(Note Allyson Corrections: 02 August 2000)
Chapter 3: Behind the Lines
"Ensign, you're crushing the data crystal membrane. Turn your armor off until you leave for EVA,." Cookie advised. and
Butter bar looked down to see a deep impression in his console where he'd been pressing with his gloved fist. Grinning sheepishly, he reached up to the control panel on one wrist and deactivated the power systems.
Cookie nodded and then handed him a small imperial purple cloth bag with a yellow cord. "Here, in case you need them. Security bypass modules, just like the ones Frag and Drag are using." He gestured and Butterbar focused on the lower navigational dome. The sensors inside his helm automatically compensated, and zoomed in on the region, where two power-armored Marines were already slipping inside the access hatch. "Just pop open the panel for any given door or hatch, slip one of these babies into the circuit panel, and viola. Instant access without any door alarms tripping.," Cookie said proudly.
"Cookie baked them himself,." Akers said softly, watching alongside them. "If you ever want to knock over a bank, he's the first one you want to ask for help."
"General! You're corrupting the boy."
Akers grunted and got up. "Depressurize the main cabin, Ensign, and you can follow us over." He paused and looked at Butterbar., "We'll leave you in electrical, and if things get hairy, you bug out, and go fetch the Jaguar, . you You understand?"
"How will I know when to...?" Butterbar couldn't finish.
Myers smiled at him grimly., "trust Trust me son.,you'llYou'll know."
Cookie rubbed on his shoulder affectionately, . "yeahYeah, when they start shooting at you! Shoot back, then run."
"Riiight..."
Butterbar had extensive experience in zero-gee, but he found it surprisingly easy inside the power suit, which compensated for the environment almost before he needed it too. Flight between the two vessels was smooth, direct, and more accurate as Butterbar had ever could have hoped to do in regular pressure suits. The extra gear he was ferrying over for the Marines was hardly cumbersome at all. He was curious, though, at what the large pancakes of white material were for. They were like Like blocks of old-fashioned cheese, only far lighter even in a gravity field, just large and bulky. Butterbar wasn't sure what they were for, other than the fact the Lieutenant General had enough weapons to blow up a good part of the Saber-class vessel's primary hull if things got bad enough. "Probably not without rescuing the crew first," Blacky had replied when Butterbar had asked about that possibility.
Butterbar arrived aboard the Claymore in the main sensor array compartment, and from there, quickly climbed into the Electrical Control space, where most, but not all, of the Marines were clustered. Butterbar saw dozens of security bypass modules, and variants thereof, scattered across the open circuit breaker panels for the entire ship. Cookie was clapping his hands, as if brushing them off. "That's it General, . we We can't do any more here."
Akers nodded, . "Major, deploy your troops."
"Gamma-Five, secure that lift, then proceed to choke points on Deck 6," Myers growled. The lean and compact Major, having taken his antique glasses off when he donned his power armor helmet, continued. "Beta Fire Team, you've got port and forward stairwells, Gamma-4, starboard. Alpha, you're with me in the central shaft. We'll meet at aux and then proceed to the Brig."
Butterbar tried not to let his fear of being left alone show. Blacky and Camper, the members of the Gamma-5 fire time, didn't give him much time to worry about it. The two Marines opened up a hatch, reached in, and ripped out a large section of conduit housing. "Didn't want to leave the phaser emitter circuits intact, anyway," Blacky said at Butterbar's surprised look. Still grinning, he walked over to the turbo-lift, wedged it open while Camper placed one of the pancakes of Styrocal squarely in the center of the shaft. Blacky held the conduit over the pancake and winked at Butterbar.
"See kid, official Starfleet regulation nozzle. Insert into Styrocal chamber like so." He jammed the conduit into the pancake. "Twist and activate Styrocal." He punched several buttons on the access panel for the Styrocal, and a fountain of white foam erupted from the end of the conduit, streaming high into the turbolift shaft.
"The trick is not to let it expel the conduit before its finished erupting." ," Blacky offered, pressing the conduit deep into the pancake. Camper leaped into the shaft, and started squeezing the deflating pancake around the edges towards the conduit.
Butterbar peered inside the shaft, and for a length of 3-8 meters above him, the Styrocal was congealing on the sides of the turboshaft. It was like some kind of surrealistic dripping nightmare of hardening white goo.
"Between our spoofing here," Blacky paused then gestured to the panels, "and the fact that Styrocal's so light, it won't set off the debris sensors in the turboshaft--they'll never know this is in here. However, the car will automatically stop at the closest exit, reporting a normal, unobtrusive malfunction."
"Where we can give them a proper reception," Camper said smiling. It was like being menaced by a friendly, charming, white-haired old man--armed to the teeth.
Blacky nodded, pleased when, as the Styrocal finally ceased erupting, . Camper stepped out, carefully wiping off the several bits that had dropped onto his armor. Butterbar poked at several droplets that had congealed just above the lift door. They had already hardened into rock-hard consistency.
Camper Marine pulled out several sonic grenades, activated themthem, and threw them on top of the globs of Styrocal above him. "In case anybody decides to look in on you from above," he said gently, winking at Butterbar.
"We'll be back with Captain Harrington, Butterbar. Stay here and wait for orders," Blacky added as the two Marines bounded out of the Electrical.
Ensign Caleb "Butterbar" Stein found himself standing next to the wedged open turbo shaft, accompanied only by the occasional and infrequent dripping of semi-hardened Styrocal.
***
The time stretched on for hours. A starship is not normally silentquiet, ; there are creaks, bumps, systems activating and adjusting, pulsing with the life of the craft, even when silent running. At the slightest bump of noise, Butterbar stirred, trying to balance vigilance with inadvertently not phasering a hole thru the hull. And Hhe didn’t want to embarrass himself by shooting one of the Marines if they returned unexpectedly.
Butterbar tried to pace softly, but found he couldn’t do so without slamming his feet into the deck. The footfalls seemed to echo interminably so,and he tried standing in one place, but he kept fidgeting. Beads of sweat shown gathered on his forehead and even , it seemed soaked a cloth rag he found,and but he still kept perspiring. He turned up the cooling unit on his power suit to no avail.
Waiting for the explosions to begin, the screams, the dying… Butterbar checked the chronometer to see how many hours had passed since Akers and his Marines had departed.
Five minutes.
(Less Actually, it was less than five minutes,;but he had rounded up to feel less chagrined).
Caleb Stein wasn’t comfortable with the combat aspects of Starfleet. He knew it happened, . he He knew that a starship could be an extremely hazardous place, even in peace timepeacetime, but being this close to it made him distinctly uncomfortable. The attention of the XO, blatantly, unapologetically a Starfleet Marine, had only been exacerbating that discomfort these last two months. It wasn’t the XO personally, although he could be an extremely demanding task master—it was Caleb Stein. Butterbar.
Uncomfortable with the Marines he’d let that intimidate him, push him down, and in so doing, had not
Caleb "Butterbar" Stein inhaled and exhaled deeply, several times, focusing just on breathing.
Comrades, shipmates, some who he could feel that in time would be friends—were going into harms way. He wasn’t a Marine, but he was a Starfleet officer, highly trained, capable and proactive. He wasn’t the best choice to lead a fire team to retake the Claymore, but he had other strengths, ones that could serve him, and his fellow Starfleet officers and crew well.
Butterbar sat down in front of the main console, smiled, and prepared to…
…do nothing.
He couldn’t think of anything he could do that would be useful to Akers and his Marines beyond just waiting for them to request his backup spoofing the ship's systems.
Still smiling, Butterbar breathed in and out one more time. Start with the basics. Who is the enemy? Breen…
Opening up a secure link back to the Coventry, Butterbar did what he did best—filter and manipulate data. Looking for something he could use to defeat the enemy.
***
"No sign of the Claymore, Chris," Bill Tillman announced, not entirely surprised.
Chris stood up,and peered across the console and then looked at his [Security officer].
"The Coventry," they both said in unison.
"Lieutenant Steele , prepare to alter course!" Wallace Chris barked.
***
Any kind of communication, especially when being stealthy is problematic due to the possibility of intercept. Starfleet Marines alternated between a thin isolinear fiber or with like Akers preferred choice, communications relay chips. Small, resembling smalltiny pieces of lint, they blended in well with the carpeting that was standard issue on 24th century starships.
When Butterbar’s power armor chirped, he just aboutnearly jumped out of his skin.
"Ensign, this is Major Myers. We need you to run a check for us."
"Yes sir…?"
"Claymore crew complement, can you confirm a Chief Benjamin Arnold,"
"Stand by…" Butterbar answered, resetting his display of the Coventry’s database. "Downloading to your suit now, sir," Butterbar answered. "Senior Chief Benjamin Arnold, reported lost aboard the Scimitar in 2373 in action along the Klingon frontier. Recovered by the Claymore two months ago while on patrol near the badlands. He'd apparently spent the last several years marooned on a Class L planetoid. After debriefing, Captain Harrington took him as a member of the crew."
"Thank you, Ensign." Myers clicked off.
Butterbar was still mulling over the Major’s query when the red alert klaxon’s went off, and the boards in front of him started lighting up. The battle to retake the Coventry had begun in earnest. Butterbar could hear squirts of battle language over the power armor's com system. This wasn't nearly as clear or succinct as the distant thump of explosions or the occasional faint shrill whine of phaser fire.
"Butterbar, kill power any containment fields that come up!" Akers snapped, . "keep Keep sharp!"
"Aye sir!"
A few moments later, Butterbar heard a rush of footfalls outside of electrical. Pocketing his PADD’s, and wielding his phaser rifle, he stepped to one corner.
"Butterbar, help me out here…" Myers ordered, stepping inside,and carrying a semi-conscious Starfleet crewman, his hands manacled, and spilling him onto the floor like a rag doll.
"Meet former Senior Chief Ben Arnold," Myers huffed over the red alert klaxon, "and collaborator with the Breen hijacking this ship."
"Sir?"
"A decoy, bait left for anyone foolish enough to try a rescue," Myers frowned sharply. "Keep him unconscious, and stay sharp, Ensign, its about to get hairy!"
"What about the crew?" Butterbar asked as the Marine checked his cover and prepared to leave.
"No sign," was the soft reply, "except this one." Myers then disappeared up the stairwell to rejoin the fighting. Butterbar noticed the ship’s intercom system was active now, with Breen scratching noises echoing off the walls. Butterbar tried the universal translator--but it was of no use.
He checked the boards—so far Cookie’s jury rigging was holding. Considering his options, Butterbar decided to put the Chief in a pressure suit. He pulled open a panel and found several of the baggy kind designed for rapid ingress. The bulky shape allowed him to keep the Chief secured while still providing protection. The man looked older than the records Butterbar looked up—more like Arnold’s father than Arnold himself.
The Chief was groggy, and started mumbling as Butterbar stuffed him inside. "Where…? What…?"
Butterbar took his phaser and considered stunning the man—but he couldn’t.
The Chief blinked his eyes as if they could focus for the first time since being stunned, his eyes widened and he looked around in sudden fear. "Eologian…! Must warn Eologian!"
Butterbar ignored him, finished wrapping him the suit, leaving the hood open despite the urge to seal it, and sat back down at the console. Dull explosions continued to echo throughout the ship—and he could hear the distant whine of phaser fire—moving further away.
New warning tell-tales started flashing on the electrical distribution panels as a new vibration rolled through the deck plates, reminding him of a temblor he had experienced once on Vulcan.
The battle was fast moving, he could see from the winking lights its progress through the ship as systems were damaged or failed completely. Akers' Marines were in three groups, two racing for the bridge, one in a pitched battle in Engineering. At this rate the Claymore would need to be towed back to Nexus for repairs. He wasn't sure she could take much more.
A thermal cooling unit failed in the crew decks and it finally hit him. How he could help. He thought back to some of his courses at the Academy, seminars on Breen physiology and even on the cooling systems of their uniforms. An idea began to germinate, and Ensign Caleb Butterbar started to smile.
If Akers or any of his Marines had seen it, they would have started to worry immediately. An Ensign with an idea behind the lines is even more dangerous than an Ensign in the battlefield.
That was just when the turbo shaft door blew in[AMWD1].
***
No plan survives contact...
An axiom that was never more true than in General Akers attempts to retake the Claymore. First, there was no sign of the crew--it was as if they had vanished completely. Akers didn't like to contemplate the implications of that fact. There were some signs that the takeover hadn't been immediate, but not many, other than the scorched hull plates outside and within the auxiliary bridge, the vessel was in pristine condition.
Then there was Senior Chief Arnold. In hindsight, obvious bait which that had worked all to well. The former Starfleet chief had tripped the alarm system, alerting the Breen to their presence. Akers was almost ready to take a more direct approach, but he would have preferred not having the choice made for him.
Finally there was the Breen--there were far too many of them on board. Passive scans had revealed only a dozen, yet after ten minutes of harried fighting, he estimated they'd easily disabled at least three times that many.
Casual inspection revealed why they were so easily defeated--they weren't Breen!
Some kind of distant Cardassian/Bajoran hybrid, with some other sapient species that the tricorder couldn't identify mixed in. Upon close inspection, the Breen "uniforms" were anything but. Soiled, frayed, and on the verge of falling apart, they offered little or no protection to the soldiers masquerading as Breen.
What they lacked in armor and sophistication, though, they made up for with tactics of desperation. Akers recalled historical accounts of Marines fighting off "human waves" at Chosun--this was in the same spirit. The enemy didn't attack so much as roll towards them like the tide. So far the tactics were surprisingly effective--the sheer weight of numbers was keeping him and his Marines on the run.
The fighting was a total furball.
He dodged across a hallway, following Myers and a fire team into an officers' wardroom on deck six. "Firecracker, gentlemen," Akers snapped. Myers threw him one of their specials, a modified flash-bang-stun grenade using some ancient principles of Chinese pyrotechnics.
Cookie cut a hole in the back wall, and they started filing through into the next compartment. Akers set the grenade, heard the shuffling of approaching enemy, and dodged into the next compartment. As he passed, Cookie slid a partition to one side, covering their escape from immediate attention.