A Captain Is Made

Posted on 2026, Sat Jan 31st, @ 12:29am by Vice Admiral Jack Reacher Jr & Lieutenant General Alastair McKenna & Captain Samuel Woolheater & Lieutenant Daven Voss

4,323 words; about a 22 minute read

Mission: Episode 1 "Operation Iron Justice" USS Halo, Star Base 113, USS Vigilance
Location: Deck 001 — Admiralty Command - Admiral’s Suite
Timeline: Three Days Ago - Stardate 240301.1 (Before Reacher Punch)

Even though Reacher was currently under watch and not fully confined to quarters just yet, he was in the Admiral's Suite reviewing the latest intelligence reports, and he, too, just like his wife, kept up to date with new crew members not because of a department but because it was his flagship. If he wanted to, he would go somewhere. He noticed there was a marine and he was due for a promotion. Good Reacher thought. He quickly sent a message asking Ops to summon the 1st lt to the Admiral's Suite.


(( Starbase 113 - Arrival ))

1stLt Samuel Woolheater hadn’t asked to be pulled from picket duty, but he hadn’t questioned the orders either. You follow your orders. The John Paul Jones had been steady work. Starship picket duty. Protecting the shipping lanes, long watches, ship boardings, merchant ship escort, and the usual Search and Rescue ops (SAR). He’d expected more of the same. Instead, the transfer orders routed him inward, toward Starbase 113 and the kind of operational gravity that didn’t come with clear horizons or simple solutions. That alone told him this wasn’t about filling a slot. Starbases didn’t need more rifles. They needed people who could see how a situation unraveled before it ever reached a firing line. If he was being brought here, it wasn’t to stand guard. And, privately, he hoped it wasn’t for desk duty either. He still had the PaDD with the TDY (Transfer Duty) orders on it. Forty-eight hours on a transport and then just three days here.

This place was so massive. He carried a PaDD with him for desk listings but always tried not to look like a tourist. Or worse…lost.

(( Three Days Later - Tactical Command & Wargaming, Deck 027, Starbase 113 ))

The simulation had been running for twelve minutes when 1stLt Woolheater noticed the flaw.

Not a dramatic one and not one with exploding icons or flashing alerts. Just a subtle hesitation in the defensive response in the urban warfare grid. The computer was suggesting an unnecessary redistribution of assets that left a corridor thinner than it needed to be. Oh sure, it had the data to “prove” that this was the right call. And, maybe, it could be. But what it couldn’t account for was the feeling in Sam’s gut that if any Marine or Civilian (non-combatant) strayed into that area, as experience has taught him, they will do, then there’s no line-of-sight fire, and it leaves them exposed. Nope, no way would Sam send any Marine into a deathtrap like that. Next, the supply line was … problematic. It was a convoy and supply line masquerading as a fleet problem. He simply watched as the scenario continued to unfold, the consequences compounding similarly to what one might expect when you hand over to the computer something as unpredictable as urban, house-to-house conflict.

The Strategic Studies Library sat in a low murmur behind him, LCARS displays scrolling through historical engagements and predictive models. Officers came and went, most of them focused on their own work. Woolheater stood off to the side, hands loosely clasped behind his back, posture relaxed but deliberate. He wasn’t here to run the wargame simulation. He was here, so they said, to provide on-the-ground analysis and interpretation. He was underutilized. He yawned and stifled it. His ass was numb from sitting, and he got up to step over to the replicator and quietly ordered a coffee.

Tactical simulations never announced themselves as such. They crept in through logistics, timing, and assumptions. Typically, poor assumptions were often missing in Intel.


Sam had heard that Starbase 113 was not like that. In fact, the Tactical Command and Wargaming (TC&W) was getting a lot of attention from Starfleet Command and the SFMC in general. When Samuel was at Camp Falkirk two years ago, there were recruitment posters for “Hazard Team” positions as well as Marine Embassy Protection work, SDSD (Starfleet Diplomatic Security Detail) work. At that time, he was two days away from deployment to the Incantari System front and was posted to the JPJ. But the memory stuck.

He shifted his weight slightly as the simulation reached its inevitable conclusion. Something to bring up later, perhaps. Or not. Some lessons were better learned the hard way.

The approach of boots on the deck plating registered before the voice did.

"Woolheater, Colonel Hayes, The Admiral would like a Word," The Colonel stated as he motioned towards the exit.

He turned smoothly, already recognizing the rank insignia before his eyes confirmed it. A Marine Colonel, crisp uniform, no wasted motion.

Setting the cuppa down, Samuel saluted, “Yes, sir.”

The Colonel watched the Marines' every move to see his reaction, and it was so far normal.

Woolheater didn’t ask why. He didn’t look back at the simulation. He simply nodded once, fell in beside the Colonel, and matched his pace toward the restricted turbolift at the far end of the deck.

If this were about work, he was ready. If it were about consequences, he’d face those too. Either way, he’d learned long ago that summons like this weren’t accidents.

The doors slid shut behind them, and the turbolift began its ascent toward the top of the spire.

After the elevator reached its spot, they stepped out, and the Colonel motioned to another elevator with a sign to restricted area, and it also stated Deck 001-Deck 002 above. Those were highly restricted decks.

(( Deck 001 - Upper Spire Corridor ))

The ride with the Colonel was silent. The silence didn’t bother him; this was pretty normal for a Marine presence on a starbase. Once they reached Deck 001, they veered off away from the Fleet Operations Command Hall to a room with two marines standing watch. The nameplate read 'Vice Admiral J. Reacher' and beneath it, 'Beta Quadrant Operational Theater Flag Officer.' They were escorted in by the two marines, and once inside, the Colonel and two marines left.

Samuel noticed the air was cooler by a few degrees, filtered and dry. It carried the faint ozone tang of high-density power systems and something else Sam couldn’t place, old metal and recycled atmosphere? It was the smell of a place sealed and trusted for a long time. The deck plating below his boots was darker. The seams were tighter, and vibration dampened, making the station’s mass feel distant. Even the lighting was different: indirect, layered, eliminating shadows softly.

The corridor walls were a muted matte, not a reflective surface. But it was simple, direct, and intentional. No bulkhead signage beyond essential wayfinding. No advertising, no announcements, no ambient traffic noise bleeding through. The station’s usual hum was present only as pressure, not sound. And it reminded Sam of command bunkers planetside back at Camp Falkirk. Those places are built to endure bad days without flinching.

The viewport panels along the spire opened onto controlled chaos. Starships slid past on precise vectors. Traffic patterns unfolded like clockwork at the planetary scale. Worker bees, civilian space traffic, freighters, starliners, all in motion. Distant impulse flares glinted and vanished. Cargo tenders moved like patient insects. Everything moved, but nothing was hurried. The view showed how small mistakes multiplied at this level of decision-making.

Sam remembered the two Marines who stood watch near the junction. They weren’t ceremonial. No polished chrome, no exaggerated posture. Their armor was low-profile, powered but dormant, helmets clipped at the hip. Rifles slung but not displayed. Their stance was relaxed in the way that only came from people who knew exactly what they were guarding and why. Eyes tracking, weight balanced, awareness outward instead of inward.

Sam was impressed. And still, not a word had been audibly spoken. Who was the Vice Admiral that he commanded such a force as this? Sam knew that deep down, this was respect. They acknowledged the Colonel with a crisp nod and Woolheater with a brief, professional assessment, not curiosity, not challenge. Just confirmation.

As they passed, the corridor narrowed slightly, funneling toward a reinforced doorway set flush into the bulkhead. The nameplate was understated, black on brushed duranium.

‘Vice Admiral J. Reacher
Beta Quadrant Operational Theater Flag Officer’

No rank flourish. The Colonel paused, keyed the entry, and gestured him forward.

(( Deck 001 - Vice Admiral Reacher’s Office ))

When they entered, Reacher was watching out the viewport as ships were coming and going, and waiting for any word on the Halo. He turned when they entered. “Welcome, Lieutenant,” Reacher said, voice low and level. Texas, faint but unmistakable. “Make yourself at home.”

Sam didn’t relax… but he didn’t exactly brace either. Whatever this meeting was, it wasn’t ceremonial. And whatever Reacher wanted, he hadn’t summoned him by accident. Woolheater looked at the Colonel and nodded in thanks.

When the Colonel and the two Marines had left, and the door sealed with a muted thud behind them.

The room was larger than it needed to be and arranged as if someone who hated wasted motion lived there. No grand desk dominating the space. No theatrical flags. There was a simple gravity to the room. The lighting was warm but controlled, set low enough to soften the edges without hiding anything. The viewport took up most of the far wall, the curve of the spire opening onto the steady choreography of ships coming and going.

The man standing at the viewport filled the space without trying.

Vice Admiral Reacher was tall. Actually tall. Broad shoulders, thick through the chest and back, the build of someone who still trained because he expected to need it. His uniform fit clean and exact, worn the way field officers wore them. The kind of fit that came from repetition, not mirrors.

His mostly gray hair, cropped regulation-short, with just enough brown left to suggest it hadn’t been that long ago. When he turned, Sam caught the eyes first, clear blue, steady, sharp without being predatory. Reacher’s gaze looked like he was measuring him.

Scars were visible if you knew how to look for them. And Sam did. A pull in the fabric across the left shoulder that hinted at old damage. The right arm carried itself with minute care, not weakness, but awareness of something earned. Someone who knew exactly where they’d been hurt before and refused to let it slow them down now. The Vice Admiral’s stance was relaxed, weight even, center of gravity forward enough that he could move fast if he needed to. First out of the shuttle energy. First on the ready line. First in everything that mattered.

This was not a desk admiral.

Sam saw that Reacher turned fully, offering a nod instead of a smile. Professional in the way Marines recognized instantly, mutual respect offered without theatrics, authority present without demand.

Sam felt it then. Not intimidation. Gravity. And Sam responded by snapping to attention and he spoke in a loud, clipped, firm voice, “First Lieutenant Samuel Woolheater reporting as ordered. Sir!”

Before Reacher could say anything, A Figure stepped out of the shadows, Who had hidden himself in the corner. He had the rank of Lt. General, And that General was the Commandant of the Star Fleet Marines. Alastair McKenna a life long member of the Marine Corps.

"At Ease Lt. We have a few things to discuss" he stated as he walked out of the shadows and took a seat. Reacher nodded and motioned to the other seat next to the General.

Sam dropped the salute and went to an "at ease" stance even though he was anything but "at ease". The Commandant of the SFMC was here in the Vice Admiral's Office.

~Holy shit!~

Sam sat last and was grateful for the chair. Sam knew also that he better just keep his mouth shut and answer the questions directly. He didn't know what to say and so, he said nothing. Looking at the General and then, finally, back to Reacher. It was later afternoon and Sam's "five o'clock" shadow was already showing at 1600. He waited for either superior officer speak.

Reacher pulled out the PADD and read through the Marines Records. "I have one question Before we fully get down to what we need to discuss. I see you started out as Enlisted, What made you become an Officer?" Jack asked.

A beat passed, Sam took a breath and then answered Reacher.

“Sir… I was good at taking care of Marines.”

He looked at McKenna and then back to Reacher.

“When I realized the decisions that affected them were being made farther up the chain, I decided I needed to be there. Because someone had to be willing to make the call and live with it, sir.”

He met Reacher's eyes.

“I am.” A faint shrug.

“Commissioning was the only way to do that.”

The General nodded at that. "Son, Keep it up you will make it to where I'm currently sitting, And Trust me, I believe you can, Now Admiral Reacher and I noticed your record is straight. What gets me is you have had 3 Duty Postings and only 1 Promotion. Which is odd for the amount of service you have done so far. So, Reacher"

Reacher nodded and opened a drawer and pulled out a box and stood and walked around the table, and sat halfway on the edge. "I have already signed off, I Hereby Promote you, 1st Lt Samuel Woolheater, to the Rank of Captain," He stated as he opened the box up and showed the Lt.

Sam didn’t speak right away.

He was seated and he got to his feet. He stood there for a second longer. He had worked so hard for so long and here it was, eyes on the rank insignia in the box. Not stunned, he was processing. With this promotion his life would be way different.

Then he straightened fully and came to attention.

“Thank you sir… permission to speak plainly.”

(beat, granted)

He nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“I didn’t chase rank. I chased responsibility. Wherever you put me, I tried to leave the place better than I found it and the people alive enough to go home.”

A breath. Not emotional. Just honest.

“If you’re trusting me with more Marines, more lives, and more consequences… I’ll carry it. Same way I always have.”

He met Reacher’s eyes, then the General’s.

“I won’t waste it. And I won’t forget where I came from.”

He saluted, clean, sharp, unmistakably Marine.

"Well, don't thank me yet," Reacher stated as he walked back around to his desk. "Computer Start Computer File Alpha Omega One, Also start security protocol Reacher-Delta-Six." With that a the windows darkened and the lights went off and a hologram popped up in the middle of the desk with the Starfleet seal, then followed by the Beta Quadrant Seal then shown a picture and small parts of random files. The Picture of the Rennak Torvak, Governor of Zytchin.

Sam looked at the images as he held onto his Captain's pips. He recognized the seals and the picture of Rennak Torvak the Governor of Zytchin.

"I've seen him before. Not in person. But on the video. Is there some trouble sir?", Sam asked and sat forward a bit.

"We believe he is working with the Tal Shair, and we want you to go undercover. We also have reason to believe he set me up for the current court-martial. No One Knows you're here. The m
oment you hopped onto the Shuttle From Earth, all your Records were sealed and classified under the Commander-in-Chief's Order."

Reacher handed the Captain a PADD, which had all the records for the Governor, which only went back at the start of the Super Nova Event that caused the Romulan Government to Collapse.

McKenna looked at the Captain. "So Captain, You see anything that should raise major questions per say when someone's becoming Governor?"

As he stated a Marine escort Lieutenant Voss into the room and then left.

Lieutenant Voss stepped inside just as Captain Woolheater was making his assessment about proof. The door sealed behind him with that same muted thud he'd heard a dozen times before. He took in the room quickly: Reacher at his desk, the Commandant seated—the Commandant, what the hell?—and a newly minted Marine Captain he didn't recognize holding captain's pips like they were still warm.

"Voss Take a seat" Reacher stated handing Voss a PADD as well with the same info.

Sam took the PADD, his eyes moving methodically as he scrolled. He didn’t rush it. When he spoke, his voice was steady and low.

“Yes, sir. A few.”

He looked up briefly, then back to the screen.

“Post-supernova records only. No early political career, no documented patronage chain, no visible reconstruction authority backing him. For a Romulan to consolidate power that fast, something’s missing.”

[A beat.]

“Either he’s being protected, or someone’s curating his history. Both point to intelligence service involvement.”

Sam glanced toward Voss as the Chief Intelligence Officer sat, then back to Reacher.

“If he helped engineer your court-martial, sir, this isn’t just political maneuvering. That’s leverage. Which means this op isn’t about exposure.”

Looking at Lt. Voss, "We could really use some good intel now too."

He met Reacher's eyes.

“It’s about proof.”

Sam looked over at the other officer and tried to read him more.

"I've been tracking Zytchin for the past eight months as part of our border world monitoring. Torvak appeared on our radar approximately fourteen months ago when he consolidated governorship after the previous administrator died—officially listed as 'complications from radiation exposure' during relief operations. No autopsy was performed. Body was cremated within six hours, cited as 'cultural observance.' Except the previous governor was from a Romulan family line that traditionally practices entombment"

Voss tapped the PADD, pulling up a secondary file.

"Torvak has no verified political history before the supernova event. No Senate connections, no military service record in the Imperial Fleet, no documented presence in the Romulan refugee networks. For someone who now controls a strategically positioned border world with Federation trade access, that's not just unusual. It's a cover identity." The intelligence officer said.

"If we're going undercover on Zytchin, here's what we're walking into: Torvak runs a tight security apparatus. His personal guard is ex-Tal Shiar, at least four of them that we've identified through facial recognition. They don't advertise it, but the tradecraft is unmistakable. He also maintains a private communication network that bypasses the planetary grid entirely—military-grade encryption, isolated nodes, the kind of setup you use when you don't trust anyone."

He pulled up a schematic.

"The good news: Zytchin is still rebuilding. There's a constant flow of trade ships, relief workers, reconstruction personnel. Federation presence is light but regular. We can insert someone without raising immediate flags."

"But..." There was always a but when Devan gave a report.

"The bad news: Torvak is paranoid. He vets everyone personally who gets close to his inner circle. You don't just walk in and shake his hand. You need a reason to be there. A reason he believes."

"I can have full documentation ready in forty-eight hours. Backstopped records, financial history, communications traffic, the works. But whoever goes in needs to sell it. Torvak will test you. He'll want to see if you're worth corrupting or worth eliminating."

"Thing is Voss," Reacher started. "They know you, You were at the meeting where I punched the Security Guard. Unless..." Reacher stopped mid thought. "You are sent down there to meet with some Ground Units about getting better defenses set up yet you're also down there gathering intel from the outside while Sam gathers intel on the inside?"

Lieutenant Voss looked at Reacher, then at McKenna, then back at Reacher again. His mind was already racing through the implications, and none of them were good.

"Sir—" He stopped himself, recalibrated. "Admiral, with respect, I need to be clear about something."

He set the PADD down carefully, like it might detonate.

"I'm an analyst. I build cover identities, I run signals intelligence, I coordinate surveillance networks and compile threat assessments. I'm not a field operator. I'm the guy who makes sure field operators don't get killed because they're missing a piece of the puzzle." he said before stopping to take a breath.

Sam listened to the Lieutenant speak. He sounded informed and professional.

McKenna knew Voss wanted to start laying into the Admiral for not knowing certain things within the Intelligence Community. "He has a point Admiral. I can send in Major Stroud for that and Voss can still provide intel while hes on the ground and also while Sam is doing his thing."

Reacher nodded in agreement. "Ok, Daven you got 3 Days, Create a Idenity that Wont cause any problems but will pass security checks instantly and allow him to get what we need todo a arrest"

Woolheater spoke up, "If you’re putting me inside Torvak’s circle, then you’re trusting me to make judgment calls that won’t be visible in real time. I won’t waste that trust.

Give me the parameters, give me the cover, and I’ll go to work.”

Sam looked at McKenna and then to Voss, out of the corner of his eye he could still see Reacher but this question was directed to Voss.

“Before we talk about cover identities, I need one thing nailed down.

Does Torvak know he’s being protected by the Tal Shiar… or does he think he’s the one pulling their leash?

Because those are two very different men. One sells out of fear. The other sells out of ambition. And they leave different fingerprints.”

Daven kept his expression professionally neutral despite the familiar frustration rising in his chest. Three days to create a bulletproof cover identity. No advance warning. No preliminary planning session. Just Admiral Reacher making operational decisions on the fly and expecting his staff to manifest solutions.

Of course. Because that's how we do intelligence work now. Spontaneous tradecraft development in conference rooms. he thought to himself.

When Woolheater asked his question, Daven looked up from his initial notes, meeting the operative's gaze with analytical focus. The question was good—exactly the kind of foundational assessment that should have been established before deciding to insert an asset into Torvak's operation.

"Torvak genuinely believes he's in charge," Daven replied, his tone carrying the certainty of someone who'd spent considerable time analyzing the Andorian's psychological profile. "He thinks his superior intellect and political maneuvering earned him his current position. The reality is that the Tal Shiar has been carefully orchestrating his rise for years, but he's completely unaware of that manipulation."

He pulled up holographic data showing Torvak's known associates and business dealings. "Everything around him—his key appointments, his most profitable contracts, even the political opposition that conveniently weakened at critical moments—it's all been managed. But Torvak interprets those successes as validation of his own capabilities rather than evidence of external manipulation.

"Everything around him—his key appointments, his most profitable contracts, even the political opposition that conveniently weakened at critical moments—it's all been managed. But Torvak interprets those successes as validation of his own capabilities rather than evidence of external manipulation."

Lieutenant Voss returned Woolheater's look. "So you're dealing with the second type—someone who sells out of ambition, not fear. He doesn't think he's being protected by the Tal Shiar. He thinks he's leveraging their resources for his own advancement."

Reacher nodded and the General looked impressed.

Sam then turned to Reacher, "Sir… I didn’t expect to walk into this room a First Lieutenant and walk out a Captain. I’ve buried Marines. I’ve written letters home. I’ve stood on decks watching ships burn...So yeah… this means something to me. Just tell me what I’m walking into.”

"You're walking into what might be the Biggest Scandal since the Stuff that Picard went through with one of Our Worse Federation Presidents, not to mention the Frontier Day, Your main priority here is to get in, Get information we need to arrest him, No violence but if you need to resort it to escape after your cover is blown, Do it, and send out a Emergency beam out alert and we will get you out of there."

Buried Marines. Written letters. Ships burning. And here I thought we were just creating a cover identity for intelligence gathering, not preparing for the Normandy invasion. Daven thought to himself as he kept his expression professionally neutral and continued to make notes on his PADD about the operational parameters Reacher had just outlined

The newly-promoted Captain Woolheater was receiving his dramatic briefing about walking into danger, emergency beam-out protocols, and the solemn weight of service. Meanwhile, Daven was mentally calculating database access requirements, document fabrication timelines, and which intelligence assets he'd need to coordinate with to build a cover identity that could fool Tal Shiar verification.

This was exactly why Daven preferred the rough and tumble action of a desk and a PADD. No dramatic speeches about sacrifice. No emergency extraction protocols. Just analysis, fabrication, and hoping the legend holds up under scrutiny.

"Understood, sir," Lieutenant Voss said aloud, his tone carrying professional acknowledgment. He looked at Captain Woolheater directly. "I'll need detailed background from you—skills, experience, personality traits that you can authentically maintain under pressure. The best cover identities are built around what the operative can genuinely perform, not fabricated expertise that might break under scrutiny."

Reached nodded. "Alright seems we got everything in motion. Sam get together with Voss and give any relevant information, You are all dismissed."

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