Turn 60 prelude
Aboard the IKS Battleaxe, Flagship IKN Northern Fleet, currently in orbit
around Moon Colony 1 in the Territories Edge system.
“General B’moth to the bridge.”
The Klingon stopped his weapon kata, striding across the floor while wiping
his sweating forehead crest with a loose corner of his course exercise
tunic. Placing the batlleh back on its stand, he thumbed the button next to
the wall speaker.
“B’moth here.”
The speaker crackled into life once more. “General, we have a report in from
the frigate Eliminator on outer system patrol. They are requesting access to
colonial freight and shipping information.”
“On my way,” he grunted, grabbing a towel and draping it around his broad
neck as he left the training hall and strode along the corridor.
As the bridge doors slid open, he glanced towards his second. “Give me
status,” he called as he took the two steps down to the deep reclined chair
in the command well. He was already settling back and adjusting his sweat
stained tunic when his second replied.
The Eliminator reports having made contact with a freight convoy inbound for
the system’s primary habitats. They are requesting schedule information to
see if we are expecting any inbound colonists. I was just about to confirm
and set them back on patrol.
The General frowned, an action made all the more pronounced by his races
characteristic features.
“Hmm, Kolloth is in command of the Eliminator. He wouldn’t request
information that trivial if there wasn’t a reason,” B’moth mused. Then
turning to his comms officer, he ordered, “Confirm the freighters flight
plan and append a query from me as to why he is wasting power and time on a
fleet of rusting scows.”
“Aye General,” came the prompt response.
Minutes crawled by, time lag due to the relative distance of the two craft.
B’moth ignored all activity around him as was his right; all present had
sworn personal loyalty to him and would do their duty regardless of his
watchfulness or not.
“Response back from Kolloth sir. He apologises for his cautious actions and
respectfully points out that when one expects a Targ, sees a Targ then what
one is looking at should actually be a Targ. Message ends.” The comms
officer turned with a confused look on his face. “I’m sorry General, but I
don’t understand. Shall I request confirmation of the message?”
B’moth ignored the question as he absorbed the unusual response from the
sentry vessel.
“Hmmmmm. Has he sent any telemetry data with the report?” he inquired.
“Yes,” came the reply. “Projected speed course and position of the convoy.”
“On screen.”
The General studied the display for a few moments, stroking his long
moustaches in contemplation. Then with sudden violence, he slammed his fist
on the instrument panel built into his chair’s armrest. Klaxons wailed
across the bridge and echoed throughout the hull.
“All hands, all vessels to Battle Alert!!!” roared B’moth.
Startled only for a second, his crew started reacting.
The Comms officer broke in over the alarms sounds. “The Frigate Ghost
signalling. They are requesting confirmation of the alert.”
“Let them eat static, damn them!” was the generals snarled riposte.
Seconds then minutes crawled by. One by one the ships of the fleet signalled
battle ready status. The IKS Ghost was last to report.
“Signal all captains, split screen conference.”
The main viewer dissolved to be replaced by a composite picture of multiple
Klingon faces. B’moth focussed on a single figure.
“Jengvar of the Ghost, I would speak with your second.” One of the captain’s
on visual nodded once and was replaced at the viewer by another Klingon.
“Your Commander showed hesitation in battle. Why have you not carried out
your duty?” enquired B’moth softly.
On screen, the officer’s eyes narrowed, then he turned a third of the way
around to look at something out of view. Sudden movement, followed by the
sound of a hand disruptor firing. A muffled thud as something heavy hit the
floor on the distant ship.
“It is done General.”
B’moth nodded once in acknowledgment. “Very well.” Then he turned his
attention to the screen at large, addressing all his commanders.
“The performance of the fleet in that exercise was unacceptable. Sentry duty
has obviously taken the edge off your warriors, and as your general it is my
duty to hone that which is dull. We will drill the crews until their
responses are what would be expected of Klingons.”
“We are going to rendezvous out-system with the Eliminator. They will provide your
helmsmen with course vectors. You will drill your crews in response timing
under battle conditions until we reach our destination. There we will make
contact an inbound colonial convoy. On our approach run, the convoy will be
treated as hostile and your gunners will provide streamed firing solutions
to all vessels as we move in. I want that information recorded for later
analysis. Once there we will provide the convoy with an honour guard back in
system.”
B’moth motioned to cut the bridge microphones so that he could conference
with his own crew while holding the channel to the fleet open.
“You stand confused Second. You are wondering why I am taking the fleet to
mark out Kolloth’s convoy on the premise of a battle drill.” B’moth had put
these to his junior officer as statements rather than questions.
The Second’s eyes slitted in suspicion, wary of a trap. He took his time to
formulate a politic response.
“The timing seems more than coincidental,” he offered.
B’moth gave a short bark of laughter, but his voice lacked any trace of
humour.
“Kolloth has given away the fact that he has more than passing familiarity
with convoy raiding. Traders will travel in a line astern convoy under
normal circumstances, and that is what those ships out there are doing. It
is the easiest formation to navigate and saves accidental ramming which is
always a concern on bulk haulers. They just are not built to manoeuvre.
Trader caravans never have been.”
The second shrugged his shoulders with non-committal. Neither history
lessons not the whims of civilian cargo handlers mattered to him.
The General continued, “But since before recorded time, traders have
jealously guarded their cargo. In the same way that The Targ when threatened
spreads its crest spines to present a larger profile to its aggressor,
caravans will spread to form a clustered formation. It means they must slow
and take greater care, but a raider is now confused by the clump of trader
vehicles and cannot make out numbers with the same degree of accuracy. More
importantly, it is now harder to split their formation. Ships in line astern
can be split and picked off piecemeal.”
The general nodded to himself as if agreeing with some discussion only he
could hear.
“Yes, we are in a designated war-zone. Kolloth is expecting that in hostile
or unknown territory that any caravan would form a Targ.”
The faraway look receded as B’moth transferred his gaze directly into the
eyes of his second.
“And that convoy is not. That makes Kolloth suspicious.”
B’moth’s voice dropped to a low hiss. “He was right to place his query, for
any warrior who ignores his suspicions in hostile territory is likely to end
up dead.”
General B’moth straightened in his command chair and gestured to the comms
officer to re-activate the bridge pick-ups.
“Captains, you have your orders. Adopt 2 – 4 – 9 echelon formation, altering
as the sentries rejoin the fleet.”
“Move out.”
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