Behind Enemy Lines Read online

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  THE DOMINION WAR-BEHIND ENEMY LINES

  John Vornholt

  POCKET BOOKS

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  Star Trek The Next Generation®

  THE DOMINION WAR-BEHIND ENEMY LINES

  John Vornholt

  Pocket Books

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Visit us on the World Wide Web: http://www.SimonSays.com/st http://www.startrek.com

  Copyright © 1998 by Paramount Pictures. All Rights Reserved.

  STAR TREK is a Registered Trademark of Paramount Pictures.

  This book is published by Pocket Books, a division of Simon & Schuster Inc., under exclusive license from Paramount Pictures.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 0-671-04104-5

  eISBN: 978-0-671-04104-5

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster Inc.

  For Dennis, who taught me stealth and guile

  Chapter One

  RO LARENLOOKED UP at the yellowing clouds, which rested uneasily upon the jagged teeth of the olive-hued mountains in the distance. She didn’t see the beauty of the twilit sky or the flowering land with harvesting season upon it; all she saw were the vapor trails of shuttlecraft and small transports streaking away from the planet Galion. The former Starfleet officer knew that most of those vessels were little more than junk and had no warp drive. Where did they think they were going?

  Her hands paused over the lush sprawl of tomato vines and plump red fruit in her small vegetable patch. Who would have thought she could have gotten so much pleasure from coaxing food from the ground? Emotions gripped her throat like the teeth of a vole, and she wanted to lash out with her fists. This isn’t just! No sooner had they found a semblance of peace than another war was engulfing them with its acrid stink. Ro knew well the stench of war. Burning rubble, bloated bodies, wretched refugee camps—those were her childhood memories. This war was less her fight than any of those other conflicts, yet it threatened to dwarf them all.

  She heard a door slam inside the corrugated shed that served as their home. Ro took a deep breath and rose from her muddy knees. Lean, hardened by manual labor, her brown hair cropped short, she was more striking than beautiful. Her nose ridges were prominent, and she wore the traditional chains and bands on her right ear, proclaiming her Bajoran heritage in this mostly human Maquis community. Ro wiped her hands on the apron that covered her frayed jumpsuit, and she listened to his footsteps creaking on the thin floor of the prefabricated shed. Derek sounded unusually tense; he was probably working up the nerve to face her.

  The door banged open again, and she heard his footsteps on the black volcanic gravel that served as their soil. Only a combination of hydroponic techniques, chemical fertilization, and constant irrigation had rendered it fit for growing. Ro wasn’t keen on leaving this soil just yet—she had poured too much sweat into it.

  The human walked around the corner of the shed and stopped when he saw her. She could tell everything she needed to know from the slouch of his shoulders and his tired blue eyes; even his mustache drooped wearily. He was gray-haired and many years her senior, but he had a rakish charm that kept him youthful. Today that charm could not disguise the weathered, worried lines in his face. Derek had been a freelance smuggler and weapons runner, but she had won him over to the Maquis cause. He still dealt weapons, but for his people, not profit.

  She ran to him, and he wrapped his wiry arms around her slender frame. A strand of his gray hair brushed her cheek, and Derek lifted her chin and gazed at her. “They didn’t take the deal,” he said softly. “We have to go.”

  “Again?” she muttered, pulling away from him. “I’ve been forced to run too many times—I’m not sure I can do it again. We stood up to the Cardassians and the Federation; can’t we stand up to them?”

  He gave her a melancholy smile. “These aren’t the Cardies or the Feds. This is the Dominion. We can’t fight them; nobody can. The Federation, the Klingons—they’re getting crushed right and left, and the Jem’Hadar warships look like they’re invincible. Plus they’ve rebuilt the entire Cardassian fleet, and they’re eager for conquest. Believe it or not, our envoys saw two ships full of Federation prisoners come in while they were docked at Tral Kliban for the negotiations.”

  Ro snorted derisively. “Some negotiations. What did you expect, trying to convince the Cardassians that we’re neutral? Once an enemy of the Cardassians, always an enemy.”

  “Not so,” answered Derek softly. “We may have failed, but the Bajorans accepted a nonaggression treaty. They are neutral.”

  “Bajor?” scoffed Ro. “I don’t believe it.”

  He gave her a sad smile that insisted it was true. “I don’t think Bajor had much choice, and the Dominion probably did it just to annoy the Cardassians, to let them know who’s boss. Deep Space Nine fell, and it’s all going to fall—the whole Federation. Only the cloaked mines they stuck in front of the wormhole have saved them so far.

  “We’re small potatoes, but the Dominion will get around to us. Our spies say they want to clear out this sector, because they’re building something big on the other side of the Badlands, near Sector 283.”

  “What?”

  “An artificial wormhole,” answered Derek with awe in his voice. “They may be using slave labor—Federation prisoners.”

  Ro stared at him, stunned by the implications. With an artificial wormhole deep in Cardassian space, Dominion forces could travel back and forth between the Alpha and Gamma quadrants without using the Bajoran wormhole. They could even destroy it, along with everything the Bajorans held dear.

  “Some of our cells have already returned to the Federation,” declared Ro. “We’ve got to swallow our pride and do the same thing. With the Federation’s help, maybe we can defend this system instead of running.”

  Now it was Derek’s turn to snort. “The Federation will be lucky if they can defend Earth. We’re unimportant, forgotten. About all we can do is find some quiet place to hide until it’s all over.” His attempt at a smile looked more like a wince.

  “So the proud Maquis just run for their lives, giving up years of struggle?” asked Ro disdainfully.

  Derek kicked a black pebble. “Our envoys got one promise from the Cardassians—they’ll give us time to evacuate, as long as we don’t try to enter the hostilities.”

  Ro stared at him in disbelief. “Evacuate to where? There’s no running from a war like this. We can fight, or we can surrender and be at their mercy.”

  “Bajor’s always an option,” answered Derek, calmly ignoring her tirade as he often did. “Remember, Bajor is neutral. In fact, the committee is as
sembling a crew for you, and you’re going to captain the Orb of Peace and take as many people as we can fit in. Traveling as Bajorans—with you in command—you stand a good chance of getting through Dominion space.”

  “I wasn’t even at the meeting!” snapped Ro. “Who decided this for me?”

  He gave her a weary smile and gripped her shoulders. “Laren, you’re the only one who can pull off a mission like this. We’ve got to gain control of the evacuation, so we don’t just have people scattering to the four winds. We’ll never find each other again. The Maquis are a community, even if we keep getting chased off our land. I’ll feel better knowing you’re on Bajor. I’ll come as soon as possible.”

  Ro’s nose ridges compressed like a bellows. “You’re not coming with me?”

  “No. Someone has got to move our weapons stores, and I’m the only one who knows where everything is. I mean, we’re not total pacifists, are we?” For an instant, the roguish grin was back.

  She gripped him desperately, and he hugged her, his fingers digging into her flesh. When their lips met, it was a bittersweet kiss with a taste of tears. In a vegetable patch behind a corrugated shed on a little-known planet in what was formerly the Cardassian Demilitarized Zone, now the Dominion, they clung to each other. They knew it could be the last time.

  “How long do we have?” she asked hoarsely.

  “An hour, maybe. Your ship is en route.”

  “They may have to wait,” said Ro, taking his arm and pulling him toward the shed.

  Ro materialized in the small but elegant transporter chamber of the Orb of Peace. In her gray cap and jumpsuit, with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder, she looked like a common crew member. But she was the captain on this ship, as testified to by the importance of her welcoming committee. Crunched into the dimly lit chamber were three provisional admirals, two of the envoys who had returned empty-handed, and a cadre of dignitaries that spilled out into the corridor.

  I might have known, thought Ro. I’m ferrying the brass to safety, not the common folk.

  Although these men and women outranked her in the Maquis hierarchy, they looked upon her with awe. Ro was a legend to the Maquis—a reclusive figure who had deserted Starfleet to join their hopeless cause, only to become one of their greatest heroes. Time and time again, she had distinguished herself in guerrilla attacks against both the Cardassians and the Federation. Yet when the Cardassian-Klingon War brought them relative peace, she had spurned Maquis offers of higher rank. A small cell of well-trained fighters was all she had ever commanded, until now. Ro knew she was an enigma to these people, an outsider whom they both respected and feared.

  “Citizen Ro,” said Shin Watanabe, one of the recently returned envoys, “we are pleased that you have undertaken this mission.”

  Ro stepped off the transporter platform, and the sea of people parted respectfully for her.

  “You know our objective,” said one admiral brusquely. “Do you think we can make it to Bajor?”

  With her jaw set determinedly, Ro studied the faces confronting her. Most of what she saw was fear, uncertainty, and anger, emotions she could well understand. These people were close to falling apart, and she had to make sure they held together.

  “I know you’re all afraid,” she began, “and so am I. But we have to get one thing straight before we start this journey. I am now Captain Ro—by your choice—and I am in total command of this vessel. Bajor is a considerable distance, and a lot can happen between here and there. I want your promise that nobody will overrule my orders and decisions.”

  Watanabe laughed nervously. “Well, naturally, we will have some input and advice—”

  Ro jumped back onto the transporter platform, then turned to face them. “Transport me back. I’d rather take my chances with the Cardassians than have you questioning my orders.”

  A female admiral charged forward. “Laren, we’ve known each other a long time. Don’t start playing hierarchical mind games.”

  “We all know a ship can have only one captain,” said Ro evenly. “We have no world, no homeland—only this vessel flying under a false flag. When you elected me captain, you chose to put your lives into my hands. It was your decision. If I’m in charge of this ship, then we’re going to be a crew, not a rabble. It’s that simple—take it or leave it.”

  The second admiral, a older man named Sharfer, saluted her. “Aye, Captain. You have my word on it, and I’ll throw anyone into the brig who argues with you.”

  The others stared at him in shock; then they lowered their heads in resignation, shame, and fear. Ro hadn’t meant to come down on them so harshly, but it was best to settle this matter here and now. The journey would be difficult enough without endlessly debating every decision. Besides, Ro wasn’t in a very charitable mood today. The good-bye with Derek had been painful.

  “Admiral Sharfer,” she said, “have I been assigned a first officer?”

  “Not yet. For the past year, this ship has only had a maintenance crew. We’ve staffed it as best we could on short notice.”

  “Then would you be willing to serve as first officer?” asked Ro.

  He nodded solemnly, and the Bajoran jumped off the platform and knifed through the crowd. She ushered Sharfer out the door into the corridor, ignoring the stares of the others. After walking past a spiral staircase that led to the lower deck, Ro got her bearings and strode toward the bridge, with the admiral walking beside her.

  “What’s the ship’s status?” she asked Sharfer.

  “As you know, the Orb of Peace was in bad shape when we bought her on the black market. We refitted her, leaving enough original technology to show a Bajoran warp signature.”

  “So she’s slow,” said Ro, “and underarmed.”

  Sharfer smiled. “Well, we boosted her armaments with six photon torpedoes, and she is capable of warp three—but she’s still just a midrange transport.”

  “What’s our complement?”

  “Crew of twenty, plus eighty passengers.”

  Ro scowled. “They must really be crammed in.”

  “They are. But she was meant to carry clergy, so it didn’t take much to refit her as a troop transport. There’s one good thing—she has a working food replicator.”

  “That makes her a rarity in the Maquis fleet,” said Ro dryly. “See if the replicator can make some Bajoran uniforms for the bridge crew. Are there any other Bajorans on board?”

  “Only one, a junior engineer named Shon Navo.”

  “He’s no longer an engineer. Promote him to the bridge crew—he’s to be on duty every moment when I’m not, which won’t be often. If we get hailed by Dominion ships, they must see a Bajoran in command on the bridge.”

  “Understood,” said Sharfer.

  A door slid open at their approach, and they swept onto the bridge. The small bridge of the Orb of Peace was more tasteful than practical. It was appointed in red with austere control consoles that looked like prayer booths, and the main viewscreen was framed with sayings of the Prophets. “The ways of the Prophets lead to peace” was the first word of advice to catch her eye. Ro hid her scowl, having never been as religious or aesthetic as most of her people.

  The three-person crew, which included a young pilot at the conn, an operations officer, and a tactical officer, jumped to their feet. “Captain on the bridge!” piped one.

  “At ease,” she told them. “I’ll learn your names as we go. First dim running lights by sixty percent. That’ll help to hide the fact that most of us aren’t Bajorans.” The young crew sat stiffly in their seats, and the ops officer dimmed the lights as ordered.

  There was no official captain’s chair on the Bajoran craft, and Ro took a seat at an auxiliary console. “Set course for Bajor.”

  “Direct course?” asked the conn. “No evasion?”

  “Ensign, obey my orders as I give them,” said Ro testily. “We’re not going to be evasive—we have nothing to hide. We’re a Bajoran trade delegation to the Dominion, and now we’re head
ed home. I only wish that we had time to surgically alter everyone to look Bajoran; but we don’t—so we’ll have to fake it. Set course for Bajor, maximum warp.”

  “Yes, sir.” The young blond woman worked her ornate controls. “Course laid in.”

  “Take us out of orbit, one-third impulse.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Admiral Sharfer moved toward the doorway. “I’ll get to work on those uniforms, and I’ll have Mr. Shon assigned to the bridge.”

  Ro nodded. The reality of their departure from Galion had left an unexpected lump in her throat, and she didn’t trust herself to say much.

  “We’re clear of orbit,” reported the conn officer. “Warp engines on-line.”

  Ro pointed her finger exactly as she had seen a certain Starfleet captain do it. “Engage.”

  Phaser blasts from two Galor-class Cardassian warships crackled across space and rocked the sleek form of the Enterprise-E. The Sovereign-class vessel shuddered before it veered into a desperate dive, with the yellow, fish-shaped warships in quick pursuit.

  On the bridge, Captain Jean-Luc Picard gripped the armrests of his command chair. “Evasive maneuvers, pattern Zeta-nine-two!”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Will Riker at the auxiliary conn controls. The regular conn officer sat dazedly on the deck beside his burned-out console, and Dr. Beverly Crusher ministered to a wound on his forearm. Everywhere on the bridge was the acrid smell of burnt and overloaded circuits, caused by high-density electromagnetic pulses sweeping the ship.

  “Shields down to forty percent,” reported Data at the ops console. The android spoke in a calm, businesslike tone that belied the urgency of the situation.

  “Target aft torpedoes on the lead craft,” ordered Picard.

  “Targeting quantum torpedoes,” reported Ensign Craycroft on tactical. She was a young woman with nerves of titanium, and she reminded Picard of another young woman who had manned that station ten years ago on another vessel called the Enterprise. It seemed like a lifetime since they had grieved the loss of Tasha Yar, because now Starfleet lost a thousand Tasha Yars every day.