Chapter Text
“How familiar are you with Maverick?” The question seems to catch Warlock by surprise. Beau takes it as a bad sign. He should know his superiors (only by one star, and not for long if the rest of the brass have anything to say about it) have access to his record. And Cyclone himself has been questioned about his connections with Mav every time it’s been assigned. So he feels like his immediate jump to a negative conclusion is somewhat justified.
And that is absolutely what he will tell his wife later when she questions him. In depth. The same way she does with everything involving Maverick. It would be more annoying if he didn’t completely understand. Whatever the fuck the rest of the star-cartel may think, Maverick Mitchell has been an invaluable instructor, friend, and pilot from the day he first walked into Cyclone’s Topgun classroom in 1988 and redefined his understanding of ‘crazy’.
The shrug and the “somewhat” he gets from Warlock in response does nothing to assuage his worries. So when Mav tumbles into their meeting room, looking like the wrong kind of 5am, his instincts are left clinging to his professionalism by their fingernails. Warlock raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.
“Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell, welcome back to North Island.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I believe you’re familiar with Admiral Bates.”
Maverick nods in acknowledgement and greeting. “Warlock, Sir”
“You and Cyclone here have something in common, he was first in his Topgun class back in ’88. I’m surprised you never overlapped.”
“I was actually in Captain Mitchell’s last class before his maternity leave.” Cyclone cuts in before Maverick can say something incriminating.
“My water broke all over his shoes!” Like that.
The little shit hoots with laughter before clutching his ribs, wincing.
Beau kicks out the chair on his right and says “Siddown Pete, you look like shit.”
Mav groans like a dying man as he sinks into the chair. And not for the first time, deep apprehensive, unease settles over his mind. Regardless, he picks up the little black remote, and turns on the screen. The simulated Uranium plant casts blue glow over the far end of the table, backlighting the most distant chairs. The brief rolls over him, memorized information relayed through Warlock’s smooth monotone.
“The target is an unsanctioned uranium enrichment plant built in violation of a multilateral NATO treaty. The uranium produced there represents a direct threat to our allies in the region. The Pentagon has tasked us with assembling a strike team and taking it out before it becomes fully operational. The plant sits in an underground bunker at the end of this valley. Said valley is GPS-jammed and defended by an extensive surface-to-air missile array serving a limited number of fifth-generation fighters, which in turn are backed up by a plentiful reserve of surplus aircraft. Even a few old F-14s.”
Mav is leaning over the table, eyes scanning over the projected map.
“What’s your read Captain?” Warlock asks into the silence. Mav snaps back into position.
“Well, sir, normally this would be a cakewalk for the F-35’s stealth, but the GPS-jamming negates that. And a surface-to-air threat necessitates a low-level laser-guided strike. Tailor-made for the F-18. I figure, two precision bombs, minimum. Makes it four aircraft flying in pairs. That is one hell of a steep climb out of there, exposing you to all the surface-to-air missiles. You survive that, it’s a dogfight all the way home.” Cyclone finds himself nodding along.
“All requirements for which you have real world experience”
“Not in the same mission, Sir.” Mav looks Cyclone right in the eyes, and his understanding settles over Cyclone’s shoulders like blanket of stones. “Someone’s not coming home.” He turns back to Warlock. “How soon before the plant becomes operational?”
“Three weeks, maybe less.”
Mav closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath. Cyclone notices the second wince.
“That’s not a lot of time, especially for a run like this.”
“We know. That’s why you’re here to teach it.”
“Teach?” His face does that thing where his eyes get huge and he looks a decade younger than Cyclone has ever known him.
“Iceman didn’t tell you?”
Half a shrug. “Came straight here.” Cyclone holds back an irritated growl, reminding himself of what little Ice could tell him about Mav’s previous assignment, and how it ended. Mav had probably had to spend extra time in medical before the transport, it was no wonder he hadn’t had time to stop at home. But that meant Cyclone was left to drop the bomb. He clicked the remote again.
“We’ve recalled 12 Topgun graduates from their squadrons.” The familiar faces spread across the screen. “We want you to narrow the pool down to six, who will fly this mission.”
Maverick takes a long, long moment, taking in the faces of his children, of his godson, before he closes his eyes and nods.
“Okay.”
“Is this going to be a problem, Captain?”
Green eyes are back on him, piercing through him and draining all the air out until he felt about two feet tall.
“What would you do Cy, if it was Cal or Amy up there?” The silence is a heavy, smothering blanket over the room.
Caleb’s still away at college, finishing out his first year. Beau couldn’t be more proud of him. Amelia’s only 14, but she grows more like her mother every day. It takes him a long, long time to say “My job.”
Maverick nods. “If the conflict’s been signed off, then I have no grounds to object.”
“Conflict?” Warlock apparently hadn’t been read in on the – unique - nature of this special detachment before arriving. It’s starting to look like Cyclone is the only one who had. The thought sits uncomfortably in his gut. He pulls forward the profiles for Phoenix, Hangman, and Rooster. “I was aware that Lieutenants Seresin and Bradshaw are mated, but…” he trails off. Cyclone looks at Maverick. The infuriating sparkle is back in his eyes and he jerks his head. He’s going to let Cyclone break the news. Fantastic.
“Lieutenants Natasha Trace and Jacob Seresin are siblings, they have chosen to serve under pseudonyms to avoid nepotistic influences, their legal surname is Kazansky-Mitchell.”
He leaves Warlock to process this revelation while he navigates to a new image and pulls it to the forefront. “This is Lieutenant Robert Floyd, callsign Bob.” Maverick snorts. Cyclone agrees, poor bastard. “He’s been tapped to be Lieutenant Trace’s new WSO.” Maverick is suddenly staring at the screen with more intensity than he had during the initial simulation. “Think she’ll like him?”
“Oh that’s not the question, he’s definitely her type.” There’s that damn grin again. His wife gets the same look every time Cal calls home now and talks about Thea in his chem 101 class. Lord save him.
“How can you tell?” He curses himself.
“I’m her mother, I can always tell.” Of course. Penny says the same thing, anytime she miraculously finds the solution to one of a million teenage strops. “Anyway, the question is, will he like her?” Yes, that was rather the question. Phoenix was a hard pilot to keep up with. She was a lot like her parents that way.
“Admiral Kazansky, who approved these candidates, seems certain he will.” The manic grin slides into something salacious. There. Serves the old bastard right for laying this whole mess in his lap like this. Pete won’t let his husband hear the end of it, and it is a joy to watch him tease the stoic alpha for being the gossiping little matchmaker he truly is deep in his heart. Not that he’s complaining. Without their combined meddling he wouldn’t have Penny, or their children. Which reminds him. “You’re all expected for dinner tomorrow, by the way. Penny’s orders.” She’ll want a debrief after Maverick’s run all the candidates through their paces and they have a more solid handle on their first impressions.
“I’ll make sure everyone showers after hops, then.”
Warlock finally chimes back in, likely aiming to end the meeting on a semi-professional note. Maverick inspires bad habits in all of them. “We’ll convene at 0800 tomorrow to go over training plan options and any proposals you may have.”
“Better make it 0730.” Maverick’s tone has shifted back to professionally serious. “I’ll need the extra half hour for a Team Mom meeting before intros at 0900.” Maverick always preferred to meet with all the omegas under his command, regardless of mated status. It’s a habit leftover from his first few commands after the repeal of the OSMAA (Omega Service Member Assigned Alpha) regulations. He knows how many horror stories Mav had had to live with in those early days, and how many were still crawling their way into the light. So Cyclone had sent out the orders accordingly; Lieutenants Floyd, Seresin, and Garcia would all be appearing on base at 0830, likely with Lieutenants Fitch, Bradshaw, and probably Trace, in tow. Half of them would be coming in the same car.
They all nod at each other, Maverick stands with another stifled grunt, snaps a salute, and leaves.
“Team Mom?” Warlock asks when the door has shut behind him.
“Captain Mitchell takes his OO duties very seriously, he’ll be meeting with all three omega lieutenants. My wife once compared it to our daughter’s girl scout troop, and the idea stuck.” The comment elicits a small chuckle. They shake hands and gather papers. Beau turns the lights off behind them. He skips his office and heads straight for the lot, catching the fading sound of a motorcycle’s roar as he gets into his car. Penny’s at the bar, so it’s just him on dinner-and-homework duty tonight. He likes to make it home on time. Amelia has her godfather’s penchant for mischief.