen Cardassians. The wounded one appeared to be dead.

  “Mr. La Forge,” said Picard urgently, “what about the warships?”

  The engineer grinned. “They lit out right on cue, twenty seconds ago.”

  “Accelerated orbit,” ordered Picard. “I want Ro and the rest of the team back here as soon as possible.”

  La Forge carried out the command on his transporter console, while the captain gazed down at Letharna. “A remarkable woman—I wish I had time to thank her properly. I’m glad she was willing to help us. Beam her back down to the planet.”

  “Like that, unconscious?”

  “Yes, we don’t have time for good-byes.” He looked with distaste at the living Cardassian. “I hadn’t intended to take a prisoner, but now we have one. Starfleet may want to interrogate him.”

  “But, Captain,” said La Forge, “we don’t have a brig. And no internal forcefields either.”

  Picard t
urned to the security detail. “Put the prisoner in the captain’s quarters. We haven’t been using it. Strip the furnishings, except for a mattress, and put restraints on his legs. I want him to feel as if he’s being well treated—but watch him closely.”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied in unison.

  “Captain,” said Geordi, “we’re coming up on transporter range.”

  “Notify the away team and tell them to keep their good-byes short,” ordered Picard, striding toward the door. “We’re getting out of here.”

  It was a peaceful evening aboard the Tag Garwal. At least, it felt like evening, with both their test flights over and almost everyone asleep. The bridge was quiet, with only Sam Lavelle on duty. There was no particlar reason why he had to be on duty, because they were docked and safely cocooned within the might of the Dominion. Their comrades were suffering only a short distance away, but no harm could befall the chosen ones.

  That is, no harm could befall them until tomorrow, when they set off on their mission. Perhaps that was why Sam couldn’t sleep, why he had to haunt the bridge long after his shift was over. He wasn’t worried about their official mission, only the unofficial one. He had promised his crew that they would try to escape; it was their duty as prisoners of war. But how could he pull it off? Did he have the right to jeopardize all their lives in what could well be a futile gesture? Especially when they had a chance to survive this hell.

  Survival versus honor—it was a tough choice.

  Sam was startled by heavy footsteps on the ladder, and he knew before he turned around that it was Grof. The big Trill lumbered up the steps, veered toward him, and slumped into the tactical station.

  “Can’t sleep?” asked Sam.

  Grof scowled. “No, of course I can’t sleep with the voices coming from the quarters next door. That Deltan is up all night, entertaining her friend, Enrique.”

  “Oh, let them be,” replied Sam, putting his hands behind his back. “Sex is a kind of religious experience to Deltans. Besides, weren’t you ever young … and about to die?”