| Matters of Prespective -- Part Eight
Very shortly, the two of them were sitting in a bar that was noted for the variety and excellence of its spirits. Scott raised his glass. "A toast, Harry. To th' Mitchell Paige." Harry raised his own glass, "I'll drink to that!" and downed the contents. Scott took an appreciative sip. "Why don't ye tell me aboot her, Harry. I'd like to know th' story o' th' lady."
In her long years of service the Paige had collected a lot of stories. Three hours later, Harry was still talking between the drinks. "Terty years, Scotty. I been with her for over terty years now." He tipped his glass to his lips, but it was empty. He looked at it curiously.
"Here, lad. Let me refill that for ye." Scotty poured fragrant emerald liquor from the most current decanter into the glass. He thought of refilling his own glass, but he could tell he was feeling a bit tipsy himself. Better not have any more or he wouldn't be able to watch over Harry.
"Whass that stuff anyway? S'good."
Scotty looked at the decanter. There was no label. "Dunno, lad." He shrugged. "Tis green."
"Sounds good t'me!" Harry took another sip then glanced around and leaned forward, beckoning Scotty to do likewise. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "I know what t'do, Scotty. I'll steal the Paige an' hide her somewhere safe. Ya wanna help me?"
Scotty shook his head. "Tis nae a verra good idea, lad. I can tell ye from personal experience that such a thing's been tried before and it does nae work."
"Oh." Harry looked disappointed and silence came over the table as he pondered that bit of information. Scotty clapped him on the back and urged him to his feet. "I think we've both had enough, Harry. Ye'll probably think better if ye're lying doon. More bloodflow to th' brain."
"Yup, I'll drink to that!"
Harry became slowly aware of an insistent throbbing somewhere near the top of his head. I need to see Ci'kekher this morning... No, that was yesterday I think. He forced his eyelids open then shut them again immediately against the glare. The lights in the ceiling of his quarters seemed to have taken on the intensity of small suns. His pounding head continued unabated, only now it was keeping time with the beeping of the intercom. He reached for the button, but had to pry his tongue away from the roof of his mouth before he could say anything. He managed a soft rasp. "Yes?"
"Scott here, Harry. I came to speak to ye."
"Later, Scotty." He heard a chuckle in answer.
"Ye'll probably want to see me now. I've brought ye something to make ye feel better."
"Whatever. Just get in here and be quiet about it." Seconds later, he was greeted by the sight of a grinning Scotty bearing a loaded tray. "Mr. Scott. I'd like a few words with you..." Harry pried his tongue off the roof of his mouth again. "...in a few minutes."
Scotty set the tray down and proffered a glass of water. "Start wi' this, Harry." Harry took the glass with a glare. The first sip turned into large gulps, as his body demanded more fluids. He saw Scott mixing some powder and orange juice in another glass out of the corner of his eye. The empty glass was set aside to be replaced by the orange juice concoction. Harry eyed the stuff suspiciously. "This the remedy?"
"Aye, lad. That and some breakfast should have ye back on yer feet. Drink up."
Harry gulped down the juice and levered himself slowly out of bed. Scotty was uncovering some dishes from which savory odors were rising. Harry dug in with appreciation. It didn't take him long to polish off the meal. He wiped his mouth and regarded Scott sourly. "What time is it?"
"Tis nigh on 1000 hours, Harry. I trust ye slept well."
"Not that I can remember." He grimaced. "This is all your fault."
"Nay, I merely made a bit o' therapy available. Ye took care o' th' rest o' it yerself."
"How did I get back here?"
"Ye walked, o' course. I just made sure ye got to th' right quarters and were settled in before I left."
"Gee, thanks." Harry's headache was rapidly receding and his tongue was behaving itself again. He pulled on his uniform. "Now, what did you need to see me about?"
"Recreation, lad. Ye're officially on leave and I'm on vacation. Tis time to follow th' Admiral's orders and enjoy ourselves."
"I was planning on checking out the Paige today."
"Ye were? Just what d'ye think ye're going to do there, sit on an empty bridge and mope?"
"Of course not! There's plenty on the Paige that needs to be done."
"Not bloody likely. Look lad, th' Paige is safely docked. She's nae going to go anywhere and th' decision on what to do aboot her hasn't been made yet. Ye may as well take th' time to relax and have a bit o' fun."
"Well..."
"D'ye trust me or not, Harry? Ye know full well if there's anything that can be done for th' lady that I'll be right there wi' ye, but ye don't see me going into mourning just yet. Tis a matter o' perspective, lad. Ye'll do neither th' Paige nor yerself any good by worrying so dinnae waste yer time and energy on it. Ye've got some free time, enjoy it to th' full."
"You have something in mind?"
"As a matter o' fact, I do. Just follow me." Harry followed Scotty out the door.
Three days' recreation later Harry was feeling mellow. He leaned back on the sauna bench, letting his head rest against the cushion and allowed himself to drift. The timer would make sure he didn't overdo. I could get to like this. I should ask Jo to install one of these things on the Paige. The idle thought sparked a twinge of anxiety which Harry put firmly in its place. No news is good news. He shifted, stretching his legs out in front of him. A cigar would really add a finishing touch to this little experience, but I don't want to think about what the humidity would do to it. He closed his eyes. This will just have to be enjoyed by itself.
"Captain Roberts?" From the sound of it, his summoner was just outside the sauna door. Resolving not to divulge his position, Harry ignored the call only to feel a sudden chill as the door was pulled open. "Captain Roberts?"
"Close the door! You're letting the steam out." He cracked an eyelid to see a young uniformed ensign enter the sauna and carefully close the door behind him.
"Excuse me, are you Captain Harry Roberts?"
Harry opened one eye and stared at the man. "Who wants to know?"
"I have a message from Admiral Ci'kekher."
"All right. Yes, I'm him."
"Sir. Admiral Ci'kekher has been trying to reach you for the past half hour. You aren't wearing your commbadge."
Harry opened the other eye and motioned down at his nude body. "Do I look like I have a place to put it? What's the message?"
The ensign wiped sweat from his forehead. "The Admiral would like to see you in his office at your earliest possible convenience, sir."
"Tell him I'll see him in an hour."
"Yes, sir." The young man didn't linger now that the message had been delivered. He was out the door in an instant. Harry checked the timer and closed his eyes again. I've got ten more minutes to go here and I'm going to enjoy every one of them, dammit.
Arriving at the Admiral's outer office before the hour was up Harry paused to take a deep breath. He heard the murmur of conversation from inside and recognized Peterson's voice asking a question. Scott's voice answered. Something tells me Starfleet brass made up their minds about the Paige. He swallowed and made his way through the door. Ci'kekher looked at him with a pleased sounding chuckle. "Ah, good. Ca'tain Roberts, I am ha''y to be able to inform you that Starfleet has decided that the Mitchell 'aige has earned a 'lace in the Starflight Museum."
Harry realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out in relief. Peterson was smiling and nodding in approval. Scott was positively beaming. Harry nodded. It wasn't as good as he'd hoped, but at least he'd be able to visit her when on leave. "That's good to hear, sir."
"I thought you would be 'leased. Ca'tain 'eterson. How long will it take to make her ready for the tri'?"
Peterson did a bit of quick thinking. "We can do a bit of cosmetic work on her and be ready for tow..."
"The Paige is *not* going to end her career being hauled around like cargo." Harry glared at Peterson. "She's damaged, not an invalid, dammit. She'll get there under her own power or not at all."
"Be reasonable, Roberts. Any kind of unusual stress on the way and even the hull integrity field won't hold her."
Scott stepped between the two of them, breaking the rising tension. "Och, Peterson. Ye're right and that's th' verra reason why ye dinnae want to hae her towed. The Paige is designed to take th' stresses o' her own engines. A tow *would* be putting unusual stress on her. I suggest ye do yer best to patch th' hull wi' fusers, fix th' sensors, and let her finish oot her days in Starfleet wi' dignity."
Peterson threw up his hands in surrender. "All right, I concede the point. In that case the job is likely to take about three months."
Ci'kekher tapped his beak thoughtfully. "Ca'tain Roberts. If you are going to be taking the 'aige home under her own 'ower, you will need her entire crew. Their leaves are u' in four months. That should give the three of you 'lenty of time to do the necessary re'air work. Once you have your crew assembled, you are to take the Mitchell 'aige to Earth where she will be decommissioned and inducted into the Starflight Museum."
"Yes, sir," Harry nodded. "What are my orders after that?"
"I cannot tell you, Ca'tain. Starfleet has not informed me on that matter. You will undoubtedly receive further orders once the 'aige has been taken care of." Ci'kekher looked at each of them in turn. "Do any of you have any questions, gentlemen?" They all shook their heads. "Very well then. I suggest you get busy on her starting tomorrow and keep me informed as to your 'rogress. Dismissed."
As the three filed out, Harry clapped Scott on the back. "Care to join me in a celebration drink, Scotty?"
"Aye, but ye'd best drink in moderation this time, lad. Ye've got a bit o' work ahead o' ye tomorrow, no time to be nursing a sore head."
Peterson tapped them on the shoulder. "Mind if I join you two?"
Harry glared, but Scott smiled broadly. "The more the merrier, lad. Come along."
Peterson looked at Harry who was still scowling. "Believe it or not, Roberts, we're both on the same side. When it comes right down to it, I take care of the ships mainly because the ships hold living beings and damaged ships often mean lost lives. If the Paige can make the trip safely then I'll do everything I can to see that she looks the part of a Starfleet vessel." He held out his hand. "If you'll accept my company, I'd like to raise a toast to the old girl myself."
Harry looked at the hand, then shook it and grinned. "Sure, but on one condition."
"What's that?"
"There are certain things that I want left just as they are. If the public is going to see the Paige they're going to see her as she is."
"You'd better give me a list then."
"You can start with my cup holder, for one. After that..."
Scott urged the two of them down the corridor. "Best write it doon, Harry. I'm sure th' tavern's tables are big enough to hold yer PADD as well as th' drinks."
As the weeks passed, Harry's cup holder wasn't the only nonstandard equipment to be cleaned and replaced just as it was. Peterson quickly stopped shaking his head when told that something had been obtained by 'salvage' as that notation predominated in Jo's engineering log. With one week left before the Paige's crew started arriving back at Starbase 140, the finishing touches were being applied to the ship. Harry, puffing quietly on his cigar, watched a team apply a fresh coat of paint to the hull that hadn't seen any such thing in far too long. It did a good job of covering the scars from the fusers.
"Harry Roberts. What did you do to my ship?"
Harry spun around to see Jo glowering fiercely. His welcoming smile froze halfway into existence. "Your ship? What do you mean *your* ship?"
"Just that, *my* ship. I'm the one who's been keeping her running. You only get to borrow her. She didn't have anywhere near that many scars when I left."
"You're back a bit early, aren't you?"
"I guess it's a good thing my transport arrived ahead of schedule. It looks like I'm just in time to me." Jo cast another glance at the Paige. "Now, what did you do to her?"
"She's going to Earth to get put into the Starflight Museum."
"What happened to the refit? Harry, we were promised a refit!"
Harry blew a smoke ring. "It's a long story, Jo."
"I've got the time."
"Come on then. There's someone who can help me tell it. Besides, he wants to meet you." Harry checked the time then motioned for Jo to follow. If Scotty followed his usual pattern he should be arriving at the Velux Cafe about now.
Sure enough, Scott had just finished ordering when they arrived and he was quick to spot the two of them once the waiter had moved off. "Harry lad! Ye know I dislike eating alone. Come join me."
"Scotty, I'd like you to meet Josephine D'Avril, the Paige's Chief Engineer. Jo, this is Captain Montgomery Scott."
Jo's eyes bugged a bit as Scott rose and extended his hand. "I'm honored to meet ye, lass. Ye've done some fine work wi' th' Paige. I just could nae leave withoot meeting th' person responsible for such an excellent job!"
Jo took his hand. "I think that should be *my* line, Mr. Scott."
"Call me 'Scotty', lass." He held one of the vacant chairs for her while Harry took another.
She laughed as she settled into it. "All right then, Scotty, but only if you'll call me 'Jo'."
"Done! Lunch is on me today." Scotty beckoned to the waiter. "These fine people will be joining me for lunch, lad. Ye can add their meals to my tab."
The waiter looked expectantly at Jo. "Ma'am?"
"Peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat. Strawberry preserves, please, and a glass of burgundy."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's it?"
"I had a big breakfast, Harry. Go ahead and order. The man is waiting."
Harry turned to the waiter. "Salmon steak, grilled, with a glass of your best lager."
"Right away, sir." The waiter left to procure their meals and Jo waited until he was out of earshot. "All right, Harry. You're not getting out of telling me. What did you do to my ship?"
"Well, Jo, we were the only ship available for the job."
"What? Again?" Jo was drumming her fingers on the table.
Scotty held up his hand. "Let me tell it, Harry." He turned to Jo at Harry's relieved nod. "Tis like this, Jo. I was called in by Admiral Ci'kekher to advise Captain Peterson on some o' th' fine points o' th' Paige's older equipment since ye were unavailable. O' course, I could nae pass up th' opportunity to see th' Mitchell Paige for m'self. I had no idea it would end up turning into such an adventure..."
About an hour later, both Scotty's narrative and lunch were winding down. "What more can ye say, Jo. She gave her life in th' performance o' her duty."
Jo closed her eyes. "Damn." The word was almost inaudible. "There's no chance?"
"Nay, lass. Th' hull is riddled with microfractures. At least, they'll gie her th' honorable retirement she deserves. Tis likely to be quite an event when they decommission her."
"Yeah. Right. Kill her with neglect, then praise her at the wake." Jo threw her napkin on the table in disgust and started to leave, but stopped when Scotty patted her hand. "Aye. Tis a bitter pill to swallow, but Starfleet might learn a lesson from it."
"One can only hope." She looked at Harry who hadn't said a word since before lunch. "You got anything to add, Harry?"
"Nope. Other than we leave in a week. Coming with us, Scotty?"
"Aye. Th' Hairy Haggis'll fit nicely into yer hanger bay."
Jo blinked. "The Hairy Haggis?"
"My runaboot, sweet and nimble. Would ye care to take a look at her?"
"How could I resist with a name like that?"
Scotty rose to go, then glanced back at Harry. "Coming Harry?"
"Sure, you can introduce me to your sweetheart."
"Aye. Harry, meet Hairy. This way ye two." Scotty led the way out of the cafe.
A week later, the Mitchell Paige with her entire crew aboard departed Starbase 140 for Earth with no more fanfare than usual. If it weren't for the somber mood of the crew, this trip could be just another patrol. Regina looked around the abnormally quiet Rec Deck. There were several card games going on, all of them being played half-heartedly. She really couldn't blame them. The thought that this would be the Paige's final journey brought a twinge of regret. It also reminded her of the question that had been bothering her ever since she returned from leave. How, in heaven's name, had Starfleet let the Paige deteriorate so badly? The universe was not providing an immediate answer and the recdeck's funereal atmosphere wasn't very conducive to productive thought. The lounge's view of space was better suited to meditation than walls were anyway. She made her way quietly through the door.
Scott's voice greeted her. "Looking to escape th' tension, Commander?" He was sitting in a chair facing the window.
"The doom and gloom is so thick in there that you can cut it with a knife." She motioned to the chair next to him. "May I?"
"O' course, lass. Sit ye doon. Ye look like a lady with a puzzle."
"I do." Regina settled herself into the chair. "Mr. Scott, you've been in Starfleet a lot longer than I have. Can you answer a question for me?"
"I'll try."
"How is it that this ship has gone so long without any refits? I thought regular upgrades were standard operating procedure."
"They are, under normal circumstances. Usually, th' sector commander monitors th' ships assigned to that sector and schedules th' refits, but it seems th' Paige has been kept so busy o'er th' years that she's ne'er stayed in one sector long enough to get on any schedule."
"This whole mess is a hideous oversight and it's ruined a very capable ship." Regina crossed her arms emphatically. "What is Admiral Picard doing about this? He's Chief of Fleet Operations. He should be keeping track of these sorts of things!"
"The Admiral is a good and capable man, lass, but he's only one and there are o'er 40,000 ships in Starfleet. There's simply no way that he can keep a close eye on each and everra one o' them. I doubt he knows th' names o' half o' them. I'll nae deny that th' Paige has been a victim o' being o'erlooked, but ye cannae blame th' Admiral for it." Regina was silent for a long minute except for the tapping of her foot. Scott raised an eyebrow at her. "Penny for yer thoughts, Commander?"
She smiled. "Thank you for an idea, Mr. Scott. I can't fix the Paige, but when I get done her name will be one of the ones that Admiral Picard remembers." Regina rose and headed out the door, her step light and determined.
San Francisco Bay was lovely in the morning light. Admiral Picard let his eye wander over the dancing sparkles on the water. There was a certain pleasure in letting one's mind wander while one's senses absorbed the environment. He lifted the delicate china cup from its saucer and inhaled the aroma of Bergamot before taking a last reverent sip. Let the rest of the universe drink their replicated morning libations from disposable containers. They were missing half the experience. A moment later, he put the empty cup down reluctantly. The morning's tasks awaited him. He keyed his intercom. "Good morning, Data."
"Good morning, sir. Are you ready to review your schedule for the week?"
"Yes. On my monitor, please." The screen flickered to life and Picard ran down the list. It was going to be a busy week. No doubt there would be changes to it once he had a chance to check the messages waiting for him. "My messages as well please, Data."
"Right away, sir."
The monitor screen split, the left half still showing the week's schedule, the right half waiting messages. His scanned them for anything needing immediate attention and a name caught his eye, USS Mitchell Paige. The same name he'd just seen in his schedule. Picard double-checked the entry. He was to attend the decommissioning ceremony for that ship in four days. Now he had a message from the ship's First Officer. He pulled up the message in full and began reading. "Dear Sir, I wish to bring to your attention a grave oversight by Starfleet..."
The message only took a minute to read, but he sat there for several more frowning. A very grave oversight indeed if Commander Hammond had the facts correct. Picking up his cup and saucer, he walked into the outer office. "Is there any more tea, Data?"
"Yes, sir. I stopped the leaves steeping when I poured your first cup. The remainder of the pot should still be fresh."
Picard nodded and refilled the cup. "I need to prepare for Friday's decommissioning ceremony. Please get me the service record of the USS Mitchell Paige, NCC-1942."
"Do you want it on your monitor, sir?"
"Bring it to me on a PADD, please, Data. I have a feeling it's going to take a while to read."
"Yes, sir. I will have it for you in approximately 27 minutes."
Picard returned to his desk to ponder the rest of his schedule. If the Paige's service record proved as interesting as he began to suspect, he was *going* to be at that ceremony if he did nothing else the rest of the week.
Five days after leaving Starbase 140 the Paige approached her final destination in Earth orbit. Docking instructions received, Zaru brought her gently into her assigned spot. He gave one final check of his station, locked the board, then turned to face Harry. "We're docked and locked down."
"Thank you." Harry sat there for a moment. Nobody moved. It was with a feeling of numb resignation that he keyed the intercom for one last time. "All hands, this is the Captain. The decommissioning ceremony is tomorrow at 1700 hours for those of you attending. I want to thank each of you for the fine job you've done in our time together. It has been an honor and privilege to serve with all of you. Nobody could ask for a better crew or better friends. Wherever your life might take you in the future, I wish you all the best. Captain out."
He sat there with eyes closed and still nobody moved. He looked around at the bridge crew who were looking back. "Well, what are you all waiting for?"
"Captain first, Harry." Zaru was smiling at him. "If we leave you behind, you'll grow roots and they'll have to pry you out of that seat tomorrow."
"All right. All right." Harry smiled in spite of himself and got to his feet. He headed for the door with the rest of the bridge crew right on his heels.
Twenty-four hours later Harry found himself in Earth-side quarters eyeing the high collared uniform jacket with distaste. Klaus was still fussing with it. "I'd rather wear my regular uniform."
"Regulations dictate full dress uniform for this occasion. Don't feel bad, we'll all be wearing one." Klaus added another medal to the front.
"Regulations be damned, I'd rather be comfortable."
"Look at it this way, Harry, you'd dress up to go on a date, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Consider this a special date. You're saying goodbye to your best girl."
"Don't remind me. It hurts enough already." He watched Klaus put the last medal in place and lay the jacket out. "I don't understand why Starfleet insists on making such a fuss over somebody doing their job." He picked up the jacket and grimaced at the decorations covering a large portion of it. "It's too gaudy. Is it truly necessary that all this stuff be on it?"
"I looked it up. Full dress includes all medals and decorations." Klaus grinned. "You've earned them, Harry. Go ahead and flaunt it."
"I'll clank."
Klaus took the jacket from him and held it so that Harry could slip into it. "No you won't. Here, try it on and walk around a bit."
Harry donned the jacket. Once it was fastened he strolled across the room. The medals swayed gently, tink...tink...tink. He grimaced. "I sound like a set of windchimes."
"They'll know you're coming, then. Just don't try to pick any pockets with the jacket on."
"Very funny."
"Time for me to get dressed myself so I'll just leave you to come to terms with your wardrobe." Klaus departed for his own quarters.
He wasn't out the door for more than a minute before Harry pulled off the jacket and reached for a cigar. He had half an hour before he was expected on the Paige. He might as well enjoy himself while he was waiting.
He walked onto the Paige's bridge a short while later to find it crowded not only with as many of her senior crew as could be accommodated, but with numerous Starfleet dignitaries as well. Harry took an inventory of the faces. Some he recognized, some he didn't. He was frankly surprised that some of them had deigned to actually set foot on the ship they had labeled an 'embarrassment' a few years back. At least none of them had the nerve to park their butts in the center seat.
Evidently, he was the last to arrive. There was one vacant chair and Harry had no sooner seated himself than Admiral Picard stood. "Attention all hands." The room fell silent as a bosun sounded a whistle. "Gentlebeings, we are gathered here today to bring to a close the long and distinguished career of the USS Mitchell Paige, NCC-1942. This ship and her crew have, over the years, served long and well, time and again going in harm's way to succor those in distress. This single ship has accumulated more commendations and citations than any other in the fleet. Under Captain Cornelius Armstrong, Unit Legion of Merit, Kallfaix Victory Unit Citation, Red Cross Unit Citation. Under Captain Roberta Waverly, Fox Diplomatic Citation, Izar Unit Citation of Valor in Defense with Laurels, two Izar Unit Citations of Valor in Defense, Red Cross Unit Citation with Laurels, eight Red Cross Unit Citations, Starfleet Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry, Heart of Imar. Under Captain Ta'thoul..."
It took awhile for Picard to go through every one of the Paige's citations. Harry didn't need to listen, he knew them all by heart, so he had the opportunity to watch the Paige's detractors' reactions to the long list of credits. It was a perverse pleasure of sorts to see them squirm in surprise and dismay. The 'embarrassment' was proving to be not quite the 'piece of junk' that they'd assumed her to be.
"The story of the Mitchell Paige is not quite finished." Picard was talking about something new now and Harry turned his attention back in that direction. "There are two final citations that have yet to be awarded to her. I would like to present at this time the Red Cross Unit Citation with Laurels and the Izar Unit Citation of Valor in Defense for the rescue and staunch defense of the colony ship Bosworth." He motioned to Harry. "Captain Roberts, will you come and accept these awards?"
Harry stepped forward and took the plaque. "Thank you, sir." He forced a smile while the assemblage applauded. Once the applause died down, Picard continued. "Let it be known that she gave her life in the performance of this last duty." Harry returned to his seat hoping nobody would notice his eyes watering.
"The commissioning plaque along with all her commendations will be placed in the Hall of Honor and she herself will be installed in the Starflight Museum so that future generations will be able to see and remember." He turned to the waiting quartermaster. "Mr. Bolan, remove the plaque." The woman and her assistant bent to the task as Picard finished. "I hereby strike the USS Mitchell Paige from the list of ships." The plaque came free and was carried off the bridge. "Farewell, thou good and faithful one." Everyone stood while the bosun's whistle signaled an end to the proceedings.
Picard approached Harry as the crowd began to disperse. "Captain Roberts. Will you accompany me back to the reception?"
"Certainly, sir." They walked toward the transporters.
"It may please you to know, Captain, that they will have to add a wall to the Hall of Honor to accommodate all of the Paige's commendations."
"I would much rather have had them give us proper maintenance before it got too late, sir."
Picard nodded. "Agreed, Captain. I cannot turn back the clock and undo what has already transpired, but I will do everything in my power to see to it that such an oversight does not happen again."
"I guess that's about all I can hope for, sir. However, that still leaves me a shipless captain. What are my new orders?"
"Your orders will be waiting for you in your quarters when you return from the reception." Picard stepped onto the transporter pad and motioned Harry to do the same. "In the meantime, relax and enjoy yourself."
"Is that an order, sir?"
Picard smiled. "Yes, Captain. That is an order." He turned to the transporter officer. "Energize."
Harry opened his eyes blearily the next morning. His heavy head told him he'd done too much 'celebrating' last night. He scratched the stubble on his chin. Better shave. He could run the razor over his tongue while he was at it.
Shortly, shaved, showered, and fed, he was feeling somewhat human again. Now what? Picard had mentioned his orders would be waiting for him. He checked his PADD. Sure enough, there they were. Harry sat down to read them. "Captain Roberts. You are to report to conference room 49C at the Franz Josef Design Center, San Francisco Shipyards, at 1200 hours."
Harry checked the time, 1130 hours. He'd better hurry if he wasn't going to be late to this mysterious conference.
Arriving at the Design Center with minutes to spare, Harry located conference room 49C. The sign on the wall beside it read, "USS Mitchell Paige, NCC-1942-A, design committee." Harry blinked at it, but the words remained the same. A voice called out from inside. "Don't just stand there blocking the door. Come in and sit down so we can get started." Harry entered the room like a sleepwalker.
Jo grabbed his arm and ushered him to a seat. "When Starfleet decides to do a refit, they certainly do it right, Harry!"
"Huh? Oh...no doubt about it." He sank into the chair and looked around the room. His senior officers were smiling happily and waving at him, including Regina. "Pips! What are you doing here?"
"I'm your XO, remember?"
"Uh, sure, but I thought you were looking for a different assignment."
She crossed her arms and glowered at him, toe tapping. "Harry Roberts. If you think you're going to get rid of me that easy, you can just think again! There is no way that I'm going off and letting you hog a brand new ship all to yourself!"
"New ship."
"Of course. Who better to tell them what the new Paige needs than the people who served on the old one...and that includes me so I'm afraid you're stuck with me."
Harry stared at her for a moment then grinned. "And you with me, Commander." He held out his hand. "Welcome aboard."
Regina took it and smiled back at him. "Thank you, Captain."
Matters of Perspective -- Susan & Garry Stahl, June 2001
Mitchell Paige
1918 - 2003
Washington Post Obituary
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Susan my wife set out with my help to write a Star Trek story inspired by Col Mitchall Paige (ret.). That story, was the one you just read Matters of Perspective. In the course of this writing Susan found out that Col. Paige was, at the time still among the living. In November of 2001, through the Marine Corps League we sent him a copy of the book he inspired, thinking that will be that. We were wrong.
On January 02, 2002 he called me. On the Phone. Live, on the phone. There are all sorts of highs a writer has. The high of a story finished, the high of a good complement. Somewhere in the stratosphere above that was the call I got that day. When the hero that inspired your creative urges calls to thank you for thinking of an old man, it does not GET better than that. He asked me what he could do to thank me, me, the guy in Michigan that has never done much to improve the world. I answered, Sir, you have all ready done it. You and your comrades in that jungle did all you ever need do for anyone. I humbly thank you.
Yes, he called me, and when I expressed the regret that Sue wasn't here he gave me his phone number so she could call him back. To those that think little scribbles of fan fiction do not matter, think again.
Mitchell Paige went, for my family, from being an inspiring figure in the history books, to being a real man. The kind of man you wouldn't mind having as an uncle, or a good friend. Now that man is gone. Our world is a darker and colder place. Rest well Mitchell Paige, you have earned it.
Just what makes a hero? I've always been fascinated by the concept. Some people would say that it takes a genius with muscles (superpowers are also helpful in this endeavor). They might claim that Superman or Spiderman is the ultimate hero or maybe someone similar who can do anything. It might be the man or woman who can cook meals worthy of a 5-star chef between saving the world on a weekly basis and romancing their significant other with hand-written love poems. This makes for a fun adventure story, but can we ordinary mortals really relate to such a person? I've never been able to.
For me, a true hero is not the person to whom everything comes easily. They are not the person who can do everything perfectly. For me, a true hero is an everyday person with the usual hopes and fears, ambitions and frailties, talents and shortcomings who looks their fears, frailties, and shortcomings full in the face and refuses to allow those things to stop them. A true hero is the person who goes beyond the minimum requirements of society and gives that little bit more simply because the job needs doing.
Can we ordinary mortals relate to this type of hero? I sure can. They are everywhere. Some of these heroes serve in armed forces all over the world. Some work as police officers and firefighters. Some specialize in rescue work. Some serve in more mundane roles as teachers, parents, doctors, or nurses. They are judges and lawyers, architects and construction workers, bankers and sales clerks, homemakers and spouses, and those who have earned the right to rest on their laurels. Some of these heroes have healthy, able bodies and some have bodies that don't always cooperate. They are young, old, and in-between. In short, they are us.
On October 24, 2000 J.P. Hailey forwarded this article to one of my e-mail lists:
FROM MOUNTAIN MEDIA EDITORS: A LONGER VERSION, AT 2,000 WORDS, ALSO MOVES FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE DATED OCT. 22, 2000 THE LIBERTARIAN, By Vin Suprynowicz
Oct. 26, 1942: The last man did not fail
Oct. 26 falls on a Thursday this year. Ask the significance of the date, and you're likely to draw some puzzled looks -- five more days to stock up for Halloween? It's a measure of men like Col. Mitchell Paige that they wouldn't have had it any other way. What he did 58 years ago, he did precisely so his grandchildren could live in a land of peace and plenty.
Whether we've properly safeguarded the freedoms he and his kind fought to leave us as their legacy, may be a discussion better left for another day. Today we struggle to envision -- or, for a few of us, to remember -- how the world must have looked on Oct. 26, 1942. A few thousand lonely American Marines had been put ashore on Guadalcanal, a god-forsaken jungle island which just happened to lie like a speed bump at the end of the long blue-water slot between New Guinea and the Bismarck Archipelago -- the very route the Japanese Navy would have to take to reach Australia.
On Guadalcanal the Marines built an air field. And Japanese commander Isoroku Yamamoto immediately grasped what that meant. No effort would be spared to dislodge these upstart Yanks from a position that could endanger his ships during any future operations to the south. Before long, relentless Japanese counterattacks had driven the U.S. Navy from inshore waters. The Marines were on their own.
World War Two is generally calculated from Hitler's invasion of Poland in 1939. But that's a eurocentric view. The Japanese had been limbering up in Korea and Manchuria as early as 1931, and in China by 1934. By late 1942 they'd devastated every major Pacific military force or stronghold of the great pre-war powers: Britain, Holland, France, and the United States. The bulk of America's proud Pacific fleet lay beached or rusting on the floor of Pearl Harbor.
As Mitchell Paige -- then a platoon sergeant -- and his men set about establishing their last defensive line on a ridge southwest of the tiny American bridgehead at Henderson Field on Guadalcanal on Oct. 25, it's unlikely anyone thought they were about to provide a definitive answer to that most desperate of questions: How many able-bodied U.S. Marines does it take to hold a hill against 2,000 desperate and motivated attackers?
The Japanese Army had not failed in an attempt to seize any major objective since the Russo-Japanese War of 1895. But in preceding days, Marine commander Vandegrift had defied War College doctrine, "dangling" his men in exposed positions to draw Japanese attacks, then springing his traps "with the steel vise of firepower and artillery," in the words of Naval historian David Lippman.
The Japanese regiments had been chewed up, good. Still, American commanders had so little to work with that Paige's men had only four 30-caliber Browning machine guns on the one ridge through which the Japanese opted to launch their final assault against Henderson Field, that fateful night of Oct. 25.
By the time the night was over, "The 29th (Japanese) Infantry Regiment has lost 553 killed or missing and 479 wounded among its 2,554 men," historian Lippman reports. "The 16th (Japanese) Regiment's losses are uncounted, but the 164th's burial parties handle 975 Japanese bodies. ...The American estimate of 2,200 Japanese dead is probably too low."
Among the 90 American dead and seriously wounded that night were all the men in Mitchell Paige's platoon. Every one. As the night wore on, Paige moved up and down his line, pulling his dead and wounded comrades back into their foxholes and firing a few bursts from each of the four Brownings in turn, convincing the Japanese forces down the hill that the positions were still manned.
The citation for Paige's Congressional Medal of Honor adds: "When the enemy broke through the line directly in front of his position, P/Sgt.Paige, commanding a machine gun section with fearless determination, continued to direct the fire of his gunners until all his men were either killed or wounded. Alone, against the deadly hail of Japanese shells, he fought with his gun and when it was destroyed, took over another, moving from gun to gun, never ceasing his withering fire."
In the end, Sgt. Paige picked up the last of the 40-pound, belt-fed Brownings -- the same design which John Moses Browning famously fired for a continuous 25 minutes until it ran out of ammunition in its first U.S. Army trial -- and did something for which the weapon was never designed. Sgt.Paige walked down the hill toward the place where he could hear the last Japanese survivors rallying to move around his flank, the gun cradled under his arm, firing as he went.
The weapon did not fail.
Coming up at dawn, battalion executive officer Major Odell M. Conoley first discovered the answer to our question: How many able-bodied U.S.Marines does it take to hold a hill against two regiments of motivated, combat-hardened infantrymen who have never known defeat?
On a hill where the bodies were piled like cordwood, Mitchell Paige alone sat upright behind his 30-caliber Browning, waiting to see what the dawn would bring.
One hill: one Marine.
But that was the second problem. Part of the American line had fallen to the last Japanese attack. "In the early morning light, the enemy could be seen a few yards off, and vapor from the barrels of their machine guns was clearly visible," reports historian Lippman. "It was decided to try to rush the position."
For the task, Major Conoley gathered together "three enlisted communication personnel, several riflemen, a few company runners who wereat the point, together with a cook and a few messmen who had brought food to the position the evening before.
" Joined by Paige, this ad hoc force of 17 Marines counterattacked at 5:40 a.m., discovering that "the extremely short range allowed the optimum use of grenades." In the end, "The element of surprise permitted the small force to clear the crest."
And that's where the unstoppable wave of Japanese conquest finally crested, broke, and began to recede. On an unnamed jungle ridge on an insignificant island no one had ever heard of, called Guadalcanal. Because of a handful of U.S. Marines, one of whom, now 82, lives out a quiet retirement with his wife Marilyn in La Quinta, Calif.
On Oct. 26, 1942.
When the Hasbro Toy Co. called up some years back, asking permission to put the retired colonel's face on some kid's doll, Mitchell Paige thought they must be joking. But they weren't. That's his mug, on the little Marine they call "GI Joe." And now you know.
Vin Suprynowicz is assistant editorial page editor of the Las Vegas Review-Journal, and editor of Financial Privacy Report
The article pushed my "hero button" and sparked the thought that, surely, Starfleet would have a ship named the Mitchell Paige. It would be a tough little ship and crew that plugs along day after day taking on whatever job needs to be done and doing it. I broached the subject over lunch that day with my husband, Garry who is much more the mechanical person, and said, "What if Starfleet had a tug that could fight?" During the discussion the two of us hashed out just what such a ship might look like and a little bit of her history. I freely admit that I am not a "gadget" person. I have very little affinity for machinery, but for the first time in my life I had a ship calling to me loud and strong demanding that I write the story of her and her crew. With much technical advice and many suggestions from Garry I set about the task.
Matters of Perspective is the story that she told me over the next seven months. I offer it in tribute not only to Sgt. Paige and the other members, past and present, of our armed services, but also to all of the everyday heroes and volunteers, ordinary people like you and I, who give of themselves and go the extra mile to do the job that needs to be done. To all of you I say, Thank You.
I would also like to say a special thank you to my own personal hero, my husband Garry. Without his love, encouragement, suggestions, and patience in answering my many technical questions this story would not have seen the light of day.
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The Above is a work of fiction. All characters are fictional, any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Copyright Susan & Garry Stahl: June 2001. All rights reserved, re-print only with permission.
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