Fourteen hours trapped inside a bullet proof tin-can with two people you dislike, your traumatized boyfriend, and nervous best friend, is exactly how every girl wants to spend her day. The first four hours are fine, but once the time zones had begun to dramatically change and our legs grew stiff from lack of use, we were all suddenly playing a desperate game of 'don't make eye contact.' I guess this is God's way of testing me. If so, it worked. Instead of side-eyeing Iceman and Slider every five seconds to make sure they weren't giving Maverick any condescending looks, I stared straight ahead, memorizing the string of bolts lining the aircraft interior while enjoying the walkman Charlie gifted us. Ghost picked out the first album. Queen, no surprises there. I'm not sure which album, but I haven't heard every song on the tracklist. We rotated through the six tapes we managed to fit in our bags. Queen, Elvis, Aerosmith, Heart, Simon & Garfunkel, and the Beatles. At some point, Ghost handed over the headphones to Maverick so she could talk with Iceman.
Bridge Over Troubled Water.
Album's titular song.
Maverick must've felt my gaze. From corner of his eye, he caught me staring.
Maybe he just picked a song.
Maybe he wasn't trying to tell me something.
I can't be sure. Especially not when the lyrics take me back down this road we've been walking since the day we met. I sit back and close my eyes. Thousands of undiagnosed feelings swim inside of me. I couldn't say their names, but I feel the symptoms of each, all at once. Somewhere between the crescendo of the song and the orchestra of emotions wrestling within me, I lose contact with the chair beneath my thighs. Whatever I feel, it's not reality, and it isn't until the altitude drops that I come back to the rest of the plane. The voices, the rush of wind, the engine's lullaby. I crack open my eyes, and there's Ghost, clipped into the seat beside Iceman, asleep on his shoulder.
I look at Maverick.
He looks at me.
The space between our hands has us in a chokehold.
When we land, the stagnant anxiety dissipates. It rides the sudden gust of fresh air down the ramp and off into the eastern sky.
"It's the same sky," Hollywood laughs.
"Yeah," I mutter, shifting my bag between hands. "Feels different though."
Slider throws his head back and takes a big whiff of it.
"Smells different."
"Smells like salt, same as always," Wolfman remarks.
Slider and I share a look. Odd that he would take my side on this. Still, I smile, and we shrug. Sure, we're on one of the Navy's international carriers and for most of us, that's nothing new. As far as I know, Maverick, Iceman, Slider, and I were on different carries before our acceptance into Top Gun. Ghost was somewhere along the East Coast — kept close by her Dad while he was alive. I vaguely recall her mentioning Connecticut. Hollywood and Wolfman? Florida, they tell me. Oh of course. I laugh myself to death. How could I have missed it? They've got Florida written all over them.
The seven of us waste a couple of minutes waiting for our chaperones to show. Eventually, two officers appear and we stand at attention. It goes rather smoothly from there. We're guided to our bunks. The boys are kept in a big room with a couple fellas who work on the carrier. Ghost and I follow our guide past the boys quarters to a smaller barracks. There's four bunks.
"Who is this area designated for typically?" Ghost asks.
"When there aren't ladies aboard," I add.
The man blushes.
"Privileged guests, Lieutenant."
My, my, aren't we special?
The carrier crew seems to think so. After a ten minute breather in our 'privileged' barracks, our guide returns to collect us for dinner. He led us to the mess hall. I hadn't eaten since breakfast, and the mention of food made me dizzy with hunger, but I forced myself to pay attention to every turn we took so that Ghost and I could find our way around without an escort. Once we were close enough to hear the clamor, even a stranger like me could guess which way to go. Our guide stepped forward to open the door. The poor thing couldn't have been much older then us, but he must not have seen a girl he didn't share blood with in centuries. He looked every bit the bashful peasant boy, serving the dashing princess. Princesses, I correct, and on that note, I do a most un-princess like thing and wink at him.
"Thank you, good sir! Chivalry is not dead, it seems!"
Ghost grabs my arm and whisks me through the door.
One second, I'm laughing and leaning on my RIO.
The next, an entire mess hall of men are staring at us, like Michelle Pfeiffer just walked in. Ghost and I both stop short. The laugh's still caught in my throat. So, chivalry is sorta dead. At least, manners are. "Didn't your Mamma ever tell it's rude to stare?" They certainly need to hear it, and I'm on the verge of reminding them, but Ghost's death lock on my forearm leads me to reconsider. What does it matter anyway? Half of them are only shocked that there's ladies sharing their meals and bunks and jets. The other half might lean towards angry — hateful even.
So what? That's their problem, not mine. I only wish it weren't so predictable. Every new station, it's the same old routine. The blushing, innocent ones, the angry sexist ones, and the handful of comrades. But all of them stare. It's little bothersome, to have so many eyes on me. It's not so much the eyes as it is what's going through the brain behind them, and the uneasiness of not knowing what that is. I guess that makes Ghost pretty handy.
Handy.
With the way she's wringing my arm...very handy for sure.
"Stirrups! Ghost!"
Hollywood.
In the crowd of eyes we find familiar faces.
"C'mon," I mutter as I pull Ghost along. "They'll stop staring in a sec."
"I wish they wouldn't stare at all," Ghost says in a hushed tone.
She isn't panicked. Yet, there's a wobble in her voice, and it absolutely flips my pissed off switch. I throw a sharp glance as far as the eye can see. Stares are the least of my concern, but Ghost's discomfort is a top priority. I'm her pilot. Whether we're roasting in a cockpit or walking through the mess hall, I'm supposed to look after her. Heads turn as I challenge their goose-necking. I whittle down a few of the stares, but they grow back like weeds. We make it to the table. Maverick and Wolfman slide down the bench, giving us the other end to share. I spare the cafeteria one last look before throwing in the towel. There's no stopping everyone from checking out the new kids on the block. I'm sure half their curiosity includes the guys. We're Top Gun graduates. We're the cool kids. I can barely wrap my head around the concept as Ghost and I load our trays and rejoin Maverick and the others.
Something doesn't sit well with me.
It isn't the food.
I glance at Ghost, who takes each bite with the smallest of gestures.
Like she's a creature in a tank, folding in herself.
Hiding from prying eyes.
I feel for her.
If I could snap off a bit my confidence and spunk and give it to her, I would.
It amazes me how someone so wise and self-aware could be so timid and naive.
Ghost isn't any less of a solider. We both had to measure up to the fitness standards; pass all the rigorous trainings with flying colors. It was grueling work, but I wanted to be in that cockpit so badly, I drove myself to the breaking point, and proved that anyone who loves their country, or wants something bad enough, can achieve it. Ghost fought her way to aviation, same as me. Maybe she had a foot in the door with her daddy's help, but she still had to study hard, build muscle, and train herself to cope with insane levels of stress to get to where she is now: sitting at a table with the best of the best, about to go into active duty.
I guess it can be easy to forget how weak the strong can be.
How we miss the faults of the people we find perfect. All my faults hang around to remind me. Like every second of the day I'm glancing down at yet another stain on my clothes and thinking, 'Shit, I've gotta wash that out.' Does Ghost see her own short comings as keenly as I see mine? Do they haunt her or has she learned to live with them? I stab a cut of meat and grind it mercilessly between my teeth. I think the overhanging threat of this mission is turning me into some kind of philosopher.
There's little to do here but think.
And thinking too much is beginning to kill me.
Our first meeting with the captains rescues all of us from blind theorizing about the specifics of the mission. The morning of our first full day onboard, we're summoned to a large room where more than enough seats have been provided along a rounded table. Fear of the Captains has us splitting the table so Maverick and Ice are nowhere near Ghost and I. The room goes dark. I sink back into my chair as one of the captains begins to bring us, his shiny and new elite task force up to speed. Animated jets appear on the projected radar, which then make way for a large map of the Middle-East. I pay more attention in this one meeting than I ever have to anything in my entire life. Dad probably wished I was this attentive in church growing up. The rigid, wooden pews were nowhere near as uncomfortable as the soft office chairs we're sitting in. I could be sitting on hot coals, that's how upright I am in my chair, how absolutely focused I am.
If I don't commit every detail to memory, I burn.
"Two hostile MiGs," The captain tells us. "And they've likely got friends close by."
It could've been a joke, if we were a better audience.
"The mission is simple. We send out four jets. Two pairs, a lead jet and their wingmen, as I'm sure you've been thoroughly drilled on during your time at Top Gun."
We all nod.
If there's one thing we all are clear on, it's the need for a wingman.
Well...almost all of us.
A fraction of the projector light reaches the furthest chair from the screen.
The white of Maverick's eyes glow, like neon under black-light. I see he's staring straight ahead, but is he paying attention?
"I've been briefed on everyone at this table, that means who you fly with, and how you fly, which is why you seven have been hand picked from your class. I am also aware that Lt. Mitchell lacks a RIO. Rest assured we will sort you out by the end of today. If all goes as planned, you will be properly informed and prepared to go up first thing tomorrow, take out the two bogies and whoever comes to their aid, and return to the carrier..."
The lights come back on.
I inhale sharply.
There's a vibrant white pasted over my vision. I stop my hand from pawing at my eyes. As of now, everything is a test. Our every move is a sure sign of our capabilities. Weakness isn't allowed. I won't allow it — not from myself. Ghost turns in her chair, ducking her head and forming a two-handed fist on the table's surface. Smart, wait for your eyes to adjust before making eye contact with the captain. Too bad I'm a stubborn fool. I grit my teeth and stare straight ahead. Four seconds of overhead light and the captain is still a dark shape. Three more and he's in high definition.
"Your very first mission," He says.
And he eyes us each in turn.
I'm the last one.
My eyes sting.
They're a little runny.
But I keep my head high; my expression flat.
The captain doesn't attempt to hide his surprise.
"Meeting adjourned."
Not a single one of us utters a word as we funnel out into the hall. Wolfman reaches the door first, ushering Ghost and I through. So there's been a gentleman in him all this time? Who would've known. Wolf is the last one out. He holds the door for the rest of the pack, pulling it closed only after Iceman and Slider have cleared the doorway. The captains stay inside, likely dissecting our non-verbals. I'm not half as nervous as I probably should be, at least, not for myself. Before allowing myself the time to worry what weakness I might've conveyed during the briefing, my concerns bend towards Maverick. I was too busy staring ahead as we exited to notice where Maverick went. Thankfully, not far. He's slouched against the furthest wall, practically wedging an invisible barrier between us and him. I can hear Hollywood inviting us back to the boys barracks to talk over the assignment, but the most recognition I give is a mute nod. Maverick is acting tougher than he feels...but every move he makes is a backstabbing tell of hand. He's an isolated speck against a metal wall. The darkness of his downcast gaze and neatly styled hair practically paint him into the shadows. It hurts to watch him, arms crossed, grinding his jaw, blinking every other breath. Preventative windshield wipers. A desperate need to keep the deluge at bay.
"Stirrups?"
I startle. Gentle as Ghost's voice is, even a softest whisper of a feather could set me off. I'm walking on eggshells here.
To Ghost, that's no secret.
She touches my elbow softly, cradling it between her fingertips as deftly as a rider holds the reins. Like a baby bird, Remi. That's what Dad used to say, back when I was still breaking in the saddle. I feel oddly like an anxious horse as Ghost turns us away from the others. Having my back to the boys spikes my heart with adrenaline. What if Maverick runs off while I'm not looking? He's got the look of a cornered animal, and all frightened creatures want one thing; to escape.
"Maverick needs you right now, Stirrups...I saw the fist he had on the table. There's a storm in his eyes and it's going to drag him under if we don't throw him a line."
I curse under my breath and shake off her off to pointlessly harass my face with both hands.
"You should talk to him."
"And say what?" I mutter, "Ghost...I don't know what else to say. I...I don't understand how he did it. There's was always something new to be said, new to be learned and all of you kept me swimming from one mark to the next but I feel like I'm a broken record. How can I possibly be any help telling him the same old thing?"
"Stirrups," Ghost bars a laugh behind her smile, "Nothing you say could ever sound the 'same.' You speak from the heart, and the heart is ever changing...the message is constant, but your words will shift like sand and get through the cracks in different ways than before. Besides," She sighs. "He might not need words...but he's always going to need you."
Need me.
I clench my eyes shut.
Yeah, he needs me and I...I'll be damned if I'm not there for him, but...
Gosh, when I was down on my knees, Maverick was the prayer. I was in the storm Ghost sees in his eyes and I needed a life line. I needed Maverick because I believed he was enough to pull me to shore. He saved me because he believed in me...and he believed in himself. Maybe too much. But if I have his arrogance to thank for the person I am today, I can live with that. Whatever Maverick was back then, whether he was less of his better qualities and more of his worst, he was enough to save me from myself but I'm...I don't think I'm enough. I believe in him...but I've lost faith in myself. I've spent so much of my energy trying to wall him off from the consequential challenges of Goose's death, and the rest I've wasted on petty fights and foolish decisions. I try to let go of my mistakes but here I am, face to face with the night we got properly drunk and missed our final flight, the screaming match with Viper, the incident at the graduation ceremony.
I know exactly what Maverick is feeling.
I know the destructive thoughts, plaguing his mind.
I know the experience like the back of my hand...
But I'm inadequate.
I'm a wild card, and he needs an anchor.
And my worst fear is...is I can't find the words o-or the means to help him to shore, and he drowns, and his blood is forever on my hands.
A Gooseless world is torture, but a world without Maverick is Hell.
"I can't—"
"You can."
Ghost presses a hand to my chest. It's like a pinprick. Blood rushes to greet her palm. I feel my chest pulsing the heartbeat of a wound against her hand.
"Stirrups, I hurt everyday because I miss Goose, and even though we don't talk about him, or about how we're both struggling because we're both so focused on Maverick, your friendship is enough to soothe the ache. I have a fun, silly, adventurous friend to look after and appreciate me. We don't have to hash it out to comfort each other...we simply exist for each other. The greatest healing comes often in quiet company."
"Austen?"
Ghost blinks, "Huh?"
I swallow the tears clinging to the back of my throat. "Is that an Austen quote?"
"Oh," Ghost laughs timidly, "No, that would be an original."
She's so humble.
So bashful about her own brilliance it makes me want to haul her onto my shoulders and parade her about the carrier, boasting her eloquence.
"You should write that one down, Ghost...I really like it."
She smiles, "I'll do that."
"Hey," Iceman taps Ghost's shoulder. "Sorry to break up the party, we're going to regroup in the barracks, discuss some strategies."
"Good idea," I remark. "We'll be there."
"I'll follow you," Ghost says to Ice. Her head tips back ever so slightly as she addresses him, and suddenly the few inches Iceman planted between them seem only a couple centimeters. I swallow a laugh at the obvious arousal written across Iceman's face. He doesn't blush, I'll give him that, but the pleased curl of his lip leads me to believe he'd have her up against that wall if they were anywhere else. The thought is almost repulsive, until I catch myself mid glare. He loves her, Stirrups...let him pine after her without your ugly face glowering at him. Ghost notices Iceman's insinuating smirk a second after me, and she of course ripens on the spot, which only encourages Iceman to do something stupid.
"What is it, Casper? Like what you see?"
Ghost cringes. "Ice—"
"You coming?"
She rolls her eyes, glancing at me sheepishly. "I like it better when you don't talk."
Iceman chuckles and starts to drag her along.
"Mav? You coming?"
Maverick looks up.
He barely musters a smile for Ghost.
"We'll be there in a bit, I've got to talk to Maverick first."
Iceman raise a brow but doesn't press any further questions. I approach Maverick's lonely station by the wall and flash him a tiny smile. Quiet company. I'm glad to give it to him, but I think we'd best take it somewhere other than on our captains' doormat. It wouldn't take a detective to see the attachment between the attractive, grieving male pilot and the hot-head, defensive female pilot lingering in a hallway by themselves.
"Hey," I murmur.
"Hey."
"Can we talk?"
Maverick nods.
Shoulder to shoulder we wander in search of a secluded corner. Our hands brush now and again, but neither of us is reckless enough to grab a hold of the other. We're too timid to even steal a peek at the other person. It almost feels like being in middle school again. Two kids with an oozing crush, walking about, fancying themselves girlfriend and boyfriend but both too scared to hold hands or look for too long. It's for the best, I guess, since we pass a couple different people on our search. Eventually our stroll guides us to an empty hallway, a minute or so from the briefing room. We turn the corner together.
The minute we're out of sight, Maverick breaks away. His hands rake across his scalp, uprooting hair from the nape of his neck to his hairline, where he pulls hard, anchoring his fingers while the heel of his hand digs into his eye sockets. The human instinct to wrestle his hands away stays seeded in my chest. The self-inflicted hurt doesn't compare to the agony ripping him apart from the inside out. Tearing out his hair, gouging his eyes, punching his knuckles raw, is the only quick fix he's going to find. It's the release. The act of taking the pain inside, and applying it to the physical. Cuts can be sewn shut, bruises can be iced. It feels better to cause pain you can heal, than to dwell on the hurts that never truly leave you.
As long as no razors are involved...
I'll stand and watch.
No bubble wrapping.
Watching makes me want to tear my own hair out. I breathe a sigh of relief when Maverick's head shakes free of his hands. He links both at the back of his neck and paces the tight breadth of the hallway.
Quiet company, I remind myself.
And I wait...hating that I can't reassure him through touch. The most I can do is listen when he's ready to talk.
He paces.
And paces.
"I can't do this," Maverick mutters.
"Mav–"
"I can't fly with a complete stranger!" He exclaims and throws out a hand, as if to gesture to the invisible presence of his new RIO. "I can't — I can't fly with anyone else!"
Maverick turns his back to me and rests an arm against the wall, like he's hiding. Like once again he's confronted the truth of our situation and now he's got to run away. I should have more pity. My first thought, seeing him so adamant, so distressed, should not have been, 'get over it,' but I guess I've grown weary of body guarding him from hard decisions. It hasn't done either of us any good. Recovery is like pulling teeth, but when the teeth are rotting, there's no other option. It's Plan A, or plan nothing. Maverick's fighting back against Plan A...against what he has to do, because it's uncomfortable. Worse, it's agonizing. Moving past trauma is like laying immobilized in a hospital bed and being told to get up and finish the marathon. How are you supposed to walk when your legs are broken? When you're still hooked to an IV? It feels a lot like the word 'can't.' That's why we say it. It's why he said it.
I know I did too.
As recently as five minutes ago, to Ghost.
What he's forgetting, is there's no one way to finish the race.
Plan A has infinite available sub-plans.
"You're right."
Maverick barely lifts his head.
He thinks I'm nuts.
Didn't see that one coming, huh, Mav?
"You can't fly with someone you don't know. A pilot and his RIO are a team. Partners. You've got to fly with someone you trust."
Forehead to the wall, I can still tell what he's thinking.
Viper.
"He offered to backseat for you, Pete. He's your best bet."
Maverick is quiet, considering, but he hardly sounds sure of himself when he murmurs a timid, "I can't."
"Can't?" I repeat. "Or won't?"
"Stirrups—"
"No, Maverick, listen —" I cross the floor in three steps, slotting a shoulder against the wall, a solid foot away from Maverick. We're in a hallway, on a Navy carrier. As of yesterday, we can't afford to parade our chemistry. So we'll do this a little differently than usual. Hopefully with the same results. I throw a glance over my shoulder. A pair of men walk past the mouth of the hallway, but neither seems to notice us. This nook is as private as it gets, and we work with what we've got. What we've got...an idea hits me, so I run with it. Lowering my voice til only Maverick can hear, I call his name. Not his call sign, not a silly pet name. His name.
"Pete..."
His elbow bends. As it makes contact with the wall, his palm loses grip and the whole of his arm slides.
It's just his face and the wall now.
"Viper is the only one who can help you, and he wants to. It's ok to need help, Pete...I know you know that...I'm only reminding you because this is the time to accept it."
Maverick opens his eyes.
He's staring at the big blur supporting his head.
"I know," He croaks. "I...know I need it, I just...I...I don't want..."
His eyes clench shut again.
"You don't want it?"
"Yeah," Maverick sniffs as he stands back up. He drags his wrist under his nose and turns to rest his back against the wall. "Something like that."
He's still staring at a wall.
The opposite one.
I can't look anywhere but him.
It never ceases to amaze me, just how much of me I see in his eyes. It isn't personality or values or a sense of humor — it's the soul. The purest, deepest point of our beings. The poetry of humanity, I guess Ghost might say. It's the ball of everything we've seen or felt or heard, hiding out of reach. What's crazy, is that Maverick and I's souls share the same scar. The same, deep pink gash, encircling the heart of our souls. The permanent mark of the loss of a best friend. He got to see me struggling first, and now it's my turn to watch. We both know where this path leads. I'm not the only one who's familiar with the effects of grief. But I guess feeling it gave me a little more warning than spectating did for him, and I hate that I couldn't have better prepared him, but I'm prepared. Every hill he's climbed since the crash, I've left my stake on, and this hill — the staggering mountain of fear, is no different.
He says he can't.
He says he needs help but he doesn't want it.
That's true.
I didn't want help either.
I wanted to ruminate.
I wanted to rot in the hurt. I wanted to feel like shit, and I hated pity, or anyone who challenged me or tried to help me out of the hole I'd dug myself into.
And it wasn't cause I needed to recover before climbing out.
"You're afraid, Maverick. You're scared as Hell of getting in that cockpit and working with someone other than Goose. And there's a million reasons why you're justified in being afraid, and we could list them all if you wanted, but there isn't a single damn reason why you should let fear get in the way of living. Trust me, Pete, I lived that lie, I held onto it, used it as an excuse for my misery. I thought, "How can I possibly move on when she's dead? What right do I have to want things? Want to fly after she died when I was piloting?" So I dug a pit and hunkered down and decayed down there. I didn't try to get out, because I was scared of facing this new life with the pain of a lost friend and not having her with me. I've spent my whole life taking risks! I used to be addicted to the adrenaline, but I was too scared to get a taste again, and it made me miserable, because how the Hell could I be happy wasting away, not doing what I love?
"It's a trap, Maverick. Grief is a trap. And I couldn't free myself until we met, because you saw the challenge of me, and you took it. You forced me to take risks. Charlie forced me to take risks. Goose forced me to take risks. Everyone I'm close to now pissed me off then and got me on track, so I'm here now, your...your best friend, pissing you off and telling you to screw fear. I didn't feel ready to let go of Vixen, I just made the decision to do it anyway. It will never feel like the right time, you will never feel ready. So bite the bullet and call Viper, because you are going up in that jet and you will need someone you can count on."
I stagger back, breathless, but resolute.
Shit.
I just lectured the Hell out of my grieving boyfriend.
There's an inkling of guilt.
I squash it. So what if I came to quietly listen to him? The words needed to be said. He needed to hear this.
...right?
"I've gotta go."
In the blink of an eye, Maverick is down the hall and around the corner.
Shit.
"Maverick?"
I hurry after him but he's moving fast.
"Maverick!"
"I'LL BE RIGHT BACK!"
He's gone.
I stand alone, shocked to the core. Maverick has never run off like that before. He must be angry with me. I think he's angry but I can't be sure. Did he sound angry when he told me he'd be back? If I was mad at him I wouldn't want to tell him anything about where I was going or when I'd return. That's me...but maybe not Maverick.
I'm so confused.
And I feel awful.
The others are discussing the 'orientation,' when I walk in, but they stop. Ghost crawls off the bottom bunk and joins me on the floor against the wall nearest to the door. I tell her quietly what happened, hoping the boys would have the respect to tune us out, but of course, they've heard every word, and act all chipper, like if I kiss Mav maybe things will be better. I roll my eyes.
"Yeah," I tell them. "'Cause that's how you boys solve all your problems, huh? Kiss and make up?"
"Make love and make up," Slider corrects.
"You're a dog, Slider," Ghost laughs.
"Without a steady girlfriend," Ice adds.
They scuffle.
I allow myself a small laugh. I guess he has a point. Sometimes words are so sickening. You start the fight with words and solve it with words and it drives you to the brink of insanity. Why can't we just communicate through a gesture? I envy how boys can battle it out and resolve their differences. Seems like all us girls do is run our mouths. I press my lips together and keep them firmly locked. The conversation drifts. Ghost and I move onto a bunk to keep our asses from falling asleep on the cold hard floor. Wolfman is starting a stupid story from his and Hollywood's Florida days when someone bustles into the barracks, panting. We all jump. Even Hollywood, who slaps a hand to his heart and exclaims, "Geezes, Mav! Nearly gave me a heart attack!"
"Don't blow your shit, it's just me," Maverick remarks.
The boys laugh.
Ghost and I stare.
He doesn't look mad.
Or sound mad.
Maverick approaches our bunk, chewing his lip and...smiling?
"I called him."
I draw in a sharp breath and look towards Ghost in surprise. I miss her by milliseconds. She's already halfway to her feet.
"And?"
Maverick gives the nearest bed frame a good old pat. "He's on the first flight over."
Ghost does a dance.
She gets laughed at by the boys.
Maverick shakes his head and wanders out of sight, followed by a stream of questions. "Who did you call? Who's coming?"
Oh, if only I could kiss him.
>>>>>
The sun has barely raised her head from her pillow. The sea still has it's grip on her, and only winks of sunlight break on the backs of waves. I see them dancing at a distance as Ghost and I suit up, more awake than the day itself. We follow the rest of our team down to a larger briefing room than yesterdays. Today is the day. Today, we're joined by engineers, communications, and a number of other departments who will be standing by on the mission. Whispers and glances swim about us. No one approaches. We all look at each other, Iceman, Hollywood, Slider, Wolfman, Maverick, Ghost...
Viper.
"It's alright, kids," He says in a bright, steady tone. "Today, you make the books."
Iceman, Slider, and Wolfman grin.
So sure of themselves.
Hollywood, bless him, has far more humility.
I can see it in his eyes; the very same thought that's been running through my head since I woke up.
We make the books if we make it back.
Viper and Maverick sit on the same row as Ghost and I. It can't be a coincidence that our RIOs took the outside seats, leaving the two center chairs to conveniently press Maverick and I together, like the meat and cheese of a sandwich. I study both Viper and Ghost's faces for some trace of premeditation, but they're already strapped into their poker face. Maverick rests his palms atop his thighs. The smallest joint of his fingers forms a hard angle as he digs his nails into the pants of his flightsuit. I neatly fold both hands between my legs to avoid temptation. In the end, it's my eyes that wander, and the layered silver chains hanging from Maverick's neck greet them with a cold stare. Time folds in on itself. Deja vu hits me at a run, and suddenly both hands are out of their cage, tugging lightly at Maverick's sleeve. He startles, leaning in at an angle to catch my hushed words.
"I don't think it's such a good idea to take his tags up with you, Maverick..."
I see his skin tighten across his throat.
We haven't been this close since our kiss on Charlie's porch.
My heart is racing.
Maverick's breath flows straight, missing my face by mere inches, but I feel it's shock waves, and they're a sore reminder of what's at stake here. Goose's dog tags are no longer sentimental metal sheets. They're a talisman — and idol. An object of false hope that Maverick has quite literally tied himself to. I once thought that Vixen's dog tags were like the One Ring. A heavy burden that held it's bearer hostage in a lustful, desperately dark need. The dog tags weren't evil like Tolkien's ring, but what it meant for me was far from good. Her tags were an addiction. Lots of people find comfort in the bottle when they've put a loved one in the ground. Sometimes it's a hit. It could be anything...even a pair of dog tags that you wear around your neck. Letting go of trauma was excruciating.
Letting go of Vixen was an experience words can't describe.
Maverick saw first how dependant I was on the ghost of her.
I've never asked if Maverick hears Goose's voice...
But if he does, I hope he'd tell me like I told him.
Either way, the dog tags can't stay hidden under his shirt forever.
If he's focused on flying with a ghost, he won't see what's at play in reality, and I'm terrified that holding onto Goose will take him away from me. No promise kiss on Charlie's front porch, no late night appearances at my window, no evenings at the bar or water fights at the beach, no more admiring his face when the sun hits it just right or feeling his fingers wander through my hair. No Maverick.
Just another two ownerless dog tags.
"Maverick, please...you can't hold onto him forever."
"Stirrups." Maverick clenches his fist. "I have to take them up. For him. Everything I do is for him...because he should've been here."
"But Mav—"
The captains arrive. The room goes quiet.
We jerk away from each other.
You don't need the tags to carry him with you.
I learned that the hard way, in a stable environment. As stable as aviation gets.
The variables have changed.
We can't bank on getting the same results.
One of the captains steps up to us, wearing a serious expression seemingly contradicted by an unabashed optimism. "Good morning." A few half-hearted folks echo the greeting. The rest of us don't even try. Ghost swallows hard, evidently disturbed by the lack of enthusiasm and becomes increasingly busy with the cuff of her sleeve. The captain — Anderson, I think is his name? — doesn't seem too surprised at our pathetic response to a well intended gesture. He goes on, "Today, we have a mission requiring an elite team of top aviators fresh from SFTI. Joining them, is Commander Mike "Viper" Metcalf, a fellow Top Gun graduate and highly decorated pilot. His experience in radars operation qualifies him to backseat for Lt. Pete "Maverick" Mitchell for this assignment."
If this were some sort of speech, now is the time when our good captain might've asked, 'are there any questions?'
It isn't a speech.
It's an order.
And time is of the essence.
"The Top Gun team has been previously briefed on the bogie activity they're responding to today, but for the sake of the rest of you, allow me to be redundant."
Captain Anderson restates the situation. Enemy jets have been scouting an area of particular interest to the US government. The activity may not be a threat, but the consistency of the flights and their movements call for military precautions. Essentially, we're sent out as an investigative squadron, armed for the worst. Strategists and enemy tactic experts like Charlie, have analysed the situation and predict according to probability, that shots will be fired. I stare at the chains around Maverick's neck, half-listening to the captains insistence that we focus on intel, resorting to violence only if instigated by the enemy MiGs. They can say it as many times as they like, but we all know this is going to end in a dogfight. The numbers have been run, and even without them, we're going head to head with hostile jets in iffy territory.
The age old recipe for battle.
Battle.
I'd never thought of it that way before...
Battles always seemed stuck between the pages of a history book. Knights in shining armor, Samurai, and soldiers in trenches. Flying has been so closely tied to thrill and competition, the lethal conflict aspect completely fell through the cracks. Obviously I understand the risks...who knows them better than the three of us? We know aviation can get you killed. But Goose and Vixen were tragic accidents...today, in a matter of hours, we go up into foreign airspace and we wage war. We fight, like warriors of old. The jets are our armor, the missiles and gunfire are our swords, but both can be stripped from us, and unlike knights or vikings, we're in the sky. When we lose our armor, we fall to our deaths. It's kill or be killed out there.
As a good pilot once said...
"You can't think up there, you think, you're dead."
It's instinct.
That's what makes a good pilot.
I gaze at Maverick, his hollow eyes, tense jaw, and admit that even the best pilots are fallible.
"The MiGs launch at seven. That gives us an hour and a half. Our close tracking shows only two MiGs launch for their routine sweep, but they could very easily be joined by other enemy crafts, so to start, we'll send up two of our own, and have the other two jets at the ready in case backup in required."
Captain Anderson nods to one of his partners, they switch places.
This one's called LeFroy. It's a weird name, almost laughable, but I'm in no mood to laugh at anything. He sounds like one of Ghost's poets. Captain LeFroy certainly doesn't speak like one though. He cuts to the chase, and I rather like it. I guess it's in my nature to hate long briefings. I'd rather hear the vital details and get the job done. I've always been that way, even as a little tike, I never took any bullshit, but I gave a taste of Hell to pretty much everyone. Still do, I muse. None of what the captains have said is all that flowery or bullshitty, that I do admit. So it isn't them...it's me. Yeah, it's definitely me. Never in my whole life have I wanted to get something done so badly.
"Flying in the first wave, Iceman and Slider, and Stirrups and Ghost."
Us.
That's—that's us.
Ghost and I lock eyes.
Did they really say our names?
Neither of us can believe it.
Why the Hell would they chose us over Hollywood and Wolfman? Maverick is in bad shape, that much I understand, and if it was in my power to bench him from this mission...I probably would. But us? Us in the first wave? Did someone forget to wire over our paperwork? Paperwork that clearly states, 'Stirrups has cursed out her superiors more than once, caused many a scene, and suffered severe mental health issues while at Top Gun, she also got wasted the night before her last official day at Top Gun, so yeah maybe don't trust her.' Heaven's sakes, the Navy tracks all our screw ups, and they aren't in the habit of showing grace at the risk of public safety. So...how? Those three letters swirl around and around my eyes, tumbling like dirty laundry in the washer, but Ghost couldn't look more helpless. Is it just me, or is she paler than usual? Her gorgeous, sapphire eyes have grown past their sockets, but she's smiling a gradual, tremulous smile.
Her guess is as good as mine.
"Maverick and Viper, Hollywood and Wolfman, you will be the second wave, on standby. The rest of you, to your stations. We need these jets prepped within the hour. Dismissed."
>>>>>
None of this feels real, and it's scary as Hell. All eight of us pile onto the lift, helmets tucked snug underneath our arms. The ground shakes and belches us upwards. I can hear the gears churning as we're carried to the runway, but it takes extraordinary faith to trust my ears. Each of my six senses, I now hold with suspicion. The floor is moving, the sky is swelling, and every ounce of foolish confidence I've ever had now swishes uselessly inside of me like a half-empty Coke gone flat. Every breath I take, my mind manages to twist into some sick, philosophical pondering. I doubt that I actually breathe. I doubt that there's air around me, capable of sustaining my lungs that threaten to collapse. The only sensation I'm certain of is the frantic beating of my heart. We're really here. We're going up. I think it, again and again, hoping that if I invoke it...maybe it'll feel real. Maybe I'll be able to accept the millions of stressers spinning in my head and act accordingly. I need to pull myself together.
Two people need me.
It's them — their lives that threaten my peace of mind.
I can't let it shake me.
If I let the fear take hold, I'm compromised, I can't protect them.
What was it I told Maverick?
"...there's a million reasons why you're justified in being afraid, and we could list them all if you wanted, but there isn't a single damn reason why you should let fear get in the way of living."
Millions of reasons...
But not a single one that should stop me.
Screw fear, I told Maverick.
"It will never feel like the right time, you will never feel ready. So bite the bullet...because you are going up in that jet and you will need someone you can count on."
Bite the bullet.
You need to be someone he can count on.
Take your own advice.
I let out the stale air. Lungs, real. I glance down at my feet, which seem to vibrate because of the lift. Feet, real. My hands. I flex them. Well, mainly the left, since my right is occupied with my helmet. The veins coil and release in response to my muscles. I feel every fiber of flesh move, what could be more real than that? I inhale. The breath branches throughout my chest. I swear I feel it seep into my blood and race throughout my veins to the far reaches of my body. As my body comes to terms with reality, so do my thoughts. I can feel the fear weighing down my heart...but it's still beating. Oxygen still pumps to my lungs and my brain and every vital organ. I'm standing. Tall. Fully suited up. I'm strong. The fear is heavy, but I can carry it. It won't slow me down. I won't let it.
I still check on Maverick and Ghost, but however scared they are, it doesn't break me down. If anything, it makes me angry, and the sudden surge of rage easily boils over into determination. Like Hell I'll let fear get to my friends. It isn't stopping me, so it damn well won't stop them. Viper and Maverick are too far for me to be of any consolation, but I've got my best friend right beside me. Ghost's expression twitches with every flicker of sunlight that crawls through the cracks in the lift. The once soft edges of her face are sharp; her rigid expression draws her skin tight across her bones. There's hope in the arc of her brows, but both her lips have flattened themselves, like she's got her own racing heart on her tongue and had to zip her mouth shut to keep it from bouncing out. The fire burns brighter. I trade off my helmet from my right hand to my left, and pick up Ghost's urgently.
She startles and looks my way.
Eyes blown.
A hair's come lose from her bun.
She's so pretty, even in the dark.
Pretty, scared, but undaunted.
Like she's been waiting for the day that being in the cockpit amounts to something greater than bragging rights or a passing grade. Ghost was never in this for the thrill, for the challenge or the trophies. She was never trying to prove herself. For her, it's always been about America...
And her dad.
I look her square in the eye, no expression I can feel, only silent promises.
Ghost squeezes my hand.
Her eyes are full of patriotic poetry, and it warms my heart faster than my own defiant fire.
We turn back to the wall, but our hands stay interlocked.
I don't smile...but I could.
I've never trusted someone so much in my entire life.
Sunlight breaks through the wall's end. Everyone reacts as the light hits us full throttle. I cringe, ducking my head so the sun doesn't sear my eyes. I'll definitely be needing those once we're in the jets. Iceman calmly shields his face with an out-turned hand that covers just about everything above his nose. Guys and their ridiculously big hands, I remark. I feel a smile I don't show, and the feeling is enough for a major chord lift from the minor key mood I've been marching to. I glance over at Ghost again, on the verge of the world's smallest smile, only to find that she's beaten me to it. Her head is back, inviting the sun to wrap itself around her as we level out with the runway. The lift grunts to a stop. Nobody moves. We all blink stupidly until it's the actual runway we're seeing, not just a smear of gold the sun's pasted over our eyeballs.
And two by two we exit the lift.
"Ladies first," Iceman smirks.
Ghost goes ahead.
Iceman watches her every move, enraptured. If eyes could melt, his would be a puddle around his feet. He doesn't so much as look at me as I shove my way past him. I stare at him from the corner of my eye, dumbfounded at the spectrum of emotion he's let seep through the cracks of his ice cold heart. Ghost once described Iceman's heart as a glacier-prison, so skillfully sculpted, it's impressive complexities drove off any desire to dig deeper than the surface. The outer prestige — and beauty, she had sighed wistfully — was a defense. A pretty wall to protect a soft, warm beating soul. The vulnerability of Iceman's humanity. His love of simple things, his sensitivity to the emotions of others, and so on.
"He knows how other people are feeling by looking at them, but he doesn't allow himself to seem sensitive, so he doesn't treat people how their feelings warrant. And so a blessing corrodes into a dastardly flaw."
I barely scrape the surface, not wanting to hold everyone up.
What I see, is an uncanny echo of my own emotional spectrum.
Unbridled adoration and devotion to his girl, but a bittersweet appreciation of her, because a layer below the gooey-eyed love-stuff if a chilling fear of the unknown, and panic at the thought of a Ghostless world.
Iceman is afraid.
Afraid to lose her.
Maintenance is still hooking up our ladders when we arrive at our jets. Ghost steps back and shades her eyes while watching the final touches are made before take-off. I give her a quick once over, doing my best to channel her super-human heart reading powers before slinking off towards one of the neighboring aircraft. Slider and Iceman are standing close together, speaking in raised voices over the din of the active runway.
"Iceman!"
There's a conveniently loud spurt of air nearby.
"ICEMAN!"
His head shoots up.
I flag him down through the mist. He frowns and says something to Slider. They turn around right as I make it through the maze of activity. Various color coded technicians and flight preparations people zoom about, dragging huge tubes from our jets as we're detached and set to taxi.
"Stirrups!" Slider greets me loudly.
"Hey, Slider!"
Iceman has both hands on his hips.
For perhaps the first time ever, neither of us have any animosity towards each other. We're both upset, but it has nothing to do with the other person. Iceman's stoney expression is one of fear, not hate, and I would sooner hate myself than hate him right now. Once again, the playing field has leveled out, and our priorities are aligned. We both want the same things. That calls for a little kindness, I'd say.
"Iceman!" I shout.
He looks me dead in the eye.
"I'm not going to let anything happen to her!"
A chunk of the glacier-prison breaks lose.
There it is.
The vulnerability he buries under the cold.
Ghost was right.
She always is.
Iceman looks at me with such heart stopping relief, it pricks my very soul. A red, hot light expands within me. We haven't even gotten into the cockpit but already I've gotten a taste of victory. Every dog-fight I've won, every rank I've graduated past, or award I've received have never inflated me with such a searing sense of accomplishment. Iceman doesn't say a word. He doesn't thank me or return the favor with an indebted promise. Iceman may still be staring at me as I hurry away in search of Maverick. The runway is blind chaos. Plumes of various gasses fog up the air. A kaleidoscope of workers buzz about. This isn't a dance; it isn't some beautifully choreographed process, it's a war-zone. Everyone is going through their checklist at different paces, dodging other workers left and right. The sun glares down on us. I've already dripped sweat down to my hips. My flight suit hangs around my aching limbs like a saggy, sack of peeling skin as I race against the clock to talk to Maverick.
One last time.
No — not the last time.
It's a precaution.
I'll see him when we touch down. I'll see him.
Don't you dare start crying.
I sprint past Hollywood. He wishes me goodluck. I don't have the breath to answer, so I just wave.
There he is!
Viper is standing beside him. They aren't talking like Slider and Ice were. The whole world rotates around them, spinning into an endless blur, but neither of them move an inch. Don't cry. I come barreling in. Viper sees me first. He claps Maverick on the shoulder and whispers something in his ear. Maverick lifts his head.
Me.
He sees me.
I come slowly to a stop.
Maverick meets me halfway, a shell of himself.
The runway was his kingdom once. He was never so pumped full of life than when he had both feet on the concrete taxi line and one hand on the first rung of the ladder. The excitement he used to radiate, his silly open mouthed grin, the double high-five he and Goose would share as they did their routine chant.
"I feel the need...the need...for speed!"
There's no need.
No impassioned craving for the thrill of aviation.
He doesn't care.
He has to.
"Pete Maverick Mitchell," I pant. "You are the best pilot I have ever met. You know the rules so well, you break them and make us all green with jealousy. There is not a doubt in my mind that you can do this. You can do this. You have to do this and by God I know you will. Mav — your–your life is so much more important, so much more precious than Goose's memory..."
Don't cry. Don't.
It's useless.
The tears are in my eyes.
And Maverick's — they've already made passage down his cheeks, flooding his neck and no doubt sticking the inside of his collar to his skin. He stands so still while his entire world is falling apart around him. I know it. I know the sickening paralyses of being in the eye of the storm. The only stillness in the endless spinning. I know all too well, and it's draining the air from my lungs to watch him go through every shitty thing I've had to endure.
I'm shaking as I throw my arms around his neck.
Maverick staggers backwards but he catches me.
He hugs me so tight — I'll never understand how I found the breath to speak.
"We have a wedding to attend. Don't you dare leave me at that altar alone."
Maverick nods. I hold onto that promise. I hold onto the promise that when we get back to Miramar, he'll chase me up onto Charlie's porch and kiss me senseless. After all of this, we'll pick up right where we left off. I hold onto each promise, but it's Maverick who I hold onto the hardest. Every inch of his body, even swallowed up by the thick, bagginess of the flight suit, unlocks a memory. I step back in time, to every moment we've spent in each others arms, gently playing with each other's hair, speaking soft things into the night. Salt. It could be the sea spray in the air, but I think it's Maverick, and me, two sweaty-ass lovers about to go roast in our individual cockpits. Through the shroud of perspiration I catch whiff of his usual notes. The grease from working on his motorbike, whatever spices are in his bodywash and cologne, and the freshness of the beach loosely framing every scent.
I memorize the iron hold he has on my waist.
I memorize his smell and the sound of his breath.
I tighten my grip on him.
Viper clears his throat.
It startles both of us, but not enough to break our embrace. We hesitate, knowing it's time to do the most daunting task of all;
Let go.
"You've done it before. You can do it again."
I've done it before.
I can do it again.
I pry myself out of Maverick's arms. I dry my tears.
One last look.
Maverick's red rimmed green eyes, staring back at me. I take a deep breath and turn away. It takes conscious thought to put one foot in front of the other. Walking in the opposite direction of Maverick is like fighting gravity. Any second, I might crumple to the floor, tripped by the heavy link tying me to him. It hurts like Hell, but I press on. I've done it once, I can do it again. I make it to the ladder. Ghost is already up in the cockpit, but she's twisted awkwardly over the back of her seat, watching Iceman check his controls. I grab my helmet from where I hooked it to the ladder and cram it over my head. Physical pressure to match the emotional and mental — lovely. I feel like an astronaut, crushed by a ridiculously heavy suit as I make the climb. On the last rung, I pause. His eyes aren't enough. I need him. All of him. His stupidly attractive face, his short hair, so neatly styled until sleep has completely mussed it up. The fatal cut of his jaw and uncommon shape of his nose that somehow perfectly fits his face. His soft hands and broad shoulders. The warmth of his skin and strength of his arms. His almost nasally laugh but deep-throated sobs.
I look across the tops of the jets, and watch Maverick step into the cockpit.
My eyes well with tears.
Please, God...please let him come back to us.