Operation: Pacifica, An Interim
by Lieutenant Commander Geier, TRES Corps

 ST sat back in his chair, staring intently at the computer monitor.
  He racked up another frag in Heretic, toasting another hapless soul with his
  powered-up Phoenix Rod.  "Next?" he muttered as he turned around to find a
  new victim.  Before he could react, however, he found himself the victim of
  a morph ovum.  He tried to use a spell book to counteract the effect, but
  before he could get it off, he received a dose of flamage himself, becoming
  Kentucky Fried Chicken.  "PHUCK!" he yelled, wondering who the hell gave him
  his comeuppance.  [Oh well, it was bound to happen eventually,] he thought.
  He had been playing for four straight hours, after all.  He logged out of
  the massive DM and pushed himself away from the computer.  ST then got out
  of his chair and left his quarters, restless.  Stepping outside onto the
  deck into the cool night air, he walked up to the railing, resting his arms
  on it.  The night was cloudless, with a vast expanse of stars decorating the
  heavens.  ST straightened and looked skyward, his eyes lost in thought.

 He had no one.  Most of his family had been killed by the sponge
  minions of B'harnie.  His uncle, whom he had gone to live with after the
  tragedy had also fallen to the spongies.  He relived the separate tragedies
  simultaneously in one awful second, shuddering.  He looked down and
  listened, but the only sounds he could hear were the wind and the ship
  slicing through the waves.  Bowing his head, he began to chant an ancient
  hymn that he had learned as a child.  His voice carried out past the ship,
  but was obliterated by the sounds of the ocean.   He continued on, but his
  voice began to falter as he struggled to remember the words.  Stopping
  completely, he buried his head in his hands, cursing himself silently.

 And then he heard a voice in the darkness.  It, too was chanting.
  As ST listened, he realized that the unknown chanter had picked up right
  where he had left off in the exact same chant. As the clear voice moved into
  a familiar portion, ST joined it, the two merging harmoniously until the
  conclusion.  "Whoever thou art," he whispered, "I thank thee for thy
  assistance."  The only response was the crashing waves rolling against the
  ships.

 ST sighed, and went back to his quarters for the night.

 Over the next few days and nights, ST spent most of his time alone
  in his quarters, reading and listening to Good Music[tm].  On occasion, he
  chatted with Sabine and the captain, but those conversations were rare.  ST
  had also sat out on the deck, slacking intensely.  He figured he'd be pretty
  much useless until the fleet reached Pacifica.  He was a hand-to-hand
  fighter, period.  When it came to naval strategy and battle, he was
  absolutely clueless.  If he were put behind the controls of an F-14, his
  first move would most likely be to dive nosefirst into the ocean, not
  knowing what the hell was going on.  ST was never a patient man, and the
  seemingly-slow progress of the fleet was starting to make him edgy.  He
  wanted to get to Pacifica and kick some spongie ass, not sit and wait around
  in increasingly-confining quarters.  He started to brood, coming out of his
  quarters only to get more Good Food[tm] and the like.   He scarcely noticed
  when news arrived of some aerial skirmishes with B'harnate fighters,
  slipping ever deeper into a depressing funk.

[Day Six of Operation Pacifica.  Time:1230]

 ST lounged in his quarters, in the throes of boredom.  It had been
  four days since the departure from San Francisco, but it seemed that the
  fleet was getting nowhere, he thought.  He sighed and reached for his
  lochaber.  Grasping it, it started to twirl it around and swipe at imaginary
  targets.  [Now I am truly bored,] he mentally moaned.

 "Captain Roswell to Lieutenant Geier, please report ASAP to the
  bridge.  Repeat, Lieutenant Geier, please report ASAP to the bridge," the
  intercom in his quarters squawked, interrupting his playtime.

 "I know something's up," he muttered, throwing on his duty uniform
  and weapons.  He quickly left the quarters and made his way to the bridge.

 "You wanted to see me, Captain?" he asked as he entered the nerve
  center of the DFS Tsunami.

 "Yes, Lieutenant.  Our planes have spotted enemy vessels headed
  this way.  This ship could undergo heavy bombardment, so be ready for
  anything.  Stay off the deck as much as possible to avoid any kamikazes.  In
  other words, stay sharp."

 "I'm always sharp, Captain."

 "Get sharper.  If you need any information on the battle, make your
  way back here and I'll fill you in.  Understood?"

 "Understood," replied ST in a flat tone.

 "Good.  Dismissed," saluted Roswell.

 ST returned his salute and left the bridge, as the ship's guns
  began their rain of fire.  He returned to his quarters carefully amid the
  ship shaking under the power of its guns.  [Hope I can find the earplugs
  they gave me,] he thought, his ears pounding from the audio assault.  He re-
  entered his room, found the plugs, and quickly stuck them in.   The rest of
  the day and night was spent in slumber.

[Day Seven.  Time:0030]

 "Urrgh...how long...shoot..." ST groused as he rolled out of his
  bunk, reading the time.  Throwing on his duty uniform and his weapons belt,
  he decided to go see how the battle was doing.  He rushed to the bridge to
  find a weary Captain Roswell.

 "Ahh..Lieutenant, I see you want some info on what's going on."

 "Aye, pray, do tell."

 "All right," the captain began, "Although one of our ships has had
  to retreat to San Fran because of heavy damage, we've been holding our own.
  Admiral J-Rock has been leading sorties against enemy fighters and is
  continuing as we speak.  Captain Felton was involved in a plane accident, he
  was unable to land on his carrier, and....he crashed, but he's all right.
  That's pretty much how it stands."

 ST nodded.  "All right, keep me posted if there's any further
  developments."

 "You got..."

 The ship suddenly rocked from bow to stern under a heavy assault.
  All those on the bridge were momentarily dazed, until the captain brought
  them back to reality with a shout of "RETURN FIRE!"  The ship shook again as
  the guns blazed their response to this rude awakening.

 "Sir!  We are detecting what appears to be...a Lyran ship headed
  for the fleet," yelled a yeoman.

 "Lyran," muttered ST.  "Holy shit, this is out of my league."

 "Cut the chatter, ST.  Yeoman, I want a full damage report on the
  double!"

 "I'm getting a few minor casualty reports from the impact, all
  decks report no damage."

 The captain nodded.  "All right, yeoman, get a med crew down to
  those...oh my Lord.." the captain gasped as he watched a bolt of energy
  discharge from the Lyran ship, destroying the DFS Des Moines and all those
  aboard in a massive fireball.  "Holy mother of God," were the only words
  that an utterly shocked ST could muster.  Captain Roswell swallowed hard
  before speaking.  "Yeoman, train all fire on the Lyran ship.  Fire without
  mercy."

 "Aye, sir."

 The massive guns pivoted towards their new target and opened fire.
  The Lyran ship, however, had been enveloped in a B'harnate color shield
  which repulsed the efforts of the Tsunami and the other Doberman ships, who
  had also retaliated.

 "Sir!  We are receiving intruder reports from all over the ship!
  Repeat, we have armed spongin boarding the ship!" shouted the yeoman, in
  response in his display.

 The only sound heard on the bridge was ST cocking and loading his
  .357.

 "Lock and load.  It's killing time," ST growled as he left the
  bridge, lochaber and .357 in hand.

To be continued in "Those Who Join With Evil"

--ST