James O’Hara made his way slowly through the maze of decks and corridors that was the USS Challenger. The young Irishman was a very long way from home. The furthest he had ever been from the west coast of Ireland before this was to the beautiful city of San Francisco, and that felt alien enough to begin with. James felt he was in the right place at last, after a brief stint in the territorial battalions of County Galway had proven his abilities as a soldier. Now, he had to prove himself to his new commander, Lieutenant Rodier. The tall Irishman strode through the corridors with his kit, scratching his neck from time to time due to the unforeseen scratchiness of a Starfleet collar. He had to admit; yellow suited him. His brief time in Renmore Barracks had taught him a few basic skills; follow orders, present yourself well and never switch off if you want to survive. To complicate things, a combination of new shoes and travel sickness caused James to slide around corners in the most uncivilised of fashion, but he carried on regardless. Punctuality was the name of the game with security. He had to be the right person, in the right place, with the right phaser.

Not knowing how to announce himself, O’Hara approached the door to the COS’s Office and knocked twice.