The Art and the Science - Part Two

Posted on 22 Jan 2016 @ 4:56pm by Lieutenant Wilhelm Von Haeften
Edited on on 22 Jan 2016 @ 7:49pm

3,671 words; about a 18 minute read

Mission: Episode 10 - Symposium
Location: USS Galileo - Holodeck One
Timeline: MD 36 - 1840 hours

Last time on The Art and the Science:

“Well, I’m a scientist, not a counselor, but my theory is that the quickest way out is through. I think the best way I can think of to do that is to expose you to leadership challenges and see how you do.” the CSO stated.

Nodding, Wintrow drew in a deep breath. “If I don’t try, I won’t know, right?” he mused, shaking his head. “What do you have in mind sir?”

“Don’t worry, most of them will be simple, and I’ll be there right alongside you with guidance as needed; you’re not going in alone Mr. Paragon.” Wil said.

Again, the younger man just nodded, though he was still nervous. Until now, the subject of leadership really had never come up. In truth, he had never even considered it, and really, still didn’t think he would be suitable to lead. But, like with all things, he had at least to try. “Alright,” he finally spoke up, “I’m ready.”

And now the conclusion...

[ON]

:::Several hours later:::

Two crewmen in teal-colored collars addressed Withrow Paragon, both of them young, one man, the other a woman. The woman was speaking.

“So you see sir, we have to decide whether or not to adjust the energy flow to allow us to collect more of this strange substance from the nebula, which so far seems to indicate a possible cure for the plague of Hestus III…”

The man spoke next.

“OR we channel it to my sickbay so we can keep those poor wounded souls alive from our last mission, who need urgent treatment now.”

Wilhelm Von Haeften was sitting on a table about a dozen feet away as he watched the young Cadet listen to the holographic crewmen plead their case.

“What do you think Mr. Paragon?”

“I think wounded go before a scientific discovery. If we allow her to take the energy allotment, then people might die because equipment can’t be operated. Any medical officer, or even a commanding officer should value the lives of the crew over that of a scientific discovery, however appealing it may be. However, if sickbay doesn’t need all of the power adjustment then maybe whatever they don’t need can be diverted to science for a brief period so that they can at least take some readings.” Wintrow didn’t need to think on that one; having needed medical attention so often in his life, he knew how important it was for doctors to be able to keep using their equipment.

“But sir…!” the female spoke up “That plague has already killed thousands, and without a cure soon may kill many more thousands...please sir...my brother is on that planet.” the female's eyes grew glassy and wet.”

Wilhelm did not chime in just yet, as he was curious as to what the young man would do.

Torn between a possible cure, or healing already injured patients, Wintrow looked from one or the other. Yet, patients they could instantly assist did seem to take precedence and the woman seemed to have a personal interest in the data to be gained from the nebula. He sighed and shook his head. “We will call for an additional science vessel to collect your data, but the patients must go first. I can’t have doctors be unable to assist and they do have their oath. Not healing would mean they go against what they’ve sworn to do.”

The two figures vanished and the familiar grid of the holodeck replaced them.

“Well done Mr. Paragon.” Von Haeften said, putting his hand on the Cadet’s shoulder.

“You made a choice, a hard one to be certain. The right one is up for debate, but that’s the purpose of this sim. You choose to certainly save some, rather than risk it all and gamble on a big discovery for a plague. It is possible that the nebula had a cure of some kind, maybe it didn’t, there’s never any real way to know. But you made a decision that you thought was best based on your instincts and training in morality and ethics. You also did not let the emotional string pulling the female crewman tried on you dissuade you from your course.”

The German strode away from the cadet about six paces, his face looking somewhat sad.

“Those are sometimes the hardest choices leaders will have to make, who lives and doesnt, who suffers and who doesnt; everyone is someone’s brother, sister, cousin, wife, husband.”

The CSO turned back to face Paragon.

“Let us try something else...something more familiar. Computer, activate leader training sim Phi Delta Two.”

The computer chirped and replaced the image of the grid lines with those of a flight hangar.

“Your scenario is as follows: you are the Flight Leader of a typical Squadron; you have a mission in three hours and are conducting pre-combat checks. Begin.” Wilhelm stated.

The hanger was now filled with fighters of various types, with their crews and pilots hustling about in various directions.

Off to one side, a group of officers, clearly pilots based upon their flight suits, were standing around with hot drinks and laughing about something.

In the distance, mechanics sweated and grunted under the labor of hauling parts for the crafts and doing repair work or last minute fixes.

“Hey sir”, a blonde-haired NCO called to Paragon. “You personal vessel is ready if you’d like to check over her one last time, we also have the new seats ready to install on board your craft; you’ll be the first one to get one sir.” The NCO said, beaming with pride.

“Sir?” A male NCO of Betazoid extraction approached him. “Sir, several of the fighters need some work, would you mind looking over them and telling us what you think?”

Briefly distracted by the handsome blonde NCO, Wintrow turned to the Betazoid and instantly walled up his own thoughts and emotions as best as he could - even though this was a hologram. “One second,” he told the latter, then called out to the pilots: “Instead of joking around, don’t you think you should be checking your fighters for flight status and mechanical fitness? How about assisting the mechanics, did you lot never learn how to maintain your own craft?”

“Ye-ye-yes sir!” the closest one, a female stammered, snapping to attention and sketching a salute.

He turned to the blonde. “Don’t you touch my fighter, the only one who ever fixes anything on my fighter is me, do you copy?” Finally he turned back to the Betazoid. “If they need work, then they’re not fit to fly. Take them out of service and take the names of the pilots. If one can’t be bothered to maintain his craft, then he’s not fit to fly it either.”

The image froze. Von Haeften stepped forward.

“I agree on what you did to those pilots; smoking and joking while the enlisted men do all the work is NOT the mark of a good leader.”

The older man ran his right fingers through his black hair.

“Second, I do not agree with how you handled the NCO who wanted to install the new seat; pride in your vehicle is one thing, even attachment is not bad, but that level of sheer hostility was a little uncalled for. The first thing you need to learn as a leader is a simple mantra: Trust, but verify. You need the trust of a lot of people to live as an officer: the NCOs who maintain your vehicle, the enlisted men who ensure you are stocked with supplies, the fellow wingmen who watch your six. I presume that the NCO is a competent mechanic, and it’s just a bloody seat, Mister Paragon, not an overhaul of its engines.”

The German took a breath for the next one.

“Thirdly, you have no idea why those craft are not yet running; it could be something out of the control of the pilots; do not jump to a conclusion because you know what YOU would do. They aren’t you; for all you know, those pilots are breaking their backs trying to get their craft ready so they can fly with their boys. Random and summary punishment is not justice nor discipline. It’s tyranny.”

Wintrow bowed his head, accepting the rebuke. “I understand,” he murmured submissively, automatically settling back into that role without really realizing it. “But I don’t want new seats, there’s no need for them. It’s just a waste of resources to replace something that’s still fit for use. And if fighters are mechanically not fit, then it’s still the pilot’s responsibility to report the lack of maintenance. Regardless of whether it’s beyond their control. I have to hear from an NCO that they’re not fit to fly, why didn’t the pilot report it?”

“I’m just an observer Mr. Paragon, not the controller of the sim. Why not go see what the issue is. But first, let me ask you this: what is more important to you right now, at this moment, working on your own craft, making it the best it can, or looking after the other pilots assigned to you?” Wil asked. “Oh, and for this exercise, let’s assume those seats enable a 40 percent higher likelihood of surviving ejection in case of emergency, as well as far longer oxygen and life support for the pilots.” Wil said. “You are hereby ordered and required to install them, although the mandatory date is still one week away.”

“First priority is to get the disabled fighters up and running,” Wintrow answered, “if that means a special seat in my own personal craft has to wait then so be it. My vessel has no priority over the others because if half the wing can’t fly then what good am I as a teamleader if my vessel is up to standard. I’d prefer whatever people we have available, look after the craft that need attention, and make sure the training of the pilots is up to par so they can fix their own craft if no mechanic is available.”

“Good answer. But what about, now? Computer, variable one alpha.”

The computer chirped happily.

“No fighter now has a maintenance issue, all are space worthy, but the issue with the seats still remains. You do not need it to fly, and no one will say anything to you or reprimand you if you fly right now. Thoughts?”

“Then the safety of the other pilots comes first and I want them to have the new seats before my craft is updated. Lesser experienced pilots first because they’re more likely to not survive an ejection than a more seasoned pilot.”

Wilhelm smiled at the young man.

“What did you do just now?” the CSO inquired, pointing his right finger at the Cadet.

“I don’t know?” The young pilot glanced up at his instructor, “I don’t think I did anything special?”

“Ha!” the German said, slapping his right thigh. “That’s my point Cadet! You were a leader just now, and a pretty damned good one if I do say so myself. Granted, I could tell that the entire time you wanted to yell in my face…”

Wil switched to an over-the-top imitation of the Cadets voice.

“...shut your mouth Blue-Blood. What do you know about fighters.” the German used the slightly pejorative nickname sometimes given to science and medical personnel, due to their blue collared shirts.

The teenager shook his head, cheeks burning in embarrassment, and not knowing really how to hold himself. He didn’t really do well on taking compliments and wasn’t sure how to respond. “I don’t yell…..” he muttered softly, almost inaudibly, “... nor do I call people derogatory names. That is uncalled for and impolite.”

Von Haeften laughed heartily.

“I’m teasing you Cadet. Don’t worry about it. The point is is that it came naturally, and seemingly without thought or effort. The truth is is that there isn’t any real great trick to leadership; it’s just doing what’s right in the following order: the mission, the ship, the men, you.”

Wilhelm looked at the chrono.

“One last one, I swear, then we can get out of here.”

The CSO strode away from Paragon.

“Computer, Leadership Scenario Gamma One Three.”

Again the scene dissipated and was replaced, this time with Paragon inside a fighter.

Wilhelm was nowhere to be scene, but his voice came over the speaker to his craft.

“The scenario is as follows: you are the flight leader of a Razor Flight, I will take the role of the Group Leader. You are hereby ordered to seek and engage the reported enemy cargo vessel and fighters in this sector.”

Wilhelm got into character.

“Raptor One, this is Gold Leader, report status.” the German said.

“Gold Leader, Raptor One,” Wintrow acknowledged, feeling utterly in his element now that he was back in a fighter. “I have target in sight, request permission to engage and disable.”

Outside the window, there loomed a cargo vessel and several smaller craft, but their look was definitely not military, nor brigand-like. All signs pointed to civilian craft.

“You are cleared to engage and destroy. This is the last one for today, after this, we get to go on a long leave, so make it quick Raptor Leader.”

Closing in on the craft, Wintrow compared the readings he was getting from the craft, to the readings they’d received from the captain. “Hold fire!” he called out as he edged closer. “Gold Leader, Raptor One. The readings are all wrong...this isn’t the craft we’re after, unless the miraculously removed all armaments?”

“That is a negative Raptor Leader, target is confirmed. You are hereby ordered to engage and destroy.” Wilhelm, in character replied.

Shaking his head, Wintrow allowed his craft to fall back. “Belay that,” he ordered the pilots in his wing. “Do not engage, this is a civilian vessel. “

“Raptor One, you are to engage, that is a direct order, do I make myself clear?!” Wilhelm called out, all but yelling the order.

“Crystal sir,” Wintrow acknowledged, “but I can’t follow that order. This isn’t our target, we’d be killing innocents if we engage and destroy.”

“Raptor One! You will immediately return to post and be in my office, NOW!”

The scene faded, to be replaced with Paragon now standing in front of a desk. Von Haeften was now in front of him as well, but instead of science blue, he wore the uniform of a fighter corps Commander, three pips.

“What the hell were you thinking Ensign! How dare you disobey my orders?!” he said loudly.

White-faced, Wintrow stood in front of the desk, fighting the urge to just turn on his heels and flee from the office. He trembled though he did his best to remain at attention. “Those were civilians sir, I sensed no danger from them. There were no armed mercenaries on board,” he stammered out.

The Commander slammed his fist onto his desk, causing several papers and PADDs to scatter loudly to the floor.

“Stand the bloody hell at attention when you address me you insolent whelp!!” the Commander barked, all but foaming at the mouth with rage.

The teenager flinched as the desk was slammed and he wrenched his eyes shut. “Y-yes sir,” he managed, heart hammering in his chest. This was all too realistic and it was almost more than he could take.

The Commander Von Haeften moved very close to the young man, his breath hot against his face.

“Who is in command here Ensign!?”

“Y-you are sir,” the younger man squeaked out.

“What is my rank Ensign?!” the older man demanded.

“C-commander, s-sir…”

“Do you dare to think you know better than your commanding officer?”

Wintrow shook his head, not trusting his voice.

“Then why did you not fire upon that freighter when ordered to do so repeatedly?!” the Commander’s voice was turning raspy with white hot anger, bits of spittle flinging from his red lips.

“Because it’s the wrong ship. Readings didn’t match, the craft had no armaments and didn’t match the crew complement we were informed it had. These were civilians and to destroy a civilian vessel is a crime…” He resisted the urge to wipe the spit from his face but his expression had changed. He firmly believed what he’d seen, and sensed. Or rather, would’ve sensed had it concerned actual people.

The older Commander’s face turned ashen with hate. His words were now spoken less loudly, but with no less venom.

“Ensign Paragon, I’m only going to say this one time, do you understand? If you ever want to see a cockpit again, you will immediately get into your fighter, fly into space, and engage, and destroy, that freighter. That is a DIRECT order. Clear?!”

Dark eyes flashing in anger, Wintrow turned his head, taking a step back to create some space between them. “No,” he answered determinedly, “I will not engage that vessel. I will not kill innocents because you think your readings are right. They’re wrong, that’s not the vessel we’re after. The configuration is all wrong.”

“I beg your pardon Ensign?! Did you not hear me? I gave you a direct order!” the older man shouted.

“I heard you sir, but I can’t in good conscience follow an order that will cause the death of innocents. If you’re so adamant on destroying it, do it yourself but I won’t have my pilots be part of it.”

Wilhelm finally broke character then.

“Are you ok Wintrow?” the German said softly, using the young man’s first name for the first time.

Wintrow blinked a few times as he heard his name being used. “Sir?” he queried, though he was still shaking, his pallor an indication that he wasn’t alright at all.

“The sim is over; you did good kid.” Von Haeften said, his tone more fatherly than like an instructor now. “Here, sit down. Computer, water, 2 degrees celsius.”

A glass of water appeared on the table, using the same replicator technology found in the mess hall.

Wintrow just stared at the glass as he sat down. “I don’t get it,” he whispered sadly, while trying to pull himself together. “Why do people yell to make a point? Why do they have to resort to yelling?” He remembered his half-brother and his stepmother yelling at him, before they resorted to getting physical and it made him feel sick.

“Wintrow, I’m very sorry that that happened, but there was a point to that exercise and it is this: people, even senior officers, can be prideful idiots. They will give orders to sometimes do what they feel is right, or because they want the quick and easy way out. But sometimes they don’t have the facts, and you do. It is our duty as Starfleet Officers to not just do as we are told, but to listen to our conscience. If we don’t think something is legal, or ethical, or moral, we have the duty, and the right, to object as respectively as we are able, to maintain our own honor, the honor or Starfleet, and even the honor of the sometimes pig-head superiors like the one I portrayed just now. Drink please.” Von Haeften grabbed the water glass and held it in front of Paragon’s eyes.

The boy grabbed the glass with shaking hands and made himself sip the cold water. He grimaced, not liking the taste finding it too cold.

“You are aware I am German yes?”

“Yes sir,” Wintrow replied softly, “I’m aware. Why? Does heritage make a difference? Because...I’m Scottish.”

“Perhaps you are not aware of German history; my people...certain people, once perpetuated some of the most terrible atrocities known to man; over six million innocent men, women, children, condemned to death, slow, agonizing, painful, because they were different. Their excuse? ‘We were only following orders.’”

The German’s eyes were cold. No German, even nearly 500 years later, enjoyed thinking back to that shameful part of their past.

“You must never, ever simply do something because you are ‘only following orders’. You must do something because it is right, because it is the moral thing to do. Anything less is a betrayal of the sacred trust the Federation’s people place upon us. Never fear standing up for yourself as a man and as an officer; any other officer or NCO worth his or her salt will stand beside you when and if the time comes. Do you understand?” Wilhelm asked, his tone not one of command, but of seeking the young man’s personal growth.

“Yes sir,” Wintrow answered meekly, sensing the man’s emotions towards his heritage. “Surely….your people did good since that time? I’ll remember your words and advice sir….I will.”

“I know Wintrow..I know. You’re going to be a good officer someday. I’d be proud to have you flying around any ship I serve aboard. If you ever have a question about leadership or officership, don’t hesitate to ask me. Consider me a sort of mentor to you now, whether you like it or not.” Wil said the last part with mock severity, but flashed a grin to let the Cadet know he was not serious.

Von Haeften looked at the chrono.

“Come on kid; I’ll buy you a drink at the lounge.”

OFF:

Lieutenant JG Wilhelm Von Haeften
Chief Science Officer
USS Galileo

&

Cadet SO Wintrow Paragon
Support craft pilot
USS Galileo
pnpc Tyrion

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