Going Rogue

Posted on Mon Dec 21st, 2020 @ 4:23am by Rear Admiral Greg Coulson

713 words; about a 4 minute read

Mission: Cheese
Location: Station Commander's Office, New Vulcan
Timeline: 2430-08-30, 09:00

For the entirety of his career Gregory Coulson had been loyal to the United Federation of Planets and its ideals. He fully believed in everything that the Federation stood for and its goals of unity among all worlds of the galaxy. He believed that the Federation was about its people and that the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few or the one. That was the best aspects of the Federation. That was why it was a force for good.

He never denied that he had done some questionable things to try to keep the Federation the utopia that it was. Ever since graduation from the Academy he had been a soldier fighting to save paradise. His dedication got him the attention of Starfleet Intelligence, then it got him the attention of some other people of note. After having been a lone wolf for the majority of his career he'd been pulled into the sphere of Willian Targaryen and his crew. He served on the Enterprise before the Admiral pulled him along to 'bigger and greater things' well before most would've said he was ready for them. Many would kill for his life and position and few ever got here. Fewer still stayed here.

He wondered how much longer he had left in this chair. Staring at the display screen of his personal computer, Greg wondered if this was the last thing he would ever do as a Starfleet Admiral. It was more than that though. He wondered if this was the last thing he'd do as a free man. Not long ago he'd met with the President of the Federation and a group of Starfleet's senior leadership about the challenges experienced by an old friend. The plan was always if the crisis code was sounded they would come get him. Now, instead, they were going the other way and letting him out to pasture by himself. Greg couldn't, he wouldn't let that happen. Not this time. Greg pressed the key.

"Commands confirmed," the automated voice answered. "Message encoded for delivery to Admiral Willian Targaryen in one hour."

"Computer," Coulson called. "Confirm latest traffic patterns as outlined in personal file 47-HGJM-1984."

"Working," the computer replied as a series of beeps, whines, and other associated noises echoed through the room. "Analysis confirmed. Current projections indicate an increase of Romulan vessels along the Federation/Romulan Neutral Zone in defined location."

He rested his head on the rest built into the chair, "Computer, execute search of Starfleet Intelligence files. Keywords: Sakkath, Build-up, Invasion, Attack, and other associated synonyms."

"Search complete. 47 entries located."

"Do any correspond to the contents of file 47-HGJM-1984?"

Additional noises, "Affirmative. Decoded Romulan intercepts indicate that the IRW Sonnus has been deployed to patrol duties of the Romulan Neutral Zone near the coordinates identified in file 47-HGJM-1984."

"Identify Sonnus," Greg asked.

"Information unavailable at this time."

"Computer, override using my authorization codes and search for information on Romulan vessel known as the Sonnus in Intelligence files," Coulson directed as he took a drink of his coffee.

"IRW Sonnus has been identified in secure files as a Valdore Class Warbird."

"At least its not something a little newer," he mumbled trying to reassure himself. Though old the Valdore was still a dangerous opponent especially in the shuttle he was going to be using. He really wished he could take the Sulaco, but it would be a bit more conspicuous that he'd like. Even more when he pulled into orbit over Vulcan. "Computer," he called, "is my ship ready for departure?"

"Affirmative."

He nodded. That was it. It was time to go. "Computer, transport me to my ship then execute operation file Coulson A42B24A."

"Command confirmed. Executing transport," the computer announced. As he saw his office for what he knew would be the final time he heard the computer say, "Initiate Opera..."

As the transporter placed him on the deck of his runabout he looked back to see the lights of New Vulcan Traffic Control flickering on and off. New Vulcan was officially disabled. He walked toward the cockpit, "Computer, engage autopilot for the preprogrammed coordinates. Warp 6."

The small aerowing scout turned on its axis and jumped to warp, heading straight by New Vulcan to return to the old one.

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