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It’s fucking raining outside as Joe drags his sorry ass into the makeshift classroom for whatever briefing they’re about to have on this special detachment they’d been called in for. He’s half soaked and hoping they’re not planning on any hops today to get started. He hadn’t allowed himself to have enough coffee for this, just in case they were planning on going up. Joe doesn't need his hands jittering on the stick.
They’d been told to bring the NATOPS Manual for the F-18s, but what the fuck was the point? They all know those things forward and back. What kind of super secret fucked up mission are they training for? Joe sits and fiddles with his phone, wishing he was back on his own boat among his squad. Their mission is about to launch in a few days, which means Joe isn't going to be part of it. No way this special detachment is going to be done before then. He sighs and roams his gaze over the empty hangar space around him. Why are they meeting here, of all places? He knows damn well there’s a ready room and classroom with better seats just a few buildings away.
He hears the clatter of other booted feet and the low chatter of people filing in behind him. A few ease into the seats ahead of him while others are off to the side and behind. He swivels in his seat to see who else has gotten pulled in. Joe stares around the classroom at everyone gathered. Gotta be all single seaters. No point in running this class or TOPGUN otherwise, not in his mind. He nods at Tipper tucked in the back like always. Guarnere and Toye, attentive toward the front. Shifty, Roe, and McClung toward the middle back and then Joe locks eyes with someone he hasn’t seen before.
Blue blue eyes as bright as the sky under the brightest days when they’re up there. A mess of tousled brown hair Joe can see going straight into curls if left enough time to grow out of the regulation cut. Who the fuck is this guy? Joe hadn’t heard about him and everyone knows who comes out of the TOPGUN classes. Keeping an eye on the competition is a habit that doesn’t fade even long after you’ve left the program.
Joe gets a blink and a tentative smile from the guy. He scowls back in return. Joe doesn’t like unknowns put into the equation. It fucks things up just a bit more. Wildcards make their lives harder up in the air. Better to know exactly how someone reacts from one moment to the next than try to follow the unpredictable.
He spins back toward the front when Admiral Nixon addresses them, giving them some rundown about the exploits of the guy about to be training them and how it applies to their mission. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Some dude that’s not active duty anymore. What’s he got to show them that they haven't already learned?
Captain Ronald “Executioner” Speirs cuts an imposing figure as he takes the stand from Nixon. Joe’s only half listening because why bother? Things get interesting when he drops the NATOPS manual into the trash. The quick look Joe shoots toward the sidelines catches Admirals Winters and Nixon exchanging looks while Warrant Officer Lipton, sitting alongside them, just looks resigned. Eyes back front, it means Joe’s leaning forward actually taking in what Speirs is telling them.
Going to show him what they got, huh? Well, Joe can do that. He can definitely do that. Getting up in the skies, even in the rain, will do him some good. Work out some of that pent up energy he has from missing out on one of the missions that would’ve likely made his career. Something that might’ve gotten him moved up the ranks a bit faster.
It’s quick work to suit up and head up in one of the first groups. No way is he hanging around when he could be up here. He goes up with the guy he hasn’t seen before. Webster is his name. Call sign Scribbles. Joe snorts at that. He hates call signs on a good day. Hates how stupid they are and how much a part of everyone’s identity they become. He isn’t too fond of his own-Quartet, ‘cause he’d given some of the guys back in flight school a touch-up haircut when they’d run afoul of the regulations-but it’s better than some of the ones that’d been tossed around.
He wonders why Scribbles, Webster, has his. He’d seen his full designation as they’d taxied down the runway and up into the skies. Guess he’ll be finding out over the course of the next couple weeks.
“Welcome, aviators. As briefed, today is all about basic flight maneuvers. Your goal is to shoot me down.”
“What happens if we don’t?” Webster says across the comms.
“Then I shoot back,” Speirs says.
“How ‘bout we make this more interestin’ then? 200 pushups for whoever gets shot down first,” Joe finds himself saying.
“That’s a lot of pushups.”
“Not a point if there’s nothin’ to lose.”
“You have yourself a deal.” There’s a pause. “Alright, fellas, time to turn and burn. Fight’s on.”
He can see Webster giving him a look from his canopy. “What? Gonna be boring up here otherwise if we don’t put some skin in the game.”
Webster snorts. “You have any idea who this guy is?”
Joe shrugs. Not really and it wouldn’t matter even if he did. They're younger and faster than this guy by a long shot. They’ll be coasting back to base in no time. “You see him?”
“Nope, he’s probably behind us.”
Any further conversation’s cut short when Speirs flies up from underneath them and splits them to either side, the wash from his flight path twisting them both sideways before they’re fighting to right themselves and get themselves unfucked enough to chase him.
He slots in after Joe with no hesitation. “Where’s your wingman, Quartet?”
“Right here, sir.”
Webster arrows in from the right and pulls Speirs off his ass as he continues to break left and Joe's not sure whether to be grateful or annoyed Webster’s about to take the kill shot meant for him along with the subsequent pushups.
Speirs’ voice comes over the comms shortly, “That’s a kill, Scribbles.”
Back in the ready room, watching Webster work his way through the 200 pushups, he’s not sure what to feel. “Should be me out there,” he mutters as Tipper walks up beside him.
“Yeah, but it’s not,” Tipper says as he grips his vest. “Now you know something about him.”
“Think it’s gonna be enough when we’re up there counting on each other?”
Tipper shrugs. “Gotta be. He wouldn’t be here with us if the brass didn’t think he was worth something.”
Joe snorts. “You know how often that’s bitten us in the ass before.”
“Never had much issue with Winters and Nixon being less than smart about things.”
Joe makes a harrumph sound as Tipper walks away to take his turn up in the skies. Sure, maybe, but what they were seeing right now is that everything they thought they knew about flying, about their planes and what they could do with them, was all a lie. Speirs had handed Joe and Webster their asses. He doesn't think the results for the rest of the detachment are going to be any better.
He isn't wrong. Every single one of them that goes up against Speirs is quickly told they're dead within short order. They're down on the tarmac doing their required number of pushups under Lipton’s watchful eye. Guarnere and Toye manage to hotrod it enough up there that Speirs is the one pushing evasion maneuvers but it doesn’t last long. Toye splits off in some harebrained scheme the two of them concocted, like usual, and ends up with the both of them shot down. Their matching scowls as they work through their pushups gives Joe a minor amount of glee.
~*~*~*~
They’re done for the day and they’ve all claimed a section of the mess to sit down, eat, and catch up on the drama of their lives the past couple months. Everyone, that is, except for Webster. Joe catches him grabbing some chow then making a beeline back out of the place. That's not going to do if they’re supposed to trust the guy to have their backs up in the air. Roe’s telling some story about McClung and Shifty when Joe slips from his seat. It earns him a head tilt from Tipper, who’s in the seat next to him. “Just gotta take care of somethin’ real quick. I’ll be right back.”
He trails Webster out of the mess hall, through the warren of buildings that is the base, and to one of the small courtyards near the actual classrooms Joe really hopes they start using after today. He still doesn’t understand what the fuck the need for those optics back in the hangar was. Webster sets his food down on a table then lays down a notebook, which he opens and immediately starts scribbling in.
Joe slides into the seat across from him. “So, that how you got your call sign?”
Webster startles, dropping his pen, mouth agape as he looks up. Joe had done his fair share of basic training but stealth isn't normally one of his strong suits. They're in twenty-five ton machines that regularly break the sound barrier. Stealth is not a condition of their livelihoods. If anything, they chase the thrill of when they do get spotted.
“Uh…probably. Wasn’t the worst of what I was called so I let it stick.”
“Nice flyin’ up there by the way. Surprised we hadn’t heard about you before today.”
Joe gets another shrug. “Just trying to do my best.”
“Ain’t we long past that? We’re the best of the best if they’re callin’ us back to TOPGUN for this.” This is not what Joe had come out here for. He’d come out here to see who this guy is underneath the call signs and fancy flying. He waves a hand between them. “C’mon, you tellin’ me, you weren’t a little fuckin’ pissed with Speirs pullin’ that shit all day? Not a one of us able to get a single lock on him?”
Webster stops tapping his pen against his now closed notebook and gives him a look. “Not sure where that old man learned his flying, but it’s something else. Makes me wonder what we missed out on in the official training.”
Joe shakes his head. “Nah, no way that guy learned all that in the manuals or any trainin’ of any kind. That’s him just bein’ him.”
Webster gives him a long, considering look. “Then why isn’t he teaching more of the TOPGUN classes? We need that kind of shit in the air.”
“When’s the last time we really had to worry ‘bout a dogfight?” At the silence, Joe continues, “Exactly. Shifty’s got that one kill, but it was a museum piece that shouldn’t have been flyin’.”
“They really think we’re going to pick up flying like that in three weeks time?”
“Less. There’s more mission parameters we’ve got no idea about, you can bet.”
The contemplative look that slides over Webster’s face has Joe wondering just how much random military knowledge the guy’s got. He half looks like he’s trying to piece together what could apply from Speirs’ personal military file.
“C’mon, stop sitting out here by yourself and join the rest of us in figuring out how we’re gonna end up on the actual mission run.”
They slot back in with the rest of the guys with no issue. Tipper has his eyebrows all the way to his hairline at the sight. Joe shrugs. Better to know now than to find out later that this guy was an asshole and someone they needed to block from leading this mission.
They spend the next several days attempting to shoot down Speirs with every moment of their time not in the air thinking up new tactics. No matter what they pull the result is still the same. Either one or the both of them are shot down without fail. They’re all exhausted from the sheer number of pushups they’ve done. Joe gets some good natured grumbling thrown his way from the guys for him and his big mouth.
The point’s proven. They may be the best of the best but there’s clearly plenty they can still learn from Speirs and his tactics. They move onto the next portion of the mission: a low level canyon course to be completed in less than two minutes and thirty seconds. Tight turns, high Gs, and a ceiling of a hundred feet or less with no room for error otherwise you and your wingman are splattered into the mountainsides.
Joe whistles low. How the hell are they supposed to complete that? This whole mission’s sounding more and more like a suicide run. But they’re up in the air shortly, one after the other failing the course then back in the ready room analyzing their mistakes.
“Why are you dead?”
One reason after another that would pass a military tribunal but Speirs is after something else. Something more personal.
“No, don’t say it to me. Say it to his family.”
They all look uncomfortably at each other as silence descends over the room. It’s a topic they don’t normally acknowledge. It's inherent every time they head up into the sky, but they wouldn’t be aviators if they didn’t enjoy the thrill just as much.
Speirs steps outside to speak to Admirals Winters and Nixon and that’s when Lipton steps to the forefront of the classroom. “Fellas, I know he’s pushing you hard, but you gotta realize the reason he’s doing so is to make sure you all make it back. There’s a high possibility that even if you survive the mission you don’t make it back to the boat.” He glances toward the door then back to them. “He don’t take losing men kindly. You hear me?”
At their resigned nods, Lipton fades back to the rear of the classroom before Speirs steps back inside, trailed by Winters and Nixon. “Gentlemen, the Admirals need a moment of your attention.”
Winters’ face is grave as he stands at parade rest before them. His gaze drifts from one to the other before he speaks. “Unfortunately, intel tells us the plant will be operational sooner than expected. The raw uranium will be delivered in ten days time. That means your mission has been pushed forward a week.”
“But, sir, no one here has completed the low altitude course.”
Winters’ nods. “Yes, but I’m ordering you to move forward. We need to limit the amount of fallout to the surrounding valley. This modified timeline is our best opportunity to do so. I’m certain Captain Speirs here will continue to do his best to prepare you.”
Speirs nods in acknowledgment.
“As you were,” Winters says as he turns to leave the room. Nixon’s close on his heels, already starting to say something as the door closes behind them.
Speirs dismisses them shortly after with the order to report to the beachfront next to their local haunt, Eagle’s Peak, tomorrow at 1500. They all end up there in short order, grouped around a pool table, and running their mouths about everything they’d just been through.
“Yo, Shifty, you’ve got the best eye out of us here. You think the next part’s doable?” Guarnere calls out as he comes back from grabbing everyone their next round of beers.
Shifty shrugs then lines up his shot on the felt. The thwack of the cue against the pool ball spins through the air as both the three and the five go into pockets. “Don’t matter what I think. We gotta get it done.”
Webster’s on the stool next to Joe and nods in silent agreement. They’re all concerned. Time’s their enemy in more than one way and they’re quickly running out of it. Joe leans toward Webster. “What’re you thinkin’ in that head of yours?”
“Speirs better be the one heading up this mission when we actually fly out.”
“You think Winters’ would actually let that happen?”
“He seems a sensible man. If you managed to get Nixon on board too, and if I have a read on the situation right, you’d have it in the bag.”
Joe mulls the idea over in his head. Could they get that to happen? Switch the whole idea behind the formation of this special detachment?
“What are you two knuckleheads whispering ‘bout over there?” Guarnere calls out.
“That’s between me and your mama!” Joe hollers back, which causes Webster to stifle laughter.
Roe appears on Joe’s other side. “Fucks’ sake, Gene. Need to put a bell on you,” Joe grumbles.
“Naw, just need to up your situational awareness.” He nods toward Webster. “He’d have your six anyway. But I ain’t here to discuss that. You see? Even Winters is rattled. He don’t show it but he’s worried no one’s coming back.”
“Wouldn’t want to mar his perfect record,” Joe drawls after a pull from his beer. Webster digs a sharp elbow into his side.
“Better to be under Admiral Richard 'Never' Winters' command than anyone else’s. He’ll have made sure we have the right resources and training,” Webster says.
The beer sours in Joe’s mouth as Webster’s tone, stripped of any warmth, sinks in. Maybe they actually won’t be coming back from this mission. They'll have to pull off two to three miracles at the minimum then dogfight their way back to the boat.
They won't let Winters down. Even if the odds look bleak right now. They’ll figure out a way. Joe doesn't doubt that. They’ll survive, make it back. Joe glances around. He wouldn’t want to be doing this with anyone else.