The Destroyer

Chapter 9

At the captain’s nod, Lieutenant Commander Reed toggled something held in his hand. Instantly, a mournful tune began playing through the ship’s speakers. Seconds later, Travis could feel a pair of subtle vibrations through the deckplates. Beyond the viewport behind the lectern, he could see two slow-moving objects arc away from Enterprise and toward a far distant star.

The memorial service broke up soon afterwards, with a few of the crew departing for duty stations. Travis remained behind for a little while longer, noting how the captain stood before the viewports and watched the empty torpedo shells until they were out of sight. There was little emotion on Archer’s face as he stared at the glittering stars.

“How’s he doing?” Travis asked softly as Hoshi joined him, and the linguist gave him a sad look that spoke volumes. There was no need for Mayweather to identify who the “he” was; the two of them had discussed at length the captain’s reaction to the deaths of his two friends.

“Not good,” she replied just as quietly. “He spoke with Trip’s parents before the memorial.”

“Ouch.”

“They didn’t talk long,” Hoshi revealed, glancing at the captain once more. “But whatever was said, it really tore him up.” She blinked away tears and returned her attention to the glass of whatever it was she was drinking. Travis glanced away in understanding; though she’d never confirmed it, he had begun to suspect that Hoshi had something of a crush on the captain. Over the last couple of months, she’d grown out of it somewhat, but every now and then, it resurfaced when she thought Captain Archer was feeling down.

And he was most assuredly feeling down right now.

At a loss for anything more to say, Travis surveyed the crew still in the mess hall. Everyone who wasn’t on duty was present with the notable exception of Doctor Phlox who repeatedly pointed out that attending such a service for people who weren’t dead was a disservice to them. At first, Travis had been mildly insulted by the doctor’s refusal to even make an appearance, but Hoshi had explained it as a Denobulan social custom; without direct, incontrovertible proof, Phlox would continue believing that the two commanders had survived, no matter how slim their chances.

For some reason, that had made Travis feel better.

Something wasn’t right.

Opening her eyes, Subcommander T’Pol rose to her feet in a single, fluid motion, ignoring the twinge of discomfort that shot through her body as she forced her wounded shoulder into action. With four quick steps, she crossed the distance to the nearest window of the dilapidated fueling facility, drawing the phase pistol as she did. Her every instinct was screaming that she was in danger, though T’Pol knew not why.

For a single, extended moment, she was completely still as she strained her senses to identify the source of her distress. She was about to relax when she heard it again: the muffled creak of leather and the soft ring of metal against stone. Her breath caught when she realized what it meant.

Someone was scaling the mesa.

Instantly, T’Pol sprang toward the ladder leading to the roof the fuel depot. It took every gram of her self-control to keep from groaning as the still-healing muscles in her upper body protested, but she persevered and scrambled up the rungs. She was only partially surprised that the roof door opened without a sound; Commander Tucker had visited the roof several times that she was aware of and it was entirely within his character to pause long enough to conduct some minor repairs.

Once on the roof, she crawled toward the edge, keeping as low a profile as physically possible. Silhouetting herself on the roof would be the act of a rank amateur, and T’Pol had far too much experience to make such a mistake. She paused when she reached her destination, patiently waiting for some telltale sign that she had been detected. A long moment passed in relative silence; the far distant booms of artillery fire and explosions could still be heard and felt, but they had become so common that she had become accustomed to them. It was strange how easily one could adapt to such chaos. Satisfied that she was still undetected, she slowly rolled onto her back and pulled her scanner free from its holster.

Of Vulcan manufacture, T’Pol had modified the device heavily to appear as little more than a standard issue Starfleet scanner, mostly out of necessity. Possession of this particular model of scanner outside the Ministry of Security was technically illegal, after all, and she doubted that the Ministry would be pleased to learn what she had listed as battle loss had in fact survived. The moment the scanner vibrated in her hand, T’Pol lifted it into place some three centimeters below the lip of the parapet encircling the roof. Using her thumb, she input a specific key sequence and an antenna-like rod slid noiselessly from the scanner’s body, telescoping into place above the parapet. A second later, the small display screen flickered into existence as the micro-camera atop the antenna began recording.

She was unsurprised to see shadowy figures slowly ascending the mesa. Though the resolution of the image was far too poor for her to accurately count their numbers, T’Pol grimaced slightly and fought the urge to sigh. Even a single such soldier was one too many, especially if their grasp of tactics was beyond rudimentary. Upon attaining a foothold, logic would dictate they establish a defensive perimeter so additional soldiers could join their strike team.

Another quick key sequence triggered a laser pulse from the micro-camera atop the antenna and instantly, the distance between the camera and targeted soldier flashed across her screen. T’Pol grit her teeth as she retracted the antenna; if her calculations were correct, she had less than twenty minutes before that native reached the summit of the mesa.

Abandoning stealth for speed, T’Pol scrambled to her feet and darted for the ladder leading back to the garage. Using the specialized training she’d received, she divorced her mind from the pain radiating from her shoulder wound so she could gather their gear more quickly. There would be a price to pay later – additional time in a healing trance or perhaps even permanent loss of some sensation – but for now, she was able to function mostly unimpaired.

Once their gear was gathered, T’Pol slid into the driver’s seat of the groundcar and examined its controls. They were rudimentary at best and she quickly worked out how to maneuver the vehicle. Satisfied, she exited the groundcar and walked to the garage door. It slid open without a sound and with a modicum of effort, prompting her to once again suspect Commander Tucker had been at work. Seconds later, the garage was behind her.

Without an immediate destination in mind, T’Pol directed the groundcar in the direction of the ‘store’ Commander Tucker had mentioned before departing their safehouse, relying heavily upon her admittedly flawed memory to do so. The sound of a rapidly approaching land vehicle caused her to swerve her groundcar into an alleyway to avoid notice and she bit back a sigh when she realized it was Mister Tucker, now piloting a three-wheeled vehicle similar to the one they had utilized days earlier. He failed to notice her and she spent several long moments attempting to reverse the direction of her own groundcar one-handed. The screech of metal grinding against the stone edifice to her left was proof she wasn’t entirely successful.

“Where the hell-” Tucker began to say as she skidded the groundcar to an awkward stop before him, but T’Pol cut him off with a sharp hand gesture.

“There are soldiers ascending the mesa,” she snapped, gesturing in the direction of where they would be appearing. By her calculations, they had only minutes until the first of the soldiers appeared. To his credit, Tucker comprehended her haste instantly and reached for the two survival packs. He quickly lashed them to the frame of his newly acquired vehicle – a vehicle that had several cloth bags and what appeared to be large metal cans already secured to its frame. T’Pol asked no questions as she slid into the passenger’s seat of the groundcar. She imagined she could hear the commander’s pulse racing.

Tucker had only just climbed into the vehicle and engaged its engine when the first of the soldiers appeared. Almost instantly, the four men detected their presence and began shouting at them. The commander didn’t hesitate as he applied acceleration, and the groundcar’s wheels squeeled in protest as it slewed around. Subsonic cracks echoed around them as the soldiers opened fire with their primitive slugthrowers and T’Pol heard her companion curse loudly as the rounds whined past them.

Ignoring Tucker’s flash of panic, T’Pol reached for her phase pistol and selected its highest setting. She took careful aim – not at the soldiers – and squeezed the trigger. The beam flashed out, slicing into the fuel compartment of the now parked law enforcement groundcar.

It exploded with rather spectacular results.

A second later, Tucker took a hard turn and the garage vanished from sight. He made several more course alterations, each seemingly chosen at random, and spent nearly five minutes at what appeared an inherently unsafe level of speed before wheeling the vehicle around into a skidding brake. Before T’Pol knew what he was doing, he had backed them into a mostly gutted building and idled down.

“Tell me that wasn’t fun!” Tucker grinned, eyes glinting from the adrenaline coursing through his veins. T’Pol raised an eyebrow at his reaction to their narrow escape but chalked it up to human idiosyncrasy. Despite her best efforts, however, one corner of her mouth quirked upward fractionally.

“Fun?” she queried, inexplicably grateful for the reappearance of the old Charles Tucker. “I would not classify it as fun.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he chuckled before quickly sobering. “You okay?” he asked, a frown suddenly appearing on his face as he studied her shoulder. It was, T’Pol realized, bleeding once more; in the heat of the moment and with her steadfast refusal to acknowledge her pain, she had failed to notice.

“I am,” she answered. Almost at once, T’Pol grimaced as another wave of agony pulsed through her upper body. “Or rather,” she corrected, “I am in the same condition I was before this latest…”

“Escapade?” Tucker offered with a wan smile. T’Pol nodded at his choice of words. “With all those bullets flyin’ around,” he started before inhaling sharply. “The fuel cans!” he blurted out as he jumped from the driver’s seat. With her shoulder injury slowing her, T’Pol was still climbing out of the groundcar when he spoke again. “We were lucky,” Tucker declared from where he stood at the back of the vehicle. “One of the duffel backs got hit, but they missed both of the fuel cans.”

“That is fortunate,” T’Pol remarked. She touched one of the cloth bags and gave him a questioning look.

“Long story,” the commander remarked with a shrug. He glanced at the skyline and pressed his tongue against the inside of his mouth. Not for the first time, T’Pol observed the gesture with fascination, all the while wondering why she found it so … interesting. “We’ve got about three hours until the sun starts to go down, right? Maybe three and a half?” The question required no spoken response so T’Pol waited, recognizing the commander was verbalizing his thought processes. “They should stop tryin’ to kill each other in about two hours,” he continued, chewing on his lip as he did. He pinned her with his eyes and T’Pol wasn’t able to look away though she didn’t know why. “I wanna run the blockade then.”

“Before dark?” she asked. It was a brash suggestion and one entirely within the parameters of Tucker’s psychological profile according her superiors, but T’Pol had long since realized how inaccurate that profile was. More often than she cared to admit, the commander had surprised her with his decision-making process; to Vulcan standards, it was admittedly emotional but she had learned to trust him.

“Yeah,” Tucker admitted. “If our luck holds out,” he said, “we can catch ‘em napping.”

“I don’t believe in luck,” T’Pol stated flatly.

“Well, you don’t believe in time travel either,” the commander smiled, “but I won’t hold it against you.” Once again, Tucker locked eyes with her. “What d’ya say?” he asked. T’Pol nodded.

“Two hours,” she agreed.

With each second that passed, he was getting more nervous.

As he made his last circuit around the ATV, Trip Tucker fought the urge to fidget. This was his plan, after all, and both his and T’Pol’s life were at stake. It wasn’t the first time he’d been responsible for someone else; the advanced command training he’d received had been intended to make him more comfortable with the notion of having another’s life in his hands, but this felt different somehow.

“I have finished,” T’Pol announced, her voice reassuringly calm. She stepped through the doorway leading to the kitchen of the shattered building they’d taken refuge in hours earlier, a crate balanced easily in her good hand. The soft clink of bottles bumping against one another was evidence of what she’d been doing for the last hour and a half, but Trip kept his eyes on his own task. Metal plates, scavenged from the ruins of other buildings and vehicles, had been secured over the most vulnerable spots on the tri-wheeled vehicle. This haphazard armor would slow the trike down more than he liked, but would hopefully provide some minor protection against the small arms fire of the guards most likely to be at the checkpoint. He had also rigged it so the armor could be cut free quickly once they were out of the city.

“That’s great,” Trip murmured softly, too distracted to really notice her comment. He tapped one of the metal plates and pulled on the leather cord holding it in place, again wondering if it would hold. When T’Pol cleared her throat in an obvious attempt to get his attention, Tucker glanced up from where he knelt alongside the ATV. The Vulcan stood silently next to the passenger door, still balancing the crate with one hand. With her injured arm immobilized by the sling he’d fashioned earlier, she needed his assistance in securing her package.

“Sorry,” he mumbled as he stood and reached for the crate. Almost at once, he recoiled at the stench drifting from the bottles. “Damn,” he groused while maneuvering the crate into place. “What the hell is this stuff?”

“Potassium nitrate,” the Vulcan replied smoothly, “phosphorous, and trace elements of calcium phosphide.” She stepped back to give him more room. “It is rudimentary,” T’Pol added, “but should serve accomplish the task.”

“They look like Molotov cocktails,” Trip mused. Satisfied the crate was reasonably secure, he began leveraging himself out of the ATV.

“An apt comparison,” T’Pol answered. She donned an almost proud expression, though Trip suspected she’d claim it was anything but if pressed about it. “The compound should combust when exposed to oxygen and resist efforts to extinguish it.”

“Greek fire,” Tucker identified with some surprise. “You made Greek fire.”

“Technically,” his companion retorted, “I made Vulcan fire. We were using it centuries before your Greeks first developed it.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “I am surprised you are familiar with it, however. There is little engineering use for such a compound.”

“My mom is a chemist,” Trip admitted. “And Malcolm might have mentioned it once or twice.” He frowned at the pile of books she’d stored in the ATV already cramped cargo compartment; alongside the fuel canisters he’d relocated to the inside of the vehicle, the books had been found in the bombed out home and T’Pol had quickly decided to keep them for intelligence purposes. “I’m not even gonna point out how much those’ll slow us down,” he remarked.

“Good,” T’Pol stated with a hint of smugness in her voice. There was no trace of it on her face when Trip gave her a sour look, but he knew he hadn’t imagined it.

“Ready?” he asked instead. She nodded and climbed into the passenger seat. With the crate of bottles at her feet, she would have ready access to them. Trip leaned in to help her secure the seat harness, ignoring the flicker of annoyance that flashed across her face; it was little more than a tightening of her eyes, but he had learned to read the subtle clues that revealed her mood. She offered no verbal complaint, however, which revealed to Tucker how much her gunshot wound was hurting.

Once more, Trip frowned at the rudimentary door plate he’d cobbled together for T’Pol’s protection. It was little more than a metal slat tied to the trike’s frame and he worried it wouldn’t work. When the Vulcan gave him what he perceived to be an impatient look, though, he decided they would have to risk it. He climbed into the driver’s seat and spent a few minutes tying his own door plate shut.

At his side, T’Pol was comparing the readouts on her scanner with a paper map of the city she’d acquired from somewhere, probably the garage they’d vacated hours earlier. Despite the danger they were voluntarily heading into, she looked completely at ease, as if this was just another scouting mission aboard Enterprise. Trip grabbed the two levers that served as steering for the trike so she wouldn’t see his hands shake.

“We should make for this exit point,” T’Pol announced, her fingers tracing a route along a brightly-colored line on the map of the city. “It is the closest to our current position and has a direct line to the northern highway out of the city.”

“That means the army outside the city will be watching it pretty closely,” Trip pointed out.

“Agreed,” she answered, “which is why we won’t remain on the main highway longer than necessary.” She pointed to several other different-colored lines on the map, all outside the actual city proper if he was interpreting the map’s symbols correctly. “There are numerous smaller junctions available.”

“And this thing is supposed to be an ATV,” Tucker admitted. He started the engine and inhaled deeply. His pulse began beating loudly in his ears and he swallowed the lump that appeared in his throat.

“Relax, Charles,” T’Pol instructed, once again using his given name. Trip didn’t know why it thrilled him to hear her call him something other than ‘mister’ or ‘commander’, but it did. He wondered if he could convince her to do it more often; after all, it was only a short step from Charles to Trip.

“Aye aye, ma’am,” he smiled.

As expected, the fighting had mostly died down throughout the city and thunder was rolling out of the darkening sky with frightening rapidity. The streets leading to T’Pol’s selected exit point were pockmarked with impact craters from artillery strikes and aerial bombs, forcing Trip to maneuver the trike around them. He kept their speed relatively low as they inched toward the target; when it came into sight, he studied it for a brief, extended second.

Constructed of brick or concrete or something similar, the fortifications had clearly been designed to keep someone out of the city, not in. Over two meters in height, it was little more than a thick wall planted squarely in the middle of the main thoroughfare leading out of the city and down the mesa’s incline. What looked like machine gun nests were at the top of the wall and there was even a place for a larger artillery piece. A conveniently-placed ramp led to the top of the fortification and looked to be used to ferry ammunition to the cannon. In its prime, it would have been impressive and might have even resembled some of the beach fortifications Trip had seen in old World War II movies, but the damage to it was so extensive he doubted it could keep a bored cow from entering. One entire side had nearly collapsed and the rest of the wall seemed to sag under the weight of that missing section. A smoking tracked vehicle that had probably once been a tank of some sort at one time partially blocked the collapsed section, but wasn’t large enough to do anything but slow someone down.

“Now!” T’Pol urged and Tucker obeyed without hesitation. He gunned the engine and the trike jumped forward eagerly. There was a flurry of motion as the locals walking the perimeter scrambled out of the way of the ATV, clearly caught by surprise. Without encountering the slightest of resistance, the trike shot through the gap in the wall and they raced down the road leading out of the city.

Mere seconds later, Trip could see a second fortification looming near the bottom of the mesa road and, beyond it, even more movement that was undoubtedly the attackers of the city. Unlike the previous one, this wall appeared to be more recent and rudimentary, a base camp that had grown up around the highway barricade. Tucker doubted it was more than sandbags, but his breath caught when dozens of armed figures rushed to man defensive positions. Alarms began to wail and the steady report of automatic weapons began echoing with the thunder. Dirt exploded around the trike and the vehicle rocked as slugs impacted against the crudely fashioned armor. Trip reacted instinctively and pulled back hard on the left steering lever, instantly causing the trike to fishtail into a slide.

T’Pol was acting even before he realized it, hurling one of her Molotov cocktails with impeccable aim. The spherical-shaped bottle smashed against the sandbag barrier and erupted in a bright orange-red flame. Shouts of surprise joined the gunfire, but Trip was too busy aiming the trike at the burning section to notice. At the last instant, he jerked the ATV into another skidding slide, radically changing their direction. This close to the barrier, the attackers couldn’t bring their weapons to bear without threatening their allies, and Trip took advantage of that as he raced toward a small gap in the wall he’d just noticed. Moving just under seventy kilometers per hour, the trike slammed into the crudely erected barrier.

A half-second later, they were airborne.

The impact of the ATV hitting the ground and rolling drove the air from Trip’s lungs, but he kept the accelerator mashed to the floor. With a loud crack, one of the metal plates was ripped free as the trike rolled across the ground and Tucker cursed loudly when one of T’Pol’s books smacked him in the back of his head. Another metal plate came free, and another, but they were suddenly upright once more. The wheels of the trike kicked up great gouts of dirt as they found purchase and the ATV surged forward, the sudden acceleration pushing Trip back in his seat.

Almost leisurely, T’Pol hurled another of her makeshift explosives, this time aiming it at a trio of parked military trikes. Fire engulfed the three off-road vehicles instantly and Trip slewed their trike around to give her a shot at anther group of parked ATVs. This time, she overshot and the triangular-shaped bottle smashed against the ground, exploding into fire almost instantly but accomplishing little beyond adding to the chaos.

Recognizing that they were running out of time, Trip angled the trike toward the highway leading away from the city and gunned the engine. With a squeal of rubber against pavement, the ATV darted forward just as T’Pol hurled a fourth Molotov cocktail at the group of vehicles she missed with the previous one. This time, her aim was true.

Risking a glance behind him, Trip cursed at sight of a pair of four-wheeled groundcars rapidly accelerating after them. He gave T’Pol a quick glance, noting instantly that she was down to her last makeshift explosive. She hefted it, gave their pursuers a look and then simply dropped the glass container onto the pavement beside the ATV.

A wall of fire seemed to erupt directly behind them as the trike raced down the highway and, when the two groundcars emerged through it, their tires were already ablaze. One of them slowed to a stop almost immediately followed soon after by the second one. Trip glanced back and smiled when he saw the crews of the vehicles trying to extinguish the flames rapidly engulfing their vehicles.

“We did it!” he exulted to a still calm-looking T’Pol. She raised an eyebrow, though Trip could see the flush of excitement in her eyes.

“Now we must focus on the difficult part,” she commented. “Evasion.”

As if in agreement, thunder rolled out of the sky.