The Romulan War_ Beneath the Raptor's Wing (Book 1) - Michael A. Martin [177]
It would be an image for the history books and the news reports, once operational security was no longer a concern: an armada of no less than one dozen Daedalus-class starships, some newly constructed, some very recently refitted, their hulls glinting dully in the light of dim, distant Sol. Had this large assemblage of armed and armored Starfleet vessels gathered any nearer to Earth than it had, the civilian comnets would already be abuzz with news of the bold assault that Earth was about to undertake. Though Archer understood the necessity to a free society of a free press, he also appreciated the truth of the early-twentieth-century adage that loose lips may sink ships.
He was not about to allow any of these ships to sink, not if he had anything to say about it. Starfleet Command had entrusted all of them to his overall command in what he acknowledged—not without some trepidation—was the largest single naval action the United Earth government had ever undertaken using only its own resources. Of course, the plan hadn’t been conceived with the assumption that Earth would be standing entirely on her own; Starfleet Command had hoped initially that the Andorians and the Tellarites would shoulder at least a portion of the burden. Archer still presumed that they would have, if their own respective vulnerabilities to Romulan sneak attacks had not drawn their attention inward of late.
But now was not the time to mull over might-have-beens. He had a fleet to command, and a job to do.
“Fleet status report, Hoshi,” Archer said.
Ensign Hoshi Sato turned her chair away from her communications console on the bridge’s port side and faced Archer. “All vessels report ready, Commodore.”
Archer winced slightly at the archaic-sounding naval title. He had tried to get accustomed to hearing it ever since Starfleet had cut his current mission orders, and during the whole period Enterprise had been in spacedock receiving its most recent round of repairs and upgrades during the four days prior to today’s deployment. He didn’t like it any better now than he had the first time Admiral Gardner had lobbed it at him.
“Enterprise stands ready with the fleet, Commodore,” Lieutenant Reed reported, standing at crisp attention behind the tactical station to starboard.
“Helm ready as well, Commodore,” Ensign Leydon said, her hands moving at a blur as she ran and reran last-minute systems checks.
“The fleet awaits your orders, Commodore,” said Lieutenant O’Neill from the science station at Archer’s immediate left, ably filling her current role as acting XO.
Archer was suddenly hyperaware that every eye on the bridge was now simultaneously upon him. In an absurd flash of free-associational recollection, his mind’s eye dredged up an image from a more-than-century-old video he had seen during one of the crew movie nights a few years back. The film was set in medieval Scotland, and depicted the bloody fight of the Scottish people for independence against their English oppressors. On the eve of the climactic battle against Edward Longshanks, the Scottish hero William Wallace had ridden his horse along the front of his army’s lines while delivering a stirring speech about fighting, and quite possibly dying, in the cause of freedom under the banner of the legendary Robert Bruce.
He suppressed a grin as he imagined Malcolm contemptuously waving his bare buttocks at the Romulans, a tactic Wallace’s kilt-clad warriors had used to infuriate the English. Banishing the absurd image from his mind, he directed Hoshi to open the interfleet comm channel.
“This is... Commodore Archer,” he said, addressing the entire attack force. “Today we will all take a bold step into history on behalf of Starfleet, Earth, and the entire human species. Until now, we have only waded on the cosmic beach, ankle-deep in the ocean. Today we’re