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tgmsunmontue · 1 year ago

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You need to learn how to fall 2/10

Hangster (and IceMav) - Bradley is too tall to be a naval aviator and instead becomes a sky diver, specialising in spin recovery. He is a civilian contractor to the Airforce and Navy to teach pilots how to survive parachute spins from ejections. A more in-depth version of this post.

PROLOGUE

2003-2006 – The early years

“Your son is very focused. His discipline is admirable. He’s going to go far. He’s going to be our youngest certified tandem skydiver.”

Pete’s throat works, because it’s not the first time someone has called Bradley his, but hearing someone else talk about his skill… to sound impressed not only with Bradley but also as a reflection of Pete’s own efforts. He didn’t realize he needed someone external telling him he’d done a good job, but here it is anyway.

“I’m Navy. He’s been brought up in a fairly disciplined household.”

“He mentioned that actually. He never thought about joining the service?”

“He’s too tall.”

“What?”

“To be a naval aviator. I’m a naval aviator.”

“Clearly didn’t get his height from you.”

“No…” Pete says dryly, doesn’t bother mentioning the convoluted relationship that he and Bradley have.

“So what, he jumps out of planes instead of flying them?”

“Oh, he can fly them too. He’s been flying since he was 14. Perk of having a whole bunch of honorary uncles willing to fly him up and getting him his flight hours. Unfortunately he can’t both pilot the plane and then jump out of it,” Pete says.

“He’s a lucky kid.”

Mav hopes he remains lucky.

… … …

It’s become second nature, either of them able to also carry out the safety checks and make sure that Bradley has definitely done everything. He never misses anything and it soothes a part of Tom, knowing Bradley takes his own health and safety seriously. There is no cutting corners or rushing through anything. They never talk about Goose, but he wonders if he thinks about his father every time he checks the stitching for wear, every time he runs his hands over the fabric and checks for tears before rolling it carefully to ensure it unfurls correctly while he’s plummeting toward the earth.

They all learn about static lines and accelerated freefall, and things have changed since he was in flight school. The materials they use now are much more durable. All of Bradley’s gifts are centered around skydiving. Tom becomes fairly knowledgeable around the entire process, another set of regulations to add to his already encyclopedic knowledge of Naval regulations. He somehow becomes friendly with a couple of the higher ups in the FAA and he becomes known around the airstrip as Ice, most people not realizing exactly who he is. He admits it to himself that he likes it, that he’s just a guy who knows a lot about planes. Added to that is the US Parachute Association and Tom has a new map in his study showing all the drop zones in the state as well as the neighboring states.

Neither of them had intended to become this involved but neither of them say anything to each other. Tom has had to check with several people about potential conflicts of interest, but it’s agreed that he is, first and foremost, a naval aviator, so if he wants to fly a private plane on his own time that’s allowable, as long as he’s meeting all the FAA regulations. The FAA make a special dispensation (his new friends doing him this favor), allowing them to sign off flight hours, but neither of them are officially instructors. They do both become FAA-certified parachute riggers though.

It’s through one guy he knows in the FAA that he acquires the hangar. It’s an old Navy one, but Pete’s been making noises about wanting to renovate a P-51 Mustang he keeps seeing for sale, but how he’s got nowhere to keep it. They could store another plane there too, Bradley’s sky-diving one in the future. It seems like it’s definitely going to happen, Bradley making a business plan and presenting it to them and asking to have his parent’s life insurance money to help him purchase a plane. Tom can give their planes a home, so he purchases the hangar and gives it to them a joint fortieth birthday gift for Mav and graduation present for Bradley.

A different plane comes into their life a little earlier than anticipated, although none of them have to buy it. Pete comes to an agreement with one of Bradley’s instructors. They’ll store the plane in their currently empty hangar in exchange for being able to use it to take Bradley up for jumps, paying for fuel and carrying out the checks and maintenance. Somehow word gets around – there are two pilots capable of signing off flight hours. They can count as solo flights as they aren’t instructors. Others wanting to jump out of planes arrange times with Bradley.

He hasn’t spent so much time in the air since flight school and he loves every moment, regardless of whether he’s piloting or doing the checks before Bradley does his jumps. His relationship with Mav has settled into an easier less-volatile thing, maybe his promotion to Rear Admiral has made him feel less threatened by the potential fallout if anyone decides to voice their concerns about his relationship with Pete.

… … …

“I’ve done it. The five-hundred jumps, more than three years in sky diving, done more than fifty jumps in the last year, got my medical and I’ve got more than 8 hours of freefall time logged. I can apply for the Tandem course now…”

“Proud of you. You’ve been working towards this for a long time.”

“Thank you! For taking me up and buying the hangar, and just… thank you so much. I know you and Mav both don’t really get it, but you’ve never made me feel like I didn’t have your support this entire time.”

“It’s what parents do. Good parents that is.”

He throws his arms around Ice then, hugs him tightly and doesn’t let go.

“The best parents.”

2007-2010 - The middle years (NEXT PART)

#IceMav #Top Gun fanfic #Hangster #you need to learn how to fall

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vintageairplanehub · 5 months ago

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Do you know how much it costs to own a vintage airplane model?

Owning a vintage airplane model can be one of the most exhilarating investments for aviation enthusiasts. These aircraft models, with their storied pasts and classic designs, offer a tangible connection to the golden age of aviation. However, the cost of purchasing and maintaining an old plane model can vary widely, and it's important to understand these costs before diving into such a significant commitment.

So, how much does a vintage airplane cost? The price of these aviation models can range from relatively affordable to extremely expensive, depending on several key factors. According to estimates, a small, less complex vintage aircraft might start around $15,000 to $50,000. These models typically include older, single-engine planes like a vintage Piper Cub or Cessna 140. They are popular among hobbyists and collectors who appreciate their simplicity and the nostalgia they evoke.

On the other end of the spectrum, more complex and historically significant aircraft models, such as a WWII-era fighter or a classic biplane, can demand much higher prices. A vintage warbird, like a P-51 Mustang, could easily cost upwards of $500,000 to $1 million, and possibly much more, depending on its condition and provenance. These aircraft are not only valuable for their history but also for their performance, and they remain highly sought after in the aviation community.

Condition plays a pivotal role in determining the price of a vintage airplane model. Aircraft that have been fully restored and maintained in airworthy condition typically command the highest prices. A meticulously restored plane with modern avionics and a fresh engine overhaul could be priced at $200,000 or more, depending on the model. However, aircraft in "project" condition, which require extensive restoration work, can be purchased for significantly less, often between $15,000 and $40,000. But keep in mind that restoring a vintage aircraft is a labor of love that can involve considerable additional costs, sometimes exceeding the initial purchase price.

When considering a vintage airplane, it's also crucial to think about the long-term ownership costs. Beyond the initial purchase, there are ongoing expenses like hangar rental, insurance, routine maintenance, and fuel costs. Vintage aircraft often require more frequent inspections and specialized maintenance, which can add up quickly. For instance, annual maintenance for a single-engine vintage aircraft could range from $5,000 to $15,000, depending on the aircraft model and its condition. More complex and rare models might require even more expensive upkeep.

Historical significance and rarity also impact the price of a vintage airplane. Aircraft that have played a role in significant historical events, or those that are rare examples of their type, often command premium prices. For example, a vintage Spitfire or a restored Douglas DC-3 might cost several million dollars due to their historical importance and the limited number of such aircraft still flying today. Collectors and museums are often willing to pay top dollar for these pieces of aviation history, driving prices higher.

In some cases, owning a vintage airplane model might also provide an opportunity for investment. As the years pass, some aircraft models become increasingly rare, which can drive up their value. However, this is not a guaranteed outcome, and the market for vintage aircraft can be unpredictable. The value of a vintage plane can fluctuate based on market demand, the condition of the aircraft, and other external factors.

In conclusion, how much does a vintage airplane cost? The price can range from as low as $15,000 for a simple, unrestored model to over $1 million for a well-preserved, historically significant aircraft. When considering such a purchase, it's important to account for not only the initial cost but also the ongoing expenses associated with owning and maintaining an old plane model. For many, the joy of owning a piece of aviation history is worth every penny, but it's a commitment that requires careful consideration and a deep passion for the skies.

#aviation #aircraft #aircraft model #vintage air travel #vintage airplane #vintage model

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vera-keller · 10 months ago

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switchblade | masters of the air | taster

Coming here is functionally a grounding. That much is clear. The B-17 is a metal coffin that, by some aeronautical miracle, has managed to attain the gift of flight despite everything – poor defensive coverage, inadequate range, weak nose structure – that suggests this should not have been the case.

Olivia Mariner looks up at the B-17s sitting obliviously in the hangar at Thorpe Abbotts and thinks about what it might be like to shoot one of them down.

It would be an easy target. B-17s are not intended for aerial combat, and their one singular, solitary tactic is apparently to fly continuously in formation even when being shot at, because performing evasive manoeuvres runs the risk of disrupting the formation and causing collisions. Mariner imagines herself in her P-51, armed with its two fifty-calibre nose-mounted machine guns and four thirty-calibre wing-mounted machine guns, the only conceivable match for the Luftwaffe’s fire-spitting death machines that she isn’t afraid of as long as she’s facing them down in her Mustang. She imagines herself as the enemy. How would she approach a Flying Fortress? How would she bounce it? It wouldn’t be difficult at all: she could outmanoeuvre a B-17 without breaking a sweat. She would move into its blind spot and break into a steep spiralling dive downward so the B-17’s Brownings – for which they do not carry sufficient supplies of ammunition that could last them over a minute of continuous gunfire – wouldn’t be able to maintain a target lock on her. Then she would pull her aircraft back up, sharply, abruptly, until she’s below the body of the B-17, where she has the perfect vantage point to shoot out the unprotected fuel tanks within the wings.

That’s all well and good, a strategic manufacturing error that could be fixed, without a doubt, throughout the Flying Fortress’s production run that will last until the end of the war. Until Mariner remembers that, in this scenario, she will no longer be the one in the fighter plane but rather the one getting burned to a crisp in the B-17 because the fuel tanks just exploded and eviscerated the fuselage before anyone even had the chance to bail.

Perhaps the situation would be less grim if she knew how to fly a B-17 at all.

How did she even end up here?

Fighter squadrons come before bombers. That is the standard principle of air warfare. Once air supremacy has been gained by more aerodynamic single-engined high-speed fighters – P-51s and P-40s and P-47s that require only a light touch to manoeuvre, the deft hand of a skilled pilot who knows their plane and its operational mechanisms as though it is an extension of their own body – that is when larger, long-range bombers come in to deliver their payloads of air-to-ground weaponry to strategic targets. Bombing raids cannot take place without the prerequisite of air supremacy as bombers, sufficiently implied in their name itself, are not themselves intended for aerial combat against enemy aircraft.

And therein lies the problem. To Mariner, it’s difficult to see the B-17 as little more than a large and defenceless flying flak-magnet. A warplane that cannot roll on its longitudinal axis, cannot pull into vertical climbs, cannot dive or loop or fly at steep angles or allow for aerobatics without disembowelling itself, is hardly a warplane at all, at least not in the sense that she defines what should constitute a warplane. She understands that heavy bombers are an entirely different grade of aircraft, one that requires a different series of skills that are no less demanding than that of a fighter pilot, one requiring the ability to work with a team, first and foremost, the idea of which she finds herself thinking of with a pit of tension in her lower stomach. She understands that this is necessary because a war cannot be won with fighter planes alone, as much as she would like to think that is a possibility. What she does not understand, however, is why she has been presently chosen to fly a bomber.

So that was what she told her squadron leader, word for word, when she first learned of her reassignment.

“I understand your concerns, Mariner,” was what her squadron leader, Tillotson – a thirty-something USAAF officer who had been in the Eagle Squadrons with her, primarily because he knew her father for some reason or another that she never bothered to find out – said in answer. “But it is an operational need. The 100th has a shortage of pilots and they can’t continue flying missions at the volume they’re expected to if this shortage continues. We’ve reached a point in the war where our strategic focus must shift toward bombing campaigns. You have the relevant flying experience that qualifies you for retraining and reassignment toward where the war effort needs you most. Repurposing you as a bomber pilot now, of all times, makes every sense to me.”

Mariner blinked in disbelief. She didn’t like the suffix makes every sense to me, the finality of it, the implication that this was now a non-negotiable and non-retractable decision already made by her superiors, a decision that centrally concerned her yet one she had no part in making.

“Sir,” she began, “heavy bombers require escort fighters. Our squadron can do that. I’ve been asking for it in my sitreps since we first started strategic bombing. Wouldn’t it be more practical to keep me here and deploy us as escorts as I recommended, rather than retrain me from the ground up?”

“It is something we thought of, yes. But having enough pilots is crucial for whether the 100th can remain operational. If they can’t fly missions, you’ll have nothing to escort. Now is when we need our best and brightest to step up and fill in for the shortage of pilots capable of flying those missions that a complete novice coming out of flight school cannot.”

Best and brightest. The sudden compliment took Mariner by surprise, filled her momentarily with a glow of pride radiating from that little hollow at the base of her throat that warms up every time she receives some kind of validation. She cleared her throat self-consciously.

“Who else is getting reassigned? Smith? Heppell?”

Tillotson paused briefly. “We decided that you alone would be the best fit for the transition.”

Apart from the fact that it made no sense to single out one member of a squadron for a reassignment, there was almost no chance that she would be the best natural candidate. Mariner thought for a brief half-second that she would not pick herself to be reassigned to a bomber unit if she had the choice of other members in her squadron, members who would indubitably be more patient and longsuffering when it came to flying a heavy bomber, both of which she was not.

And then the realisation dawned on her, like the awful downward shudder of the blade of a guillotine. The previous glow of pride disappeared, replaced immediately by a simmering indignant rage that bubbles to the surface. “You’re bumping me out of the squadron!”

“Mariner—”

“That is exactly what you’re doing! Best and brightest my ass. You think I don’t fit in with the rest of your squad because of how I fly. Because you think I’m going to collide with my wingman every time when I so much as move my aircraft a centimetre to the left. Because that one time on patrol, when I was guarding your tail, I said your call sign when I wasn’t supposed to and broke formation, and that was because I saw three 109s above us on our six about to pulverise us and you hadn’t even seen them yet!”

Another thought came to her then, one that sent a fresh wave of anger coursing through her as though her dam of restraint – which admittedly was never a particularly robust structure – had broken. She was aware that she was losing her temper. She was aware that she was not to lose her temper around her superior officers under any circumstances. But that awareness was purely academic now, and at any rate it was disappearing quickly out the window.

“You can’t trust me in a single-seat fighter, is that it? You think I need a whole team of people behind me to make sure I don’t fuck up?”

It was less of a question and more of an accusation, and the very idea of it was absurd to Mariner. Saying it out loud only cemented its absurdity. Who in their right mind wouldn’t trust her in a fighter? She’d been in combat with Bf 109s since before Pearl Harbour and America’s formal entrance into the war. It was indubitable fact – one that seemed to be obvious to all except Tillotson and the others responsible for making this ill-conceived decision – that she was one of the most competent fighters in the squadron. Three years of flight experience with the No. 71. Seven aircraft destroyed. An ace by the end of the Battle of Britain. Such accomplishments were not coincidental. Mariner knew it. And unless you have some kind of malfunction, she thought bitterly, then you don’t transfer a pilot with those accomplishments under their belt out of your squadron as petty punishment. You’re supposed to keep them and hold onto them and deploy them on high-risk missions that accurately reflect the value of their skill set!

“Lieutenant Mariner,” Tillotson said, raising his voice now, in a way that brooked no argument. “I was hoping to save both of us from this conversation and let you accept your reassignment amicably, but it appears you’re determined to have this conversation, in which case I’ll be clear with you. You’re not a good fit in my squadron. You take unnecessary and ill-calculated risks that endanger not only yourself but also your wingmen and the outcome of the mission as a whole. On our last sortie, you completely disregarded formation and went off on that solo chase of yours after an enemy fighter, leaving your leader’s tail vulnerable to attack. And what is most alarming is the fact that this incident is not an isolated one, nor is it the first time you’ve flagrantly disregarded orders to do what you think is clever. We’re lucky nothing catastrophic has happened so far, but luck won't always be on our side, as you seem to believe it will always be on yours.”

He paused for a moment, his brow low and creased, his eyes fixed upon Mariner’s, as though examining her closely for her reaction.

“You’re rough on the stick, Olivia, but I’ve seen potential in you. Even so, talent alone won’t cut it and your consistent lack of discipline is compromising the overall effectiveness of our unit. I’ve seen pilots like you – good pilots capable of exercising mathematically precise command of their aircraft – shot down for less. You should know better than anyone that, up in the air, in a Mustang, split-second decisions can mean the difference between life and death. I need to be able to trust every member of my squadron to make those decisions, and make them correctly. And right now I can’t trust you to do that.”

There was a long agonising pause. Mariner’s expression remained unchanged, though she thought her stomach had vanished. She was suddenly conscious of how she was standing up very straight with her body held up at her sternum, and of the tachycardic rhythm of her heartbeat that for a brief moment she irrationally feared Tillotson might hear it.

It is a rare thing for words from a superior officer to cut so deep, though Mariner doesn’t like the idea that any words might be able to cut her at all. She has gone through flight training like everyone else and made her share of mistakes in every plane she has learned to pilot – Mustangs and Warhawks and Thunderbolts alike – and she has grown accustomed to the stony visages of instructors, their crushing expectations and the feeling where you irrevocably begin to question your own strength of character and purpose and worth whenever you fail to meet them. Yet she came through with top marks and everyone who has ever been disappointed by her has eventually been proven wrong. She would have thought that, by now, her skin has already thickened into something comparable to steel.

Yet, when she stood there in Tillotson’s office, being told that she could not be trusted to fly, Mariner felt utterly reduced. It was a humiliating kind of reduction. And humiliation made her angry, a unique cornered anger of its own kind that seethed all the way down to the bone.

Tillotson seemed to sense this. His voice softened slightly, becoming conciliatory, in the way only a victor acutely aware of his own impending victory could afford to do.

“This is not an exile, Mariner,” was what he said. “This is when you prove yourself. Maybe a change of perspective will help you understand the gravity of your actions and teach you some restraint. It is an opportunity. Don’t squander it.”

“It’s an opportunity?” Mariner’s jaw clenched. She knew now the reassignment was inevitable. She knew that the decision had indeed been made on her behalf without any of her input and she had, somehow, been played so well that she happened to be the last to figure it out. And if she was to start learning restraint on her reassignment, she supposed that she didn’t need to begin now. “It’s not a goddamn opportunity, and you know it. It’s punishing me for something I haven’t even done. Yeah, I went after that enemy fighter on my own. And you know what? I shot it down. I saw an opportunity and I seized it instead of waiting around for the 109s to regroup. Isn’t that what we’re trained to do? Adapt, improvise, overcome, all that?”

“There’s a stark difference between adapting, improvising and overcoming, Olivia, and putting the rest of your squadron at risk,” Tillotson replied firmly. And then, what really pissed her off: “You have to learn, one way or another, that the USAAF is an ecosystem where every element, down to the individual fighter, must depend upon command structure to function. It’s not a place for young Turks wanting to prove themselves and be a hero. Don’t worry. I’'ll make sure no one else takes up the Switchblade call sign when you’re gone.”

At this Mariner felt her blunt fingernails digging pink crescent moons into her palms. That was an extraordinarily low blow. It was not merely the complete misconstruction of her character – as a willful contrarian who thinks only of their own glory, apparently – that incensed her, but beyond that it was the fear that thrummed at a deeper sub-cellular level, a fear that this may be how she was truly seen by her superiors, how her efforts and achievements were being interpreted by those who disregard her as little more than an ordinary pilot who likes to think of herself as extraordinary. And the placement of the command structure meant that she could not rectify this mistake or defend herself against this obvious besmirching of her name and reputation without risking a dishonourable discharge from the military altogether.

So she did what she does best.

“Fine. You want discipline?” she said, her voice lowering into something hard and cold and stubborn. “I can do that. I’ll get into a bomber. I’ll drop a few bombs. But mark my words, sir, you’re making a mistake. Both you and I know exactly what I can do and what I should be out there doing, whether I’m in a Mustang or a tin can with wings. And when the time comes, when you need someone with enough balls to fly through hell and back under twenty-millimetres and flak, don’t be surprised when you come back to me because there’s no one else up for the job.”

She did not resign herself to waiting around for Tillotson’s reaction. Instead she saluted him sharply in a way that suggested an obvious grudge, pivoted on her heels and marched out of the room. She refused to even attempt to try and understand Tillotson’s reasoning as there could be no possible reasoning on God’s green earth that could justify this decision. Perhaps an attempt at figuring out his reasoning, however unfounded it may be, could come later, when she has spent enough aimless months with the 100th to supposedly have learned her lesson and earned a place back on her former fighter squadron. But the embers of rage were still very much scorching hot in her hands, hissing and spitting and burning wherever they touched her skin, and she refused out of pure spite to put them down, so she carried them with her all the way until she reached Norfolk, England.

#series: switchblade #oc: olivia mariner #masters of the air #meet your local cocky flyboy #or flygirl #olivia mariner is an unreliable narrator

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captain-jamesarmpits · 2 years ago

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Friends, acquaintances, and assorted nerds, please allow me to put on my Top Gun hat and rant for a moment!

This plane is called a Ford Trimotor. (Some of you out there might recognize it from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom) It’s a small passenger plane, would have been used for local flights, and can fit around 8 people plus the pilots.

So what does this have to do with Top Gun?

Well, this plane has another name. A nickname really. It was called the Tin Goose.

The TIN fucking GOOSE.

This is not a huge plane, and it’s a decently old plane, and you can 100% BET YOUR ASS that Maverick would have one of the puppies in his hangar. Based on the name alone! I will not stand for anything else.

I understand that they use the Mustang in TGM cause it’s Tom Cruise’s actual plane and all that, but honestly. Honestly.

Peter Maverick Mitchell would own a Tin Goose and that is a hill I am willing to die on.

#top gun #top gun maverick #pete maverick mitchell #tgm headcanon #I will die on this hill #nerd rant #tin goose #airplanes #someone get Tom Cruise on the horn; I have words for him

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usafphantom2 · 1 year ago

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‘Mustang Monday’

Peter Teichman coming through with a topside pass in the Hangar 11 North American P51-D ‘Tall in the Saddle’ at Imperial War Museum Duxford a couple of years ago…@IWMDuxford #aircraft #avgeek #avpics #warbirdsofinstagram #warbird #warbirds

@Shutterbug_WGC via X

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foreverrandomwritings · 2 years ago

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What’s In The Plane?

Summary: Months after her work accident in which you discovered the envelope full of last words from Natasha she finally asks you the most important question of her life. Less than a month after she asks, you finally ask her the same question. This can be read as a stand alone. Pairing: Natasha “Phoenix” Trace x afab!Reader

Warnings: Fluff and mentions of sex.

Word Count: 1744

Masterlist Series Masterlist

You hadn’t told Phoenix that you had gotten your pilots license over the last couple of months. It had been a secret kept strictly between you and Maverick. You would go and do lessons with him while she was away on a mission or when she had weekend plans with the squad. You had wanted it to be a surprise for her. The love she had for flying was never something you fully understood until you started flying yourself.

That’s how you found yourself driving your fiancé to Mavericks hangar 4 1/2 hours away on your 3 year anniversary just under a month after she had proposed on Valentine's Day. Phoenix had been there a couple times but somehow hadn’t asked where you guys were going. It wasn’t until you pulled up in front of the builiding that she questioned it. “Is there any particular reason why we’re at Mavericks hangar baby girl?” Phoenix asked you. You simply gave her a big smile, turning the car off and getting out. You opened the trunk grabbing out the weekender bag and cooler you packed for the long weekend. You pulled the door closed and made your way to the building. Natasha opened her door and followed you quickly jogging to catch up with you. Trying to grab one of the suitcases from you.

“I have a surprise for you sweetheart.” You told her as you sat the suitcases down and unlocked the large doors. You slid open one of the doors gesturing towards the other door for Natasha to open it. She moved to the other side quickly pulling the door open. You confidently walked into the building Natasha hot on your heels. Maverick had promised to spend the weekend at Pennys and leave the hangar to the 2 of you.

“Have a look around.” you told her as you threw your keys next to the bowl of his keys. You saw 2 new pairs of aviators and a note telling you not to do anything he wouldn’t do. You shook your head at that before heading over to the camper opening the door and going to the fridge putting some of the food away. You walked out of the camper and saw Natasha standing next to the P-51 Mustang running her hand along it admiring how it looked since Maverick and Rooster had finally fixed it up.

“Do you wanna take it out for a ride?” You invited her as you came up beside her throwing an arm around her waist pulling her towards you. She turned her head slightly in your direction, eyes narrowing at you.

“Mav would definitely kill us if we took this thing out.” She said to you, as she pulled her hand away from the plane. You simply shook your head, handing her her aviators and turned around heading to the shelf he kept the helmets on. You grabbed 2 and walked back up to the brunette.

“I promise he gave me the okay for us to take it out.” You assured her by handing her one of the helmets. She shook her head at you.

“I don’t even know how to fly this old ass thing baby girl, I’m sorry.” She told you disappointment in her voice. What she didn’t expect was the giant grin that broke across your face. At that moment suspicion came oozing out of her. “Why in the hell are you smiling like that?” she asked you, giving you a weird look.

“I know how to fly it.” You replied to her with a look of mischief in your eyes. Her eyes held a look of seriousness as she once again shook her head. She was used to your silly antics but this was a bit far. She knew of your fear of heights so she wasn’t taking you seriously in the slightest.

“Baby girl, let's be serious now. Why did you drag me all the way out here just to play a joke on me that you know how to fly a plane?” She asked you with a hand on her hip.

“I’m not joking sweetheart. I know how to fly the plane.” You responded by reaching into your back pocket, pulling out your pilots license and handing it to her. She looked down at the document in her hand before looking back up at you. She repeated that process for a couple of seconds before handing it back to you.

“I don’t believe you. Did Rooster or Hangman put you up to this?” She questioned you as she looked around the hangar for signs of anyone else. Your lips pulled into a pout as you shook your head.

“I’m really not joking. Do you want me to call Mav so he can tell you?” You asked her as you grabbed your phone. She nodded her head so you pulled up his contact and pressed call. Then you handed the phone over to her. She put the phone on speaker as it rang a couple of times. Then the click of him answering sounded out from the phone.

“Hey did you get in alright?” Mav immediately asked you.

“Hey Mav we got in fine but Phoenix doesn’t believe me that I got my pilot's license. She thinks one of the guys is trying to pull a prank on her or something.” You replied to him shaking your head as he laughed.

“Natasha get in the damn plane with your fiance. She didn’t overcome her fear of heights just for you to fuck around and not believe her. I’ve got to go Amelia needs help with something. Go have fun and don’t crash the plane.” He said with clear amusement in his voice then hung up the phone. She looked at you with wide eyes and handed you back the phone.

“When the fuck did you get your pilots license and why the fuck didn’t you tell me? You’re literally terrified of heights baby girl.” She questioned you throwing her hands up in the air.

“I’ve been working on it for a couple months. I wanted it to be a surprise.” You replied simply shrugging your shoulders. “Now let's do the preflight check and we can get going.” You told her as you quickly walked around the plane going through the list in your head that Maverick had repeated time and time again. Natasha stood and admired you. She never thought she would be able to combine two things she loved so much. The fact that it was finally happening had her swelling with amazement and excitement that she was going to be able to spend the rest of her life with you.

You came up beside her as you finished the check “Alright let's get going sweetheart. We’re burning precious daylight.” you finished smacking a hand on her ass. Which had her jumping in surprise. She loved this newfound confidence you had. The both of you slipped into your seats soon after. Slipping on your helmets and sunglasses. You could feel the buzz of the plane as it came to life. You slowly made your way out of the hangar onto the runway next to it.

Before she knew it you were speeding up and taking off. She sat in the backseat speechless. She never in the whole time she knew you thought you’d be flying a plane. It was never something you had shown interest in. As she saw you sat in the front seat flying the plane with ease she knew she had never loved you more than in this moment. The two of you flew around for a while. You pointed out random things you had seen on previous flights with Maverick.

Then you were turning around and heading back to the hangar. As you approached you started getting nervous. The flight had gone well and Phoenix had already asked you to marry her so you knew what her answer would be. But there was still a voice in your head making you wonder if she would possibly say no. As you got closer you saw the back of the hangar and the words sprawled across the top on the biggest banner you could find.

“Hey Nat can you look down and tell me what that says?” You asked her pointing down at the hangar slightly angling the plane to give her a good view. She nodded her head telling you she was on it. Then she was looking down at the hangar. A gasp leaving her mouth tears coming to her eyes. “Did you read it sweetheart?” You asked her after a moment of silence worry in your voice.

“Oh yeah, yes uhm yea I read it.” She stuttered out.

“So what do you say? Will you make me the luckiest woman in the world and be my wife?” You asked her.

“Fuck yes baby girl. That’s the easiest yes I’ve ever given to anyone in my life.” She told you as you landed the plane. You turned the plane off then you were climbing out of the plane. You slipped off your helmet in unison with Natasha. Getting down on one knee you pulled the ring out of your pocket. As she gave you her hand you slipped the ring onto her finger. You stood up with her hand in yours. She brought her other hand to your cheek before smashing your lips together. The kiss was quick and passionate, your tongues fighting for dominance. Before you knew it you were inside the camper clothes strewn across the hangar and the camper laying naked next to your fiancé.

She had pulled her ring off her finger inspecting the details in it. When she looked at the inside band she saw Baby Girl engraved inside the ring. Her heart swelled at the thought of having you with her everyday. “I have a pack of silicone bands in the car as well so you can wear one to work.” You told her as you ran your fingers along her back. She turned her head and met your lips before pulling back.

“I can’t wait to brag to the guys that my already super hot fiancé is a super hot pilot as well.” She said with a big grin on her face making you giggle and kiss her again. She slipped the ring back on her finger before rolling you onto your back getting on top of you starting round 2.

A/N: This is the last part of this short series…. Unless y’all want to see the wedding.

Tags: @wkndwlff and @sylviebell

#natasha phoenix trace #natasha trace x reader #phoenix imagine #phoenix x reader #natasha trace imagine #fluff #top gun maverick imagine

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missathlete31 · 2 years ago

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Nowhere to Run- Chapter 4

Five months after The Confrontation and things are not looking good for Maverick- (WARNING- MAVERICK GOES THROUGH IT THIS CHAPTER- I apologize in advance but this is an ANGST WRITING ZONE, be warned)

I feel like posting two chapters today. Please note if you’ve missed chapter 3 you can find it here- https://www.tumblr.com/missathlete31/712311725180026880/nowhere-to-run-chapter-3

It had been five months since the Navy decided to make the Daggers a permanent squad and not a day had gone by smoothly in Maverick's opinion. It had all started with Hangman's confrontation, a memory which seemed to be destined to plague the older pilot's mind forever. Jake's words that day were like knives, slicing the peaceful charade that Maverick had clung so hard to after the mission. After almost losing so much, including his own life and the life of his godson, the aging Captain just wanted stability, was that so much to ask? The team needed it too, they were all lost in that post adrenaline clinginess that pushed pilots to dangerous addictions found in bars and strangers bedrooms. But not the Daggers, not his Daggers, they just wanted a place to belong, or so Pete's naive mind told him. This was his own chance at that familial unit he always longed for and yet Seresin had to destroy it all in just a matter of seconds.

The adult part of Maverick knew the fallout was his own damn fault for bringing up such an explosive topic and in a public forum no less but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine how destructive things would have gotten; how raw and how real. The wounds left behind were gaping, the slashes making Pete feel exposed; his choices questioned, his judgment scorned, his leadership capabilities almost completely gone.

So much in Maverick wanted to be mad at Hangman, and a younger version of himself would have been. He would have lashed back, (similar to how Bradley did), stood up for himself and ripped Jake Seresin and his haughtiness into a whole other stratosphere. But Pete wasn’t that type of man anymore, not after decades of Ice running interference, playing blocker, and molding Pete into something resembling a commanding officer in the Navy.

Maverick didn’t fight Hangman that day but he also didn’t talk him down. He stood frozen as the room erupted in emotion and tension. He could have stepped up and called order to the group, he should have as an officer and as their leader, but instead he stayed quiet.

There was so much he wished he could change about that day, so much he wish he had articulated to the blonde or even to the rest of the group. Maybe he could have salvaged the team, or at least salvaged the relationships on his team. But no. Instead Maverick stood in that hangar frozen with guilty thoughts and feelings of inadequacy and now all the pilots that had been under his command were struggling.

When the dust settled from the altercation only four original Daggers were left: Rooster, Phoenix, Fanboy and Fritz.

If Hangman’s words had any positive, it was that it made Bradley a permanent fixture to the Captain Mitchell's side. Rooster defend Maverick without hesitation and though Maverick knew that half the argument was due to the two younger pilots absolutely hating each other, a part of him felt warmed by the steadiness of having Rooster in his corner. After Jake had left and Bradley moved to leave as well, Pete followed his godson, the two talking out Bradley’s frustrations and giving each other what the other needed. For Bradley it was support and guidance, for Mav it was a family.

Bradley sticking with him had been a pleasant surprise to Maverick. After the mission and then the loss of the Dagger Squad, Pete had tried to seize onto the young Bradshaw with both hands, a notion that seemed to be encouraged by Rooster. He started coming over to Pete's hangar to work on the Mustang, he joined him for dinner, the two even took a trip to the cemetery together to pay respect to Bradley's parents and talk about the mission. It was everything Maverick had hoped for but the rejection from 16 years ago made him leery of when the bubble would burst. After the loss of Ice, Maverick didn't think he was strong enough to handle Bradley leaving him again as well. It wasn't right, he knew it wasn't, but anything the older man could do to keep Bradley by his side he would, his own career be damned.

As for the rest of the Daggers things weren't as simple.

Phoenix staying seemed like a given in the beginning but Pete assumed he was going to lose her after Bob left. The woman, defying expectations once more, stayed put, firmly by Bradley's side but with a few more walls up now that so many of her teammates had bailed. She wasn't the same pilot as she was before the mission; the teasing gone and the confidence hollowed down to a harsher cockiness that never felt right from Natasha. She lost her heart and instead of being a steadfast welcome-committee for their newcomers, Lieutenant Trace seemed to become their resident bully. Phoenix had single-handedly scared away three separate WSO's that she didn't feel were up to her standards. Maverick had meant to sit her down, to talk things out with her, but he felt so off-footed since the Seresin incident that he wasn't sure how to even broach the topic anymore. So the Captain gave the female pilot space and pretended to ignore how lifeless their Phoenix was becoming.

As despondent as Natasha looked, she held nothing to Fanboy. After Payback announced not only his declining of the Dagger Squad but his actual retirement, Maverick assumed Mickey was leaving just as quickly. Instead the young pilot stayed on but unfortunately without any of his life and spirit. Payback was Fanboy's best friend, almost like his older brother and having managed successfully one of the most difficult missions ever attempted in Naval history, Mickey was coming down from the adrenaline very lonely. He still kept up his jovial mood as best he could but something crucial was missing and instead of cheering everyone up, Mickey just became another reminder of what they had lost. Things were hopefully going to turn around now that Fanboy was flying with Phoenix. After sending yet another WSO packing, Fanboy offered to back-seat with her. Maverick couldn't tell who looked more thrown off from the prospect but they both eventually managed to agree. The first hop didn't end in tears, yells, or a crash, so Pete was encouraged.

Billy Avalone was Maverick's biggest surprise of all though. Fritz was a talented pilot, one of the best of the group, and Hangman wasn't wrong when he said that the last week of training featured Fritz, Fanboy and Payback hitting the targets and the time fluently. Yet Maverick didn't pick him for the mission, and if the older man was honest with himself, Fritz was never even considered. It was Rooster and Hangman if it were two pilots going, and the minute Maverick claimed the team leader spot, it was Bradley as his wingman; nothing else to decide. When the yelling had started in the Hangar and Fritz's skills brought to attention, Maverick assumed it was a one way ticket for Billy to split. Instead, Fritz stayed at North Island. Mav had later found out it was because the Avalone family lived close by, but it still meant something that the kid stuck it out with the team; a decision Maverick knew he was probably regretting at this point.

There were just too many spots to fill.

The list of Naval Aviators that had volunteered to join them was long and distinguished, but also a revolving door. No one seemed to last beyond a week or two. Personalities clashed, fights were always raging between someone in the locker room, and it bled out into the skies. The whole process reminded Pete a lot of his time at Top Gun but with more viciousness. Perhaps because the stakes were higher, or maybe because the original Daggers were mourning the loss of the team they could have been, but it seemed like every other day Maverick was being called into Admiral Simpson's office about yet another pilot calling for a reassignment.

Some egos were too high to curtail, others too low to build up. Some people gelled well under Maverick’s tutelage; others rolled their eyes and were back with their old squadrons by the next morning. The frustration on everyone’s part was reaching a breaking point and Pete knew his chance of running this team was diminishing with each frown on Admiral Simpson’s face. Maverick’s time was nearing its end and he no longer had Ice to buffer his fall. He was on his own, no parachute in sight.

Maverick headed up to his plane for the first hop of the day with little excitement. The joy he used to have with the prospect of training the best of the best had slowly numbed down to an obligation, something he never wanted when it came to flying. He saw it in some of the other’s eyes as well and the pain that that caused him, hurt even more. He sighed, his hold on his helmet clenching tighter as he chastised himself. He owed it to the pilots he still had, the pilots that were being brought in, to give it his best. Resolving himself, Maverick found some pep, deciding the first hop of the day would be the perfect opportunity to run some of his old tricks. He was going up with two planes, a double and a single. All three pilots were replacements. The duo, Xavier “Professor X” Jones and Benjamin “Sherlock” Harrington, were working well and a fairly decent acquisition. They gelled well with the others and Sherlock had even flown in the same squadron as Bradley once during a deployment in Japan. Maverick was happy with their skills but was more impressed with their teamwork, the two flew together like naturals after only two months.

The single pilot was a different story. Adam “Flash” Scafer was the newest tryout for the team. He was young, painfully so compared to some of the others, having only graduated Top Gun about a year ago. Flash had shockingly blonde hair, bright blue eyes and a cocky attitude. All three combined made him a ghost of two blondes that still haunted Pete’s mind. His teamwork definitely needed work but it was his skills that worried Maverick the most. The kid acted as though flying came so naturally to him but Pete found he lacked the normal instincts of a Naval Aviator. Everything seemed to take an extra second before Flash moved, almost as though he had to think it through. It wasn’t necessarily the worst thing to think out there (no matter how much Maverick stood behind his ‘don’t think, just do’ mantra), but Lieutenant Scafer would then over-correct or push to make up for that split second of time, leaving him flailing and his plane erratic. Pete was convinced the kid wouldn’t make it past the week.

Despite his shortcomings, Flash talked- and a lot. Captain Mitchell knew he wasn’t the only one who saw the similarities to Hangman, Flash taking over the room like the former blonde did but with none of the finesse. Bradley had already almost come to blows with the kid and he’d only been there three days. Fritz had mentioned to Fanboy in a stage whisper that Seresin must have sent the team his long lost love child just to screw with them, a joke that didn’t land quite as well as Billy had hoped (Rooster had huffed and stormed off, Phoenix following this time).

As Maverick watched the three pilots get into their aircrafts and take to the skies, he decided to have fun and test some limits. It had been a while since he pulled some of the tricks he did with the original Daggers, and he missed some of his daring moves, especially his infamous entrance. Ramming through the small space between two planes, first attempted between Payback and Rooster’s jets during the first day of Uranium Mission training, was always the best way to examine the team’s skill levels. He had attempted it a few times as other pilots took their turns with the squad, Maverick watching as majority stayed in control during the surprise swoop in. There were a few sloppy maneuvers, certainly nothing as clean as from his original Daggers, but nothing life-threatening.

Maverick turned his plane into position, listening to Sherlock fill Flash into their flight plan before Pete came crashing in to their personal space, quite literally. Captain Mitchell flew through perfectly, his plane staying straight and vertical as his speed and velocity caused a concussion of air to ripple over the other F-18 Super Hornets. He smirked as he listened to the initial curse of surprise from Jones, the pilot shifting to his left with a jerky motion. Mav moved to speak in his radio and chide Xavier for the sloppiness when a cry of serious profanities stopped him in his tracks and made his blood run cold.

“Shit!” he recognized Sherlock’s voice, normally so composed and calm on the radio, “shit Flash what the hell-“

“Fuck-“ the blonde had screamed over his teammate instead of answering, the hollering loud and fearful, “fuck!”

Sherlock was still talking, a rambling of mashed up sentence that tried to resemble coherence, "shit- we're- Flash you went left- shit! We're- Fire! X! X!" he cried and Maverick turned his plane around enough to catch the result of what had to be a midair collision. It seemed Flash had rolled left instead of right after Maverick’s trick, sending him towards the other jet where he struck the entire starboard side. Jones’s plane was falling fast, it’s wing crushed and a fire starting along the right side causing them to spin out of control. Pete’s hand shook and suddenly it seemed hard to breath. His mind flashed back to his own tailspin so many years ago, the taste of death filling his sense and rendering him mute.

“Base? Base this is Sherlock-“ the WSO sounded close to tears as he called over the radio, pleading for some sort of assistance in a helpless situation, “we have made contact with Flash, I repeat we have made contact with Flash-“

“We’re going down Sherlock” Jones was speaking now, his voice hoarse as he groaned over the radio. Maverick could picture him, his body fighting the G’s of his freefall while pitifully gripping his stick to get out of it. There was nothing he could do, nothing any pilot could do, except to bail, and yet every pilot always tried to save their damn jet up until the very end.

“Base our right engine is on fire” Sherlock recited, “the whole wing is destroyed-“

Maverick could see the fire spreading, the plane falling closer to the ground with each passing second. Suddenly the radio clicked back on and Admiral Simpson’s voice was booming, “Captain Mitchell what the hell is going on up there?” he asked desperately, clearly unhinged by what he was hearing from the ground. "Who hit who?"

His questions went unanswered as the spiraling plane continued their frantic calls, “Shit! I’m a dead stick Benny" Jones informed agonizingly, "we gotta eject-“

Sherlock sounded like he was crying, a wet sob sounding over the comms, “We’re too out of control-“

“Captain Mitchell?” Cyclone tried again, but when he heard nothing, he turned back to the pilots in trouble, “Jones, Harrington, eject now. Get out of there-“

“But Sir-“

“Pull it Jones! That's an order!"

"I can't-" Xavier's breath hitched, "I can't reach- shit" he cursed with a audible hiss, "the fire- it's hitting the cockpit-"

"Harrington pull the cord!"

“Good speed X” the fear in the WSO’s voice was palpable as he wished his pilot luck in what could be their final moments. Maverick watched in horror as the two-seater erupted in flames just as the canopy flew back. Both seats went up, both cleared the covering but Pete could see the flames that licked too close to Xavier’s body and quickly consumed the right side of his flight suit. He was close enough to see Jones’s frantic swatting before the parachutes deployed and both pilots began a slower decent back down to earth.

Seeing the two parachutes and the movements of both pilots gained Pete back his voice and he zoned back in to hear Simpson’s continual calling of information. He cleared his throat, feeling parched, “B-Base" his voice sounded weak and shaky to his own ears, "Lieutenants Jones and Harrington have ejected. Send rescue immediately”

“Maverick" Simpson's voice seemed to rise in octave with a strange mixture of relief and scorn, "what the hell happened out there? Where were you?”

“I- I’m over the rescue site Sir-“

“I meant when it happened Captain, where were you?"

"Up here Sir, I- I missed the collision," he spoke up, not quite ready to admit out loud his part in the cause of it, "but I saw the tailspin and the fire. Have the burn unit on standby, Jones's suit seemed to have caught."

"How did it-" but Beau cut himself off, knowing it wasn’t the time or the place to get into Mitchell’s actions. Instead he hollered to the other pilot in the sky, “Lieutenant Scafer status?”

“S-Sir?” the blonde sounded absolutely wrecked, long removed from the cocky jerk he was not even an hour ago, and Maverick turned his head to see him circling disjointedly a few dozen feet above him, “S-Sir, I’m so s-s-sorry-“ Adam whimpered.

Simpson's voice softened a fractionally amount at the clearly distressed pilot on the other end, “What is the status of your plane Lieutenant?”

The young man swallowed nervously, “D-Damaged but flyable” he stuttered.

“Get back to base immediately” Cyclone ordered, no room for argument. Pete listened as Flash gave a puny "Yes Sir" before turning his plane and heading back to base. Down below, Harrington and Jones were seconds from touching down, and Maverick could hear the chatter on the radio from the rescue squad that was just taking off. He was about to list his coordinates when the Admiral addressed him once more. "Mitchell head back to base as well."

"But I'm over the crash site Sir-"

"I don't want you in the air anymore" the higher ranking man stated frankly, "get back to base."

"But Sir-"

"Now Mitchell" and then Pete heard the telltale sound of the frequency being switched. The naval captain was cut off from the news of the rescue, resolved to head back to base like a delinquent child; the looming threat of punishment heavy on the horizon.

A hour later Pete sat in the waiting room of the medical unit on base, his legs jumping from nerves as he waited for news. His four original Daggers had all been in to see him, Rooster pale and unsteady, Phoenix stoic, Fanboy sad and Fritz in shock. They didn't last long though, as Warlock ushered them all out and into a lecture room for a debrief, another sign to Maverick that his days were officially numbered.

Now Pete sat alone and in silence, his mind supplying all the noise he could need as it remembered obscure facts about his downed pilots. How Jones played four years of varsity soccer in high school. How Sherlock always kept a pen and pad on him, no matter where they were. How the duo each had one younger brother, one younger sister and a yellow lab. How it was meant to be for them to be flying together, how natural it came to them both. Pete couldn’t help but wonder if the two would ever fly together again or like everything else in the Captains life, he ruined something good once again.

Footsteps heading towards him snapped Maverick out of his own mind and he looked up to see Admiral Simpson walking forward. The man looked like the very definition of stress, his face pinched with worry and his hands clenching at his sides. He nodded to the chair to Pete's left before speaking, "can I sit?" he asked softly.

Pete nodded, not trusting himself to speak as he watched Beau sit with a heavy sigh. The two men sat in silence for a moment, watching the bustle of the medical ward that they both spent far too much time in yet still felt foreign. Finally Cyclone cleared his throat, "Lieutenant Jones is still in surgery," he informed stoically, "once they get the internal bleeding taken care of they will address the burns."

"How- How bad?" Maverick whispered, afraid to hear the answer.

"Second degree on his chest and thighs, right arm is third degree" the Admiral's eyes shifted to Maverick for a second before staring back at the wall, "It's going to be a long road back."

"Can he make it back?"

Beau shook his head, "I don't know, that's up to him." He hesitated for a moment, clearly debating what to say next. "Pete listen-"

"How’s Sherlock?” Maverick interrupted instead, startling Beau as he struggled to refocus. The Admiral ran a hand through his hair and Maverick could see it was shaking slightly, even hardened Cyclone was thrown off by this day. "Lieutenant Harrington,” Simpson paused, "he was able to get away without the worst of it. Bumps and bruises mostly, possible whiplash from the ejection." He looked down at his hands. "I'm concerned about him psychologically though.”

Pete could only nod, picturing his young pilot in question at a table scribbling little notes and observations in his damn note pad. Mav found he already missed him. Pete tried to swallow his guilt but it choked him, “he- uh,” Mav tried again, “Benny’s been through a lot."

"He was the one who had to try to put the fire out on Jones after they both landed. Rescue said he was frantic when they arrived, crying and-" the other man trailed off shaking his head, "I don't know what we will get from him in the future either."

The guilt felt suffocating in Pete's throat. He closed his eyes, thinking of the pilot duo that would most likely never grace the skies again, "I destroyed two pilots today" he whispered only for himself but Admiral Simpson heard as well. The other man looked pained as he turned to his Captain. "Pete" he shook his head, "you're a brilliant pilot and the Navy owes you so much-"

"But my time is up" Maverick finished, meeting his superior's eyes, "I ruined two pilots-"

"Three."

The world had already seemed too close to stopping before but now Pete was sure it had ceased to spin on its axis. His mind went blank, unable to connect the words from his CO's mouth into any form of understanding, "W-Who?" he asked dumbly.

Beau's face split into deep concern, his brow furrowed with it. "Scafer" he explained carefully, too cautious for the normal antagonist in Maverick's life, "he's turned in his wings."

"What?" the shock bled from his voice like a wound, "He- Was he hurt?" Pete racked his brain, knowing that he saw Flash land safely but so he lacked any confidence in himself at the moment that he couldn't be sure. "I thought he landed okay?"

"He did" and now it was devastation on Simpson's features. The Admiral seemed overwhelmed and at his wits end almost as bad as Maverick, "he's turned in his wings. Thinks it's his fault" the man knew he was walking on shaky ground and proceeded with caution, "I was able to debrief him a little before I sent him to medical to be treated for shock. He explained his actions up in the air."

"So he told you everything?" Pete focused on keeping his voice tempered.

"About the maneuver you pulled and his reaction? Yes."

Mav nodded, emotion welling in his throat but he stubbornly swallowed it down, "And ah- will there be an inquiry?"

Beau stared the other man down, watching the unease radiate off him in waves. He knew Pete for about twenty years in total and never had he ever seen the other man's composure so clearly lost. He had heard about the Maverick that appeared after Goose's death, the scared and timid pilot that couldn't engage but this was different. That Maverick lacked confidence, this Maverick , the one sitting on the uncomfortable hospital chair with his legs bouncing up and down and his shoulders hunched, this Maverick lacked his very soul. This wasn't the Ace pilot that Cyclone was used to, this was a broken has-been who would never find his glory again. "A committee will meet to go over what happened, you'll have to appear-"

"Will you be on it?"

Beau wished he could have said yes, despite their initial misgivings he still respected the Captain, but he had been excused almost immediately from Admiral Cain for being too close to the incident, "No, Bates and I were both excused."

Maverick gave a heavy sigh, "I'll be forced to retire" he deduced emotionlessly.

"Most likely." Cyclone admitted and he could see the appreciation on Maverick's face for his honesty. He opened his mouth to say more but a nurse walked forward drawing both of their attentions. "Excuse me but Admiral Simpson?"

He moved to stand, "Yes?"

"Lieutenant Jones is out of surgery," she informed professionally, "If you follow me I can take you to Doctor Mason, he can debrief you on the Lieutenant's condition."

"Thank you" and Simpson moved to stand. He took three steps down the hallway before turning to Captain Mitchell one more time. Straightening his posture he met the Captain with a sharp salute, "it's been a honor Captain."

Maverick stood as well, saluting back, "Thank you Sir." He watched Beau offer a hand out and he took it like a lifeline and shook promptly. "For what it's worth" Cyclone told him, "I'm sorry. We might not have seen eye to eye on a lot of things but I meant what I said when I told you the Navy owed you for your years of service."

Pete struggled to contain his emotions, "T-Thank you Sir.”

"I'll have someone send you an update on the conditions of Jones and Harrington" and then the Admiral left, off to fulfill his duties like the distinguished officer he was. Maverick stayed behind, lost like he's never known before, facing a future that had never seemed more uncertain or more dark.

How is everyone doing? Hate me yet? Thrown this story out the window?

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wr1t3w1tm3 · 1 year ago

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SEAWOLF - Part 1 - Chapter 2

Tuesday - May 18th

Words: 2,771

Estimated Read Time: 12-15 min.

TW: Brief mentions of blood and brief allusion to panic caused by a traumatic experience.

It ends up taking five hours for him to reach Maverick’s hangar. For miles down the gravel back road he follows the wide swaths cut by large tire tracks earlier that night. The hangar door is closed. When he pulls up next to the hangar, his SUV is the only car. Walking through the dust to the side door, he notices a lime green post-it note, which reads:

Ring the doorbell then come in. Unlocked.

There’s a ring doorbell mounted next to the door. He presses the button, it’s lit by a blue circle for a moment, then it dings out a little song and he enters. As soon as he opens the door, he’s hit with the overwhelming stench of industrial cleaners and the harsh hangar lights.

Inside is almost immaculately clean. Maverick was never one to be messy, but he also didn’t have any specific method to his “madness” He kept his magazines, books, NATOPs and anything made of paper and bound stowed within the coffee table set up in his “living room”; and he kept his tools all over the hangar without any rhyme or reason. Roosters Ford Bronco - the same one Goose had back in the day - is parked against the hangar door.

The smell begins to dissipate as he gets closer to the fans set up in a triangle between the Mustang, the camper, and the line of tarp draped bikes. The trailer door is wide open, and a brunette in a black t-shirt and ripped up jeans steps out. There’s a paper towel roll tucked under her arm, a mop in one hand and its bucket in the other.

She puts the pedal to the metal, booking it towards a mass of towels he notices on her approach. “You Theresa?” He calls.

She nods, panting. The bucket hits the ground with a plunk and the mop clatters down with it. She stands, rubbing her back as he approaches. “And you’re Ice…man?”

He nods, sliding his aviators into the crook created by his unbuttoned top button. “Tom Kazansky. Callsign, Iceman. Everyone calls me Ice.”

Her hand shake is firm, but when their hands come together, hers are shaking. Maybe from the adrenaline, but when he tries to look her in the eyes she maintains contact for only a couple seconds before she drops it and motions to the bucket. “I was, uh, just cleaning up. They gave me to okay to clean up.”

“The cops?” Ice asks, surveying the hangar.

“Yeah,” Theresa picks up the mop and nudges the towels out of the way with her boot.

Ice smiles gently. “Are those Mav’s old boots?”

Theresa shrugs. “Probably.” He steps closer, but she refuses to look up. The mop swipes away at the floor, taking with it the remnants of red from under the towels. He glances at them himself. The bottom ones seem to be completely blood soaked.

“Where are Maverick and your father?”

Theresa rolls her shoulders, then shudders. She kicks the towels a little further, mopping that up. She starts humming something he vaguely recognizes from the radio. He steps with her, then suddenly she turns, grabbing the bucket and mop and marching towards the Mustang. There’s a similar, though smaller, mound of towels there as well. The path over is lined with muted bloody stains.

Ice stops a couple yards back and repeats his question. “Where’s your dad at, kid?”

Again, Theresa shrugs. But she speaks “Uh… I dunno. They disappeared before the cops showed up and they couldn’t find ‘em.”

She dunks the mop in the bucket again. It slaps and some slips over the side, onto the floor. It makes a wet squelch against the concrete when she sets it down and the fibers scratch a bit as they glide over the floor. “Are they looking for them?”

“Oh, uh… the cops?” she chuckles uneasily, replying with a shrug “nah. They’ll keep an eye out for ‘em but they aren’t too worried unless they don’t turn up by tomorrow.”

Ice steps forward. Theresa glances at him then takes a step back, mopping up where there definitely wasn’t blood before. He broaches the next question with a little more delicacy “Do you know where your dad and Maverick are?”

“The Hard Deck?” She suggests with a shrug and uneasy chuckle. Realization dawns immediately. The boots Theresa’s co-opted squeak as she walks.

Ice slides his hands into his pockets and clears his throat. “What, ah, what do the cops think happened here?”

“Rabid animal attack.” Theresa’s response is to fast. Too perfect.

“You said it was a wolf, right?”

She pauses, glancing at him. She cocks an eyebrow, not unlike Mav when asked a stupid question. Then she turns back to her mopping. “Yeah. Big black one.”

“What else did you see?”

“Not much,” again, too quick. Too rehearsed. “It got Mav, then it go Brad.”

“And they both disappeared after they got bit?”

Theresa stops, taking a deep breath as she rights herself. She nods curtly, “Yeah,” she drops the mop in the bucket and hoists it up, headed towards the trailer.

“So what’d you tell the cops?” Ice calls. There’s a coolness in his voice that irks Theresa.

But she plays along. “That Mav and Brad got attacked by a big black wolf and that I hid in the plane.”

“And that they disappeared after they were attacked?”

She nods, setting the bucket at the trailer steps. Ice stops a couple yards away again. His khaki’s are crisp, his shirt is ironed. He looks well rested, despite the hour. Theresa is running on a RedBull and and looks like it. She imagines that she looks cooler than she does, staring Ice down, but she can feel the grease slicking her hair back and it does not feel pretty.

He sighs, taking one step closer and asking quietly “What color where they?”

Theresa blinks, trying to wake herself up. “What color where… who?��

She takes a sudden breath. Ice sighs, pressing “What color where the wolves?”

“The… black one?” Theresa slides back a step. Her back is practically against the trailer now. Ice shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“What color fur did your father and Mav have after they shifted?”

Theresa balks like she’s about to throw up. The mop clatters against the wooden steps, then it hits the floor. It echoes through the hangar. Ice’s ears ring a bit. It fades within a moment, giving Theresa enough time for realization.

“Can you drive Mav’s Jeep?”

Theresa doesn’t respond at first. One hand slowly drifts to her chest, where it feels her heart racing. The other reaches back for the trailer, and once it makes contact she leans back against it. Ice takes another step forward, repeating himself tersely. “Can you drive Mav’s Jeep?”

She swallows hard, but she nods. Ice nods, stepping back. “Good. Go ahead and grab the keys kid, then follow me. Slider’ll get in soon and we need to have Mav and your dad wrangled by then.” He starts towards the door, but he only hears his footfalls. He turns back after a few steps, and Theresa simply stands there, unmoving. Her mouth slightly agape.

“Come on kid,” he puts on a small smile and tries to sound cheerful. “Grab the keys. It’ll be fun.”

She seems to snap out of it, shaking her head a bit violently. She steps up into the trailer. Ice listens to her search around for Mav’s keys. The search is by no means silent, but she doesn’t say a word otherwise. The shock should wear off soon. She’ll be fine then.

“Oh!” He calls back. “Make sure to grab them each a change of clothes!”

They don’t have to go far. Approximately a mile from Maverick’s hangar and equidistant from the runway is a large collection of rocks. Hiding amongst those rocks are two wolves: one black, one hazel.

Ice approaches cautiously, dimming his lights once he spots them. Theresa’s eyes aren’t nearly as well adjusted. Luckily, she’s far enough back that her lights don’t startle them.

They were resting when they arrived. Both still shifted. For a second, a pang of… anxiety strikes him. What if they attack Theresa? She’s in an open Jeep after all.

No. They won’t. They’ve had nearly five hours to come to terms now. Besides, he’s in front. They won’t attack him. He’s familiar. Wolf and friend.

Theresa shuts off the Jeep. The dying headlights catch the hazel, almost dirty blonde wolf’s attention. He’s huge. Easily ten feet from snout to tail. He probably weighs about what he did before, and Rooster was a pretty big guy by all metrics.

“Easy. Easy.” the hazel one - Rooster - growls. Theresa, halfway between the SUV and the Jeep, stops dead. She looks like she’s just seen a ghost. The black one turns his attention to her. “Whoa Mav,” Ice glances back. He reaches one hand out in front of him, and gently calls back to Theresa “get in my car.”

She doesn’t move. She can barely breath. All she can see is an eruption of black and hazel fur as bodies contort and someone screams. Mav. She thinks its Mav’s scream she hears. The desert wind whips up and the sand swipes her arms and face.

Tears start to fall. The stinging only makes them worse. Ice turns back to the wolves. Now he was gonna have to get both wolves into the SUV without any help.

Well, maybe… “She’s alright,” he assures them, turning to Maverick first. “You didn’t hurt her. She’s just… tired.” He just told them she was fine. He can’t admit that she’s scared. Not now.

Bradley takes a step forward. Ice pivots right at him. “Whoa, Rooster. No. No. She’s fine,” he glances at Mav “you’re both fine, but you’ve got to come with me. We’ve gotta get you shifted back.”

The black one - Maverick - takes several cautious steps towards Ice’s hand. Once he’s within a few feet, he takes a wiff. Ice smiles. “Yeah, that’s it Mav. Easy.”

Maverick seems to smile, and with a little yip he closes the distance between himself and Ice. He pops a squat right in front of him, slinking the last few inches. Mav nudges his outstretched hand, begging for pets.

Ice’s smile only gets bigger, and he obliges, running his hand over Mav’s head a few times, following his stroke behind the right ear and giving a nice scritch. It almost looks like Mav smiles as he snuggles up against Ice’s legs. He’s absolutely beaming. “There ya’ go, Mav. Thats better, isn’t it? Figured you didn’t wanna be stuck out here all night, huh?” He crouches down, scratching behind both of Mav’s ears “Yeah. You don’ wanna be stuck out here, do ya? Do ya?”

Maverick yips. Suddenly, Bradley barks, once, then whines. Ice chuckles, shaking his head. “Yes, you too, Rooster, I have two hands.”

Rooster starts walking, but not towards Ice. Both Mav and Ice watch him start towards Theresa. She sees him, and slowly starts to back up. But every step she takes is matched by the wolf. He’s huge. He’s getting bigger. Getting closer.

She’s gotta hide. Something inside is screaming at her. The screams echoing in her head don’t help anything. She’s able to shake them off. For a second, her head is clear. She turns and bolts for the Jeep.

Okay, not that clear.

“No! Bradley!”

Maverick’s off in a flash. He intercepts Rooster as Theresa makes it to the Jeep. Rooster growls, looking past him at the Jeep. Maverick glances back and matches his growl. They’re locked in this stand off until Ice closes the distance. He sprints the whole way. Theresa’s in the Jeep, thank god, and she’s got it on. But she’s still got open windows. Rooster or Maverick could easily get in that way.

“Easy, easy guys.” He goads. He crouches again, trying to get on their level. It’s awkward, since they stand so high off the ground. “Come on. Let’s go.” He motions to the SUV. “Slider’ll be here any minute, and we’re gonna get this all figured out, alright?”

Rooster seems calmer. The growling stops. Theresa’s sobs replace them. Ice glances at her. She’s got her knees pulled against her chest and her forehead resting on them. Great. She’s of no help right now.

With a sigh he starts towards the SUV, but backwards, to keep his eye on Maverick and Rooster. Once he reaches it, he pops the middle door. “Come on guys. We’re gonna go back to the hangar and get this all figured out.”

They hesitate for a couple seconds. Rooster glances back at Theresa. Ice nods, “She’ll follow us back.”

Maverick sneezes, but without further protest pads over to the SUV. He climbs in easily, but he looks tired. He lays down on the seat, taking up nearly the whole back bench. Ice turns back to Rooster. He’s moved a bit closer, but he’s still got a lock on Theresa.

Ice meets him where he’s at, crouching down and petting him a few times. “Yeah, I know Roo. She’s a little upset right now,” Not scared. Not now “but she’ll be alright. We’ll get this all sorted out once we get to the hangar, alright?” Rooster sighs. “Hey. Hey. Everything’s gonna be fine. It’ll all get figured out once we get back to the hangar, okay? Come ‘on.” he stands, starting towards the SUV.

Rooster glances back at Theresa once more, and after a moment he - almost reluctantly - follows Iceman back to the SUV. Once he’s in, Ice shuts the door and gets in, pulling up next to Theresa.

She’s been having a moment. Her eyes are red, and there’s wet spots on her shirt collar from where tears escaped her hands. She sniffles on their approach, trying to seem more put together.

Ice still practically scowls at her, and everything he says sounds like an order. “Head back to the hangar. Slider should meet us there.”

She nods, pursing her lips. Ice sighs and rolls his window up, rolling back towards the dirt road they took out. Theresa… Theresa hesitates for a bit. It’s not like she’ll get lost, she can see the hangar from the pile of rocks. She… she just needs a minute.

What the fuck happened? She tries to wrap her head around it. First, some big black wolf appeared and got Mav. Then Mav… Mav turned into a big black wolf and attacked Bradley. Then… then Bradley must’ve turned into a wolf and they both must’ve run off when the EMT’s showed up.

Were… were they werewolves now? That… that… I should’ve had that on my 2021 Bingo Card. She doesn’t know what she feels, but it’s not pleasant. It’s a whirl wind of fear, yes, and anxiety. She’s gotten a major… spine tingle, for lack of a better word, as her mind replays Maverick’s… shift? Is that what he called it? She’s not sure, but it sounds right.

The fact that Tom Kazansky - who she knows is Commander of the US Pacific Fleet the same way she knows that the sky is blue and Taylor Swift sings about her exes - is one of these… werewolves. He’s a werewolf. Since when did they exist?

She combs her memory for the handful of times they’d even been in the same room with him. She did meet him briefly at some ball thing she had to attend for Roosters squad. He’d seemed normal. And… the Slider guy he mentioned. She thinks she’s met him. Something to do with an unofficial “class reunion” for Maverick sometime that summer. He might’ve been out at the hangar at one point. He’d seemed completely normal too.

How many werewolves where there? How dangerous where they? Part of her wanted to geek out but a larger part was scared and betrayed. She felt paranoid, and she hated it but… I’m not wrong. She told herself.. If… if werewolves existed… what else was out there? Vampires? Witches? Ghosts? Demons? Fuck, it was Supernatural, but real. Was that a true story then? No… their werewolves worked differently. Unless… unless that was what they wanted you to think!

She’s lost in her own fears long enough for her tears to dry and a small plane to pass overhead and land at the hangar. The dust it kicks up stings her face and drags her back to the hellscape she’s woken up in tonight. She begins to cry again, and with a sniffle, tucks her knees to her chest and watches the hangar.

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