SKIPPER RED...
Posted: Sat Apr 05, 2025 2:52 pm
SKIPPER RED
By Mike Kozlowski
The warble of the communicator wasn’t loud at all; but in the darkened room it sounded like an explosion, and explosions tend to awaken one quickly. Almost thirty years of reflexes had Admiral Harold Hutchinson awakened very, very quickly as he rolled to his right and snatched up the comm.
Nothing good ever happens in the middle of the night, he thought almost subconsciously.
“Hutchinson.”
“Sir, this is Commander Diedrich at the night desk. I’m sorry to wake you, but we have a SKIPPER RED.”
Aw, hell. “Give me a second.” Hutchinson sat up, swinging his legs out of bed onto the floor. He shook his head briefly to clear it, then instinctively looked over his shoulder to make sure his wife was still asleep. “Okay, go. What ship?”
“Patton.”
Cripes. Hutchinson honestly thought for a moment that Patton, the last of the legendary old CLs, had been retired years ago. Well, obviously not; her skipper was dead.
“Any idea what happened?” Dumb question, Hutch. Probably wouldn’t be much for a few hours, maybe more. But there’s things you ask, things you have to try and know as soon as possible so you can do what you have to do to straighten things out. Might not do you much good, occasionally does some harm, but there’s a routine, and by God and Zefrem Cochrane you’re going to follow it.
Diedrich replied, “No, sir. Ops sent it down just a minute ago, I would assume they’re getting the details.”
Hutchinson looked at the chrono. 0258, Pacific Standard Time. Not quite zero dark thirty, but close enough. “Okay,Commander, thanks for the heads up. Have the night watch open up my office; I’m on my way.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Beep.
The hover ride in was smooth, as befitted a proper (O-8 and up) staff car as it wound its way through the leafy, neatly trimmed streets of New Starfleet and then cruised effortlessly up a hill to reveal the Golden Gate and San Francisco Bay, aglow in orange paint and sodium photonic lights with just a hint of fog creating haloes around every single point of light. The view, at least, never got old. As the hover cruised gently onwards, Hutchinson had a moment to lean back, rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Wasn’t getting any easier, he thought. Fortunately, there would be good StarFleet coffee waiting for him when he got in, and that could cure a multitude of sins.
The hover rolled up onto the 101, headed for the warmly lit tubes of the Golden Gate Bridge. HQ StarFleet, glowing a silver/blue, was visible now, more than a few lights on inside. No surprise there, a ship of the line had lost her commanding officer. Accident? Incompetence? First warning of a war? Or that great catch-all, “the dangers of deep space”? A great many people were now awake trying to get the answers, because when FADM Smillie came in at 0730 sharp - one did not wake up the CINC for anything less than a shooting war, something a few watch officers had learned to their dismay - he was going to want them and woe betide the poor dumb SOB who couldn’t provide them.
One could make some reasonable assumptions, however. War was unlikely in this case - Patton was assigned to the Orion Frontier, and even as old as she was…my God, a century and change…there was nothing even the most homicidal of the pirate clans could throw at her that she couldn’t at least hold off. Not to say somebody couldn’t try, but that would be crossing a very bright red line for the Orions. Criminal pirates, smugglers and slavers, yes - idiots, no. Some weird…thing, coming out of nowhere that decided Patton was an enemy or an unusually large snack? Always possible, but StarFleet had been out there for a hundred years, and the old UE fleets for decades before that, so unlikely. Besides, although it was never discussed except in SCIFs, the Orions and StarFleet had a perfectly good process for notifying one another of various anomalies and incidents there. Nobody wanted some awful green thing from outer space or cosmic storm to run around out there and cause an incident that could spark a wider conflict.
That left accident or incompetence. Patton wasn’t just a museum piece, she should have been a museum. Things broke and killed people on brand new ships all the time, something going sideways on a century old ship that had Romulan Warbird kills from before she got her warp engines wouldn’t have surprised anyone.
Incompetence.
Hutchinson sighed to himself as the hover took the HQSF exit on the north end of the bridge and glided effortlessly towards the brightly lit main gate. It slowed automatically as a nearly-invisible green scan waved up and then down over the car. The MP at the gate shack, his phaser rifle shouldered, looked up at the scanner screen to see that all was well, and then snapped to attention, sending a perfect salute to Hutchinson.
Hutchinson almost absent-mindedly returned it, still focusing on whatever had caused this mess. Within living memory, SKIPPER REDs were a pretty regular event, and back in the day it often meant that not only was a Captain gone or incapacitated beyond hope, but a fair number of his crew were accompanying them to Valhalla.
Whether they wanted to or not. Someone who didn’t know how things worked would often drop their jaws to the floor when they found out how many COs lost their lives, crews, and sometimes their ships, to what could only be explained as remarkably bad decisions. As a percentage, it wasn’t actually that bad - but when you remembered StarFleet’s insistence that only the best of the best of the best got a crack at the Big Chair, it could be pretty thought provoking.
Eventually, procedure evolved so that a SKIPPER RED was considered equal to the loss of a ship ensuring that the matter would be examined and fixed, and PDQ at that, and clearly that was going on now, with hovers gliding into the ramp for the parking area beneath SFHQ. Fortunately though, Hutchinson wasn’t headed for that madhouse. StarFleet Bureau of Personnel was a few hundred meters further down the road and it looked remarkably quiet - just a few hovers in the lot, the lobby lights on, and a single corner office five stories up and pointing towards the Golden Gate marked his destination.
To Be Continued…..
By Mike Kozlowski
The warble of the communicator wasn’t loud at all; but in the darkened room it sounded like an explosion, and explosions tend to awaken one quickly. Almost thirty years of reflexes had Admiral Harold Hutchinson awakened very, very quickly as he rolled to his right and snatched up the comm.
Nothing good ever happens in the middle of the night, he thought almost subconsciously.
“Hutchinson.”
“Sir, this is Commander Diedrich at the night desk. I’m sorry to wake you, but we have a SKIPPER RED.”
Aw, hell. “Give me a second.” Hutchinson sat up, swinging his legs out of bed onto the floor. He shook his head briefly to clear it, then instinctively looked over his shoulder to make sure his wife was still asleep. “Okay, go. What ship?”
“Patton.”
Cripes. Hutchinson honestly thought for a moment that Patton, the last of the legendary old CLs, had been retired years ago. Well, obviously not; her skipper was dead.
“Any idea what happened?” Dumb question, Hutch. Probably wouldn’t be much for a few hours, maybe more. But there’s things you ask, things you have to try and know as soon as possible so you can do what you have to do to straighten things out. Might not do you much good, occasionally does some harm, but there’s a routine, and by God and Zefrem Cochrane you’re going to follow it.
Diedrich replied, “No, sir. Ops sent it down just a minute ago, I would assume they’re getting the details.”
Hutchinson looked at the chrono. 0258, Pacific Standard Time. Not quite zero dark thirty, but close enough. “Okay,Commander, thanks for the heads up. Have the night watch open up my office; I’m on my way.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Beep.
The hover ride in was smooth, as befitted a proper (O-8 and up) staff car as it wound its way through the leafy, neatly trimmed streets of New Starfleet and then cruised effortlessly up a hill to reveal the Golden Gate and San Francisco Bay, aglow in orange paint and sodium photonic lights with just a hint of fog creating haloes around every single point of light. The view, at least, never got old. As the hover cruised gently onwards, Hutchinson had a moment to lean back, rubbing his eyes and the bridge of his nose. Wasn’t getting any easier, he thought. Fortunately, there would be good StarFleet coffee waiting for him when he got in, and that could cure a multitude of sins.
The hover rolled up onto the 101, headed for the warmly lit tubes of the Golden Gate Bridge. HQ StarFleet, glowing a silver/blue, was visible now, more than a few lights on inside. No surprise there, a ship of the line had lost her commanding officer. Accident? Incompetence? First warning of a war? Or that great catch-all, “the dangers of deep space”? A great many people were now awake trying to get the answers, because when FADM Smillie came in at 0730 sharp - one did not wake up the CINC for anything less than a shooting war, something a few watch officers had learned to their dismay - he was going to want them and woe betide the poor dumb SOB who couldn’t provide them.
One could make some reasonable assumptions, however. War was unlikely in this case - Patton was assigned to the Orion Frontier, and even as old as she was…my God, a century and change…there was nothing even the most homicidal of the pirate clans could throw at her that she couldn’t at least hold off. Not to say somebody couldn’t try, but that would be crossing a very bright red line for the Orions. Criminal pirates, smugglers and slavers, yes - idiots, no. Some weird…thing, coming out of nowhere that decided Patton was an enemy or an unusually large snack? Always possible, but StarFleet had been out there for a hundred years, and the old UE fleets for decades before that, so unlikely. Besides, although it was never discussed except in SCIFs, the Orions and StarFleet had a perfectly good process for notifying one another of various anomalies and incidents there. Nobody wanted some awful green thing from outer space or cosmic storm to run around out there and cause an incident that could spark a wider conflict.
That left accident or incompetence. Patton wasn’t just a museum piece, she should have been a museum. Things broke and killed people on brand new ships all the time, something going sideways on a century old ship that had Romulan Warbird kills from before she got her warp engines wouldn’t have surprised anyone.
Incompetence.
Hutchinson sighed to himself as the hover took the HQSF exit on the north end of the bridge and glided effortlessly towards the brightly lit main gate. It slowed automatically as a nearly-invisible green scan waved up and then down over the car. The MP at the gate shack, his phaser rifle shouldered, looked up at the scanner screen to see that all was well, and then snapped to attention, sending a perfect salute to Hutchinson.
Hutchinson almost absent-mindedly returned it, still focusing on whatever had caused this mess. Within living memory, SKIPPER REDs were a pretty regular event, and back in the day it often meant that not only was a Captain gone or incapacitated beyond hope, but a fair number of his crew were accompanying them to Valhalla.
Whether they wanted to or not. Someone who didn’t know how things worked would often drop their jaws to the floor when they found out how many COs lost their lives, crews, and sometimes their ships, to what could only be explained as remarkably bad decisions. As a percentage, it wasn’t actually that bad - but when you remembered StarFleet’s insistence that only the best of the best of the best got a crack at the Big Chair, it could be pretty thought provoking.
Eventually, procedure evolved so that a SKIPPER RED was considered equal to the loss of a ship ensuring that the matter would be examined and fixed, and PDQ at that, and clearly that was going on now, with hovers gliding into the ramp for the parking area beneath SFHQ. Fortunately though, Hutchinson wasn’t headed for that madhouse. StarFleet Bureau of Personnel was a few hundred meters further down the road and it looked remarkably quiet - just a few hovers in the lot, the lobby lights on, and a single corner office five stories up and pointing towards the Golden Gate marked his destination.
To Be Continued…..