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THREE
rookie mistakes
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☆.｡.:*　　.｡.:*☆

"ATTENTION on deck!"

At the command, all of the aviators stand upright in the air hangar-turned-classroom as a jet soars past the tall windows. A sea of tables have been set out in front of a podium, belittled by the colossal American flag hung behind it. Two men in light brown uniform walk in; one of them, Vice Admiral Beau 'Cyclone' Simpson, has a jaw set in stone and a pair of frosty eyes that are unforgiving. The other less intimidating one, Admiral Solomon 'Warlock' Bates, inspects the sea of pilots in front of him with an amused calmness. 'Hondo', the CW04, is also on standby.

Today, the training starts — but first and foremost comes the mystery of the mission, and discovering whoever their instructor will be. Celeste has to admit, Phoenix's question from yesterday still stays with her: Who the hell are they going to get to teach us?

"Good morning," says Warlock, stepping to the podium, "and welcome to your special detachment. You may be seated."

     The clatter of chairs is slim as the group descend into their seats. Celeste steals a glance at all the familiar faces around her — Quincy is sat next to her, as always, both of their spots filled with manuals and paperwork. At the very back is Luisa, sat with Tintin, and Ryan remains ice cold next to Hangman on the very front row. And then there's Bradley... much more subdued than his relaxed demeanour last night, it's like he is a whole different person once he steps onto a naval base. She recognises that instantly. A switch is flicked, his face suddenly heavy with responsibility and wariness.

     Celeste twists and fiddles with the lid of her pen, finding something to do as she focuses on the admiral speaking. "You're all TOPGUN graduates. The elite. The best of the best..." Warlock says, watching the faces of the pilots nod softly and even smile in agreement. Hangman is the biggest culprit, his smirk warped with arrogance. "That was yesterday," the admiral then adds, crushing the hopes of the pilots.

Inhaling through her nose, a frown of deep concentration becomes fixed on Celeste's face. At the front, Fanboy's smile fades, and is replaced with a lost expression of confusion.

"The enemy's new fifth generation fighter has levelled the playing field," Warlock explains gravely. "Details are few, but you can be sure we no longer possess the technological advantage. Success, now more than ever, comes down to the man or woman in the box..."

At this, Hangman looks back pointedly at Phoenix and Celeste sitting on the other side of the room; when they notice him, Celeste just rolls her eyes, while Phoenix subtly flips him the bird.

"... Half of you will make the cut. One of you will be named mission leader. And the other half will remain in reserve."

This time, Hangman glances behind him at Bradley, who seems to be trying everything in his power to ignore him — the knowing stare also pierces the back of the room towards Luisa. It hits her harder, flinching under the scrutiny even if it's just to gain a reaction. She stares down at the surface of the table, a muscle flaring in her jaw... a nerve has most certainly been hit.

"Your commander is a TOPGUN graduate, with real-world experience on every mission aspect you will be expected to master. His exploits are legendary, and he is considered to be one of the finest pilots this program has ever produced..."

At the sound of footsteps on the floor, Celeste can't help turn in her seat out of curiosity, to see who the commander walking in must be — but one glimpse of the man, and she swivels straight back around with wide eyes. One look was all she needed. The green jacket from yesterday, that familiar build, the face she saw being carried out of the bar...

She knows him very well.

"And what he has to teach you may very well be the difference between life and death," Warlock adds.

Great, Celeste thinks worriedly, I've never felt safer.

Reactions ripple through the room instantaneously. For Quincy, he seems to be the only positive one, simply smiling and shaking his head in awe at the sight. Luisa seems perplexed, if not a little worried, while Ryan's face hardens with immediate cynicism. Throughout the rest of the room, there are varying degrees of humiliation as the commander steps up to the podium — they all recognise him from the bar last night. Hangman, who Celeste seems to recall dubbing the man an 'old timer', freezes with a toothpick between gritted teeth, before cringing and pinching the bridge of his nose.

And then there is Bradley's reaction. If looks could kill...

"I give you, Captain Pete Mitchell. Call-sign: Maverick."

Maverick.

If someone had told Celeste yesterday that that man would be stepping up to this podium now, she would have laughed. But this is no laughing matter at all. Maverick Mitchell is their commander — the unpredictable, wild card pilot and surrogate uncle, who frequently sent her father into a cold sweat with his antics. She has so many questions: How the hell did he get recruited to instruct them? And what could Maverick possibly have to teach them, other than pissing off navy officials?

Quincy has always felt differently though. She knows it, just by looking at her brother. His eyes glow with a youthful admiration, unlike the other more dejected faces of the other pilots. He has always idolised Maverick... but why, Celeste has no clue.

However, the misconception mustn't be made that Celeste dislikes Maverick. That is hardly the case. Whenever he appeared in her childhood memories, he was always full of fun and recklessness, the kind that appealed to a small kid. She has ridden on his shoulders as a toddler, received birthday cards from him a few weeks late because of whatever crazy situation he'd gotten himself into. But one thing couldn't be denied, and that was that he was a fantastic pilot — Warlock is absolutely right about it. The twins and the other three childhood friends have seen it with their own eyes, leaving them staring at him with an awkward awareness.

"Good morning," Maverick greets them. God damn it, and with that signature smile of his, too.

Everyone just nods at him, and he steals some glances of recognition with the few aviators in particular, who he has seen since before they could crawl. Maverick stares at Bradley in particular — the younger pilot instantly rejects the visual greeting, not even willing to look at him. Was it always this hostile? Celeste thinks to herself. She's pretty sure it wasn't. Has she missed something? Then again, she and Bradley haven't spoken as frankly in a few years, not since their... lapse of judgement.

Hiding how it hurts him, Maverick holds up a thick binder in his hand. "The F-18 NATOPS," he identifies it, smacking the front cover. "Contains everything they want you to know about your aircraft. I'm assuming you know the book inside and out."

     "Damn right!"

     "Yeah."

     "Damn straight..."

     "You got it!"

     Maverick nods slowly, taking in all the confident outbursts across the room. Then, without batting an eyelid, he drops the manual into the trash can beside him with a loud thump. Celeste instantly rests her temple on her balled fist with a sigh, even more uneasy than before as the commander carefully watches the disheartened reactions of the pilots. Here we go...

     "So does your enemy," says Maverick. "But what the enemy doesn't know, is your limits. I intend to find them. Test them. Push beyond them. Today we'll start with what you only think you know. You show me what you're made of."

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

People say many things about Maverick Mitchell, but the word legend, or one of its synonyms, is usually in there somewhere. Often the term is used begrudgingly — but for Quincy, it has always been with the highest of respect.

His first memory of Maverick is, naturally, of him flying. Watching the way the jet tore through the sky, in a way so daring it seemed impossible, took Quincy's breath away. He had never known flying could be that free. It was Maverick, above all, who was the spark to ignite his ambition to become a pilot, and go to TOPGUN. Countless times he'd called the man he thought of as an uncle, either with a question or just to hear some of his stories. Warlock was right. His exploits were legendary.

Looking back, Quincy doesn't think his father took it very well. Manny was a man who liked rules, to play things safe, which was understandable — he'd worked in search-and-rescue much of his piloting career. He had seen a lot of things. Despite being close friends, he always got the impression that his dad was wary about Maverick and his influence on his son.

Maybe a lot of people thought that. But Quincy wasn't stupid. He doesn't want to get in danger, and maybe unlike Maverick, he is more aware of how to tread the fine line that cannot and should not be crossed.

Either way, he's going to find out what he is made of now.

The rec room is filled with most of the pilots, now fully in-gear as they wait to be called up to fly. Rooster, Payback and Fanboy are the first in the skies, and everyone now anxiously anticipates whatever Maverick has in store for them. Well, maybe anxiously is only the word used for a certain number of the people — only the ones who know exactly what he is capable of. Quincy is perched on a stool next to Phoenix, surrounded by his sister and childhood friends as they wait to hear the guys in the air on the radio.

     "I just don't get it," Ryan is shaking his head. "Why Maverick of all people?"

     "You heard Warlock, he's a shit hot pilot," Quincy replies honestly.

     "But he's a wild card. Unreliable, and therefore unsafe."

     "Our job isn't exactly safe when you look in the small print."

     "When have you ever looked at the small print?"

     "Touché."

     But he's right. To Quincy and the others, the question possibly going through Ryan's head is rather obvious, and more specific: Why did Iceman pick Maverick to be their commander? They all know the two men have been friends for decades now, but apparently during their time at TOPGUN, they butted heads on multiple occasions.

     "I don't think that's what we should be worrying about, anyway," Celeste pipes up. She's sat on the other bar stool, closest to the radio, with Bob stood next to her. "If they're bringing in someone like Maverick to be our commander, then what does that say about the mission? It must be pretty intense if he's the only one who can lead it."

     "You really think so?" Bob asks, glancing at the fellow WSO worriedly.

     "I know so."

     "Alright, but... how hard can today's training be?" Phoenix offers, shoulders dropping with self-confidence. "I mean, we are the best of the best."

     "We'll see about that..."

     Quincy just sighs at his sister's scepticism. Something Celeste has honed over the years as a WSO, and subsequently been praised for, is her ability to calculate the consequences a few steps ahead. She sees every risk, every triumph and the fall-out, which is why she can so confidently jump to a conclusion. At least, she calls it that... Quincy thinks of it more as controlled pessimism. But he does have to admit, it also makes Celeste the perfect impulse control for her adrenaline junkie of a brother in the front seat.

     "Hey, look on the bright side," he nudges her. "That also means we have the upper hand. We know how Maverick flies. Maybe we can use that to our advantage."

     Right on cue, Maverick's voice pierces through the pilots' banter on the radio: "Good morning, aviators! This is your captain speaking. Welcome to basic fighting manoeuvres," he says, his smile audible through his voice. "As briefed, today's exercise is dogfighting. Guns only, no missiles. We do not go below the hard deck of 5,000 feet. Working as a team, you have to shoot me down, or else..."

     "Or else what, sir?" asks Payback.

     "... Or else I shoot back. If I shoot either one of you down, you both lose."

     "This guy needs an ego check," Hangman, of all the people least qualified to say that, remarks. Celeste squints at him from her stool, as if to say, Really?

     "Take a look in the mirror, dude..." Quincy mutters under his breath.

     "Don't get Hangman to do that," Luisa fires back quickly, "or he might never look away again."

     "So what do you say we put some skin in the game?" Payback offers.

     "What do you have in mind?"

     "Whoever gets shot down first has to do 200 push-ups."

     "Guys..." Rooster interjects, sounding instantly wary. Perhaps he already knows how this is going to go.

     Even Quincy has to cringe at that one, but it doesn't begin to amount to Celeste's dread. If it were up to her, she would probably throw the radio against the wall out of frustration. He knows most of his colleagues (and, admittedly, himself) carry an air of self-confidence and cockiness, because they know they're good. But with Maverick... time and time again, Quincy has learned that it's much harder to compete with him. Celeste might be onto something — they are getting their asses handed to them today.

     "That's a lot of push-ups," says Maverick.

     "They don't call it an exercise for nothing, sir!" Fanboy cheerily adds.

     "Famous last words..." Celeste mumbles.

     "You've got yourselves a deal, gentlemen," Maverick replies. "Fight's on. Let's turn and burn!"

     To give credit where it's due, Celeste's predictions are absolutely spot-on for most of the training. In barely any time at all, Maverick has shot down Rooster — one he took for the team, completely characteristic of him — and left him doing an agonising 200 push-ups on the tarmac. Some of the pilots stand and watch him while the next group goes out, the contempt bubbling away through him as Hondo barks at him to keep going. Payback and Fanboy walk up to the window, a little more beaten down than before, as the latter says how it should be them down there.

"But it's not..." says Phoenix. "And now you know a little something about Rooster."

Maverick continues to humble all the pilots equally. The next group that goes out are especially cocky, taking a selfie in front of Rooster, only to be back down on the tarmac themselves within the hour. Phoenix and Bob get shot down just as fast, no thanks to Hangman ditching them — he let everyone hanging out to dry. But even he gets what he deserves, paying the price when Maverick gets him alone and soon doing his fair share of push-ups too. Luisa, Tintin and Coyote also suffer the same fate, and after their round of push-ups they return exhausted.

"Enjoy your push-ups, Athena?" Hangman comments.

"Oh, shut up, you had to do the same," Luisa fires back; but even then it always has a softness around the edges. She walks sore-limbed over to the stools again, taking a seat next to Bob. "I'll bet he was a joy to fly with," she says, nudging his arm gently.

"Yeah... I've had better wingmen," Bob admits quietly with a shrug.

     "It'd almost be easier to fly without him."

     "Could be worse, of course. You could be his WSO instead," Tintin points out, which makes Bob and Celeste cringe.

     Bradley just stays silent throughout it all, having finished his push-ups a while ago. His expression has been unwaveringly tense ever since he walked back in — he watches the radio like a hawk, getting more and more irritated every time Maverick manages to shoot another pilot down. Quincy glances over at his sister, and knows she's thinking the same thing. What happened? He can't figure out what the hell is wrong between the two of them. Even before they all took off, most of the pilots caught the strained exchange between Bradley and Maverick on the tarmac. They used to be so close...

     Quincy wonders whether he should ask Celeste later. After all, she's always known Bradley the best.

     Before they can all get too comfortable, a voice is calling out for the last group of the day:

"Lynx, Bullseye, Cosmo: you're up!"

     "Alright!" Quincy hops up from his seat, the words leaving his mouth not matching his enthusiasm as he exclaims, "Who's ready to get their asses handed to them?"

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

"Any sign of Maverick yet?"

Pivoting in the back seat, Cosmo presses her hand to the glass and searches for any glimpse of their commander. The WSO looks for him in the skies, and then the stretch of desert below. But the space is empty of Maverick... and that makes her nervous. "Nothing yet," she finally replies to her brother, "and he isn't showing up on radar either. He's either gone AWOL, or he's somewhere behind us."

     "I don't like this at all," Lynx complains. Even from one cockpit to another, hidden behind a helmet and oxygen mask, the younger Kazansky's distaste is clear.

     "Me neither," Bullseye deadpans, "I forgot to wear my lucky socks today."

     "I'm being serious."

     "Like you always are. Come on, man, what did I say earlier? We've got the advantage here. We can take him."

     "I never said we couldn't take Maverick. I just think there could have been a million other commanders more suitable than him."

     "Guys, can we concentrate? Please?" Cosmo pleads. She doesn't want to add that her brother's theory has already failed twice, sending Rooster and Athena to do their push-ups on the tarmac.

     "Now, where the hell is—"

     A wave of force being shifted like the tide rocks the F-18s, their commander soaring right between them from behind. "Shit!" Cosmo cries, hand against the glass as she glares at him soaring above them. Maverick starts a steep climb up towards the sun, so they have to squint to see his plane like a holy shadow.

"You were talking about me?" Maverick still manages to grin, even under the Gs he's pulling.

     "Only good things, old man," Bullseye fires back.

     "Old and experienced, I think you'll find."

    "Why don't we put that to the test?" Lynx challenges, with an air of self-reassurance like he knows what he's doing.

     Maverick chortles over the comms, then replies, "Oh, it's on."

     Turning back down again, he starts descending with both of the F-18s right in his line of fire. The trio instantly kick into gear — Cosmo settles into the adrenaline with a heartbeat, all her doubt washing away. Her brother has suddenly turned things up a notch, the way he usually does in the skies when he means business... and once he does that, the Sterlings are unstoppable. And with Lynx as their wingman, cool and calculated, perhaps they may actually stand a chance against Maverick.

     "Break right, Bullseye!"

     "You got it! Breaking right," he obeys Lynx's command, the F-18 soaring to the right while the other one breaks left in a defensive split. It gives Maverick only one target to follow, that fate befalling the Sterlings.

     Twisting in her seat, Cosmo spots Maverick right behind them, despite Bullseye's best efforts to manoeuvre away. "Bullseye, he's right on our tail!" she taps the glass, swivelling back to look at her radar.

     "Hang in there, I'm coming," Lynx says coolly, circling back around Maverick this time. But the commander keeps manoeuvring his jet so much that . "I've almost got him... just hold on..."

     "Remember, man, 200 push-ups!" Bullseye reminds him between breaths.

     "Just give me a second! He's moving so much... I can't... shit, I'm off."

     If he wasn't off before, he definitely is now — Maverick is closing in on the Sterlings, leaving little breathing room. "Alright, Cosmo, you gotta be my eyes for me," Bullseye yells back to his WSO, deep in concentration. "Where we at?" She takes on the responsibility completely willingly, her stare sharp as she looks behind at their commander.

     She starts giving her brother instructions based upon Maverick's movements, however unpredictable they are. The F-18 manages to out-manoeuvre and dodge his line of fire for a while, even saving Lynx once or twice. Cosmo feels a bubble of confidence grow in her chest, warm and crackling with adrenaline. This is where Bullseye shines the brightest — tumbling through the skies at whatever cost to avoid the enemy. And when he does get his target, he never misses... they just need to get behind Maverick. For a while, it looks like they are losing him, and the Sterlings get hopeful.

     "I think we can go into the offensive on Maverick if we turn now," Cosmo says.

     "Got it," says Bullseye, turning the jet so that their commander is unable to stay inside their turn.

     But he's smarter than that. Cosmo should have known. While her brother has already committed to the turn, Maverick pulls up high, coming over the top inverted. She foresees the sequence of events that should follow and panics. It's a manoeuvre that is incredibly difficult to execute, but of course Maverick could do it — even now, she can see his helmet stare down at them from above through his inverted canopy. Indeed, Cosmo had completely misjudged what his next move was going to be.

     Big mistake.

     "Oh, shit!" Cosmo cries, her radar blipping away. "Tally, tally! Eleven o'clock!"

     "Crap!" Bullseye realises their commander is on their tails, and sliding impeccably into a firing position. But before they can evade him, the disheartening shrill tone of being targeted sounds through their F-18.

     "That's a kill," Maverick says. "But good job. That's the longest any group has lasted up here. Now, get back to base and work on those push-ups..."

     Back on the tarmac, the setting sun leaves a golden lining around all the parked jets. Sweat glistens on the bodies of Celeste, Quincy and Ryan as they grit their teeth through their push-ups. Hondo is there to monitor them, making sure no corners are cut. Celeste's muscles burn with the repetition, her stare burning into the hot tarmac beneath her hands.

"134... 135... 136..." Hondo chants, enjoying this very much.

"I'm gonna kill him..." Ryan mutters through gritted teeth, his blonde hair flopping into his face. He has to puff it out of his eyes every few seconds, irritating him more.

"Who, Hondo?" Quincy questions. "What did he ever do to you?"

"No, Payback. For these push-ups... remind me to strangle him when we get back inside."

"Noted," Celeste pants. Maybe he can buy me an ice bath with the money he still owes, she thinks.

They pump out a few more push-ups, each aviator as grumpy as the other. On their 150th one, Quincy remarks, "But hey... at least we lasted the longest in the air. Next time, we'll get him. See how the old man likes his push-ups."

"It's my fault."

At Celeste's outburst, Quincy looks over at her, while Ryan is still concentrating on his battle with gravity over his hair. "Wait, what?" he asks his sister, "What do you mean?"

"I should've seen it coming..." she scolds herself, pumping on the push-ups a little harder. "I should've realised he was going to pull something like that."

"Hey, just relax. A high speed yo-yo's always difficult to get out of."

"But we wouldn't have been in one if I'd told you different—"

"Easy, Cosmo. You're going a little fast..." Hondo calms her down, before resuming the counting.

"Celeste, you gotta relax," Quincy says earnestly, managing a patient glance at her between push-ups.

"If it bothers you that much," says Ryan, "you can look back in the manual. You know, to refresh your memory on the fighting manoeuvres."

"Maverick said we're not going by the book," Celeste reminds him. Besides, studying the book would be no use for her. It's tattooed in her memory. The thought that eats away inside her is this — she failed. When it came down to it, on the first day of training, she was shot down. Even if everyone else had suffered the same fate, getting 'shot down' by Maverick quicker than they did, it still laid a burden of self-criticism heavy on her shoulders.

     For Celeste, all this goes deeper than one small mistake. So much deeper.

     "Well, we all know why we really didn't win up there..." Quincy sighs, his eyes glazing over.

     The other two wait for his response, taken aback by how serious he suddenly seems. They would almost stop their push-ups, if it weren't for Hondo watching them like a hawk, relishing in every push-up and complaint of theirs. Finally, Quincy does a little shrug, even with his aching shoulders, and replies:

     "... Should've worn my lucky socks!"

     A muscle in Ryan's jaw ticks as he tiredly snaps, "Quince, I swear to God—"

     "Come on, only 35 more to go!" Hondo interjects, strolling around them slowly with a grin. "166... 167... 168..."

☆.｡.:*　　.｡.:*☆

AUTHOR'S NOTE

i've got a bit of a love/hate relationship with this chapter, because it felt kind of technical to write and so i feel like some description/imagery was sacrificed for getting stuff right. also i've been very busy and, as of the last day or two, feeling a bit rough while writing this chapter... but i couldn't resist publishing it anyway.

all of that aside, though, i've written my first flying scene! grateful for the wikipedia page on basic flight manoeuvres that i found last minute, it was an absolute godsend. i'm going to have to ask that you suspend reality a bit when it comes to the physics of some things, so let's just call it ✨movie magic✨

i'm glad this chapter is out of the way though, because the next one is more interesting i think. expect more character exploration, including more bradley/celeste (there wasn't much in this chapter) and then the first ryan POV, along with meeting (my interpretation) of the kazansky family!

──

published: february 13th, 2023