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The military was the landing for those wandering souls, a home for the homeless, a family for orphans. For someone like Bob, it was an anchor that halted his restless movements as a teenager. A cold father who wrinkled his nose when he joined the Navy instead of the Army and a mother who barely looked up from her television program had only fortified his resolve to make his seventeen year old enlistment work.
It had. He’s somewhat decorated, reasonably well liked, occasionally well-known. Joining the Navy had led him across the globe and into a world where it felt like he fit. But the loneliness still creeps in. It niggles and wriggles like a burning hole.
The Dagger Squadron were the closest thing to a family he’d felt in a long time. Sure his previous squadron was okay, but there was something about being the best of the best on a mission where one of them was never meant to come back brought them closer.
They feel like family, yet that doesn’t make them family. Flu is managed with NyQuil and aspirin. Nightmares don’t even get acknowledgment and any injuries are met with a standard issue get well soon card.
These things slowly change as the Dagger squad remains stationed within hours of each other. Colds are met with comical horror and Fanboy’s sympathetic pat on the back. When Bob sprains his ankle disembarking the jet Halo signs the sports tape around his swollen and bruised joint.
But the nightmares remain behind closed doors along with anything else that Bob keeps there. Yet, despite his efforts. These things come to light. It seems that some secrets will never remain no matter how hard you try.
The many nights down at the beach melted and the lines blurred to the point that no one could really remember when something had happened, only that it did. Later, Bob would wish no one would even remember it regardless.
–
Bob is never the beer guzzler of the group and he is far from the type to drink until passing out. However, after returning from a particularly gruelling detachment with a new squadron. He was elected to be team leader on account of his assignment to the Uranium mission. But that had not guaranteed his respect nor had the detachment been an easy one, especially without the camaraderie he has grown used to.
So Bob allows himself to let loose a bit on this night out. The long summer nights let Rooster and Hangman, twins of trouble and Bob roam the beach well into the night. It’s a duo Bob doen’t generally hang out with. It’s nice, regardless. But with Bob’s infrequent drinking exploits come with a very small tolerance. He’s lounging sleepily on the dry sand as Hangman throws up a stone's throw away. It doesn’t take long for Bob to fall asleep.
Behind his sleeping eyes are flashes of colour. Orange. Blue. The colour of flames meeting the sea.
He wakes with a start, arms thrashing. The spray of sand and his startled shout catch the attention of his team mates who are sobering up down by the shore line. In an instant they are crowding him. The last people Bob wants in his moment of terror. Someone reaches for his bicep as he stands and Bob wrenches it away. His sweat has mixed with the stand and it sticks to him uncomfortable.
On shaky legs he manages to stumble a few metres before doubling over, hands on his knees as he gasps desperately.
“Bob?”
It’s Rooster.
“Leave…me alone,” Bob chokes back. Rooster puts a hand on Bob’s shoulder. It makes him aware of how hard and erratically he’s breathing. In Rooster’s hands, he finds himself enclosed in a hug which he weakly tries to protest. “Get off me.”
“Bob-”
“I said stop,” he tries to snap but is only horrified at the feeling of hot tears on his cheeks. With sandy hands he swipes at them, rubbing his skin. He’s crying in front of Hangman and Rooster.
“Bob what happened?” Hangman asks a few feet behind them. The embarrassment fuels Bob to rip himself from Rooster’s grip. He takes a few choppy steps, the adrenaline still coursing through him. It doesn’t take him long to stop and assess his surroundings. He’s only a few metres from the wet sand. Deciding that his legs will give out any moment, Bob sits down, knees to his chest.
Not a minute or two passes before he’s bookended by two warm bodies. It feels a bit like he’s being squashed so he won’t run away.
“What happened on the mission, Bobby?” Hangman asks quietly. Six eyes fixed on the horizon.
Bob takes a rattly breath. He hasn’t talked about it since the day it happened and it’s haunted him every day since. “We refuelled mid-flight. It was an accident, no one was at fault but…”
“You feel like you were?” Rooster’s voice is low and even. His skin is warm and Bob feels himself lean into it ever so slightly.
“The hose got sucked into the engine. It happened so fast, we were down an engine about to run on fumes and fuel was sprayed all over the jet. I should have said to wait, I should have said something about not restarting the engine. But the guy in front panicked and restarted. One spark. One fucking spark.”
Bob closes his eyes and the flashes of red and blue are back.
“He didn’t get back up in the air,” Bob murmurs. “He didn’t go back up. He was good, too. So good. Could have been as good as you lot.”
The adrenaline and panic has left him. Now it’s just the exhaustion and embarrassment. He wants to go home and forget it ever happened. Tonight and that day.
“It’s not your fault. It’s not. ” Hangman sounds so sincere, so earnest. Bob puts his forehead against his knees. “It was an accident.”
Moments like these always put Maverick’s actions into context for Rooster. His decisions to pull the papers from the academy. Bob’s pilot got scared, he didn’t die but the repercussions are haunting Bob. Rooster can’t bear to think how similar Bob’s position could have been to Maverick’s that day in 1986. The guilt that could have festered tenfold.
He can’t find the words as easily as Hangman seems to, who keeps talking. So he puts an arm around Bob and a moment later Hangman does the same. Bob tenses and clenches his jaw, keeping his head tucked against his knees.
But they both feel the gradual softening, the way he tilts his head against Hangman’s shoulder and pinches a square of fabric from Rooster’s shirt.