Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [82]
“Increase our shield power,” Bateson said.
“That’ll take seven or eight minutes, Captain,” Scott said, but he started working.
“Weapons?”
“Require five minutes to bring phasers up to full power, sir,” Data reported. “Photon torpedoes are not on line, in accordance with Starfleet War Game Regulations.”
“How long to get them on line?”
“Nineteen minutes, sir, from main engineering.”
Bateson turned around. “Scotty, can you get that done?”
“Sir, I can do that,” Lieutenant Wolfe volunteered. “My minor was quantum physics of motive powered projectiles.”
“Scotty?”
“Let him do it, sir.”
“Go, John. Scotty, keep working on the shields.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Geordi, take over main science.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Mike, target that ship.”
“Targeting,” Mike Dennis responded as Wolfe hurried past him and disappeared into the turbolift. “Sir, the cloud is obscuring sensor contact. I can’t get a true fix. I get general movements within about a hundred meters.”
“Another hit coming in!” La Forge shouted suddenly, and hardly were his words out when the ship was rocked again, then again almost instantly.
The ship screamed in protest as nearly full-power phasers blasted her lowered deflectors. The lights flashed again, this time with more violence than the last, and there was obviously real damage crackling through the systems.
“LBD shutdown!” Dennis called out over the noise.
“Losing liquid helium in the loops,” La Forge said at the same time. “We’ve got heat buildup. Attempting to compensate.”
“Shields, Scotty,” Bateson urged.
Scott didn’t look up. “Working on it, sir, but that second hit took out two polarity generators. They knew our shields would be reduced and they’re trying to keep them that way.”
“Time to repair?”
“At least thirty minutes, sir!” Scott didn’t wait for an order or anything else. He snapped his fingers, said, “La Forge, take over here! Dennis take science! Data, take over tactical!”
“Aye aye, sir!”
“Aye, sir!”
Scott ducked into the turbolift and was consumed by the gush of the tube door.
Musical posts again. Riker’s stomach tightened. What was going on? Not war games, that was for sure, unless the admirals were really out to test this ship in unorthodox ways. More like insane ways.
Captain Bateson didn’t contradict Scott’s reassignments, but watched as the men settled into their new posts and took a moment to acclimate to the readings.
“These aren’t Starfleet emissions!” La Forge blurted. “Intercept sensors indicate the contact is fourteen meters too long in hull configuration, with all the wrong emissions readings. It’s definitely not the Nora Nicholas.”
“Could sensors be obscured by the cloud?” Riker asked.
“Not this much, sir.”
Bateson looked at La Forge. “But Wolfe confirmed it!”
La Forge swiveled in his chair, insisting, “He was wrong, sir!”
“Then who is it?” Riker demanded. “Who is that?”
“And what happened to the Nora Nicholas?” Bateson wondered, peering at the swarming cloud in which their unidentified antagonist hid.
Dayton turned, one hand on his earpiece. “Contact is hailing us, sir … but it’s not a Starfleet—sir, it’s a Klingon signal!”
“And those aren’t phasers hitting us,” La Forge angrily said. “They’re disruptors!”
Bateson shot Riker a glance, and looked far more stunned than vindicated. “Wizz, respond!”
“Frequency open, sir.”
“This is Captain Bateson in command of the U.S.S. Enterprise. You are in Federation space and in violation of the Neutral Zone treaty. Identify yourselves and prepare to stand down.”
“Morgan Bateson. Welcome home. And bid welcome to the warrior whose name you ruined. Identify yourself as the plague you are, and prepare to lose everything.”
“Kozara!” Bateson hurled. Then he suddenly laughed, a horrible, ironic laugh. “Oh, you bloodblister!”
Riker turned quickly. “You seem to have good