Chapter Text
If James hadn’t decided to turn on the radio, he’d have missed it.
He and Dundy were road-tripping to Miramar, in an attempt to enjoy their last few days of freedom before landing at Fightertown, on urgent orders signed by Admiral James Clark “Iceberg” Ross. So far, they’d car camped in Los Padres, hiked a few sections of the PCT, and stopped by Joshua Tree to snap a few gram-worthy desert panoramas. This morning, they were still laughing over some stupid joke Dundy had made on the trail late yesterday, while the radio crackled out its top-of-the-hour updates.
“In local news,” the DJ’s voice got brighter, a little higher-pitched, “customers at a beloved local restaurant witnessed a man who fell to earth!”
Dundy went quiet. James shushed him anyway, cranking up the volume.
“Authorities tell us an unidentified Naval pilot walked into Cecil’s Diner this morning, minutes after his high-tech aircraft crashed just outside of Canyon Country. We’re told the pilot ejected from the plane prior to the crash. He sustained no severe injuries. The aircraft has already been recovered.” The DJ’s voice smoothed out. “And now we head over to Chopper Sam for a quick traffic update.”
That pilot was Frank Crozier. James was sure of it. Even considering the identifying details they’d cut out for national security reasons—high-tech plane probably meant something from Lockheed or Northrup Grumman that could go higher than Mach 2—it was hard to imagine any pilot could eject from a high-speed jet at that velocity and live to tell about it. Much less walk into a backcountry diner after crashing, like some kind of Steven Spielberg alien who landed in the woods and decided it liked the shape of the breakfast foods on a nearby sign.
James could almost picture Frank’s face, how he’d look after a crash like that. Dark flight suit covered in soot and mud, and the frown lines in his forehead whitened with dust. Wide eyes the same color blue as the Pacific on a clear day.
“Gotta be an RQ-180. Wouldn’t you say?"
Dundy drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, clearly waiting for James’s answer. Based on the nervous quiver in his voice, it didn’t seem like the first time he’d said this out loud.
James swallowed the hard lump that had formed in his throat. He was thinking about his dad again; how easy it was for one eject to go wrong. How Frank Crozier’s eyes could get you killed in an instant. “I thought those were just UAVs.”
“Sure, but not all UAVs are pilotless.”
“It’s in the name,” James drawled, shifting in his seat. “Unmanned aerial vehicle. And you know Admiral Ross—the Hammer, I mean—is a drone guy through and through.”
“Listen, just because the Drone Master is obsessed with modernizing today’s forces doesn’t mean he won’t put pilots in the hot seat. Lot of UAVs have the option for a real pilot, just in case.”
“Maybe they’re coming out with new Dragon Ladies,” James said, instead of pointing out the idiotic contradiction. “U2-Ses used to fly out of Beale AFB.”
“Yeah, right. And maybe the fucking Darkwing Ducks are finally ready after fifteen years of development.”
“Darkstar,” James huffed. The radio had switched back to music, some 70s-era blues that would’ve killed at The Hard Deck or another beach bar. He thought about Frank Crozier again, the skin on the back of his neck prickling hot with fury. Of course he’d get to walk away from a major crash. That fucking guy. Couldn’t get rid of him if he tried.
##
Coming back to Fightertown was about focusing on life’s simple pleasures, Francis Crozier decided as he pulled on his favorite bomber jacket, worn butter-smooth from years of serving as his bike armor. Ironic considering it protected him from road rash and everything else in the world, on or offroad.
Not long after, a 998cc in-line four-cylinder engine roaring steady between his legs, he found himself near a familiar flight line. On his left, an F-18 was taking off; as it lifted away from the tarmac, he sped up, tipping two fingers to his forehead in a loose salute to whichever lucky bastard sat in the cockpit.
Hard to believe he was back at Top Gun after thirty-five years—and that Iceberg Ross was the one who’d put him up for the post. Christ, the first time they met, Iceberg would’ve rather drowned him in the showers than give him one bit of authority over the next generation of pilots. But that was before Hawk. Before Jimmy….
He sighed, slowing the Ninja to a street-legal speed as he zipped past the gate and back onto the main road. Although he hadn’t been to the Hard Deck in years, he could picture the tangle of model planes, deck bells, and ceramic steins hanging from its shiplap ceilings as clearly as if he’d stepped inside yesterday afternoon. It would smell like saltwater and spilled beer. Airmen and baby lieutenants would be clustered inside in packs to shoot pool, shake off the shit from the higher ups, and make stupid choices.
The sudden stab of longing in his gut made him wince. Sticking his right hand out, he signaled a quick turn. Within minutes, he’d pulled up to the front porch, stored his helmet, and gotten a beer from old Devlin, who’d been a bright-eyed bar back in the 80s and was now a white-haired old geezer. Those pale, corded arms reminded Francis of the dry, brittle skin of his own hands after he’d been wrist-deep in an engine all day.
Shit.
He’d made the wrong decision, coming here. He felt idiotic and small, sitting alone at the bar at 4pm and watching the young jet jockeys show off in the far corner. Two of them were playing darts. They were both on his roster, although at the moment he couldn’t call up their names to save his life. All he’d seen on that board was Jimmy. The sweet elfin face he remembered from his cadet graduation photos had changed so much; his jaw and cheeks sharpened and turned elegant with age. It was as if all the bony awkwardness of his youth had been sanded off, leaving nothing but the flint-eyed lieutenant behind.
“Jesus Christ,” drawled a familiar voice to his left; Francis startled and glanced up only to see Tom Blanky walking over. Long shaggy hair brushed his shoulders in messy waves—a far cry from the buzz-cut he’d had the last time they saw each other. It was probably around the time he’d moved off-base with Esther, just before they’d had their first baby. Back then, he'd also been a woman, and a militant, if closeted, lesbian. “Look what the tide dragged in.”
“You work here?” was all Francis could sputter, shocked.
Tom jiggled the wooden crate he held in both hands, depositing it onto the bar top as he crackled out a laugh. “Still as quick on the draw as ever, Frank.”
“I—thought you were still up in Alaska,” he muttered, as the back of his neck flushed hot.
“Could say the same to you.” When Tom smiled at him, his eyes crinkled. Just seeing someone smile at him like that warmed Francis in a way he didn’t want to examine too closely. “Let me guess. You pissed off some other admiral to land back on North Island.”
He ducked his head on a laugh. “Drone Master.”
“Well done, idiot.” He was already opening the cooler behind the bar, depositing long-necked bottles into the nearest compartment in quick, fluid movements, without breaking a sweat. “Least it wasn’t my father this time.”
“Listen,” Francis held up a finger in a warning gesture. Tom was the one who’d insisted on hitching a ride in an F-14, even though he’d been a civilian co-ed at the time, while Francis was a baby lieutenant. Plus, the admiral’s daughter wasn’t even supposed to be at the birthday ball that year. “First of all, that wasn’t my fault.”
“Or what’s-his-face from the desert, three years ago.”
“That was three years ago?” Francis let his hand fall to the table.
Blanky gave him a knowing look before closing the cooler top and pushing the empty crate to the floor. “About the same time I bought this place, yeah. And, not to put too fine a point on it, you may notice some of us have gotten older and wiser in the meantime.”
“Your hair’s gone gray,” Francis pointed out, glancing at the corkscrew curls frizzing up from steel-colored roots.
“Course it has. Some of us weren’t born sandy ginger fuckers.” Blanky’s eyes flicked up to Francis’s hairline, then down to the bar top. “Yours just look blonder.”
“Tommy.” Francis tilted his head, glancing up at Tom with an innocent smile that made him raise a skeptical eyebrow. “You know, you look good.”
“Yeah,” Tom drawled, leaning in. His eyes sparkled with glee as he lowered his voice. “But. Francis Mary Rhiannon Crozier, we are not doing this again.”
“You do look good,” Francis repeated, because it was true, and he’d be an idiot to take back the compliment.
Instead of telling him off, Tom pursed his mouth, then took two steps backwards before grabbing the rope over his head. As Francis watched, Tom rang the deck bell twice, holding his gaze the entire time as the rest of the bar erupted in delight.
“What was that?” Francis asked, as a passing airman clapped him on the back.
Tom gestured to the wooden sign hanging between the beer taps:
DISRESPECT A LADY, THE NAVY, OR PUT YOUR CELL PHONE ON MY BAR…..
YOU BUY A ROUND!
“Oh, god,” Francis groaned, fumbling his phone off the bar top and into his pocket, while Tom poured two or three drafts in succession, sliding them over to their new owners. “All right.”
##
Graham Gore straightened up as he saw three Top Gun grads striding into the Hard Deck in their day uniforms. “Well, well, well. Look who broke out of the great wolf lodge. Hey, Tuunbaq.”
Silna Kalvak glanced him up and down, smirking like she was gonna break his balls with one hand tied behind her back. She spared a single glance for the two guys behind her. “Fellas, this piece of white trash is Tex-Mex.”
“Gore-Tex,” he said, pressing a hand to his heart in feigned gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Whatever. Guy shoots down one MiG, suddenly thinks he’s an ace.”
“Actually,” Wolfpack piped up from behind him, “it was a Scorpion.”
“Still busted as hell, is what I’m hearing.”
Tuunbaq rolled her eyes, gesturing to the guys on her flanks. “This here’s Payday and Flyboy. You might’ve heard of them. Although I haven’t met you .”
Graham followed her gaze to a nervous, twitchy looking guy sitting against the nearest support beam, with crumbs all down the front of his uniform and a plastic cup of peanut shells between his legs. Dark curls shook wildly as he leaned forward. “Oh! You mean, uh. I’m—Harry.”
“She means your call sign, lieutenant,” Graham reminded him, trying not to laugh.
Harry swallowed. Wide, downturned eyes made him look like a kicked dog. “Uh. Still. Harry.”
Silna’s eyes narrowed. “You’re my new backseater? From Lemorre?”
##
Francis figured he’d bought a round for at least half the bar before Blondie walked up, giving him a roguish wink as he said, “Hey, Tom, pour me four more. On the old man’s tab.”
“Coming right up,” Tom said.
He poured the beers, Blondie whisked them over to the group, and a few more minutes passed. Francis had spent most of it texting Iceberg about the disastrous debriefing he’d had when someone else arrived. More sailors and pilots were trickling in, but Francis knew the minute Jim—James arrived, because the group by the pool table roared in recognition.
He was wearing a Hawaiian shirt a size or two larger than needed, slung over a tight white tee that showed off every muscle in his chest and stomach. Christ, he looked good. Better than ever.
Francis swallowed hard, and glanced away, forcing himself not to stare.
“Hey, what up, Big Bird?” Blondie’s voice carried even over the chatter of other airmen. “How’s Utah these days? Still white and nerdy?”
Francis couldn’t see James’s face when he answered, “It’s Corvid. And last I heard, you were up in Great Mistakes. So you tell me.”
“What can I say?” Francis looked up again as Blondie spread his arms wide. “It’s May. I’m out here in khakis, enjoying a cold beer instead of sweating my tits off in bag season.”
“Sure, Tex-Mex.”
James flipped his sunglasses down over his eyes; Francis wondered if they were crinkling up around the corners, the way they always did when a true smile took over his face.
The kid wasn’t ready for this mission. None of them were. Francis couldn’t bear listening to them laugh with each other anymore, and flagged Tom down, handing over his credit card so he could get the hell out of here. So it stung when Tom came back barely a minute later, baring his teeth in a grin as he explained, “Declined.”
Christ. Francis glanced at his phone in vain, hoping it was one of those security checks he could get out of with a well-timed “Is this you?” text from the bank. Nothing.
He looked up at Tom, who wasn’t even bothering to hide his laughter.
Ten seconds later, he was being tossed out into the nearest sand dune by Blondie and another pilot, the two lads cackling as they called, “Thanks for the beers, old-timer!” over their shoulders.
Francis dusted sand off his jeans, an awkward laugh bubbling out of his mouth as he watched the young pilots return to the group. He’d decided to take his lumps and maybe visit an ATM before heading back to base and the shitty beige block that was home. But the jukebox cut out before he could take a step back, and over a chorus of groans and boos rose the off-key tapping of piano keys, followed by a jubilant tenor: “Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!”
Suddenly, Francis was seeing double. On one end, there was an empty hole in the wall, Hawk Coningham plunked down in front of yellowing piano keys and an elfin-faced, dark-haired boy sitting on top of the instrument, giggling every time they drawled goodness GRAY-cious. Louise was standing next to them, one hand squeezing Francis’s elbow and the other resting on her husband’s shoulders, and Sophia was watching them all from the back booth, giggling hysterically, like she couldn’t get enough of the show.
He blinked. Now it was a circle of baby-faced pilots and airmen crowded around the piano, beers in hand, and James Fitzjames dazzling them all in the center of the room. His Hawaiian shirt flapped in the crossbreeze off the beach and a lock of hair fell into his eyes as he played. Even when he smiled at nothing but the piano keys, he was bright and lovely and full of life—the kind of man that this program, this mission, was meant to break apart without a second thought.
Louise’s voice again, small and tearful. God, he loved flying with you, Frank.
He blinked again, but the water in his eyes didn’t go away, and after another minute of watching them sing, he forced himself to turn around and go back to his bike, breathing deeply in an attempt to steady himself long enough for the drive home.