An apology to the Fire Controlman
10 Jan 2022Edwore Golores
10 January 3308 - An apology to the Fire ControlmanI don't see how keeping a journal will improve my situation, but Dr. Piros suggested that it might help me to organise my thoughts. So, ever a subscriber to the "don't knock it 'till you try it" school of thought, here goes nothing...
It seems fitting that my first journal entry address the incident that led to these sessions with Dr. Piros in the first place.
Three nights ago, as I was bringing the Type 9 down to one of the forward starboard pads of the Seemeeu, concluding a long night of running freight in Ross 991, a wing of pirates - probably the three dumbest motherfuckers outside of Achenar - decided to engage a cargo ship less than a kilometre out and directly forward of the deck. And I mean right in the firing line of EVERY LAST GUN of a Nautilus class carrier. I had a pretty good view of the engagement. That is, until I started focusing all my attention on soiling my pants. But more on that in a moment.
According to my old wingman, Alejandro Dervish, who happened to be hanging out with FC Ioan Clapp in the Seemeeu's fire control station at the time, the poor guy practically launched off his seat when some stray rounds from the pirates hit the hull. None of us were expecting any action out here, of course, but this was apparently also Clapp's first time under fire. And he absolutely did not handle it well. For lack of any other compliments to spare for Clapp's response to the situation, I can at least commend his reaction time.
It was no more than five seconds between the pirates scraping the Seemeeu's hull, and the deck guns lighting up. Which, Alejandro assures me, is at least five seconds shorter than necessary to acquire target lock on a good day. In FC Clapp's haste, he managed to fuck up the order of "ready, aim, fire" in spectacular fashion, engaging the lasers in continuous burst fire mode as soon as they deployed, sweeping live fire across an active flight deck before finding the general direction of the targets. He did not land a single hit on a pirate vessel (which were subsequently scattered by a fortuitously positioned Alliance police patrol). After the dust had settled, FC Clapp's only confirmed kills were one of my aft thrusters, and an antenna array on a Type 6 behind me. Thankfully, that was the full extent of the damage. It could certainly have been a hell of a lot worse.
Having said that, I could have avoided damage entirely if I had reacted appropriately. I registered what was happening well before I got hit, and there should have been plenty of time to veer the T9 off the side of the deck, out of the line of fire. I could probably even have slammed down to the pad without much consequence. But instead I froze completely and let the auto dock coast down leisurely through live fire. I froze and nearly let myself get killed. It took me until this morning to realise why.
One of our ship launched drones managed to snap this shot of the TFCS Seemeeu's beams firing almost exactly where pirates were not
I have seen plenty of combat. Bounty hunting, intense dogfights, and I even survived an encounter with a Majestic Class Interdictor once (barely). I won't pretend that I was never scared. On the contrary, it was usually terror that drove me to action. I now realise, however, that these engagements were always on my terms and with a carefully crafted advantage. I chose my fights and always came overprepared: a finely tuned Fer-de-Lance armed to the teeth just to engage a lone pirate in an Eagle, or for anything more serious, a Type 10 with shields fit for a city and enough lasers to end a small moon. I guess, at a subconscious level, I knew this whole time that the old fear might resurface the very moment I did not have an overwhelming firepower advantage on my side.
The last time I was under fire while trapped in an unarmed Lakon cargo coffin, was in my youth. In one of the darkest, most helpless periods of my life. Before I had control over much of anything. When Clapp's misdirected fire hit my T9, it was suddenly 3300 again. I was back flying second seat in my dad's clunker, screaming through Azeban's night sky with a hold full of tea, the darkness punctuated by bursts of flak from the EPP's notoriously callous ground-based air defenses. Nothing to do except point dead ahead and pray that we don't become another statistic in the crossfire with the Federalists. In that moment I realised I was unarmed, the ancient fear I was so sure I had left behind, was fresh and visceral. The last 8 years of training and experience, the skills I had honed since then, all annihilated by fear.
When I got back on deck and vented my rage at FC Clapp, the outburst had more to do with my own failing than with what Clapp did. I was angry that I allowed myself to relinquish the opportunity to exercise what little control I did have over my fate while blinded by the fear of what I could not control.
Don't get me wrong: Clapp did screw up in a big way and I stand by my decision to suspend him pending completion of pressure training. But he certainly did not deserve to be called what I called him, and for that I will write him an apology today.
And, while Clapp is being put through his paces, maybe it's also finally time for me to learn to cope under pressure when the odds are not stacked in my favour. I wonder if my old mothballed Vulture from back in the day still runs...