✈︎𝐑 𝐄 𝐁 𝐄 𝐂 𝐂 𝐀
"There she is! The lady of the hour." Hangman calls as I walk into the lounge.
"Pipe down, Barbie." I sigh as I plop down onto the couch. The weekend is over and now it's back to work.
It's been a few weeks since we started at Top Gun and we've been doing exceptionally well. I do look forward to the weekends.
"Ooo. Someone's moody." He remarks, making my head hurt more. "Did someone spike your root beer last night?"
Bradley suddenly jumps into the conversation, a little defensively, "Hangman, lay off, will you? Can't you see she's not in the mood?"
Hangman raises an eyebrow, then chuckles, "It's a joke, Bradley. Lighten up."
"I just had too much sugar last night and my head hurts." I sigh. I do not want to be here right now.
Hangman smirks, "Well, you know what they say, sugar and spice—"
I roll my eyes, "Yeah, and everything nice. But I think I'm all out of nice today."
Phoenix grins, "Aw, don't be like that. We missed you last night." She nudges me. They went to The Hard Deck last night but I wasn't about to bail on Amelia. She scares me though I won't admit that to her face.
"Missed me or missed my sugar-induced cheerfulness?" I retort.
"Both!" Hangman responds, then notices Bradley's concern and adds, "I guess there's always next time." He shrugs before walking away.
"Gah he's annoying." Cover my face with my arm.
I feel a dip in the couch and here Bradley say, "Tell me about it. Phoenix and I have been stuck with him since the academy." He jumps onto the end of the couch, "He's not very considerate. Speaking of which, are you feeling okay? You're clearly not yourself today."
"Amelia and I just got high on sugar during our Full House marathon. It's our Sunday night tradition and I was a little heavy on the skittles and sweet tarts." The both of us wince. "Let's just say the tight bun and the flying we are about to do is not going to help my headache."
"Well I hope you feel better." He smiles before grabbing his backpack. "And I have some pain meds if it's completely unbearable."
"Gimme the drugs." I snap and he heads to his bag and tosses some towards me. I give him a grateful look, "Thanks, Bradshaw."
Bradley smiles, "Of course,—that's what friends are for."
***
The sun beat down on the tarmac of the Naval Air Station. Commander Anderson, stood in front of us, his expression stern. "Today, we're going to focus on precision and coordination," he announced. "I heard that you guys got into some trouble the other night." He throws a glare my way making me want to squirm in my chair. "So we will also be focusing on discipline." What could he mean by that? "Cherry Bomb, Rooster, you're up first. Hangman, Phoenix, pay close attention. We're looking for perfect execution."
Rooster and I exchanged a quick nod, our communication silent but understood. We headed outside and climbed into the cockpit of our jet, Rooster as the pilot and me in the back seat as the Weapons System Officer.
The engines roared to life as the jet taxied onto the runway. The tension was palpable, but our training had prepared us for this moment. So this should be easy peasy.
"Cherry Bomb, target locked," Rooster's voice crackled over the intercom.
My hands moved swiftly across the console, confirming the lock and preparing to launch a simulated missile.
"Missile away," I announced.
The virtual missile raced toward its target, a distant speck in the sky. But this time, our precision seemed off, and the missile veered off course, missing its mark by a wide margin. The simulation ended with a clear failure which made my head hurt even more.
As we landed back on the tarmac, there was an unmistakable sense of disappointment in the air. Rooster and I exchanged glances, our normally synchronized teamwork showing signs of strain.
Commander Anderson's voice echoed in our ears, though it lacked its usual praise. "Cherry Bomb, Rooster, that performance was far from what I expected. We'll need to review your coordination and precision before you proceed. Now this time I want all of you in the air. Hangman, Phoenix, you're up."
We get back in the air. The tension was palpable as Hangman and Phoenix's jet roared to life. They taxied onto the runway, and the jets accelerated into the sky, their maneuvers precise and impressive. It was a stark contrast to our recent performance.
"We got this Cherry Bomb. Let's just do our best." Bradley says as we circle around. A sense of disappointment weighed heavily on my shoulders. Rooster and I have been a strong team, but this time, something had gone wrong.
Hangman and Phoenix executed precise maneuvers, showcasing their skill in intercepting the "enemy" aircraft. They seemed in perfect sync, communicating flawlessly as they pursued us.
Rooster's voice crackled over the intercom, a hint of frustration creeping into his tone. "Cherry Bomb, we can't afford any more mistakes. Focus and let's get back on track."
Our jet weaved through the sky, trying to evade the simulated threat, but our movements were uncoordinated, and we struggled to regain our rhythm. Hangman and Phoenix, on the other hand, strategized effectively and seemed to have the upper hand.
In the end, victory belonged to Hangman and Phoenix. We landed back on the tarmac, our jets lined up like defeated warriors. The weight of our disappointing performance was palpable, overshadowing the camaraderie that had defined our squadron.
Commander Anderson approached us, his expression firm. "Cherry Bomb, Rooster, your coordination and precision need improvement. We can't afford these kinds of errors. I expect better from both of you."
As we stood together, the sense of disappointment weighed heavily on our shoulders. The training had always been demanding, but the knowledge that our performance had fallen short was a tough pill to swallow. None of us uttered a word. Which is impressive. Especially for Hangman
With that, we knew that the path ahead would require even more determination and effort. We were determined to learn from our mistakes, regroup, and come back stronger, with our shared experiences and dedication to drive us forward as a squadron of Top Gun pilots. Commander Anderson was never one to let a subpar performance slide. Before we could leave, he called us into his office, his expression stern but not unkind.
"Cherry Bomb, Rooster," he began, "I've always believed in giving second chances, but your recent performance was far from the standard we expect in Top Gun. It's time to learn from your mistakes and prove that you're capable of improvement."
We exchanged a glance, accepting the need for our skills to be sharpened. "Yes, sir," I replied, a note of determination in my voice.
Commander Anderson nodded. "Good. As part of your training, you'll be responsible for cleaning the training room. It's a matter of discipline and attention to detail."
Rooster and I accepted the task with a sense of humility, knowing that sometimes it was the little things that made a big difference in the life of a pilot. Cleaning the training room, ensuring that everything was in its proper place, was a way to instill discipline and teamwork, qualities that were crucial in our line of work.
As we worked together to tidy up the space, it became apparent that our performance in the training exercise wasn't the only area where we needed to improve. Our shoulders ached, our hands became stained with ink, and the room transformed from a cluttered space into one of precision and order.
As the hours passed, and we neared the completion of the task, Rooster paused for a moment, his eyes meeting mine. There was a softness in his gaze that I hadn't seen before, a warmth that felt genuine and comforting.
"Becca," he began, his voice steady, "I know we've got a lot of work to do to get back on track, but I was wondering if, once we finish cleaning, you'd like to go out with me. You know, for dinner or something."
My heart skipped a beat, and I couldn't help but smile at his proposal. Ew what am I saying? "I'd love to, Bradley. But no where fancy please."
"Because you don't want to get dressed up after the crappy day we've had?"
"No. Because restaurants are for business meetings and failed marriage proposals." I remark making him laugh.
Rooster's smile was radiant, and the weight of our earlier disappointments seemed to lift.
When the room was finally spotless and organized, Commander Anderson checked in, offering an approving nod. "Cherry Bomb, Rooster, you've done well. This is a reminder that every aspect of a pilot's life, from the cockpit to the training room, requires discipline and precision. Use this as a lesson and motivation to improve."
Rooster and I shared a glance, our unspoken agreement to continue working together.
Now onto more important things. What the heck do I wear to dinner?
📝 I hate this chapter but oh 🐳