"A Question of Trust"

[Cmdr JFarrington 0]

"A Question of Trust"

 

Lt Cmdr Christie Farron & Cmdr Jami Farrington

USS Manticore NCC 5852

 

The most stressful time of war is not the battle itself, but the lull beforehand, the endless waiting in the bunker, the hours of sitting still in a marsh or creeping through the underbrush towards the enemy, finally bringing him into your cross hairs and then lying motionless, barely breathing, staving off hunger, exhaustion, and bodily functions, waiting. Endlessly waiting for the opportune moment. Waiting for the order to proceed.

 

Now Manticore waited, after stalking her prey from Wolf 359 to . . . to where? A remote nondescript location in space. To wait. Cloaked. Silent. All unnecessary machinery shut down, all unnecessary movement curtailed, the very life of the crew put on hold. Waiting.

 

Few aboard the Manticore understood the stress of waiting better than its second officer, Cmdr Jami Farrington, who had based her medical career on the study of deep space and its physical and mental effects on military personnel. After a certain point the sharpness needed for instant, accurate assessments and split-second decisions became dull. Mistakes were made. Lives were lost.

 

Waiting.

 

Manticore had been sent to Wolf 359 to monitor ship movements and help assure the safety of nearly half the ships of Starfleet assembled to commemorate the battle that took place there 20 years ago. During their routine patrol they had discovered the USS Hawk towing a cloaked object — a booby-trapped Romulan vessel, its Romulan crew in stasis, and the bomb aboard powerful enough to destroy everything within 20,000 km. Chief Engineer Garnoopy had succeeded in disarming the bomb, but not before tension aboard the Manticore rose to near intolerable levels.

 

Jami Farrington had been in command during that time. She became so absorbed in the mission that when Captain Sovak returned to the bridge her subconscious found it difficult to relinquish command. She second-guessed his orders and more than once responded to questions meant for him. It was clear that her judgement had been impaired by preceding events.

 

And so, as the bridge crew began its rest rotation, Jami was among the first to head for the peace of the observation lounge, slip into a chair, lean back, close her eyes, and relax.

 

A few minutes later the gentle whoosh of the door barely registered as someone entered. Then a voice. . . tentative, but insistent. "Commander."

 

It was Chief Science Officer Christie Farron. Probably taking advantage of rotation A, thought Jami. Lt Cmdr Farron had performed admirably during the mission. Jami was proud to serve with her. "Do you have a moment to talk?"

 

"Of course," said Jami, "What's on your mind?" Her eyes were still closed, her body sinking deeper and deeper into the chair as the tension of the day melted away.

 

"Permission to speak freely?"

 

Jami opened her eyes. This was definitely not a courtesy call. She swivelled her chair, to give Christie her full attention. "Permission granted," she said.

 

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Farron continued. "I can't think of one good reason why the Manticore just sat motionless while half the fleet was at risk. I have absolute faith in Chief Garnoopy, but now I'm beginning to question your leadership ability. I'm just being blunt, Commander."

 

It wasn't what any commanding officer ever wanted to hear, and it certainly wasn't something Jami wanted to address at the moment. But Chief Farron's stance emphasized the seriousness of the situation, and Jami instantly knew two things. She could not take this conversation lightly, and there very well could be other officers who felt as Christie did. Jami would have to move cautiously, choose her words carefully, and above all listen to everything Christie had to say to rectify the problem.

 

Farron continued, "What reason was there for us, perfectly capable of saving many ships from fleets around the galaxy, to just sit and do absolutely nothing? We risked the lives of thousands of people. Because of us, Wolf 359 was about to happen again. This ship could have guaranteed safety for other ships in the area."

 

Jami took a moment to be sure Christie was finished, then another moment to gather her own thoughts. Behind Christie the observation lounge window afforded a perfect view of Manticore's prey, the USS Hawk, and the menacing Sovereign Class dreadnaught with which it had rendezvoused. Jami stood and slowly walked towards the window, taking in every aspect of the scene. The conspicuous absence of their running lights, their close proximity without physical contact, the obvious attempt of both ships to run as silent as possible without drawing undue attention from passers- by. But what passers-by could there be in such a remote area of space?

 

Jami began, speaking carefully but deliberately. "Commander, we can never guarantee the safety of anyone or anything. We can only do our best to prevent what we believe might happen from happening."

 

Christie nodded. "We knew that a detonation would wipe out every vessel at this ceremony. We could have very well guaranteed safety of the people here from that."

 

"And how could we have done that?" A simple question said without challenge, not meant to provoke but to solicit the chief's ideas on alternative strategies.

 

"Evacuated the area. Or, better yet, just flown in and hauled that cloaked ship away from the area at high warp. A phaser blast to the Hawk would have disconnected its tow cable. We would have blown cover, but it would be logical."

 

"And what if the phaser blast or the tow had detonated the bomb?"

 

"And what if Garnoopy was forty-two seconds late?"

 

Yes, thought Jami. Christie was indeed voicing a question that was probably running rampant through the Manticore. A question of leadership ability. A question of trust. What was the quote etched above Command Officer Training School?

 

Trust men, and they will be true to you;

treat them greatly, and they will show themselves great.

~R. W. Emerson

 

But how much could she reveal to show her trust? How much would it take?

 

Jami continued to eye the two ships framed by the observation window. The predator and the prey? Or, perhaps . . . "Have you ever gone fishing, Commander?" she began.

 

"Many years ago, sir. In my younger days."

 

"Ever fished in the ocean? Fished for large deep-sea fish? Marlin, perhaps, or something similar?"

 

Christie shook her head. "No, just in small lakes around home."

 

Still watching the dreadnaught, Farrington continued, "The ocean is a beautiful, peaceful place on a calm day. Slow swells rock the boat, sunlight on the water lulls you to sleep. Then suddenly, a ways off, the surface begins to boil, like a cauldron boiling over, spewing its contents into the atmosphere. Hundreds, sometimes thousands of fish break the surface, churning the water in an area as much as a thousand yards in diameter." Jami paused, then turned to Christie and continued in a half-whisper, moving in animation. "Then you know that the big fish are feeding, about to surface, looking for the best of the chum to begin dining. But you don't see the big fish. You only see the little ones, frantic in their attempt to avoid what they know to be certain doom."

 

Christie's eyes moved from Jami to the observation window, then back again. "That big fish was a cloaked Romulan vessel with a bomb that would instantly kill all the little fish. We've also got to look out for one another out here."

 

"No, Commander. The Romulan vessel was the little fish." Farrington turned to point at the dreadnaught. "THAT . . . is the big fish. And yes, we have to look after one another, but sometimes the little fish have to fend for themselves for a while in order for the fisherman to find the big fish."

 

Christie paused, as though she were thinking. "The dreadnaught out there isn't on our side of the sea, is it?"

 

Jami shook her head. "Most probably not."

 

"But . . . its Federation, isn't it?"

 

"Is it?" A difficult question, and unfortunately one that is asked all too often in Black Ops.

 

"Why did we wait for Garnoopy, pending certain doom if he failed?"

 

Chief Farron was not about to be deterred. Yes, thought Jami, definite command material. But what to tell her . . . and how much? "Commander, you have some excellent questions, and justifiable qualms." Jami spoke slowly. Deliberately. "Black Ops is like treading on the edge of a knife. One slip, and all is lost. True, Chief Garnoopy is a good engineer. I would venture to say perhaps the best in Starfleet. One is not chosen to serve in Black Ops without being the best. And the best of the best serve aboard Manticore.

 

"Commander, I trusted the best to do his job. I took a chance trusting him, but I knew that if he could not do it, no one could. Granted, it was a terrible chance. But in my judgement . . . with the information I had . . . I felt that chance was justified."

 

Farron persisted. "But there were alternatives. That's the part I don't understand. The alternatives seemed to fit better."

 

"Yes, they seemed to fit better," said Jami, "but not everything is always as it seems."