Fire & Ice

the danger zone

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"During Korea, the Navy kill ratio was 12-to-1. We shot down 12 of their jets got every one of ours. During Vietnam, that ratio fell 3-to-1." Our instructors states, but the the pilot in front of me is smacking his gum, distracting me for a moment.

His unnaturally blonde hair seems familiar, but I can't place his. He slouches backwards, at ease with everything around him, in the room with the best of the best.

I wrinkle my nose as some guys behind me smoke cigarettes, playing with the wisps of smoke.

I look back up to our instructor, who drones on, "Our pilots become dependent upon missiles. They had lost some of their dogfighting skills. Now Top Gun was created to teach A.C.M. Air Combat Maneuvering. Dogfighting."

"This gives me a hard on." One pilot in the front mutters to his RIO. I cringe at the vulgar language, and the sheer, stupid ego that the man was carrying.

The man talking doesn't seem to hear or care about the comment, or maybe he's just used to them by now. His speech continues, "By the end of Vietnam, that ratio was back up to 12-to-1."

His friend says back, "Don't tease me."

Brandon facepalms at the two pilots, muttering something about how these pilots were supposed to be the top one percent.

The best.

And yet, they sent some of the dumbest men in their place.

"Blinds please." The instructor commands, and the blinds open with a sharp thwack! Light fills the room, and I squint until my eyes adjust to it.

"Now I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to our commanding officer at Top Gun. The very first man to win the Top Gun trophy. You will not find a finer fighter pilot anywhere in the world. Commander Mike Metcalf. Callsign, Viper."

Commander Mike Metcalf, or rather, Viper walks up the aisle in the middle of the room. "Gentlemen," he begins. I roll my eyes, at the man who's as blind as a bat. Some of the pilots and their RIOs snicker behind me, because I was not acknowledged. I, therefore, was nonexistent. Non-important.

They'll all learn what it feels like to lose, I promised myself. I would be the best that Top Gun had ever seen.

Viper states, "You are the top one perfect of al naval aviators. The elite. The best of the best. We'll make you better. You'll fly at least two combat missions a day, attend classes in between, and evaluations of your performance. Now, on each combat sequence, you're gonna meet a different challenge."

Maverick looks at me, and then the pilot in front of me. The man sits up straighter, and they have their own little standoff. Neither of them look away, as the pilot keeps twiddling his pen between his fingers, distracting me.

"Every encounter is gonna be much more difficult. We're gonna teach you to fly the F-14 right to the edge of the envelope, faster than you've ever flown before—"

Clutch nudges my shoulder, "Don't get too many ideas, Speedy."

"No promises," I tell him. I've broken speed records before, and I would do it again.

I look towards my cousin, and he seems to be having a staring contest with the man in front of me.

Men are such babies.

"—and more dangerous. Now we don't make policy here, gentlemen. Elected officials, civilians do that. We are the instruments of that policy. And although we're not at war, we must always act as though we are at war."