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NINE
coffin corner
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THE sun stabs the hallway in shards of blinding light, the heat baking on Celeste and her fellow WSOs in patches as they walk down it. On their way to the briefing for today's training exercise, Fanboy is busy talking Bob's ear off about something that happened last night — she has honestly been out of the loop — when Quincy catches up beside her. As always, he bobs along with an energy she certainly knows she didn't inherit.

     "So," her brother begins, "just under two weeks until the mission."

"Why'd you have to say it like that..." Celeste fights the anxious knot of her gut in her stomach.

"Are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

But even Celeste has to admit, in the sea of her own doubts and apprehension, that she's feeling more optimistic about the mission than ever. The teamwork has certainly improved between the pilots, which is always crucial. Despite Maverick's unorthodox and rigorous training, she has felt herself become more accustomed to his methods — she finds herself navigating the barrel rolls and sharp turns in her sleep.

"Why, are you ready?" she teases her brother.

"Oh, I'm ready, man," Quincy bounces on his heels. "Just put me in one of those jets right now, I'm ready to whoop some ass up there."

"Oh, Jesus..."

"And hey —" her brother adds, nudging her gently with a wink, "— I wouldn't wanna fly this mission with anyone else."

Celeste tries to hide just how much Quincy's words hit her. She doesn't think of herself as someone too sentimental; when it comes to her brother, however, they share the same blood and practically the same heartbeat. It is safe to say the feeling is mutual — she has tried flying with a couple of different front-seaters before, but it's never been the same. Celeste gives him a small nod, pursing her lips into a smile, and that's all he needs to know.

     Nevertheless, they're soon pulled out of the moment when Luisa walks by. It's not so much her, but what she does. Breezing by with a weightlessness Celeste hasn't seen her have in a while, she grins at them and brightly says, "Hi!" — but wait... the greeting was definitely directed more at someone. She follows the girl's gaze to Bob, who seems a little less shy than usual as he says hello back, the corners of his mouth tugged up in a smile.

     Quincy turns back to Bob, tongue-in-cheek as he chuckles. "... What was that?"

     "What? Nothing."

     "Come on, what've you done to Lu?"

     At this, Fanboy leans in and whispers excitedly, "They went on a date."

     "I– it wasn't a date!" Bob stammers, blushing uncontrollably. "We just talked, that was... that was all."

     The subject is left at that, except for Fanboy leaning back to meet Celeste's eyes, and mouthing to her: "I'll tell you later," complete with a boyish grin. Celeste just tuts and rolls her eyes. Sometimes she finds it hard to believe that all these guys are the same people flying complex aircraft for the navy — boys will be boys, she supposes. Though she has to admit, she is curious about what just happened, for the fact that she hasn't seen Luisa look this laid-back in years.

Celeste is about to follow the others into the rec room when she bumps shoulders with another aviator. "Oh, sorry—"

"I didn't mean—"

Both of them cut their apologies short once they meet eyes. Bradley flinches apologetically, seemingly casting his mind back to a couple of nights ago... the one they have mutually not mentioned since. Celeste had told herself that the conversation had been shelved, along with the feelings attached. It took bumping into him once to shake them all back out again. Instead of addressing them, though, she scrapes them together haphazardly and hides them in the shadows until further notice.

     "After you," Bradley steps back and lets her walk through.

     Celeste nods politely, feeling her stare burn into the carpet of the rec room. The atmosphere is decidedly more friendly than it has been recently — she even swears she sees Hangman having a friendly conversation with Tintin. She locates Quincy in the room, sinking into her seat and removing her notes and pencil case from beneath her arm. Once she finds a clean page, it takes everything in her power to focus on the board in front of her... and not Bradley, his seat directly in-line with hers on the other side of the aisle.

     But as a few beats pass, she notices the strained expressions on the faces of her superiors. Cyclone and Warlock look somber, while Maverick stands more weighed down by the stakes than usual. What's going on? Leaning towards Quincy, she whispers subtly: "Warlock looks tense. What do you think's up?"

     Quincy shrugs, though he looks perplexed too. "Nothing good for our mission, probably... unless he ate something bad last night."

     Celeste scoffs with a shake of her head, leaning back again. Right on cue, Warlock steps up to the podium and the other aviators fall silent, awaiting his words.

"Good morning..." Warlock begins cautiously, before cutting to the chase. "The uranium enrichment plant that is your target will be operational earlier than expected. Raw uranium will be delivered to the plant in ten days time."

Well, shit, are the first two words that tattoo themselves in her mind. The news ripples through the room, aviators exchanging equally doubtful glances — Celeste finds her own drawn to Bradley first, of all people. They can't help it. Bradley seems completely thrown off by the news. Of course she is too, but she's always known that he prefers playing things safe and predictable. Having the mission altered unannounced is arguably his worst nightmare.

Surely enough, Warlock goes on to deliver the punchline:

"As a result, your mission has been moved up one week, in order to avoid contaminating the target valley with radiation."

Shit, shit, shit. One whole week? The idea of trimmed-down time wallops Celeste with an ounce of self-doubt. Judging by their lack of progress so far, how on Earth will they be prepared enough for this mission in a week's time?

Coyote goes on to voice this fear of hers. "Sir, no one here has successfully flown a low level course."

"Nevertheless, you have been ordered to move on."

And that's that. Celeste glances over at her brother, who is puffing out an exasperated breath. It feels like they're skating on very thin ice here — Maverick's intensive training was one thing, but condensing all these new skills into now one week feels near impossible. Though she knows her commander probably hates that word. He exchanges places with Warlock at the podium, his expression serious as he gestures to the digitalised images behind him.

"We have one week left to focus on Phase Two," Maverick tells them gravely. "It's the most difficult phase of the mission. It's a pop strike with a steep dive requiring nothing less than two consecutive miracles."

Two pairs of F-18s, he explains, will have to fly in a welded wing formation, in which they will have to invert directly into a steep dive to keep low altitude and hit a target with an impact point less than three metres wide. The first team — or the first miracle, as Maverick puts it — is responsible for dropping the first bomb. The two-seater aircraft will paint the target with a laser bullseye, followed by their wingman dropping a laser-guided bomb onto the exposed ventilator hatch, hence creating an opening for the second pair.

     "That's Miracle Number One..." says Maverick.

     Celeste's shoulders go rigid with apprehension, her mind already trying to calculate the narrow perimeters of success with Phase Two. 'Miracles' are certainly good words to describe them.

     The second team will carry the responsibility of delivering the kill-shot, destroying the target — Miracle Number Two. If either team misses the target, the mission is a failure. End of story.

     But, as always, there is more to it.

     "Egress is a steep, high-G climb out to avoid hitting this mountain," Maverick gestures to the animated re-creation behind him, depicting two F-18s climbing the heights of the mountainside with unfathomable steepness.

     "A steep climb at that speed?" Hangman pipes up, voice laced with uncharacteristic concern. "You're pullin' at least 8 Gs."

     He had spoken exactly what is going through Celeste's mind.

     "9, minimum," Maverick clarifies.

     "The stress limit of an F-18's airframe is 7.5," Bradley interjects factually.

     "That's the accepted limit. To survive this mission, you'll pull beyond that. Even if it means bending your airframe."

     Maverick goes on to remind them exactly how unforgiving the Gs will feel — they'll be pulling so hard, that they will weigh close to 200 pounds. Their skull crushing their spine. Their lungs imploding like an elephant sitting on their chest. The fight just to keep themselves from blacking out will be an almighty struggle...

     Just thinking about it, Celeste feels short of breath. Even Quincy, a cocky virtuoso pilot, seems humbled by the whole prospect.

     "And this is where you'll be at your must vulnerable," their Captain tells them. "This... is coffin corner."

     Because a nasty surprise awaits them once — or honestly, if — they make it up that mountainside. Assuming they haven't crashed into the mountain, they will be climbing up straight into enemy radar while losing all their airspeed. Within seconds, they will be fired upon by enemy SAMs.

     Maverick turns back from the board, a grim expression on his face. "You've all faced sustained Gs before, but this... this is gonna take you and your aircraft to the breaking point."

     "Sir, is this even achievable?" Phoenix asks from the front.

     "The answer to that question will come down to the pilot in the box."

Quincy swallows thickly, his chest inflating with wobbly self-encouragement — Celeste knows it takes a lot to shake her brother's optimism. She, on the other hand, is the first to be squeezed with doubt that this will ever work... especially for her.

     The squad soon discover who their teams are, which are coming to resemble the ones they'll stick with for the mission. Celeste and Quincy share a two-seater jet, as always... and of course their wingman is Rooster. As fate would have it, Bradley Bradshaw's childhood promise has remained unbroken.

     Everyone waits anxiously in the rec room, overhearing the radio exchanges as the first team goes up — Lynx, paired with Athena and Tintin — and tries to perform the two miracles. Theirs is the only the first of many, many downfalls in this training session. From what Celeste hears, they miss the target by a long shot, and after the body-crushing ascent against immense Gs, they soared straight into the enemy's line of fire. Hearing the failures over and over again is like a broken record, even when it's Hangman and his team.

     Celeste rubs her fingertips on the nape of her neck, brushing her immaculate military bun anxiously. Three words keep playing on a loop in her head:

     One week left.

     One week left.

     One week left.

     So instead of despairing, she tries to be productive. As time passes, Celeste hunches over her notepad, scribbling down calculations and amending them as she goes along. She refers to the instructions Maverick gave about the mountain's incline, and the angle they would be coming in at to the target. From there, she estimates roughly what she should be doing when it's their turn in the air — that way, they can all think less and hit the target with a bit of luck.

     There is little time to spare for mistakes. She wants to get it right.

     First, she goes to her brother to compare notes. Quincy is massaging his eyes tiredly when Celeste scoots over to him. "Hey, Quince," she taps his shoulder, "check these out... do they look right?"

     He hunches over the pad and squints at it, before shaking his head in defeat. "Shit, I don't know. I learned long ago not to question your math... what's this for?"

     "I figured it could help us hit the target. But I mean, that's all good and fine on paper, but you heard Maverick... it comes down to the pilot in the box. You think you could help me out here?"

"I sure can try," Quincy smiles back.

She returns the expression, only more half-hearted and nerve-ridden. Her brother nods over to Bradley sitting a couple of seats down. Celeste sends him a telepathic signal — as if to say "Alright, you win, I'll talk to him" — before caving in. She moves down a couple of seats next to where he is, having been sat in silence next to the radio most of the time. His arms are folded across his chest in the table, his shoulders slumped and his brows pinched in concentration. Cast in shadow by the sun pouring in like this, Bradley seems sharper around the edges.

"Hey," she says quietly.

"Hey..." Bradley shifts his gaze up carefully, before it drops back to the radio. Coyote, Phoenix and Bob have just taken off for their turn.

"Can I... show you something?"

Celeste slides across the notepad to him, pointing to and explaining her calculations. He stays quiet most of the time, just nodding now and then to acknowledge her words. Their shoulders grazing, Bradley then turns his head to her curiously. "So, you really think this could work?" he asks.

"No," she scoffs, "but I hope it does. I'm just... tired of failing."

"At what?"

"C'mon, you know..."

"You're not a failure," he shakes his head stubbornly. "And this plan... it's great."

"Well, we don't know that it works yet," Celeste points out.

"So I guess we'd better do everything we can to make sure it does."

She chuckles, nudging his shoulder lightly with hers, so he sways on his seat slightly. Bradley is still smiling, the sun casting a golden lining around his side profile — he has softened up now. Celeste can feel his eyes on her, searching for a way to express what he wants to. For a minute, she forgets there is anyone else in the room with them.

"Listen, I'm sorry about the other night—"

"Bradley, please... it can wait," Celeste insists. "Let's just focus on training for now. Okay?"

He nods curtly, swallowing his feelings and letting them sit like a rock in his stomach. So they pay attention to the radio instead, where Coyote, Phoenix and Bob are now going to attempt the two miracles — they are the penultimate team of the day. And if that placement said anything about climaxes, boy was it one. They failed to hit the target, just like everyone else, and hit the steep ascent as instructed...

But that was when Coyote failed to respond. Succumbing to the forces, he had slipped momentarily into G-LOC — a deadly predicament for any pilot to find themselves in. An unconscious pilot in the cockpit never ends well. After frantic attempts to wake him up, Maverick targeted his jet and uses the tone to rouse Coyote back to consciousness, making him pull up just in time. Just when they thought that was enough drama for the day, Phoenix and Bob narrowly dodged a bird strike in their engine, which could have been catastrophic. Everyone releases a breath they didn't know they were holding once their team touches the tarmac again...

It certainly isn't the omen you want before it's your turn going up in the air.

Still, the inevitable call comes, and it's the last team's turn — Rooster, Bullseye and Cosmo.

     And while Celeste has never felt untouchable, she certainly doesn't go in expecting the worst.

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"Rooster, we'd better hurry, we're 10 seconds late on target!" Cosmo instructs from the back-seat.

     "We'll get there, alright?" Rooster replies cautiously, "Just stick with me on this..."

From the back seat of her F-18, she shakes her head and lets her glance fall down to the radar. Her skin tingles with the possibility of finally getting something right here — and then, right on cue, an oncoming green blip on the screen crushes her hopes. "Shit, who's this now?" Cosmo mutters. Pivoting in her seat, she presses her hand to the glass canopy and squints at the approaching F-18 in the distance. It takes her one begrudged guess to know who it is.

"I'm a bandit on course to intercept," Maverick announces coyly. "Green team, what're you gonna do? Rooster... you're team leader, it's your call."

"Maybe we could take him in a dogfight—"

"But we're so close!" Cosmo protests, "We have a target to hit. We'll be even more vulnerable if we stay behind and alert them of our position."

"Would you rather have a bunch of bandits on our tail after we hit the target?"

"Better than letting those SAMs get us in one hit."

Maverick cuts in at this point. "What about Bullseye? Do you copy?"

It's a good question, actually — her brother has been uncharacteristically quiet in the front-seat ever since they took off. It takes him a second to notice that he's been addressed, before he starts fumbling for the words. "I th– the target's right... we should... huh..."

"I'm sorry, man, I can't understand a word you're saying..." Rooster's voice is apologetic over the radio.

"Go, just... go!" Bullseye finally manages to get out.

Cosmo is left perplexed in the back seat. Moments before they begin the inverted dive to the target, her hands linger on her oxygen mask attached to her face — something feels off about this. And if that's the case, she needs him to communicate that. "Bullseye," she asks firmly, trying not to sound too doubtful, "is everything okay up th—"

"Now!"

She's cut off abruptly, the jet turning her upside down sharply so the canopy shows her a view of the ground. In Bullseye's case, his inverted dive is rather sloppy, not giving her great room to aim at the target. But Cosmo doesn't have a second to waste — she is instantly focused on aiming the kill shot at the small box on the ground below.

     "Cosmo, you ready with that laser?" Rooster asks.

     "I'm trying!" she barks through gritted teeth.

"We're running out of time here!"

That's rich, coming from you, Cosmo barely has time to think about him. Suddenly, there is hope. "I've got a lock, Rooster! Go for it."

"I'm on it!"

Right on cue, Rooster drops the laser-guided bomb on the target, and the moment of truth is upon them... time seems to slow down as Cosmo watches it soar towards the target. Had she been completely wrong? If they miss, she at least hopes they're close.

Then, an explosion on the ground. The debris of the minuscule white box scattered around the dirt. An ecstatic cheer from Rooster over the radio.

"Holy shit! That's a bullseye!" he laughs in victory.

"Wait, really?" Cosmo utters in disbelief, as if she didn't just see the perfect hit with her own eyes.

They did it. They did it.

The only team to succeed in hitting the target today.

Now they just need to get out of coffin corner alive — thankfully, this time it's only a hypothetical.

A split second later after the target's hit, it is time to pop into the egress. Bullseye pulls up a second later than their wingman, but when he does, the force on them is almighty — Cosmo can instantly feel all the weight pushing down on her like a vice. Even with her oxygen mask, she finds herself struggling for breath. She envisions all her bones trembling under the force in her body, her organs screaming for relief. The corners of her vision shift in and out of focus, blackness creeping into the edges no matter how she tries to fight it.

Just hold on... just a little longer...

The sound of tone brings her back — it's from Rooster.

"That's a kill!" Maverick announces.

"Shit, he's got missile lock on me!" Rooster's voice barely gets out, breathless and strained from the steep climb.

"Green team, you hit the target, but I'm afraid that's still a fail. Level out."

Their wingman does as instructed, but the Sterlings continue to hover through the air. Cosmo blinks away the fuzziness from her eyes, adjusting to being level again — her front-seater still does not respond. "You heard him, Bullseye, level out..." she says pragmatically. Once again, Bullseye does not reply. There's just slurred murmurs and pants from the cockpit. A seed of dread plants itself in her stomach.

"Bullseye, do you copy?" Maverick repeats. "What's going on in there, Cosmo?"

"I– I don't know... something feels wrong," she replies. Removing her oxygen mask, she leans forward in her seat as close as she can to her brother. "Quincy, what's going on?"

Suddenly the jet jolts, wobbling with a lack of control. The WSO gasps and clips her oxygen mask back on, clinging to her seat for dear life. This does not feel good at all.

"Quincy, talk to me!"

"I can't... feel m'arm..."

"What?"

"My arm..."

"Guys, what's going on in there?" It's Rooster's voice this time, his breath held with worry and caution.

Then the unthinkable happens. Like slipping on ice, gravity starts to do its work. With Quincy's hands slipped from the controls, the F-18 has nothing left to hold it up — and the only way now is down. Celeste's stomach does somersaults against the forces pulling her every which way as they begin to plummet, down, down, down towards the ground. It feels like slow motion at first, the penny not quite dropping that they're in a free fall...

But the next thing she knows, they suddenly don't feel like two trained aviators anymore — just a brother and sister trapped in a falling scrap of metal.

"Bullseye! Bullseye, do you copy? Level out!" Maverick starts barking orders, voice tight with urgency.

Celeste's hands are pressed desperately to the canopy glass like a zoo animal — outside, the world spins and spins, rattling her skull and the blood in her body. At the front, Quincy is helpless to do anything, still conscious but locked away inside to be able to respond. "I can't see, I can't see!" he starts panicking aloud.

This is not G-LOC. There's no time to diagnose anything, except that it's something much worse.

Faster, faster, faster.

The numbers on her screen indicating altitude run away from her like the wind.

     "Altitude: 6000, 5000, 4000!"

It hits her like a lightning bolt then — with terrifying certainty, the world spinning nauseatingly around them, that this is it. They are going to die. Without some quick action, they are hurtling towards their imminent deaths.

"Mayday, mayday, mayday!" Celeste cries, adrenaline roaring through her ears, "Bullseye's incapacitated, we've lost control! Altitude dropping rapidly!"

     "You're heading for the mountainside!" says Rooster, panicked.

"QUINCY! 3000 feet!"

     "Cosmo, it's too late to level out!" Maverick commands, "You'll both have to eject!"

     Pinned to her seat, she gasps and claws desperately to find the ejection handle — the absolute last resort. Their altitude continues to drop horrifyingly fast, and Celeste prepares to ditch the aircraft. But then a realisation hits her like a ton of bricks; an invisible wall preventing her from pulling the handle. Quincy can't reach his handle. And if she goes...

     She can't. Not without him.

     But there's no time.

     In the next few seconds, it all unfolds so rapidly.

     "Quincy, listen to me! You have to pull the ejection handle!"

     "I... I'm trying!"

     "Cosmo, eject! That is an order!"

     "QUINCY! PULL THE HANDLE, NOW!"

     "You two are running out of time here!"

     "CELESTE!" Bradley's scream rattles through her headset.

     "DO IT!!"

     With a window of mobility that hits Quincy, he forces his arms up to the controls and tries his best to recover the free fall slightly, before hollering the first words he's been able to speak properly in a minute:

     "EJECT, EJECT, EJECT!"

     Hearing this, Celeste finally yanks her ejection handles the split second she sees Quincy able to reach his. They lift their visors up and remove their oxygen masks. She tucks her knees and arms into herself as tightly as possible. A sudden roar of air encompasses her as the canopy blows off, roaring in her ears mercilessly — she affords a quick glance up to check it lifted off completely.

     Then she clenches her eyes shut and hopes for the best. The rockets beneath her seat explode and blast her up, up, up into the air...

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

WELL THAT WAS STRESSFUL

... so it's safe to say after that cliffhanger, i'll try and work on the next chapter as soon as i can 😬 sorry to keep you guys hanging!

what do you think went wrong in those final moments?? it's certainly going to have a huge impact on the story going forward.

(i don't want to detract from the tension of this chapter too much in the author's note, but just a heads up: i tried my best to research lots for this chapter when it came to calculating Gs and ejecting, however i'm not sure how accurate it was in the end. all i'm asking is to suspend reality a little bit when it comes to the technical stuff... also originally in the movie, phoenix and bob actually suffer a bird strike and have to eject, but i toned it down for this chapter because A: it might've detracted from the tension of the ending, and B: i somehow doubt they'd let another team go up in the air after that incident? or is that just me?)

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published: may 28th, 2023