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Armitage Field boasts more than 26,000 feet of taxiway and three runways set deep in the western region of the Mojave Desert. 26,000 feet of well-worn and dust-tracked tarmac surrounded by a barren nothingness that stretches out for over a million acres. Further than the eye could ever see. Drive up along Route 395 and you’ll hit Ridgecrest; another eight miles west and Inyokern will be next in the handshake line.
It’s no North Island, no Key West, no Patuxent River. Not a single drop of ocean-salt in sight. Just desert and sky and sun.
Regardless, NAWS China Lake does have its occasional charms. The eternal sunshine (even if the heat can be near unbearable at times), the peaceful stillness on the fringes of the undeveloped installation (even if the isolation drives him crazy some days), the fact that he gets to avoid everyone he’s pissed off in the last fifteen years (except Cain, the drone program director who’s been breathing down his neck ever since he got here, absolutely hellbent on finding some reason to get him grounded for life).
It’s enough. He has enough to get by with, to go through the motions of each day without too much scrutiny. Enough to keep him waking up each day, just grateful to have what he has.
He’s still reminded, though, of the things he doesn’t have with him.
“I’ve never asked. Who are they?”
Maverick glances up from where he’s lacing his boots up to see Hondo standing by the locker they’d assigned him on base. Hondo’s knuckles are resting against the very edge of a tattered set of photos that are taped to the inside of the locker. Duplicates of photographs he’s carried around with him for a long time, the same photographs that he’s pinned (carefully, lovingly) to the cork-board on the wall of his workshop.
One of Goose and Carole, frozen in delighted cheer as they stand outside the courthouse where they’d gotten married back in ‘83, great big smiles on their faces that Maverick had yelled at them to hold as he’d snapped the photo with a camera he’d borrowed from someone in their squadron at the time. One of Bradley (Rooster, now; he’s been Rooster for almost a decade) from his first high-school game as starting pitcher, hair ruffled and face streaked with sweat and dirt, one hand thrown up in a blurry wave in the direction of the lens. One of his father, the smallest picture of the lot and the same one they’d used for the funeral, an unsmiling Lt. Commander John “Duke” Mitchell in full dress blues.
One of Iceman from his first wedding, handsome and beaming and fifteen years younger. It’d been close to the end of the night, everyone about twenty drinks in and close to bursting. In the photo, Iceman’s bow-tie is crooked, one button unbuttoned, a bit of his shirt untucked. There’s a flute of champagne in his hand; Maverick had put it there just moments before the flash had gone off.
(The last thing Maverick had ever expected was becoming somebody’s best man twice in his life—but there he’d been, right by his wingman’s side.)
It’s also the only photo attached to the locker that Maverick is in. In it, he’s grinning just as wide as Iceman is, one arm thrown over his shoulder, tugging him in close.
His wingman, right by his side.
“They’re the faces I don’t want to forget up there.” Maverick tugs at the ends of his laces with finality and drops his boot onto the floor. “Family, mostly.”
The ones he wants to remember each time he goes out there so that they’ll be the last thing in his mind’s eye if he ever augers in. Goose, Carole, his father—the ones he’s already lost. Rooster—the one he hopes to god he hasn’t lost yet. Iceman—the one who’s stayed after all this time.
Family by blood, by necessity, by choice. Regardless—they’re all still family.
Always will be.
Hondo nods, giving the photos a respectful tap. “Good people.”
“Best of the best,” Maverick confirms, letting the warmth of those memories soak in as he straightens up. “We all set?”
He gets a fist-bump from Hondo as they head on out. “Mach 7, baby,” Hondo says, the anticipation in his voice obvious and infectious. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
“Take-off pre-checks complete.” Six-point harness fastened, hydraulic preload pressures stable, switches in position. “Ready for APU start.” On one side of the plane, an engine roars to life. “Rear left engine start.” The other kick-starts with a burst of flame just like the first. “Rear right engine start.”
There’s a pause for control to confirm the next flurry of checks in-station. Then, Hondo’s voice comes over the radio with an even, “We are ready for taxi.”
“Armitage Tower, this is Darkstar, we are taxiing with information alpha.”
“Darkstar, you are cleared to taxi.” Every word is familiar and practiced. “Runway two-one, winds two-one-zero-ten. Taxi into position and hold.”
He navigates his way down the taxiway, speeds steady and perfect. Every simulation he’d run, every run-through with control—none of it compares to the shiver of the ground under his wheels, the tactile touch-feel of the sidestick controller in his hand, the knowledge that this is it, this is what months of training leads up to each and every single time.
“We’re looking good.” Maverick brings the Darkstar around. From here, he can see the MEDEVAC Black Hawk on standby. “Control, Darkstar. Are we go for take-off?”
“Go for take-off. Starting with engine.”
A second voice pops up in his in-ear radio. “Engine go.”
“Thermals go.” A third voice, their chief engineer.
“Fuel go.”
The fourth trades off with the fifth. “Electric go.”
“Control services go.”
“Darkstar, control. You are cleared for take-off.”
God, if those aren’t his favorite words to hear. “Darkstar, cleared for take-off,” Maverick acknowledges, pushing on the throttle and accelerating. It’s smooth all the way down the runway; he eases it in until he’s collected enough thrust for his wheels to lift off the ground. “Positive rate, gear up.”
And then, Maverick is in the air.
He’s flown countless planes over the years. None of them have ever come close to the speed he feels sitting within the cockpit of this aircraft—this svelte, beautiful beast of a machine that sends him shooting up into the stratosphere without so much as a tremble.
“Control, Darkstar at 10,000, climbing to 50,000.”
(They’re approximately thirteen months into a three-year contract to obtain Mach 10. She’s been kept under wraps for as long as Maverick’s been alive, the Lockheed Martin SR-73-ii. Everyone involved in the program is tight-lipped, lives sworn away to NDAs, willing to give everything to make sure that this doesn’t get ripped away from them.
Maverick’s part of that, now. Has been ever since he’d sat down in a room with command to establish the rules of what would and what wouldn’t happen. The evaluations he’d be expected to contribute to in some manner: structural loads, performance characteristics, flight controls, avionics. The jobs at stake. And then, Colonel Perry, commander on base, had said to him, “You’re the only one we thought would be insane enough to pull this off, considering your history. And the recommendation that was made to us.”
“Well,” Maverick had said, equal parts relieved and amused, “I’d be happy to live up to expectations, sir.”
Perry had given him an approving stare. “Good,” he’d said, and that’d been that.)
“Darkstar, you are cleared above six-zero-zero, increase to Mach 3.5.”
“Cleared above six-zero-zero,” Maverick repeats, “increase to Mach 3.5. Switching to scramjet.”
They’d anticipated propulsion issues, but it’s smooth going as the scramjet takes over, the pulse of the Darkstar’s engines like the blast of a small sun approaching its final moments. He edges the side-stick by a quarter of an inch and watches the Mach counter continue to tick up.
As fast as the Darkstar goes, there’s a surprising amount of time for Maverick to let his thoughts slide past getting the plane up in the air and towards other things. Things that he’s supposed to leave behind on the ground.
The photographs in his locker. Dog tags lost to the sea. A ring on a chain.
“Darkstar, increase to Mach 6.”
“Increase to Mach 6.”
Mach 6 had been the benchmark for their last test. That run had been full of hiccups: issues with temperature management and radar visibility and airspeed. Now, Maverick just holds on as the plane shoots straight up into the sky, so far up that all he can see is a sea of endless cirrus below him slowly circling the earth.
“Darkstar, increase to Mach 7.”
“Increase to Mach 7.”
“Godspeed,” comes Hondo’s voice, and Maverick lets out a huff of a laugh, barely able to catch his breath with the amount of Gs he’s sustaining.
Mach 6.1. Mach 6.2. Mach 6.3, and he feels it this time, he feels the vibration of the entire plane in his bones, in his teeth, in the cradle of his skull. He’s never gone this fast in his life, never been in a jet that could reach this kind of speed—never been up this high with no one at his six and only voices in his ear for company.
He’s completely alone up here, alone as he streaks across the sky in a plane that the rest of the world doesn’t know exists.
It’s terrifying. It’s amazing. Goose, he thinks, looking out towards the horizon. Are you watching?
Mach 6.7. Mach 6.8. Mach 6.9.
He wonders what it must look like from out there. The trail that the Darkstar is painting through the clouds as he travels thousands of miles, almost seven times faster than the speed of sound, through the empty skies. The sun, casting a blaze of burnished gold along his wings.
Nature defiant, miracle-making. Reckless, dangerous, death-seeking.
“Talk to me, Goose.” Maverick folds his fingers tighter around the side-stick and exhales. “Talk to me.”
Dusk shatters and gives way.
Mach 7.
It’s after the three-hour debrief with control and command that he finally gets to slip away and retrieve his cellphone from the pocket of the bomber jacket he’d hung up in his locker. It was beautiful up there today, he types into an open message thread, thumbing slowly at the lit-up screen. You would’ve loved to see it.
He doesn’t have to wait long for a response—but it’s not a text he gets in return. His screen lights up within a minute of him setting his phone down on the bench, caller ID unmistakable. “See it, yes,” Iceman says in lieu of any sort of greeting whatsoever. His voice is rough from overuse—he’s probably been in meetings all day long again. Comes with the promotion and the nice, fancy office. “Fly it? Probably not.”
“You would.” Maverick closes the door of his locker and leans back against it, smiling up at nothing in particular. “There’s still a naval aviator in there somewhere. I know it.”
“For fighter jets. Not a Lockheed.” There’s the shuffle of papers and a flat twap, like he’s just set aside a file that he’d been in the middle of reading. Then, Ice says, voice soft, “I miss you.”
Maverick shuts his eyes, and, for just a brief moment, pretends that he’s not hearing it over the phone from hundreds of miles away. “You’re the one who got me reassigned to the middle of the desert.”
“I’m not the one who snuck Penny Benjamin onto an F-18 for an unsanctioned joyride. Again.”
In his defence, he’d only done it for Amelia, who’d begged to take a video of her mom up in the air—and who was Maverick to say no to a good kid like her? “You say that like there's sanctioned joyrides.”
“Maverick.”
“I miss you too,” Maverick says, and Iceman’s quiet, pleased breath is obvious over the line. Maverick would be a liar if he didn’t admit how good that made him feel. “You’re still mad that I didn't sneak you onto an F-18 for an unsanctioned joyride, aren't you?”
There’s that laugh, the one Maverick never fails to try his best to wrangle out of Ice whenever he can. “We took that Viper up three weeks after you came back from Iraq.”
He hasn’t forgotten about that. The look in Iceman’s eyes when he’d touched the controls of the F-16. The way he’d sounded so carefree, reunited with his old friends—the winds, the skies, the seas. “I can’t believe we didn’t get caught,” Maverick says. He tucks his phone between his chin and his shoulder as he pulls his jacket on, voice turning a touch mischievous as he adds, “You didn't bribe the hangar guys did you, Kazansky?”
“Watch your mouth.” The silence is deafening. “They agreed to look the other way. Just once.”
Maverick makes a thrilled noise. “Well I'll be damned.”
Ice goes in for the kill without a single warning. “You're the only one I'd ever do that for, Mav.”
The photographs in his locker. Dog tags lost to the sea. A ring on a chain—the same one that Maverick slips on and idly tugs at, letting his voice gentle when he says, “I know.”
“I know you know.”
He nods at a couple of passing officers as he exits the room and makes for the hangar where he’d parked his bike. “So,” he says slyly, “now that we’ve established that—want to go Mach 8 with me?”
“You’ve got to work on your lines.”
“You like them,” Maverick points out.
There’s an exhausted sigh over the line. “Unfortunately.” Push, pull. Maverick can still hear the smile in Iceman’s voice. It hasn’t left once since he called, and neither has Maverick’s own. “I've got a meeting with brass in ten. When's your next scheduled appearance with command?”
Maverick racks his brain for a moment. “The 25th, I think.”
“You’re coming here for the week,” Iceman says, like it’s a done and dusted deal. Like he knows Maverick’s not going to say anything but yes. He’s right. “The kids miss you.”
“Just the kids?”
Iceman doesn’t go easy on him. “Sarah too.”
Maverick hasn’t seen her in a fair bit. “Hope she and ah, Grant had a good trip,” he says, thinking fondly of the last time they’d met in person. It’d been Christmas, if he recalls correctly—he’d given her Carole’s old eggnog recipe and brought her that wine she really liked, and in turn she’d let him beat her at cards and then showed him this thing on Facebook that had left the both of them laughing so hard they had tears in their eyes.
He’s glad for holiday traditions—he can’t imagine if they’d been on the outs after the divorce.
Iceman hums. “Toronto was kind to them,” he says, leaping right over the change in topic with practiced ease. “So will you come?”
“Say it again first.”
This time, there’s no hesitation. No beating around the bush, no teasing. Just genuine care when he says, “I miss you, Mav.”
“Miss you too, Ice.” Maverick clears his throat, trying not to think about how long it’s been since he’s heard his voice in person, and says with a bit more brightness, “Let me know if the kids want anything.”
“Just bring yourself.” As an afterthought, Iceman adds, “And leave the damn bike in the hangar. Evie already thinks you're too cool.”
Maverick tilts his head, grinning. “Well, is she wrong?”
“I'm going to pretend you didn't say that.”
He laughs, low and fond. “Go to your meeting, Ice,” he says.
“Congratulations on Mach 7, Captain Mitchell.” The words are formal, but they’re full of affection. Enough to get Maverick by until the next text, the next phone call, the next face-to-face visit. Until he gets to tug Ice close and murmur just how much he’s missed him and run his thumb lightly over the ring on his finger.
Maverick tucks his matching ring under the collar of his shirt for safekeeping. “Thank you, Admiral,” he says warmly. “I’ll let you know when my flight gets in.”
The call ends there.
He stands beside his bike for a moment, looking out the doors of the hangar. Night’s fallen on the base, another quiet evening after the excitement of the entire day.
He’s still reminded, sometimes, of the things he doesn’t have with him—but he’s lucky enough to still have those things within reach despite time and distance. Whether by blood, necessity, or choice, family has always been stronger than that.
(And maybe—just for one day, maybe. Maybe Bradley will forgive him. Maybe then things will stop feeling incomplete. Maybe—maybe he'll even spend Christmas with them the way he used to spend it with him and Carole, and then everything'll be worth the promise he'd made.
Just one day.)
Maverick kicks into gear. Time to head home, he thinks, starting the ride down the long and winding road once again. Home to family.