[Backlog] DL | LCDR Stacker | "The Station and St. Nazaire"

Posted on Wed Apr 4th, 2018 @ 2:23pm by Commander James Stacker

Mission: Lacuna
Location: Intelligence Watchfloor | Deck 678 | Cold Station Theta
Timeline: This takes place before "Burning the Midnight Oil."

It took nineteen hours for the message broadcast by that singular numbers station to change. Nineteen hours in which a half-dozen sensor arrays were rooted on it. Where analysts continued their silent vigil, chugging coffee and various other inducements to keep themselves awake as the hunt swung into gear. Budding networks of informants were developed, bribes offered, and clandestine meetings held both on and off the station. In the end, it just came down to patience.

From the moment the first change was detected, to the time the phone was lifted to summon the Lieutenant Commander, took four minutes. He was on the watchfloor three minutes after that, and was promptly handed a pair of wireless headphones.

At first, he heard nothing but static. When the supervisor pressed a key he began to hear music. This was not the actual message, but rather a repetitive looping signal denoting a change was about to occur. Unlike a more traditional musical piece it consisted of single notes. There was no accompaniment: no drums, no oboes, no violins. It sounded rather singular and dull.

"Have we identified the tune?" he asked, glancing at the lieutenant and having to restrain himself from the urge to snarl at someone. Stacker was still in ill humor, that black stormcloud haunting him wherever he went. To her credit she didn't recoil, but rather looked at another workstation, received a shake-of-the-head, and turned back to him.

"Main computer's still chewing on it."

"Tell it to work faster," the Tellarite supervisor growled. Despite his ill humor, Stacker almost smiled. The stormcloud flickered with lightning that agreed.

The music abruptly cut off, and a synthesized electronic voice began to play. "Nine. Twenty-three. Six. Six. Five -" Stacker noted that bodies at nearby workstations were suddenly very focused and intent. There was a fourth person hovering just behind a particular group that seemed to be a nexus for activity. The voice was continuing in his ear. "- One. Eleven. Nineteen."

Someone in the compartment was throwing the numbers up onto the giant screen at the front. Quickly concluding that he would get nothing useful from continuing to listen, he reluctantly slid the headphones off and watched, arms crossed, powerful muscles pressing against the rolled-up sleeves of the uniform that he now wore. "Sir, we've got a match."

"Talk to me," he ordered, a hint of steel backing it up. His fingers drummed on his left sleeve, arms still crossed, eyes on the main screen.

"The computer's identified the tune as 'The Lincolnshire Poacher,' dating to 1776 on Earth's Gregorian calendar. A traditional folk song dealing with the joy of poaching -"

"They've been poaching alright," the supervisor interjected with a harsh growl. Heads nodded. An ensign to Stacker's left leaned behind him, fist-bumping the Tellarite in a human gesture that had not only survived, but deemed perfectly acceptable for copying by the notoriously-argumentative species, as the department head let out a growl of his own. It was an ugly sound, fit to match his mood - which, at that moment, looked perfectly capable of stripping paint from the bulkheads.

"Ma'am, we've got something," someone called from that cluster of intensely-busy workstations. Before his very eyes he saw the numbers being replaced by text. It was a partial list. Even now it was still being amended and added to: the fourteen items jumped to fifteen. Sixteen. Seventeen.

"Bingo," someone breathed, as a new item popped onto the display. Stenelli female, breeding age, fertile, pregnant. It was almost a relief to say the words, even if they did come out tinged with anger and lashing with pent-up lightning. Who the hell would do that to ... Those vermin!

"Send it up."

=/\= Location Unknown, Cheydinhall Sector =/\=

The USS Campbeltown was a ship in her prime. Seven years out of the Eden Fleet Yards, her name extended back through three Starfleet ships of varying types, and, ultimately, to a ship that had achieved renown for a legendary amphibious raid on the French city of St. Nazaire, during Earth's second world war. Her crew was fond of joking that the new Campbeltown had yet to meet a dockyard that couldn't be demolished.

A set of terse orders from Starfleet Command had seen the ship sent on a 48-hour high-speed sprint into the Cheydinhall Sector. Receipt of the orders had been a surprise: she had been slated for participation in another mission, which meant there would be some scrambling (never fun) to assign an asset to take her place.

The trip had been labeled "daring," by all who lived aboard, because she was built for reconnaissance. The high power demand had meant radiating their position for the entire time. It was an uncomfortable position for a crew tightly wedded to stealth and the sacrifices required as part of clandestine operations (even the unwelcome, but occasional, necessity of days at a time on emergency rations). Winding down into lower warp velocities had been regarded by all as a welcome relief.

Now her acting-captain stood on the bridge, looking at a PADD and wondering just what the hell it was that Starfleet had in store. "Ops, plot a course for Cold Station Theta - outskirts of the system. And tell the MACOs that we'll have some business for them, soon."

=/\= End Log =/\=

Lieutenant Commander James Stacker
Chief Intelligence Officer/Acting 2XO
Cold Station Theta, SB-1170