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The Lockheed Martin Ethics in Engineering Competition held in Bethesda, Maryland connects engineering students nationwide to develop professional communication skills and foster discussion of ethical values. By working together to solve technical and ethical challenges, future engineers develop important skills for the workplace that supplement their university education.
The 2025 Ethics in Engineering Competition led competitors to research AI decision making processes in wildland fire management, and the Implications of leaving decisions involving human lives to AI. Teams were required to present a solution that Integrated AI responsibly into fire management, while navigating workplace challenges. ERAU – Prescott students networked with Lockheed Martin mentors and other students nationwide while developing valuable workplace skills: Navigating conflict, voicing ethical values, and communicating technically and professionally

Bagdat, Alima

Barnes, Konnor

Tellez, Michael

Vali, Hamim

Lockheed Martin Ethics in Engineering Competition

Barthelemy, Jonathan

  The Weight We Carry  Jonathan Barthelemy George sat on the edge of his bed, once again staring at his duffel bag by his feet. The room was quiet, except for the faint hum of the TV downstairs, where his father was watching the news. His mother had already gone to bed after talking with him; she dreaded goodbyes. Every few seconds, George ran his fingers through his hair, thinking about what the next few months might bring. The night before every deployment was the worst. Anxiety always overcame him, followed by a strange sense of anticipation and eagerness. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, focusing on the salty coastal air flowing through his childhood window. He had grown up in this house, surrounded by the same sounds and familiar comforts. Coming back was always grounding, but it made leaving even harder. His phone buzzed. A text from Ramirez,“ You ready, bro?” He hesitated before replying. “Yeah. Travel safe. See you in two days.”  A few days later, George sat on a stack of sandbags, staring at the dust swirling around his boots. The Afghan sun was setting, casting an orange glow over the horizon. It was the only beauty he saw here. As he scanned the landscape, his eyes tracked movement in the distance—a local farmer and his goats. Or was it? He had seen plenty of situations where everything seemed fine until it wasn’t. “You good, man?” Corporal Ramirez’s voice broke through his thoughts. George nodded and threw up a quick thumbs-up. “Yeah, just thinking,” he muttered. “Thinking about home, or?” Ramirez asked. George hesitated before answering. “Something like that.” Ramirez was his opposite—blunt, unfiltered, and unafraid to talk about anything. He constantly checked in on George, knowing he kept his emotions locked away. The stress of deployment never seemed to weigh on Ramirez the same way; he had a way of finding humor in even the darkest moments. Their radio crackled. “All units, be advised, possible movement along Route Red. Stay sharp.” They both went silent, gripping their rifles. Their squad was assigned to patrol Route Red, so they moved out. The road was eerily quiet, and with every step, their eyes scanned the buildings ahead. A shot rang out, slicing through the silence. 1Barthelemy: The Weight We CarryPublished by Scholarly Commons, 2025  “Contact front!” Instinct took over. George dropped to a knee, rifle up, scanning for the shooter. Muzzle flashes flickered from a rooftop. Ramirez cursed under his breath and fired back. Orders flooded the radio as sporadic gunfire erupted. Adrenaline surged through George’s veins. Seconds felt like minutes. Minutes felt like hours. Then, silence. “All clear!” someone called over the radio. George exhaled deeply, trying to slow his breathing. Another fight was over. Another weight added to the ones he already carried.  Later that evening, he sat staring at the horizon, thinking about talking to his parents. What would he say? Would he lie and tell them he was okay? The truth was, he didn’t always feel like himself anymore. Some days, he wasn’t even sure who he was. Ramirez sat down beside him and handed him a cigarette. They smoked in silence until George finally spoke. “Do you ever feel like you lose a part of yourself out here?” Ramirez let out a quiet chuckle,“ Every damn time.” Nothing else needed to be said. For the first time in a long while, George felt understood.  The next day, they went out again. This time, their senses were heightened. Every movement caught their eyes; every sound put them on edge. But something felt different. It wasn’t just nerves. George put up a fist, signaling the patrol to halt. Ramirez stepped up beside him. “What is it?” he murmured. George scanned the village ahead. Too quiet. No vendors at the stands. No one on the balconies. No children running in the streets. Before he could voice his concern, the ground erupted beneath them. The explosion sent him sprawling. Dust and debris filled the air. His ears rang. “Ramirez!” he shouted, coughing. “Over here!” Ramirez yelled back. He was dragging an unconscious soldier to cover. Bullets cracked through the air. George knew he had to fight. Dropping to a knee, he raised his rifle, searching for the enemy. They were hiding behind rubble, firing at his team. In the chaos, something inside him clicked. This was his life. No matter what happened, he had chosen this. It shaped him and would continue to, for better or worse. He wasn’t ready to go home. Not yet. Taking a deep breath, he steadied his aim and returned fire. 2Night Flight: Online Literary Journal, Vol. 6 [2025], Art. 37https://commons.erau.edu/night-flight/vol6/iss1/37  The weight he carried would never leave him. But in that moment, he could endure it. 3Barthelemy: The Weight We CarryPublished by Scholarly Commons, 2025

The Weight We Carry

Clanin, John

Maintenance Control  John Clanin These stories are based on real events that occurred while I was deployed on an aircraft carrier from 2014 to 2017 with VAQ-141 (Electronic Attack Squadron) aboard the USS George Washington and USS Ronald Reagan. The names and dates have been changed to ensure privacy and operational security for those still on active duty.  Maintenance Control Maintenance control is, in short, the brains of the squadron. It’s a small room on the carrier, staffed by about ten people working in shifts, day check and night check, as we called them. This story focuses on my shift, the night check. I served as the supervisor for Material Control (the Supply department), with two sailors under my responsibility.     1Clanin: Maintenance Control: Man overboardPublished by Scholarly Commons, 2025 Man Overboard The ship frequently ran “man overboard” drills to prepare for the day when someone might end up in the sea whether by accident or by choice. One night, my Flight Deck Chief (FDC) and I were in the smoke pit having a cigarette when the unmistakable five whistles rang out over the 1MC, the loudspeaker system that reaches every space on the ship. The announcement followed: “Man overboard, man overboard, this is a drill.” During these drills, everyone musters at a designated spot so the command can take a head count and narrow down who’s missing. Being marked unaccounted for is the last thing you want, it means standing in front of both your squadron’s commanding officer and the ship’s CO to explain yourself.  Chief Short and I headed to maintenance control to get counted. I took my seat and answered the phone while work centers checked in: “Work center 120 airframes, all accounted for.” I relayed updates to the desk chief until every work center was accounted for. Then the ready room would call the deckhouse, and they’d announce that the count was complete.  2Night Flight: Online Literary Journal, Vol. 6 [2025], Art. 32https://commons.erau.edu/night-flight/vol6/iss1/32This wasn’t a normal drill. It was the magical 2 a.m. special, when most of the ship’s 5,000-plus crew were asleep. We had twelve minutes to account for everyone on board. Then the line shack, usually staffed by the most junior sailors handling basic maintenance, called in and said they were missing a sailor. We’ll call him Peanut, because he was bald and stood about five-two. The 1MC started calling his name to report to deckhouse one. Time kept slipping.  At the twenty-minute mark, Master Chief Gabe looked at me and said, “Clanin, go find that miniature idiot. Check his rack. Check the heads. Find him.” I sent a couple of folks to the heads (bathrooms) and took my junior sailor, Gomez, aft to search the berthing. Peanut slept on the top of a three-stack. I climbed onto a chair, pulled his curtains, and dug through his blankets. There he was, curled up like a newborn kitten, sound asleep, with noise-canceling headphones on. I jabbed him in the side and yelled, “Hey! Wake up we’re twenty minutes into a man overboard!” As he yanked off the headphones, the 1MC still echoed his name: “Time plus twenty-three.” The horror on his face said it all he knew he was completely cooked. He bolted upright, cracked his head on the overhead pipes, and tried to jump down without shedding the blanket. It snared his legs. He launched off the rack and met the metal deck face-first from five feet up. I couldn’t help but laugh. “You better get 3Clanin: Maintenance Control: Man overboardPublished by Scholarly Commons, 2025moving and don’t forget your ID card,” I told him. He was already shouting excuses: nobody woke him, he couldn’t hear the 1MC, none of it mattered.  Back in maintenance control, I reported to Master Chief: “Found him asleep in his rack, curled up like a baby.” Master Chief slumped back in his chair and asked, “When you woke him up, did you punch him?” I said, “Of course I did, Master Chief, and as an added bonus he fell out of his rack onto his face.” The drill finally wrapped at thirty-two minutes. The commanding officer came on the 1MC, let everyone know how disappointed he was, and promised we’d be running another drill soon to fix the problem. 4Night Flight: Online Literary Journal, Vol. 6 [2025], Art. 32https://commons.erau.edu/night-flight/vol6/iss1/32

Short Story

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Embry–Riddle Aeronautical University

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