𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐓𝐎𝐏 𝐆𝐔𝐍: 𝐌𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊..
In mathematics, "unlimited" means having an infinite number of solutions to a given problem, but to Comandor Monica "Vampire" Sollomovici, the word was a lifestyle in itself, describing the steep...
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"IT MUST BE A BIG ONE," PETE declared for the fifth time since they left the hangar behind in order to speed on the highways, in Bradley's car. He was a messy driver, despite being a formidable pilot. Their destination had finally triggered that one last reminder though: a coastline military base opened up to their arrival, wide as the eyes could see, covering a good portion of the beach where training of new recruits ensued with the loudness of some of the most pesky resilience tests.
While neither of the men considered attire to be a restrictive factor to what was announced to be but a simple briefing on that sunny day, Bradshaw wore his beige uniform nonetheless. The late autumn weather was kind to their choice for winds blew from the beach, announcing through a faint scent a rather tumultuous evening, prisoner of storms.
Around Pete creaked his old leather jacket, heavy in patches, but either way, doing its job to keep him warm and surrounded by a familiar scent of confidence. By a pocket hung his sunglasses which were rendered rather meaningless once they stepped inside the main building, connected to the control towers and holding the offices of every important name in that base which, to at least Bradley's surprise, was not deserted, but in fact active still, with cadets in training.
But apart from this general assumption that whatever this mission involved it would be nothing easy, Pete didn't know what to expect. He walked cluelessly towards shock, through a front hallway, past portraits of two admirals that have been given command over this base of operations defending the coastline, then towards the stairs in the middle, wide enough to turn the entire inside of the building into an ovation to architecture. Wood blended with concrete so steps did not creak; Pete was several steps up that staircase already.
"I know this one...," Bradley mumbled in front of the portraits of admirals, staring pointedly at the one on his right. Inevitably, his attention dropped to the ribbons the older man was decorated with and recognized the ones for which he knew and remembered Admiral Charlie "Maddog" Horne, a legend from before the Cold War. Bradley observed down to the plaque beneath the portrait; though Maddog was going on his 90s now, he was still kicking apparently, fact that simply earned the Lieutenant's half bemused admiration for now.
You see, he knew another pilot that might still be refusing to stop working in his 90s. If he lived that long, that is.
Bradley turned his head to the side, seeking that said pilot, just in time to watch Pete almost stumble on the stairs by the sound of some voice which frankly, the first did not recognize, whilst the latter very much did.
"Maverick?"
It was impossible, Pete hoped to convince himself. It couldn't truly be her. It's been almost thirty years since he heard that voice; not only it would have been highly unlikely that he still remembered well enough the ghost of sound attached to some his more melancholic dreams of the past, but her presence there... After all this time... Impossible!
