𝘚𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 | A Top Gun Fanfiction

Chapter 17: 𝘍𝘢𝘪𝘭𝘶𝘳𝘦, 𝘍𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭, 𝘍𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵

The cockpit is Hell. The river of sweat running down my spine has seared my flight suit to my flesh. I can feel the hot press of the leather seat against my back and I squirm in my seat, anxious to get out. We're already in the air. Even if I tried, I'd never be able to force my way out of the canopy, so I content myself with shifting every now and then to escape the torturous heat and keep my eyes glued to the radars. In front of me, Dash is checking the dashboard and controls as well as the crystal blue skies. We float between puffy clouds, alone in the big blue. Our green dot flies solo. Maverick and Goose aren't on our side for this flight, and Dash gave me a harsh 'talking to,' so I'd know not to 'sympathize with the enemy.'

Like I give a damn about what he tells me to do.

"Clear skies."

I raise a brow.

Is this his way of making up for being a dickhead?

Small talk?

"Yeah," I drawl, "Niceeee and quiet."

Controls flick about.

"See anything?"

"Nope."

Dash is silent.

The peace is short-lived.

"I don't like this."

"You don't like a lot of things."

"And how would you know?" Dash snaps, venom drips from his voice as he cranes his neck, simulating the act of looking me in the eye when the bulk of his helmet and his seatbelt make that impossible. "You don't know anything about me. Whereas I know all sorts of shit about you. So just do your job. You heard what Viper said this morning. This flight helps tally us for the end of the year. You're already not a proper RIO so just read the damn radars and don't screw this up for me."

I clench my jaw. Screw this up for him?

Right. Because it's all about him.

"You're already not a proper RIO."

At least that much is true.

I direct my attention away from Dash and towards the radar resting against my lap. The Archer 1 pulses on the grid. Small, green, and insignificant. Right as I'm about to take a gander at the skies, two dots slide in behind us.

"Dash!"

He presses his head to the canopy, scanning the sky. "Where?!"

"On our six!"

The jet tips to the right, rolling like butter through the air. I gasp and grip the edges of my seat as we barrel out of the line of fire. Where the Hell are our wingmen? Wolfman and Sundown should've joined us forever ago, but they were launched later than the Archer 1 and I'm pretty sure they're not one of the two on our tail. The plummet stops and we jerk back, elevating. My stomach rises. It nooks itself under my racing heart as we lift through a patch of clouds. Then, we're still, back to cruising. I let out a strangled breath while Dash at the controls is panting. The radar reads us behind our two pursuers. I look back up, straining to see around Dash's gigantic head. Just ahead of us are two fighter jets. No doubt Maverick and Goose, and their unfortunate assigned wingmen; Iceman and Slider. I roll my eyes.

I can't even imagine which is worse:

Flying with Dash, or relying on Ice and Slider as wigmen?

"Where the Hell is Wolf," Dash growls.