Star Trek fiction

Here's a short story about the Deep Space Nine cast that was intended to be part of a full-scale Star Trek novel. (And one day may be yet.) The premise is that an intergalactic arms dealer finds primitive worlds at war and sells weapon designs to both sides. In the novel it would already be established that Chief O'Brien and Julian Bashear have learned to fly World War II era airplanes in the Holosuites. O'Brien and company eventually have to steal a real B-26 Marauder and attack a plane carrying an atomic bomb. And that's where this passage begins:

Five figures glittered and took form as the away team beamed into a small tool room in the corner of the hanger. At Chief O'Brien's suggestion, Sisko, Dax, Kira, Jaskin, Bashear and himself wore flying apparel as similar to that of the Kalotions as Starfleet replicators could produce. Underneath the disguises they wore federation body suits of Bowex, which since the 22nd century had surplanted everything else ever put to the purpose of protecting man from inhospitably cold air temperature.

O'Brien turned to the room's lone window, which faced the hanger's interior where three B-26 Marauders squatted like so many torpedoes with wings. "Captain," he said, wiping at the coat of dust and grease upon the glass with a nearby rag. "I suggest you wait here while I inspect the aircraft." Sisko nodded.

The chief waited for a Kalotion to walk out of sight, then popped out the door and casually strolled to the nearest Marauder and disappeared inside, adjacent to the wheel at the airplane's nose.

Dax looked at the B-26 with trepidation. She was unaccustomed to relying on stone knives and bearskins for safety. "That thing flies?" she said incredulously.

"Of course it flies," Bashear said. "It was only the best medium bomber in earth's second world war."

"And how long ago was that, Julian?"

"Long enough, granted. But good ideas never go out of style."

Dax flashed a smile that said, "I surrender, but only because I don't feel like arguing with you."

"Doctor Bashear," Sisko cut in, struck momentarily by the irony of asking his question of a doctor. "What do you make of our chances of taking that thing to 20 or 30 thousand feet, beating off a fighter escort and disabling a four-engine bomber without setting off the atomic bomb it's carrying?"

"That would depend largely on the skill of Chief O'Brien, sir. But it's true the Marauder does not routinely operate at the altitudes you mentioned, and it's certainly no fighter plane.

"Thanks for the pep talk, doctor," Sisko said.

"Actually, the chief and I have had relatively good luck against fighters in Quark's holosuites. Of course, we were flying against Me109s, not Mustangs," he said, looking at Jaskin.

"Hey, historical accuracy is not my business, okay?" the exasperated arms dealer retorted.

The door opened and O'Brien returned, sporting several patches of grease on his flight suit, and addressed Sisko. "The near aircraft is the best choice, sir. It's a C model with the short wings," he said, looking at Bashear. "It's a little more touchy than those other two G's but lighter and faster."

Sisko nodded again. What he knew about gasoline-burning, reciprocting-engined, machine-gun defended, steel birds wasn't enough to fill an equally ancient five kilobite silicon memory chip.

O'Brien turned to Gordo Jaskin. "Mr. Jaskin, do you know how to operate the gun positions?"

"I may not be able to fly the damn thing, but I'm not completely ignorant," he said.

"Then please show Captain Sisko how to operate the tail gun and Major Kira the turret. You take the waist position. 

"Commander Dax," O'Brien continued. "I'd like to have you up front in the bombardier's position."

"That's nice, chief," Dax deadpanned. "But I'm married. And by the way. What is the bombardier's position?"

Bashear plugged the cord from a small generator into the Marauder's left engine nacelle, wondering if there was perhaps a better use to put a physician to. Looking around the hangar, he wondered why the Kalotions hadn't noticed them yet. He started the little generator's gasoline engine, then climbed through the hatch in the nose wheel housing and up to the cockpit. O'Brien was already there. "Strap in," he said, his tone leaving no doubt that he was the Aircraft Commander. Bashear no sooner got his harness fastened when the chief opened the plane's two throttles slightly and flicked on the master switch in the center of the console between himself and Bashear. 

"Okay, Julian, let's see how much you remember... "Magnetos."

"Both."

"Left booster pump."

"On."

"Prime for ten seconds."

Bashear engaged the left primer switch and counted ten, noticing a few Kalotions outside starting to look their way.

"Energizer switch to left and hold."

"Check."

"Mesh and prime."

Bashear hit these switches and the left engine, an R-2800 two-thousand horsepower Pratt and Whitney monster, began to cough, then caught and started purring like an eighty-decibel house cat with an attitude.

O'Brien and Bashear couldn't help smiling as they continued, having never actually fired up the real thing before.

O'Brien moved the mixture controls to the auto-rich position and adjusted the left engine's throttle to get eight-hundred rpm on the tachometer.

The engine's roar arrested the attention of the heretofore just curious Kalotion ground crew. One of them, a sergeant by the looks of his insignia, ran in front of the Marauder, waving his arms acerbically.

 When he realized O'Brien had no intention of shutting down, the sergeant directed two mechanics to roll the hangar door closed.

"I was afraid of this," O'Brien said into the intercom link with Bashear. Then to the airplane itself: "No time for warm-up, sweetheart," as he advanced the left throttle and took his feet off the brakes. Now dragging the portable generator, the Marauder veered to the right as the left engine tried to pull it in a circle. O'Brien depressed the left rudder pedal that also controlled a steerable nose wheel and the plane darted between the rapidly closing doors, her wings clearing by less than two meters.

"Chief, what's going on," Sisko shouted over the intercom link, just as the sergeant took an automatic pistol from its holster on his belt and fired into the air.

"They're shooting at us, chief," Sisko exclaimed.

"Gunners," O'Brien said, "fire over their heads."

Jaskin, Kira and Sisko quickly charged their .50-caliber M-2 machine guns as O'Brien swung the plane to the right and onto a taxiway, just missing a transport parked on the ramp. "Julian, get that other Pratt started," he growled, then the left engine's roar was joined by the chatter of the waist and top turret guns as Jaskin and Kira cut loose into the hangar they'd just left. The sergeant and his two mechanics hit the pavement, then jumped back up and ran toward the cover of a nearby jeep.

Bashear started the right engine and O'Brien could steer normally. "Sorry, baby," the chief muttered as he advanced the right throttle and proceeded toward the end of the nearest runway at twice the normal taxi speed.

Radio operators in the control tower frantically tried to raise the misbehaving Marauder to no avail. O'Brien hadn't brought along a radio operator so had no way of communicating with the tower, although he would have enjoyed telling its occupants to piss off.

With the end of the runway fast approaching, O'Brien and Bashear prepared for takeoff.

"Flaps thirty degrees."

"Check."

"Cowl flaps full."

"Check."

"Charge package guns," O'Brien referred to the four .50s fixed to the side of the Marauder and set to fire forward.

"Check."

A glance at the oil pressure and temperature gauges proved the engines were ready to perform. Two jeeps armed with machine guns sped down the taxiway behind the plane. Sisko triggered his twin .50s and hosed a burst above the jeeps. The portable generator they were dragging broke loose, bounced once and struck the jeep. A truck moved to block the runway.

O'Brien retarded the throttles and applied his feet to the toe brakes. Smoke spewed from the wheels as he slowed the plane then lifted his right foot to release the right brake. Creaking in protest, the B-26 swung around on its left leg. O'Brien released the left brake, rolled onto the runway and kicked the left rudder pedal again, this time using the nose wheel to steer the plane.

Just then the daring truck driver pulled his vehicle onto the runway a hundred meters in front of the Marauder. "Damn!" O'Brien said, slapping his knee.

Bashear looked at O'Brien, the words "what now?" poised upon his tongue, when O'Brien's thumb depressed a button on the control wheel and loosed a short burst from the four nose guns, missing the truck by centimeters. Having never expected to be under fire, the driver panicked and sped away.

"Take the throttles, Julian. Fifty-two inches of manifold pressure. Engage."

Bashear pushed the Pratts up to full power and the unbridled stentorian nature of two 2,000 horsepower radial engines made its presence felt and heard. Bashear's first thought was that the holosuite B-26 wasn't nearly as loud. And it was a good thing, too, or he'd be deaf.

The ship built up speed rapidly as O'Brien aimed her straight down the white line. "Gunners, keep their heads down," he said, and Kira opened fire, exploding a ten-thousand gallon gasoline storage tank. Guns fired at the Marauder from at least ten sources, but few of the gunners possessed the skill necessary to hit a moving target. Dax found the single .50 in the plexiglass nose and joined the fray.

O'Brien watched the airspeed indicator, and when it indicated 130 mph he pulled back on the control wheel and the nose gear broke free. The B-26 eased into the air and the chief leveled off, pumping the brakes to stop the wheels from spinning. "Gear up," he said. "Bashear pulled the gear lever home and the Marauder's three legs folded neatly into their housings.

"Chief, do we have a bomb load?" Bashear asked as the aircraft climbed beyond the coast and out over open water. O'Brien reached over his head with his left hand and levered the emergency bomb release handle. As six 500-pounders fell into the sea, the B-26 jumped upward and O'Brien had to adjust the control wheel to maintain a standard climb.

"Nope," he said.

Back on the ground the base commander was roused from his bed by a young lieutenant who could think of more pleasant things to do than explain to this disciplinarian that one of his aircraft had been stolen. It was assumed that the theives were Namreg agents. The commander notified his general, knowing full well that his career was likely ruined. Fighter command launched a squadron of P-40 Warhawks on the general's orders, but the fighters weren't able to take off until O'Brien had been airborne for fifteen minutes.