1615 Hours | Vaadwaur Blackout Perimeter | Bridge

The red alert lighting pulsed steadily through the bridge, bathing everyone in shades of urgency. Captain Reacher stood square at the center, his expression a stoic shield as three unknown vessels emerged from warp, hovering like predators just outside visual range. Their configurations were unmistakable—modified Starfleet designs, but warped by armor plating and unconventional weapon mounts. Their silence was as unnerving as their presence.

Commander Kate Townsend, his executive officer, studied the tactical display. “No transponders. No Starfleet recognition codes. But those warp signatures… they’re from our side of the quadrant. They knew exactly where to find us.”

“They’re not attacking,” said Lieutenant Aubrie Fox from the tactical station. “Yet.”

Reacher’s jaw tightened. “What’s their formation suggest?”

“A covering maneuver. Like they’re shielding us, not boxing us in,” Fox replied, eyes narrowing. “They’re holding back Vaadwaur probes, jamming local telemetry. Someone’s watching our back.”

“Not exactly Starfleet protocol,” Reacher muttered. He turned to Fox. “Raise Sickbay, get a status update from Dr. Hansen. And get La’an and Katie to the shuttle bay. If they’re friends, they’ll land soon.”

1616 Hours | Shuttle Bay 2

The bay doors parted with a mechanical groan as the first of the incoming vessels touched down. Red alert strobes danced off the glossy black hull, now marked by grime and old battle scars. Lieutenant La’an Hanes stood poised, phaser rifle gripped low but ready. At her side, newly assigned Lieutenant Katie Harlow watched the ramp lower with a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Look sharp,” La’an whispered.

The boarding ramp dropped. A quartet of figures emerged—each moving with trained confidence, each bearing the wear of too many deployments and too few explanations.

Leading the group was Lieutenant Colonel Brad Hayes, square-jawed and still commanding in his years since the MACO program disbanded. At his side was First Lieutenant Jake Arlen, his youthful gait undercut by a steely focus. Behind them, Second Lieutenant Jim Street — young, perhaps too young — scanned the bay with restless energy. And then came Chief Warrant Officer Kane, calm and silent, his eyes sweeping with the precision of an old soldier.

“This is Lieutenant La’an Hanes” La’an called. “State your purpose and your clearance.”

“Tempest Unit, deployed by Admiral Harlen,” Hayes replied, removing his helmet. “We’re your backup.”

Katie stepped forward. “We weren’t told to expect mercenaries.”

Jake grinned. “We weren’t told you’d be so welcoming.”

La’an’s voice stayed ice-cool. “Until Captain Reacher clears you, you’ll be escorted to temporary quarters. No exceptions. Hand over all weapons. No attitude.”

Kane stepped forward first, unstrapping his phaser and setting it gently into the crate between them. “We’re here to help. Not cause friction.”

“Then let’s keep it that way,” La’an said.

1620 Hours | Bridge

Fox’s fingers danced across the tactical console, rechecking the field density around the Healdsburg. The Tempest ships hadn’t moved since arriving—but they were holding a solid flank against any incoming probes. She could feel Reacher’s gaze from the command chair.

“They’re professionals,” Fox said quietly. “They haven’t pinged any Vaadwaur sensors. Their ships run colder than ours.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like them,” Reacher replied. “Any word from Sickbay?”

“Dr. Hansen’s cleared the injured from earlier. Roslin’s in Sickbay too—no doubt raising a diplomatic eyebrow.”

Commander Townsend stepped forward, arms crossed. “Mercs on a Starfleet ship… this isn’t going to make our next diplomatic reception easy.”

“Neither will being dead,” Reacher shot back. “Let’s find out if Harlen’s gamble pays off.”

1625 Hours | Sickbay

Dr. Lillian Hansen wiped sweat from her brow as she scanned the last of the engineering crew injured during the ion surge. Her biobed monitors blinked green — for now. She tapped her commbadge.

“Hansen to Bridge. Triage complete. Sickbay’s standing by for any surprises.”

Across the room, Elara Roslin, the ship’s diplomatic officer, leaned against the med table, arms crossed.

“Let me guess—Harlen didn’t run this through the Council.”

“He didn’t even run it through Starfleet Command,” Hansen replied flatly. “And now I’ve got four mercenaries who probably eat photon grenades for breakfast aboard my ship.”

Elara raised an eyebrow. “At least they’re not bleeding—yet.”

Hansen gave a dry smirk. “Give it time.”