Hogan vs. Quark
Welcome to the 1947 fanfiction title bout between two heavyweight contenders from my favorite series: Hogan's Heroes and Star Trek: Deep Space Nine! This fight will be a no-holds barred mental confrontation between two of the greatest (in fictional television, anyway) con men of the 20th century! (Although, it should be admitted, the Ferengi in question is merely visting the 20th century from the future but...it still counts!)
This story is based on the DS9 episode 'Little Green Men' where Quark, his brother Rom, and nephew Nog were accidentally transported back in time before their ship crashed landed in Roswell, New Mexico in 1947. In the episode the trio tried to con the humans before they finally escaped back to the future. It's a good episode but I've always wondered what would happen if you added a more competent officer (and con artist) to the mix.
Now it's time to introduce you to your fighters for tonight!
And in this corner! We have that preeminent American Colonel (now Major General), all-around good guy, hero of Stalag 13 and fifteenth place winner in the ff dot net 'Sexiest Hunka-Hunka Buns' award, TV category! He has a preference for blondes, certain female fan fiction authors and can name all 48 state capitals within 48 seconds! Introducing...Robert! E! Hogan!
And in this corner...and the less said, the better...we have that conniving misogynistic Ferengi bartender posing-as-something-he's-not...Quark!
May the best human win!
For my female readers (and a thank you to Snooky-9093 for suggesting this!), this Ferengi-involved man-centered tale set in the late 1940's involves misogyny of various levels including, but not limited to: spoken misogyny, mental misogyny, implied misogyny, cultural misogyny, misogyny-by-another-word misogyny, she's-so-fine misogyny, undefinable misogyny, sitcom misogyny, highly fictional misogyny, sports misogyny, are-you-still-reading-this? misogyny and just general Southern good 'ol boy all-around backslapping misogyny not listed elsewhere. Apart from that it's a really great story!
The author also heartily disclaims any involvement or responsibility for female-based health and legal issues related to this story such as: skyrocketing blood pressure, constant irritation, sudden bouts of intense rage and general urge to kill and/or maim anyone with XY chromosomes.
Winner of THE Shirley Imaginary "Majorly Mantastic Misleading Misogyny Missive' award of 2024! I'm so proud:-)
It should also be noted that anyone that really believes in misogyny (I'm a guy, in case you're wondering, and I pride myself of being a gentleman...or a civilized bum; take your pick) has a serious set of screws loose in their head...
Enjoy the story!
Once upon a time, there was a Ferengi.
This particular Ferengi wasn't an important member of his race...or even a rich one. Like many of his male brethren he believed in the acquisition of profit and all the gold-pressed latinum that came from it. Latinum was power. Latinum was virility. Latinum was sexy.
And this Ferengi, like so many others before him, wanted it all.
Unfortunately, as with plans best laid, the dreams of great wealth had yet eluded his greedy grasp. Despite the alien's best efforts - both legal and illicit - he was nothing more than a small time bar owner on an obscure Cardassian space station in the Alpha Quadrant.
It was only by sheer chance that a wormhole to the Gamma Quadrant was discovered next to Deep Space Nine. Overnight, this stable path to a section of the galaxy many thousands of light years away catapulted the station from an insignificant backwater into a strategic location for the major powers. The Bajoran people, devoutly religious, referred to the passageway as the Celestial Temple. The Federation, along with everyone else, referred to it as the wormhole.
For the Ferengi, it was the renewed path to his dreams of gold.
He was even more convinced that his luck had turned when he acquired his own ship. Granted, it was a repayment of a loan he had given his cousin but even so...it was his own personal shuttle to do with as he wished. And use it he did. The profits he would generate after his side trip to Earth would mark his climb to ultimate success...and beyond.
Yes, the future looked bright for this scavenger of latinum. Even so, he was about to be reminded that the universe has a perverse sense of humor when it comes to those whose greed outweighs common sense. Perhaps, if he were fortunate to live long enough, the Ferengi would remember that tried and true axiom:
There's always a better con artist than you out there. Tempt fate, and you might just cross paths in the unlikeliest of ways...
July 7, 1947
Somewhere near Washington, D.C.
Major General Robert Hogan, his tired body slumped in a padded chair, had barely raised the icy cold bottle of beer to his dry lips when the phone rang.
For a brief moment - who am I kidding? - he considered ignoring one of the banes of his military existence and indulging in alcoholic bliss. With a tired groan he set the wet bottle on the nearby table and slowly stretched his arms before he answered the cursed device. Several minutes later, his curiosity piqued, he laid the handset down in its bakelite cradle.
A courier? Hogan sighed at the thought of more work. Ah, the life of a general officer: never a dull moment. A slight frown crossed his lips. Unless it comes to budgets, he mentally added.
Or anything involving paper.
Twenty minutes later a nattily dressed Major knocked on the front door. The older officer returned the offered salute with an airy wave of his hand and studied the front of the man's tunic for a brief moment before he quickly ushered his visitor inside.
He doesn't look crazy enough to jump out of airplanes, he thought, impressed by the qualification badge that gleamed on the stranger's chest. A briefcase, chained to his left wrist, only deepened the mystery behind the phone call.
"Sir," the young man began. "I'm Major Davis. General O'Neill directed me to deliver this to you." He quickly, if not efficiently, took a small silver key from his pocket before he unlocked the brass clasp and withdrew several thick file folders.
Those better not be budget estimates...
"Give me a minute," Hogan said, taking the bundle before he flipped the lid of the first file. His eyes reflexively scanned the documents moments before they did a double take and backed up. Finally, after interminable minutes, he flicked his stunned gaze to the Major.
"An ATC aircraft is standing by at Andrews Field, General," the man said, responding to the unspoken prompt. "The Chief of Staff said you were to leave immediately."
The senior officer, barely hearing the words, absently nodded as he returned his attention to the file. Try as he might, Hogan found it hard to credit that the black-and-white photo of the three bulbous-headed alien beings - much less the oddly shaped ship they arrived in - were actually real.
And if it had been anyone else...
"Sir, I was instructed to wait for a message if you have one," the young officer prompted, breaking Hogan's train of thought. He quickly shoved the paper mass into his own briefcase before he looked up.
"Let the General know that I'm on my way," he finally ordered. "I'll call him from Andrews."
"Yes, sir." Major Davis acknowledged. "Will there be anything else?"
Hogan shook his head. "Thank you, Major," he said politely. Again, he exchanged salutes as another thought popped to mind.
I'll call Kinch myself. Damn! he groused. I tell him to go enjoy himself and this happens! He glanced at the case and the papers it held with a sense of dread.
But I need him.
"Major Davis," the General called out. Davis, his hand on the doorknob, smartly turned around to face the senior officer.
"Let me see your briefcase."
The Army officer immediately walked to the table and set his case down. The hollow thunk from the impact had barely reverberated around the living room before his practiced fingers released the top flap. General Hogan then reached down into the paper bag sitting at the base of the table and retrieved a full beer bottle which he then carefully, if not reverentially, laid in the bottom of the Major's satchel. The air of practiced calm on his handsome face contrasted sharply with the jolt of shock that flashed across the other man's now-worried features.
"Make sure the Chief of Staff gets that," he solemnly ordered, resisting the urge to grin. "I think he'll need it."
"Yes...sir," the Major replied uncertainly as he tried - and pathetically failed - to mask his surprise.
Probably wondering where he'll be posted to in Alaska, the General thought, amused. Either that, or: get me away from this loonball! The speed at which the man took off only confirmed his latter hypothesis. The good humor faded as the strange images of otherworldly beings popped into his mind's eye.
And away we go...
Fourteen hours, one malfunctioning aircraft, and a cranky General officer later...
General Hogan, his face lined by exhaustion, looked down at the desolate landscape and groaned.
Aliens, he thought for the umpteenth time. There are aliens down there. Actual aliens, not make-believe ones out of some Flash Gordon serial. He sighed and tiredly repeated the question that popped into his mind yet again:
How the hell did I get stuck with this?
The answer, as always, was obvious: you're good at thinking outside the box. It didn't make him feel any better.
So we have aliens on Earth, he thought sourly. Why are they here?
Bigger question: why the hell did these whatever-the-hells-they-are land - crash land, actually - in the middle of nowhere? You'd think they'd choose Washington or New York. If I had been really fortunate they would have landed on Miami Beach! A thin grin split his lips slightly at the delightful thought. The funny part is that if they had landed and said 'take me to your leader' everyone would have thought it was another Orson Welles joke and panicked.
Meanwhile, the head of the 8th thinks we're about to be invaded. Are we? I've known Clay for 20 years. Only thing that ever excited the guy was work! Which probably explains why he never got married. Hogan frowned.
Hell, I never got hitched! So what does that make me?
The General shrugged the errant train of thought away before flicking his gaze outside the aircraft. The ground, showing more detail now, came sharply into barren focus. Obviously the plane was on descent for landing. He grimaced involuntarily.
This place makes Stalag 13 look like a resort!
"We should be on the ground in less than ten minutes," a familiar voice announced. Hogan looked up in time to see Captain James Kinchloe, his aide-de-camp and friend, gracefully land in one of the canvas and aluminum frame seats. The senior officer merely nodded.
"You know, they usually say 'penny for your thoughts,'" the colored man rumbled several moments later. "I imagine for generals it's a lot more expensive."
A dry hint of laughter escaped Robert's parched throat. "Just thinking," he casually replied, meeting the other man's gaze. Kinch merely snorted in reply. His dark mustache twitched slightly as he looked through the clear glass and to the world below.
"If this is someone's idea of a bad joke then they've won the sixty-four dollar prize," he groused a minute later. "I've heard the stories about people getting lost out here, but aliens?" The aide shook his head. "You'd think they'd have better road maps. Or at least know where the White House is." He quirked an eyebrow. "You don't think the Kommandant was driving them, do you?"
This time, Hogan's face broke into a wry grin. "That would explain a lot of things," he chuckled before he adjusted himself in the stiff seat once more. "Don't think we'll be that lucky, though."
"Probably not." The junior officer's face remained thoughtful. "One thing's for sure," he commented. "They didn't come for the scenery. I can only imagine why they're here." He met Hogan's eyes in shared thought.
"Yeah," the General admitted. The pictures of the aliens were enough to make him wonder. "I have a bad feeling about this," he admitted candidly to his longtime friend. "Just something…" He broke off, unable to express the thought. After a moment he continued. "Makes me wonder what's up there." The general flicked his eyes to the aluminum ceiling and the unseen heavens above. "Obviously where there's three…"
"...there's more," Kinch finished.
Just then the sound of a soft thump echoed through the small cabin as the aircraft's wheels merged with the oncoming concrete runway. Hogan glanced outside. The assorted collection of buildings and hangars that filled his gaze looked just as dull and uninteresting as the landscape that surrounded the structures.
Who the hell named this place Roswell, anyway?
Brigadier General Clayton Hammond, head of the 8th Air Force, and several other officers met the pair on the tarmac. Major Carlton Harris, the Roswell Army Airfield's second in command, was briefly introduced before being dismissed to return to his duties.
"The Major is filling in for Colonel Smalls. His mother passed on a few days ago," Hammond explained to Hogan on the short car ride to Hangar 18. "Harris was the one that thought up the whole weather balloon story. Good man." The two-star General merely nodded noncommittally in reply before they arrived at the guarded hangar. The sight of the alien ship inside the cavernous space was enough to stun the man who thought he had seen it all.
"Men from Mars," Hogan breathed, looking at the otherworldly sight. "You know," he sighed, "I was hoping all of this was a prank." He shook his head. "It's easier to believe the Russians were up to something rather than believe…" The General waved his hand at the craft. "…this."
General Hammond sighed before his brown eyes met Hogan's. "I wish I could say it was the Commies, Rob," he began before he turned his eyes back to the interstellar craft. "We've tried to keep the information compartmentalized as best as we could. Fortunately the cover story seems to be holding for the moment." He paused, then continued. "As you know, we have three aliens," he said, his voice quiet. "All alive; all talking. Unfortunately."
"Why's that?" the other man asked, his curiosity piqued.
Clayton made a face that could have been comical under other circumstances. "They have some kind of translator in their ears that converts their language into ours and vice versa," he explained. "They weren't working at first. One we got past that barrier it was like listening to my daughters - they won't shut up."
The former POW raised an eyebrow. "At least they're talking," he observed. "So what are they saying?"
"It's a wash," the other man said bluntly. "One minute they're demanding to see our leader. The next minute they're arguing among themselves. It's a lot like listening to the Three Stooges without the eye pokes."
"That's...strange," Hogan pondered. "You'd think anyone who was able to travel to another world would be professional. Or at least be on the same script."
His peer agreed. "On the other hand, I'm beginning to wonder if they're a threat at all," Hammond continued. "If they're an invasion force they're the strangest damned one I've ever seen. Even the Eyties were more organized." The officer shook his head. "Believe it or not but they're related to each other. The oldest one - his name is Quark - reminds me of my cousin, Elliott. He's a used car salesman in Peoria. A really bad used car salesman. Anyway, Quark claims to be the chief financial officer for something called the Ferengi Alliance. They supposedly want to make a deal with us."
"A deal?" General Hogan cocked his head, puzzled. "So what are they offering?"
"Energy weapons, something called warp drives..." Hammond shrugged his shoulders, clearly unsure what to believe. "All sorts of space stuff. Said we could be the most powerful people on this planet if we wanted."
In response, Robert arched his right eyebrow. So much for the thought that we were dealing with three obviously lost aliens. This is bizarre. "And he was serious?"
"I think so." The other man paused. "The guy…or whatever you want to call him…reminds me of one of those Old West traders. You know, the ones that sold alcohol and called it medicine?" He met Hogan's eyes. "He's got better goods than they did, though."
The senior General nodded before switching gears. "What about the others?"
"The youngest, Nog - like egg nog - seems to be a teenager. Just as greedy and even more annoying than the adults." Hammond tilted his head slightly as in thought. "I'd almost swear he was putting the moves on the nurse we have in there."
Hogan stared at him incredulously. "You're kidding," he blurted.
The general held up his right hand. "Scout's honor," he said. "Apparently she gives the best oo-mox...whatever the hell that is." He chuckled slightly before his face soured. "I don't think they treat their women all that well, either," Clayton mentioned, a trace of disgust in his voice. "Apparently they have some law on their home planet that requires females to run around naked."
"Naked?..." Robert repeated, both eyebrows raised this time, before he turned his eyes to the craft before them. At that moment he wished he had brought some aspirin.
Or better yet, a shot of whiskey!
"That's a new one on me," he finally mentioned, unsure of what else to say. "How the hell did you find that out?"
"The other adult - his name is Rom, by the way - told one of the scientists. He just said it matter of factly too. Like it was a normal thing." The head of the 8th shook his head in disbelief. "Granted, I don't mind women al naturel," he said. "Makes it damned hard to take them to dinner that way though."
General Hogan snorted but otherwise kept silent.
"Rom, to me at least, is sort of interesting. Real quiet and not as aggressive as the other two but seems to be the smarter one of the bunch. Dr. Sanders, one of the civilian specialists, initially thought he was the woman of the group until we found out that little tidbit of information."
"And their ship?" Most of the colored craft, to the aviator's experienced eye, seemed to be mostly intact. Only the lower part of the ship showed any kind of impact damage at all and even that was relatively minor.
By comparison, the engines on a B-17 would have to be repaired if not replaced from the sudden stop of the propellers when they hit the ground. Not to mention the fuselage damage.
"Believe it or not but the damn thing took a heck of a hit when it crashed," Clayton summarized. "Fortunately for us the Army had several companies in the area taking part in maneuvers. They all said the ship went in pretty hard. Some of the witnesses even reported seeing a glowing circle around the craft when it slammed into the ground. One of the eggheads looking at the ship posited that what they saw might have been an electronic shield of some sort. Like armor, but invisible."
"That would make sense," Robert agreed, looking at the relatively undamaged ship again. "I won't pretend to understand it, but it makes sense."
"It's a lot better than a lot of the theories they're throwing around," Clayton agreed. "Honestly, I'm just surprised that the bells and whistles inside the damned thing are running. We might even be able to repair it and get it flying if we knew what the hell we were doing. It sure isn't like winding up the rubber bands on a '17."
Hogan digested the information for a long moment. "What's your take on the aliens?"
A pensive look told the senior officer all he needed to know. "Personally? I don't trust them," he candidly admitted "However, part of me says the negotiator is on the level. He's sure as hell arrogant enough." The 8th Air commander glanced at the craft. "You'd think they'd show up in a bigger ship just to impress the locals. Then again, maybe this is standard operating procedure for them. Who knows?" Clayton shrugged his shoulders. "At least they're willing to deal with us instead of the Russians. That's something." At that moment his voice brightened. "Fortunately, there's a silver lining to all this," he finished.
"And that is...?"
"I'm just glad you're here to deal with them," Clayton deadpanned.
General Hogan shot a dirty look at the other man's cheerful grin before the two men walked outside to the waiting staff car.
Surprisingly, the nondescript administration building that housed their Ferengi visitors looked little different from some of the other wooden structures on the airfield. Only the heavy guard complement belied the real difference. Even so, the sight gave Hogan pause as he stepped from the car.
Replace the uniforms with blue ones and change the lettering on the signs...
He let out a silent tremorous sigh.
I left Stalag 13. I guess it will never leave me.
A fresh desert wind lashed against his cheeks as he stared at the front doors and the supposed horror that resided within.
Next: Toto, he ain't!
A/N: One of the two things that bothered me about this episode was the presence of a lieutenant (three-star) general and some way junior captains. (They did have one major at the beginning but he soon disappeared). Seriously? You're not going to have the base commander or some of the other senior officers around trying to horn in on the action?
'Eyties' was a derogatory slur for Italians in general.
Thanks for reading!