Presidential Mansion
Lake Victoria, African Region
Earth, Sol System, Sector 001
United Federation of Planets

The halls of the Presidential Mansion rung with the thousand frantic calls of what had happened across the Neutral Zone, the President insisting on status updates every fifteen minutes. He summoned the Defense Minister, Foreign Minister, and the Chief of Starfleet Operations. All the communiques which filtered out of from the Neutral Zone confirmed the same thing.

Romulus was no more.

President James Aquilina, elected as a reformer who would move the Federation out from the shadow of the Dominion War, with all its chaos and strife, and into a new age of prosperity and peace, could only thing of one thing. How much it would affect him on the polls. A refugee crisis? Destabilization of the Quadrant? The end of the Congress of Bajor? That all meant he would be confirmed to a single, terrible term. History would forget him, lost in a sea of Presidents, nameless to all except a few studious bookworms.

He, his ministers, the CSO, and the Klingon Ambassador - brought to the Mansion by the CSO’s insistence - gathered in the war room at his mansion overlooking the grand Lake Victoria. The view, which commanded a stunning view of the Alexandra Nile as it flowed into the illustrious lake, was Aquilina’s favorite, and he wondered how much longer he would be able to enjoy this sight.

“We must send some kind of force into the Romulan Star Empire, or what remains of it, before it falls into total and complete anarchy. That will not be good for anyone, not us, not the Klingon Empire, and certainly not the Romulan people. A whole stretch of space, fallen to piracy and warlords! We cannot allow that!” Grand Admiral Jean-Luc Picard, Chief of Starfleet Operations, declared. It had been eight years since the event on the Enterprise-E, deep in Romulan space, brought him from the captain’s chair to an admiral’s desk, “Ambassador Torak, surely the Klingon Empire agrees?”

“The Klingon Empire must not have chaos on her borders! If the Federation is willing to enforce order, then we likewise will send our own force into Romulan space,” Torak concurred with Picard’s view, even if they had a different outlook on what that intervention force would be doing, “Is Starfleet up to the challenge, Picard? To fight these Romulan petaQs as they are pushed against a wall? Is today a good day to die?”

“Ambassador, if the Federation does get involved, it will be for humanitarian aid and peacekeeping only,” Foreign Minister Ramadhani Shamasdin spoke up, after deliberating his words carefully, “the Federation will not take part in a campaign of retribution and conquest of what remains of the Romulan Empire.”

Ambassador Torak simply scoffed and sipped at his glass of water, turning his gaze towards the Lake and refusing to answer. Picard looked over and, seeing the President looking disinterestedly in the same direction, began to speak towards him, “Mr. President, I must ask you to forget your notions of retaining power. Right now, it is the time to act, a time to step up to what your office stands for. You represent the United Federation of Planets, the greatest force for good the Galaxy has ever seen, and you must not allow billions of lifeforms to be swept into civil war and chaos.”

“Admiral Picard, if I may interject….” Defense Minister Thuzok Rossah butted in, “I don’t believe we have the resources to commit to another full-scale conflict, which this will surely spiral into. Who knows what’s beyond Romulan space! Or what’s in it, for that matter! They’ve never let us know the true number of client races within their Empire. We have no reason to do anything except increase security along the Neutral Zone.”

“And if we do that, Mr. Rossah, we’ll only be delaying the inevitable flood of refugees. It will be like the Hunnic hordes storming across the Rhine and into Rome. Do you wish to be the one who causes that, Defense Minister?” Picard looked from the Defense Minister and turned his gaze towards the President, “Or you, Mr. President? If not, you must act decisively and you must act now.”

“Alright, Jean-Luc…” Aquilina murmured, after spending what seemed like an eternity in silent thought, “You always are a bully when it comes to getting what you want, but you always have a point…” He chuckled dryly, “you’ll get your task force, Picard. Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me…” Aquilina gestured to his two ministers, “we have a press conference to prepare for. FBN is going to tear us to shreds…”

As the President and his ministers left, Picard walked over towards the large panoramic windows, admiring the still relatively untouched beauty of Africa. A flock of white-bellied storks flew in the distance, gliding over the waters of Lake Victoria, “Admiral Picard, you have great honor. Your reputation is well-known throughout the Empire,” Torak spoke from behind Picard, still nursing his glass of water, “it is a privilege to meet you.”

“As you, Ambassador,” Picard nodded, turning around to face the Klingon, “your fleet action at Ioya V during the War was astounding. I remember reading the after-action reports and…”

“Enough of my track record, Admiral,” Torak smiled, cutting off Picard with a wave of his hand, “We have a problem, that only men who have tasted combat will ever see…” He had Picard’s attention, “The Romulan space must be absorbed into our states. There is no other option. It is a simple fact, that no one wants to come out and say! Oh, how you Federation types love your word games. Whatever we do, peacekeeping and securing space, just delays when we must face up to that fact.”

“They will be admitted into the Federation if they so choose, Ambassador…” Picard spoke, but he knew the Klingon spoke wisdom.

“As your War Advisor pointed out, there is much out there that we do not know of.” Torak paused, and then turned his gaze towards the lake, “This view reminds me of my home. Except there, it is much more beautiful.”

CHAPTER ONE: THE ROMULAN CRISIS

Somewhere near the Neutral Zone
USS VIGILANCE
STARDATE 64607

"-Romulan refugee ships have begun to filter across the Neutral Zone. Starfleet ships have been dispatched to assist in aid operations, which is becoming the greatest humanitarian crisis of the Alpha Quadrant's history. Here with us is-"

"-Defense Minister Thuzok Rossah has announced that the joint Klingon-Federation task force has entered Romulan space and is proceeding to make contact with the Romulan Provisional Government in the Hasseleh system. The Romulan Provisional Government consists of former sen-"

"-in soccer , Vulcan has beat Earth 5-4 in the third round of the Federation Cup. They will proceed onto play the Saurians in the next match tomorrow. We'll now take it to T'Pra for the latest stock exchan-"

Captain Strenn switched off the newsreader. It was all too much. He sat in silence in his ready room, the stars streaming past the large window above the settee. A cup of herbal tea, made from leaves grown in the arid deserts of the Forge, was slowly losing its warmth on the table before him. The Vulcan Captain's mind was racing, far faster than he could handle with his nearly five decades of carefully constructed mental walls. His father would be utterly ashamed that his eldest son could not keep his emotions in check, but how could he? Strenn had been aboard the T'Kumbra, in fact had been her Executive Officer, when it was destroyed on that fateful day above Cardassia. Captain Solok, that brave officer, went down with the ship and with most of the crew. Strenn, for his bravery, was promoted to Captain and awarded the highest award the Federation can bestow. Strenn, however, considered it an insult, even contemplated on resigning his commission. But that would not logical, since Starfleet needed experienced officers now more than ever.

And so that's what brought him to this lofty position as a Commanding Officer of a cruiser, no matter how aged she might be. It was a high responsibility to be a starship captain, and he felt the pressure sit heavily upon his shoulders now that he was sitting in the central seat. But the question "What would Solok do?" raged in his mind every time he made a decision, even if it was 'Boats, ahead warp five.' Solok was a true Starfleet officer, and more, he was a true Vulcan. Strenn, on the other hand, was only a fair facsimile.

The great pressure of being a starship captain weighed even more knowing that the Vigilance would be a high-profile ship, certainly subjected to scrutiny from the highest levels of Starfleet. The actions that the 12th Fleet, now temporarily renamed the Joint Federation-Klingon Peacekeeping Task Force for the Romulan Empire - or simply the Joint Task Force, would take - or not take - would be analyzed from every angle. The stakes were incredibly high, and for Strenn, it seemed too much.

Why had he come back to Starfleet at all? The Vulcan Diplomatic Institute had even offered him a tenured teaching position, disregarding his youthful rejection of the stuffy university for the future in the stars that Starfleet promised. It certainly wasn't the money, for he had enough of that, and it wasn't because he enjoyed space, because he had seen enough of it. He found it difficult to isolate exactly why, in the churning waters of his mind. The storm continued to rage and send electric bolts flying every-which-way in his brain, with no end in sight.

The door buzzed, breaking through the clouded thoughts of the Vulcan captain.

"Enter."



Commander Udrus Ahrume, Executive Officer of USS Vigilance, entered into the ready room of his Commanding Officer. It would be his first time meeting face-to-face with Captain Strenn, who had suspiciously secluded himself in the two weeks that they had been on the ship, getting the heavy cruiser shook down in preparation for what the papers were now calling "Operation Vanguard," the largest peacekeeping mission in known history. It sounded like horse-shit to him, but what did he know?

"Good afternoon, sir," Commander Udrus stood at attention as he entered into the cramped ready room, which was little more than an office desk, a settee with a coffee table, and a replicator mounted to a wall. Nothing adorned those walls, typically spartan as most Vulcans tended to be. Udrus made notes of his surroundings as he stood in those brief seconds before reporting, and did a glance down upon his own uniform. His Service Uniform was immaculate, pressed with no lint or dust hairs, and his shoes were so polished you could see the streaking stars on the toes. Not that if mattered if he was unsat, since he couldn't change it by then anyway, "We've crossed the Neutral Zone, and entered Romulan Space."

The Vulcan looked up from his gaze, firmly locked on the tea cup sitting on the table, and locked eyes with his First Officer. Commander Udrus, though no telepath, knew the thoughts running through that analytical Vulcan's mind. He would, by now, be recalling that this Bajoran Rebel-turned-Starfleet Officer had a track record the size of some small holonovels, most of all that damned business on the Albatross with that Cardie frigate.

If the Vulcan asked for an explanation, he mused to himself, then he would simply tell him that he only regretted that he did not kill the lot of them when he had the chance.

But instead of demanding that he explained in detail why he hated the Cardassian Race so much, the Vulcan simply rose to his feet and spoke one word, "Good...." and without further discussion led the way back onto the bridge. Udrus noted, in the back of his mind, that this Vulcan was perhaps the most peculiar he had ever known. Even more strange than that bastard Stavath.

One thing was certain, Vulcans were hard to get along with, and even harder to understand.



Of all the things he would wish to deal with, a Disciplinary Review Board was certainly not one of them. The CMC hated those, even more so than when he was a junior sailor. Now on the inside looking out, it was such a tedious process and almost wholly unnecessary. A show of theatrics that younger chiefs and senior chiefs indulged in, that he found no similar need to do.

The latest was that of Yeoman, Third Class Daniel Joachimshalter. The recently-frocked Petty Officer made a fool of himself while on duty, sneaking off to his berthing and nipping at some smuggled whiskey he brought aboard. When assuming his watch station, the sailor he was relieving immediately smelled the alcohol on his breath and reported it to their LPO, who escalated the situation to necessitate a DRB. Ultimately, and all but assured, YN3 Joachimshalter was recommended for an XOI board, where CMC Ch'oviaval would have to see his face again. And surely after that, he would see him once more at Captain's Mast, when that same Third Class would get placed on liberty restriction, half months' pay, and the host of other punishments that could be meted out.

As the CMC made his way up from the Third Deck, where the DRB had taken place, to the Bridge, he thought about some of the more unusual punishments he had seen given to sailors while in Starfleet. There was that one time on the Idaho, when his LPO, BM1 Conta, had been caught running a gambling ring in his berthing. Instead of giving him the normal restriction, half months' pay, and Extra Military Instruction, BM1 Conta had his designated replicator meals restricted to bread and water only for a month.

CMC Ch'oviaval smiled to himself, remembering those bygone times with some fondness. Whatever happened to that old Tellarite anyway? Surely, he was either a CMC like Byn or out of Starfleet entirely by now. Perhaps, though, he was one of the untold billions who did not survive the Dominion onslaught which claimed so many.

The CMC entered the Bridge just as the official hand-off of the Watch from the Officer of the Deck to Captain Strenn was concluded, so his entrance was unnoticed except by the glances of some of the petty officers manning their stations. Certainly none of the junior - or for that matter senior - officers noticed the Command Master Chief enter. Not that he minded much anyway.

Captain Strenn, standing to the right of the Captain's chair but for some reason refusing to take a seat, turned towards the Communications Station, where Chief Operations Specialist Kernaghan was awaiting his orders, "Chief, put Courageous through."

"Aye, aye, sir." OSC Kernaghan replied simply and obediently, and with a slight move of hand, the viewscreen that once showed stars was replaced with the bridge of the Sovereign-class starship, the flagship of the Task Force. At the center of the screen was Commodore Doma, a grizzled Bolian and a veteran of the War. Vigilance must have been the last to connect, for shortly after he was put on the viewscreen the Commodore began his speech.

"All Starfleet and Federation vessels, we are about to undertake a mission unlike any other in the Alpha Quadrant's history. The eyes of thousands of species are upon you today, the hopes and dreams of billions of souls depending upon your adherence to duty. I expect every sailor in my task force to be model Starfleet servicemembers, and to act in accordance with the Starfleet Creed. We represent the Federation, and we cannot let these people down. Captains, you will receive a coded transmission detailing your specific operational goals." The Commodore paused, "I wish you all the best of luck. Godspeed!"

The screen was replaced by the eternal starscape of deep space, displaying a region of space that had not been traveled by Starfleet since the days of the Earth-Romulan War. "I'll be in my ready room. Commander, you have the bridge." Strenn rose, and without doing the formal trade-off of the Watch with the Executive Officer, disappeared into his ready room as quickly as he had come onto the bridge. The bridge staff was stupefied by the quick disappearance of their Captain into the ready room, none moreso than Ch'oviaval, who had been used to ostentatious and eccentric Captains using every opportunity to "show their feathers."

The strangeness of the incident, however, was quickly lost as the bridge staff returned to duty. Except the CMC, who locked eyes with the XO as both seemed unsure of what to do next.

The marines of one seven stowed their gear in their rooms and cargo bays on deck eleven. An arms room was constructed in cargo bay ten. The Company’s two Argo Buggies and two TT4s were beamed aboard the ship into the newly acquired cargo bay. The marines enjoyed the access to the four holosuites on their deck, but knew the commander and first sergeant would probably use those for training purposes only.

Evening before
“Yes, none of the lower enlisted are authorized in Eleven Forward tonight,” Major Kurt Watkins reminded his Executive Officer, Captain Tak as they sipped their drinks. The officers and NCOs enjoyed the spirits in the only drinking establishment either of them were permitted to enter aboard ship. The NCOs often called the club, “Bulldog”, while the officers used the more formal name, “Eleven Forward”, but they acknowledged the colloquialism.

Tak sipped his mug of boiling worm wine as he looked around the room. “Yes, sir. I understand. You let the enlisted in here and they will lose control. Hopefully these junior NCOs won’t embarrass themselves.”

“If they do, First Sergeant Cue and Gunnery Sergeant Washington have my orders to escort them back to their quarters. The Platoon Sergeants will be held responsible for their junior NCOs.” Major Watkins was content that no problem would occur. “Besides, I want you to take the company through a squad level infantry battle course followed by a pugil stick competition in the morning after first formation. If anyone is hungover, they can be reminded their purpose here is not to simply get drunk. Understood?”

Tak smiled, “yes sir! You can be mischievous, but I do appreciate your intent.” The large Klingon allowed a belly laugh to resound from his mouth, garnering the attention of only a few in the room.

---

“Stand at, ease!” First Sergeant Cue commanded A Company, First Battalion 7th Starfleet Marine Infantry Regiment. The company was arrayed in formation inside the cargo bay with headquarters section on the right, then first platoon, second platoon, third platoon and the engineer platoon, which everyone had taken to calling fourth platoon. As soon as the fist sergeant bellowed his command, every marine in the bay moved from the position of attention to parade rest with all head and eyes focused on the company first sergeant.

“Good morning, Alpha Company!” the first sergeant yelled to the marines.

In unison they all responded quite loudly, “good morning, first sergeant!”

“As of two hours ago, the USS Vigilance along with other ships of the 12th fleet have crossed the neutral zone. We are now in Romulan space.” No one reacted. They retained a placid appearance listening to the first sergeant. One person reacted. The company’s fire support officer (FSO), First Lieutenant (1LT) Jateel N'Plentar, originally from the planet Romulus. Jateel had not been to Romulus in about twelve years and hoped he might be able to gain some liberty to see his family.

“The Company Commander will tell you more about our mission in Romulan Space. This morning, Captain Tak will lead the squads of our platoon through the infantry battle course (IBC) in holosuite eight. He has created a routine with a hostile Klingon outpost for the squad to negotiate and eliminate if possible. He tells me each squad is only permitted to suffer no more than two casualties to receive a passing grade. Pay attention to your leaders and keep your heads on a swivel. Immediately following the IBC will have a battalion pugil stick competition in holosuite six.”

When the first sergeant was finished with his briefing for the company he came to the position of attention. “Company, Attention!” He commanded the company to the position of attention and then executed an about face. Major Watkins then marched out from where he had been standing near the door to the cargo bay. Major Watkins took a position in front of the first sergeant, facing the man and the company. The first sergeant rendered present arms, the company commander returned the hand salute and then both men dropped the salute. The first sergeant executed an about face and marched around the formation by moving to his left, the formation’s right by headquarters section and took up a position at the centered on the rear of the formation. As the first sergeant marched to the rear, the platoon commanders and company XO each performed the same action with their platoon sergeants and the operations sergeant. Now the Senior NCOs were all posted at the rear of the formations and the platoon commanders stood at the front of the formations. The CO put the company at parade rest and gave his presentation.

“As the first sergeant stated, we are now in Romulan Space. Does anyone know why we are in Romulan Space?” No one raised a hand. 1LT N'Plentar, naively listened from the headquarters section not knowing what would be said next. The Marines of A Company 1-7 were unaware of much outside the ship. They only heard what their officers told them and sometimes it was only the company commander’s reports that got to their ears.

“Well, there is no easy way to say this, so I’ll just put it out there. The Romulan homeworld of Romulus has been destroyed. The planet was the victim of a star that went supernova. A few ships were able to leave the planet before the planet was destroyed, and the Federation is tasked with a peacekeeping operation to help restore order in the sector and provide whatever comfort or aid they may need.”

Lieutenant N’Plentar was struck with grief. He was angry, hurt and confused. ‘No! This can’t be,’ the Fire Support Officer thought to himself. He felt like he needed to leave the cargo bay. To return to his quarters. He raised a hand.

Major Watkins spotted the lieutenant. He knew this information would bother the Romulan more than anyone else. “Lieutenant N’Plentar?”

“Sir, may I return to my quarters, please?” The FSO asked the company commander.

“No, Lieutenant. I want to speak with you immediately following this formation.”

Emotion was something the Vulcans learned to stifle. The Romulans did not. Lieutenant N’Plentar was angry the commander denied his request. He resolved to remain quiet for the rest of formation and try to calm his emotions.

“Operation Vanguard will be the largest peacekeeping mission the galaxy has ever seen and we will be right in the middle of it. The eyes of trillions of people are on us. Billions of souls are looking to us to help them, to enable them the opportunity to survive this holocaust. I expect every marine in this company to be model Starfleet servicemembers, and to act in accordance with the Starfleet Creed. We represent the Federation.”

“While in a peacekeeping role, our rules of engagement (ROE) for this operation are as follows. You will be authorized to use deadly force if you observe a threat to your loss of life or serious bodily injury or perceive a threat to someone else’s loss of life or serious bodily injury. This means you can defend yourself and your fellow marines as well as the civilians we are being entrusted to defend. Not everyone we meet will be willing to play by the rules. Be careful about what you do. Be prepared to justify your actions even if you consider the decision to be trivial.”

“I know Captain Tak has some serious training planned for this afternoon. I will turn the formation back over to the first sergeant and get on with the training day. I want to see all the officers in holosuite five immediately following this formation. First Sergeant!”

The first sergeant marched forward and the other NCOs resumed their position at the front of their respective formations. All the officers marched out of the cargo bay.

“Do we need any equipment, sir?” Lieutenant Cham, the Bajoran second platoon leader asked.

“No, just yourselves.” Major Watkins wanted to speak with his officers alone. As they walked to holosuite five he spoke to his XO, “Tak, you only need remain for the beginning of the brief about the mission. I am conducting Physical fitness training with the lieutenants.”

“Roger that, sir.”

As the lieutenants and company commander conducted training in weightlifting and running in the holosuites, the rest of the company ran through squad level battle drills and situational training exercises (STX). Eventually, the entire company regrouped inside holosuite six.

Major Watkins pulled Lieutenant N’Plentar aside during the officer’s Physical Fitness Training (PT). He placed his left hand on the young Romulan’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “I am very sorry to hear about your loss. I know this is difficult for you. I’m not even going to suggest that your family is still alive. The number of survivors from Romulus compared to the planet’s population at the time of its destruction was extremely miniscule. Most likely only dignitaries in the Romulan government made it out alive. If there is anything I can do to help you, please let me know. If you would like to speak to a health professional, to get some counselling, I can arrange that.” He looked warmly and compassionately at the Romulan lieutenant. “Now, I expect you to perform your duties as this unit’s Fire Support Officer without failing. Do you understand, Jateel?”

“Yes sir,” the lieutenant was forlorn, depressed. “Thank you sir.”

“Will you be able to lead fire support training for your section at 1300 hours in holosuite seven?”

“Yes sir. I know what I am doing. Chief Bowman knows the drill. He is a great asset. You can count on me, sir.” Lieutenant N’Plentar was serious about his work but couldn’t help thinking about his family. He would dwell on this issue for a long time to come.

---

“Excuse me, sir,” Gunnery Sergeant Washington addressed the unit commander. “I’ve installed a physical fitness routine into Holosuite five and a gunner range routine in suite six. I’ve been working on a training schedule for level one skills starting immediately. I’ll need you to look it over. If you have any input on collective training ideas for you and your lieutenants, please share with me and I will get them set up in one of the holosuites.”

“Thanks, Gunny,” Major Watkins responded to his operations sergeant. “Do you happen to have the first sergeant’s personnel report?”

“Yes sir,” Gunny Washington, an African NCO from the American city of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania said as he handed his datapad to his commander.

Major Watkins looked it over mumbling to himself, “authorized 219, 209 on hand. Shortages, nine carabiners and one rifleman.” He stopped when he saw the next line, then looked up at Gunny Washington, staring him eye to eye. “Five cases of Andorian clap?! Seriously!?”

“Ah, yes sir. Apparently, some of the men went out for a night on the town before we left San Diego and bumped into some loose Andorian women and a little more fun than they expected.”

“Wonderful, I assume they have reported to sick bay?”

“Yes sir,” Gunnery Sergeant Washington responded with a smile. “The Andorians are acting up over Platoon Sergeant Skulvik.”

“Not this again!?” Major Watkins was annoyed at the racist contempt the Andorians displayed toward their one and only Vulcan in the company. “I know Platoon Sergeant Skulvik can take care of himself, but I’m going to ask the first sergeant to take care of this.”

“I need to head to the bridge. I’m sure the Captain will have something for us to do soon. I want to give him an update and tell him our training plan. Keep up the good work. Ask Captain Tak for his hand to hand combat routine. I want the officers and senior NCOs to begin training in the Klingon style of combat as soon as possible.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“That means you too, Gunny!”

“No problem, sir. I look forward to it.”

Major Watkins turned away and headed for the turbolift and the bridge.

He exited the lift to see the Bridge crew performing their duties. The Executive Officer, Commander Udrus, a Bajoran about the same age as himself sat in the Commander’s seat. Meanwhile, Major Watkins approached the Tactical Station and Lieutenant Commander Vuvius, the male Trill who was just a tad shorter than himself. He knew nothing about the position or the station the tactics officer stood in front of, but commanding the naval infantry contingent aboard ship, it seemed like a logical place for him to await the ship’s captain and his orders.