Main Story: No Rest for the wicked...

[* Cold Harbor Story / Action *]

OOC Note:

In an attempt to refocus everyone’s attention on a story line (which is my fault, as we all know), I’ve created this story Arc/Line to combined both my CRV story angle and the angle of The Institute that was introduced by my fellows.

This is a story line that I thought of some time ago, and I think will give us a chance to both ‘write’, create and fight as necessary. I think it easily fits in with what we were doing already, and acts as a prequel to Star Trek Online (the MMO) if anyone’s aware of that.

So, here we go:

***** USS Cold Story / Action *****

It is the late 24th Century, and The Federation is enjoying a semi-peaceful time. The Dominion War has passed into memory already for most of The Federation Citizenry, The Klingons have gotten quiet about their expansion goals, The Cardassians are rebuilding and working on forming a democratic government, The Romulan’s are claiming their ‘assistance was vital’ and vying for additional galactic importance, The Dominion is back on it’s side of the Wormhole, and countless other signs of peace in the known quadrants. Even Starfleet has taken a ‘restructuring and downsizing’ approach to things, as the sounds of war have faded away.

But, while The Federation enjoys it’s peace, and Starfleet becomes political as always, an eerie calm causes those responsible for the Federation’s protection to go on high alert; the exact reason that CRV was created. It is during this time that we fine The Cold Harbor preparing for it’s new mission. Approximately 6 months after their last mission (time advancement), The Cold Harbor has been re-fitted, re-armed, re-crewed and has completed its test runs.

While the crew wait for their final orders, information and intelligence continues to be filtered into CRV Headquarters, where more and more questions are being raised. As is often the case, when there are questions being asked, answers must be found; and those answers have to be found by someone…

“Here is the complied information, with the opinions of the senior analysts…” replied a female CRV Officer. “Damn. I knew things had been quiet for too long…” replied the senior CRV Representative. He turned in his overstuff chair, and looked back at his monitor, where he was met by three (3) other faces, well, a representative of a face for the third. He found himself looking at a ‘representative of Section 31’, only defined as such due to his vast knowledge an understanding of such operations, and selected for this exact purpose; although masked to cover their face. The second was the Federation Security Advisor, to the Federation Security Council; one of the creators of the CRV. The last was simply a silhouette, phased and visually distorted to prevent any form of identification; no gender could be implied by the silhouette, or the mechanical voice that it spoke with. He was simply known to represent something call ‘The Institute’.

The old man turned nodded to the group, and activated his comm; "Get me The Cold Harbor." “Aye, Sir.” Replied the Officer’s voice. “When in doubt, call upon those you can rely on; Sam will love this.” The Director-General leaned back in his chair and turned back to the monitor; “You’ll have some answers shortly ladies and gentleman.”

[Samuel J. Grant]

Opening his eyes, he was met with a blow hue that burned his bloodshot eyes. He rubbed his nose, and his eyes, with both his hands trying to rub out the exhaustion and, well, pure exhaustion he felt. His body hurt, his bones, skin to the hair on his arms. His augmetic leg was even yelping at him, but he slammed his doubled up fists on it several times; weather to get it to shut up or to just work out tension he wasn’t sure.

Leaning back in his chair, he worked out his shoulder kinks, and rocked his head on his neck; all greeting him with concerning cracking sounds and yet refreshing feelings. Still rubbing his temples, he looked around and found his desk covered in PADD’s, his uniform tunic, two (2) bottles and a mug glass. The room itself was also covered in a blue and green aura of dimmed light. Reaching for the bottle closest to him, he sighed when he found that it was empty, and clanked it back down on his desk. Opening one of the desk drawers, he pulled another bottle and pull the cork, and filled his glass mug half full with that liquid, then topped it off with a large quantity of caff.

He took a big gulp, then another, and walked over to the window. He placed his left on it, then his forehead and let out a pained sigh; he enjoyed the cool feeling. His moment of cooling calm was interrupted with a door chime, and he didn’t answer the first, or the second chime. Knowing their wouldn’t be a third, and knowing that the door chimer knew, he sighed in anticipation. “Sir, we just received orders from CRV HQ. They’re marked CO’s Eye’s Only, deliver immediately upon receipt.” There was a pause. “It’ll be in your ‘tray’ Sir.”

Colonel Samuel Joshua Grant, Commanding Officer USS Cold Harbor Crisis Response Vessel Fleet, thudded his head against the window once lightly. “Oh, now what hellish meat grinder am I going to be sent off too…?” He turned towards the door, after looking at his posted ship roster, and realizing all the missing names over the last year, he downed the rest of his mug and headed to retrieve the left PADD.

[Samuel J. Grant]

Colonel Grant paced his office, until he was comfortable opening the door and retrieving the PADD with his supposed ‘new orders’. He took another few swigs from his drink, and opened his door. The guard at the door never moved, never flinched, never even looked at Sam when the door opened; rough training and discipline bled from his features. After collecting the PADD, he returned to the interior of his office and resumed pacing.

He unlocked and navigated the multiple security systems that encoded the PADD, until his orders were revealed. He then slowly began to scan through them and reading the orders, his mind recalling the last several months.

The Cold Harbor had been rearmed and refitted after it’s last mission, and a tough one it had been; she was surely living up to her name. There was no ‘exploring brave new worlds’ or any of that political soft hand holding ‘drible’ that Starfleet touts to be in business for, the CRV got the dirty jobs and The Cold Harbor got the worst of them. While succeeding in almost every, she suffered for each of those victories, often with around 50% casualties. While it was with their encounters and relationship with the recently discovered Drak Species, or old enemies such as the Cardassians for The Borg, or trying to clear up diplomatic relations with recently discovered aliens species, it always seemed to be one thing after another. With that, The Cold Harbor always got the call first. Colonel Grant never knew if that was a compliment he should be proud of, or if someone really hated him… it depended on the day to which he thought it was.

“Hrm…” as he read his orders “Well, this ought to be interesting.” He put down his PADD and activated his communications “Grant to Bridge, we have new orders. Set course to these encoded coordinates, and have all department heads report to the conference room.” He closed the comm’s before he got a response. “Old enemies and new enemies, new problems with the same age old problems…” he slammed the PADD down on his desk, knocking several others over.

He turned to walk out of his office, stopped momentarily as a soft pain his in head reared its own head and rubbed his temples. He shook his head, and opened his door, then proceeded to the conference room.

Colonel Grant wasn’t a bad man, nor would he be described as anything but a Commanding Officer that people would love to serve under. But the past six (6) months had worn on him significantly. He’d lost all of his senior staff for one reason or another, regrettably several through casualties. He’d lost a confidant in his ships Doctor, his psycho Executive Officer had snapped like a bad android in old 20th century movies, others had simply transferred out for one reason or another. He’d suffered a personal loss, again, as his significant other Ann’ux, The Drak Ambassador and special envoy for/to The CRV, had once again disappeared with no explanation; Sam felt her loss probably the most. But, like a good soldier, he’d simply soldiered on and kept doing his Duty. But, everything in total had worn on him and his demeanor had suffered.

The corridors of The Cold Harbor stretched on, and he tried to compose himself before he met with his newer crew and discussed what was going on, and where they’d be off to next. Another mission. Another battle. Another bloody engagement. Just, one after another…

[Samuel J. Grant]

OOC: It is assumed that people will join or not as conversation persists (back posting is possible if need be), but writing will continue

Location: Conference Room

Colonel Samuel Grant had made it to the conference, and his new staff sat in their respective chairs conversing softly amongst each other. Almost all were new faces to him, but they were all trained Officers themselves with their own back stories and respective abilities "They always are..." he thought to himself.

He set down his mug, and the PADD he was carrying, thus calling the meeting to order.

"Alrighty ladies and gentlemen, we got our marching orders." He signaled to the conference view screen, which displayed a set of coordinates out in the Gamma Quadrant, 75 light years from Deep Space 9. "Intel has picked up some concerning communications from our old friend, Species 8472. The intel is still being analyzed, but command is concerned enough to send us to go take a look. Our orders are simple. To show 'The Flag' of the Federation, and hopefully remind 8472 that we're at peace, but there ARE restrictions and laws in our 'space' that they're to follow. That if there are any issues, we attempt to correct and address them to prevent any problems, and that if there are problems, to hopefully remind them that Starfleet is still 'here'." He stopped to look back around the room.

"The Cold Harbor has completed her repairs, and is ready to set sail again. As always, our Hull may be older, but our weapons, crew and gear are top of the line, and beyond. We will do our jobs, as always." He walked back to the conference table, and took a drink from his Mug. "Are there any questions?"

Location: Conference Room