by Dayton Ward
Balidemaj eyed him for a brief moment, her confusion evident, but then Picard saw realization dawn and her eyes narrowed. “No, sir. I think it would’ve fit rather nicely inside that cargo bay.”
That mystery could be solved later, Picard knew, but only if they were able to catch the fleeing vessel.
“Engineering to bridge,” said Geordi La Forge over the intercom. “Captain, I’m only just getting a look at the damage we took. We’re not going to be able to keep up this speed much longer. Whatever you’re doing, you need to do it faster.”
“Understood, Commander,” Picard said. He of course sympathized with his chief engineer’s concerns, but letting this ship get away was out of the question.
“They’re really making a run for it, sir,” said T’Ryssa Chen from where she still manned the conn station. “They’re increasing speed to warp seven.”
Balidemaj said, “I think that’s their limit.”
“We’ll see about that,” Picard said. He had questions, and that ship held the answers. “Increase speed. Maintain pursuit course until we catch them or our engines come apart.”
Twenty-three
Jevalan, Doltiri System
From where she crouched in the evening darkness, Beverly Crusher watched as Lieutenant Rennan Konya and Tom Riker each peered at their target through the viewfinders of their tactical binoculars. The transport ship, so far as she could tell, was not that different from the other, similar craft occupying berths at the landing port situated to the south of what once had been the Tabata labor camp. According to Ilona Daret, the port had been a hub of activity during the Cardassian Occupation, with dozens of personnel and cargo transports arriving and departing the planet each week. Now the docking and servicing facility saw but a fraction of that traffic. Still, enough vessels came through the area that the single ship might not attract too much attention, particularly if its crew was taking steps to avoid such scrutiny. Only an unduly suspicious party, or someone who knew what to look for, might notice that something was amiss.
Fortunately for Crusher and her team, Tom Riker was both well trained and suspicious.
“That’s them, all right,” he said, keeping his voice quiet as he lowered the binoculars.
“You’re sure?” Crusher asked.
“Yeah. We’ve been watching these guys since yesterday. They’ve done a pretty good job trying to blend in, working around their ship and engaging the port staff for maintenance requests and so on. If you were a casual observer, you’d never notice anything odd.”
“How many do you think we’re dealing with?” Crusher asked.
Cruzen replied, “At least eight, we think. Could be a couple more, but not many, judging from the size of that ship.”
Taking the binoculars Tom offered, Crusher put the viewfinder to her face, studying the enhanced view of the small transport craft and what she counted as three male figures walking around it. “So, what is it that’s odd about them?”
“No loading or offloading of cargo or passengers,” Konya said. “No one’s come calling on them about that, either. The way I see it, they’ve got to be getting close to the point where they’ll start arousing suspicion even with the less-observant people walking around here.”
Tom leaned against the nearby wall. “I followed one of these guys from the ship back to the main camp. He didn’t go to security, but I managed to overhear him talking to a group of maintenance workers at the depot where they store the excavation equipment. Anybody want to guess who he was asking about?”
“A couple of missing Bajorans?” Konya asked.
“Give that man a prize.”
Trying to swallow the nervous lump that had formed in her throat, Crusher did not at first realize that she had folded her arms and was gripping herself. These were the people who had ransacked Ilona’s home as well as that of Raal Mosara, and they may well have murdered Raal, as well. They now were hunting Daret, and her, and the rest of her team. If they were responsible for Raal’s death, then how far would they go to get what they wanted? More important, did they have friends who to this point had escaped notice?
Let’s hope not.
Crusher handed the binoculars back to Tom. “What about port security? Wouldn’t they think something’s up after a while?”
“There’s no real security to speak of,” Tom replied. “They’ve got a couple of guys tracking who’s coming and going, but they’re also part of the maintenance staff, and they’ve got their hands full overseeing loading and unloading and answering any service requests. One small ship that’s not causing much trouble and not bugging the maintenance staff can probably get away with it for a day or two.” He shrugged. “But Konya’s right. They’ll have to make some kind of move, soon.”
They already have, Crusher reminded herself. After a covert visit to the landing port’s administration facility, during which they had utilized the operations center’s sensor suit to scan the nearby space above Jevalan, Konya and Tom had been able to determine that the Dordogne was nowhere within the equipment’s scanning range. Whether that meant the runabout had been captured or destroyed by their unwanted stalkers remained a mystery, but for the moment, the answer to that question was irrelevant. What mattered now was that the ship was unavailable to them, either for support or escape. They somehow would have to make do without it.
Wonderful.
Even at this time of night, Crusher could see workers and ship crews still were present, moving and working about several of the vessels making use of the port’s facilities, though activity seemed to have begun tapering off as the hour grew later.
“So what do we do?” she asked.
Tom exchanged with Konya what Crusher took to be a knowing glance before turning to her, and she realized that in an odd, eerie way when he smiled as he now was doing, she imagined that he looked even more like his “brother,” Will Riker, than even a perfect clone could manage.
“We make a move first,” he said.
After finalizing a plan and sending Konya back to retrieve Lieutenant Cruzen and Ilona Daret, Crusher and Tom maintained their hidden positions, keeping watch on the ship. Though workers and other personnel passed it on their way to other landing berths, no one approached or left the vessel. At Tom’s insistence, Crusher did her best to avail herself of a brief catnap while sitting on the hard ground with her back against the wall. She did not recall nodding off, and when she jerked herself awake, it was only to smack the back of her head against the wall behind her. Wincing in momentary pain, she only just managed to avoid giving voice to her discomfort, and she forced herself to contain her reaction to a simple hissing intake of breath as she closed her eyes.
“Ow.”
“You okay?” Tom asked, and when she opened her eyes, she saw him next to her.
“This hotel leaves a lot to be desired,” she said, pulling herself to a kneeling position. “How long was I asleep?”
“About ninety minutes. It won’t be light for another couple of hours.”
“What did I miss?”
“Nothing. Pretty boring, so far.” He indicated the communicator badge pinned inside his jacket; a civilian model like the ones he had given to Crusher and the others so as to avoid using their Starfleet communicators. “I just heard from Konya. They’ve made it to our designated rally point, and they’ll stay put until we join them, or something more exciting happens.”
“I guess that’s our cue, then.” Moving forward while still remaining in the shadows of the dark corner of the landing port’s service area where they had chosen to maintain their temporary observation post, Crusher tried to make herself part of the walls as she studied the nondescript transport. Nestled in its landing berth and illuminated by an array of maintenance lights, the ship appeared to have been powered down, though she still felt the low hum of its warp core even from this distance. The only light cast off by the craft itself came from the frame of the access hatch on its port side, set into the sloping hull above the warp nacelle t
hat, along with its companion on the vessel’s other flank, served as the ship’s landing gear. In this respect, the transport was very much like a Starfleet shuttlecraft or runabout.
“Think anybody’s home?” she asked, keeping her voice low.
His own gaze remaining fixed on the ship, Tom nodded. “I’d bet on at least one being in there. With any luck, the others are out trying to find us. Hopefully your security people are on their toes.” Earlier in the evening, it had been decided that Lieutenants Konya and Cruzen would safeguard Ilona Daret, while Crusher accompanied Tom to the landing port. At this moment, the security officers had moved Daret from his home and had secreted him in another part of the settlement, waiting for Tom and Crusher to return before the five of them set out for the Olanda labor camp.
“They are,” Crusher replied. “Don’t let Rennan’s rank fool you. He’s got more experience than most officers with more pips on their collars. He’s been through a lot, particularly in the last couple of years. Jean-Luc wouldn’t have sent him to look after me if he wasn’t one of the best people for the job. He’ll look out for us.”
“If he’s good enough for Jean-Luc Picard, then he’s good enough for me.” Drawing a deep breath, he turned to look at her. “Ready?”
“Yes.” Despite her answer, Crusher had a hard time keeping her nervousness in check. Seeing Tom’s concerned expression, she attempted to force a small smile. “Sorry. This sort of thing isn’t really my specialty.”
Tom patted the satchel he wore slung from his left shoulder. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of the dirty stuff. I just need you to watch my back.” He gestured to the phaser in her hand. “Will’s told me you’re pretty good with that.”
Glancing at the weapon she held, she recalled the times she and Jean-Luc had challenged each other to marksmanship contests on the Enterprise’s phaser range, and even those occasions years ago when Guinan—of all people—had accompanied her during her regular requalification tests. Those had been training exercises, of course, though she had been in her share of scrapes, including a few with Tom’s brother. “It’s different when the targets shoot back.”
“It sure is,” Tom replied. “You’ll be fine. We only need a couple of minutes. We’re in, we’re out.” He shrugged. “I’ve done this sort of thing before, you know.”
At his behest, Crusher took an extra moment to ensure her hair was secured at her neck and that the resulting ponytail was tucked down the back of her jacket. As Tom had said, there was no sense giving anyone something easy to grab on to in the event they surprised anyone aboard the transport.
Now I feel even better about this.
“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do it.”
At this time of morning, an hour or more before sunrise, there was almost no one out and about, making easier their approach to the transport ship. Crusher saw only a single person walking around the docking area; a maintenance worker apparently on her way to one of the cargo vessels moored at the facility’s far end. Waiting until her route had taken her well away from their target, Tom and Crusher stepped from their hiding place and proceeded across the tarmac. For his part, Tom was affecting a pace and gait suggesting that he had every reason to be here at this time of morning, and Crusher did her best to follow his lead. He held a tricorder in his hand, low and against his leg, and she could hear the device emitting a subdued whine as it worked.
“No sign of any surveillance or alarm system,” he said as they approached the transport. “At least, none my tricorder can find. That’s either good news or bad news.”
Keeping her voice low, Crusher asked, “You think they could have some kind of monitoring process that your tricorder can’t pick up?”
“Possible,” Tom replied. “This tricorder’s been modified beyond typical Starfleet specs, but I imagine any kind of special-operations team might have similar equipment.” He offered her a wry grin. “One way to find out, I guess.”
They arrived at the transport, which Crusher was happy to see did not explode at their approach, and neither did any alarms sound or weapons emerge to confront them. It seemed odd to her that any precautions against intruders might not be in use. “I doubt they’re stupid,” she said. “Overconfident, maybe?”
Tom said, “Maybe more of the latter. They may think that a Starfleet doctor and a couple of relatively low-ranked security officers aren’t actively trying to hunt them down. I’m pretty sure they still don’t know about me, so I guess it’s time for an introduction.”
He reached into his satchel and retrieved another tricorder-sized device Crusher did not recognize. Placing the device on the bulkhead near a recessed panel featuring an unlabeled keypad with a small display, Tom pressed a control to activate the unit and entered a command sequence to its own interface. As the unit began doing whatever it was supposed to do, he turned and bobbed his eyebrows.
“Think of it as master passkey.”
“Dare I ask where you came across something like that?”
Offering another of those smiles that reminded her of Will Riker at his mischievous best, Tom replied, “You’re probably better off not knowing.”
After a few moments of watching the device’s display flash a steady stream of text—much of it a blur to her eyes—and during which she was sure the owners of the transport either would appear from the shadows or else open the hatch themselves, Crusher breathed a sigh of relief when the activity stopped and a steady green light illuminated along the unit’s top edge. This corresponded to a similar indicator activating on the hatch’s locking mechanism, and she heard a click before the hatch slid aside to reveal an airlock.
“Bingo,” Tom said, retrieving the device and returning it to his satchel before unlimbering his own phaser from his jacket’s inside pocket.
To her relief, Crusher saw that the airlock’s inner hatch already was open. At least now they would not have to repeat the lock-picking procedure while running the risk of being trapped within the airlock itself.
Small miracles, and all that.
Leading the way, Tom entered the craft and waited until both of them were through the airlock and inside the ship itself before once more activating his tricorder, and this time Crusher noticed that he had taken the precaution of completely muting the telltale whine that normally accompanied its operation.
“No life signs,” he said after a moment, though Crusher saw his frown.
“What’s wrong?”
“Not sure.” Closing the tricorder, Tom returned it to one of his jacket pockets. “This is starting to feel a little too easy. Let’s get this over with and get out of here.”
The transport was small enough that it took only a moment to reach the cramped command deck, which was not dissimilar to the cockpit of a runabout and consisted of two chairs positioned before a U-shaped console, along with a third chair angled toward the port bulkhead before a workstation of its own. Without saying anything, Tom lowered himself into the left seat and immediately began pecking at the console’s array of controls and keys.
“Do you know what you’re doing?”
“I know enough,” Tom replied, not looking up from the console. “I’m just checking to see if there’s any kind of lockout. There is, but I think I can get past it.” After a moment, he released a mild, satisfied grunt. “They’ve been monitoring Starfleet communications frequencies, so they’ve tapped into the conversations you and the others have had over your comm badges. So far as I can tell, they haven’t yet figured out that we might be talking via other means.” He had warned them about this possibility when providing them with the civilian versions they had been using for what they hoped were their covert discussions. The other communicators had been modified to operate on very low frequencies that fell outside the typical monitoring range of Starfleet equipment, and the group had continued to utilize their Starfleet badges for normal interaction as a means of convincing any would-be eavesdroppers that they were listening to all of their targets’ conversations.
&nb
sp; After a few more moments spent working at the console, Tom turned in his chair and gestured to the third seat. “If you use that console, you may be able to download their flight log to your tricorder. I’ve already set it up.”
He continued to work as Crusher carried out her own task. As promised, he had enabled an interface to the ship’s computer and the data banks storing the navigational data. It took her only a moment to transfer that information to her tricorder, and when she finished, she turned in her seat to see Tom affixing a package to the underside of the forward console. He repeated the action with the station she occupied.
“That should be enough to take care of their flight control and sensors,” he said. “It’ll take only a minute or two to plant the others, and then we’re out of here.”
Despite their initial temptation to simply destroy the transport while it was moored in its landing berth, Tom and Konya had discarded that notion out of concern for possible collateral damage or injury to innocent bystanders. Instead, they had opted for a more controlled action taken against vital areas inside the ship. Using materials provided by Daret as well as a few “special items” Tom had brought, a set of improvised explosives was fashioned which—if all went to plan—would be sufficient to incapacitate the ship’s cockpit as well as render useless the small arsenal and supply compartment Tom had found near the crew quarters. All of the packages he had prepared contained burst receivers, to which he would send a signal via his communicator.
“That’s the last one,” Tom said as he finished placing the last explosive, setting it so that they would destroy the ship’s small yet impressive weapons locker. Securing his satchel over his shoulder, he led the way down the transport’s main corridor and back to the hatch they had used for access. Because he was in front of Crusher, he was the first one to exit the airlock and step out onto the small boarding ramp as the phaser blast lanced out from the darkness and struck the side of the ship’s hull, centimeters from Tom’s head.