Below The Hard Deck | A Top Gun Fanfiction

CHAPTER XVII

To say that Maverick has a history of pushing his luck when it comes to authority would be the understatement of the century. That man sees a line and not only crosses it, but leaps over it and continues running. Despite the fact that such a quality has frequently caused him to make a string of bad choices, there are times where it's been necessary to ensure the best path is taken. This is one of those times.

The plan is simple. Cyclone and I are going to give the morning briefing just like normal. Luckily for us, the screens and radios we use to listen in on the recruits happen to be in the same room. With the main obstacle distracted, Mav is going to take off, telling anyone who asks that he wants to double check the layout of the course and scare off any potential flocks of birds before the pilots run it later today. He'll do the simulation, prove the original plan can be done, get put back on the mission, and we'll all ride happily into the sunset. That, or the two us will get court-martialed, dishonorably discharged, possibly sent to jail, and the mission will stay on its newly-chartered course, dooming the recruits to a practically impossible suicide run.

No pressure.

"Good morning," Cyclone starts from his position beside me. If I wasn't a ball of nerves, the complete lack of enthusiasm from all the recruits would be amusing. Not one of them looks happy to be here today. Even Bob, who I struggle to believe has the capacity to feel a negative emotion, has a frown firmly engraved on his face. "The mission is just two days away. We've narrowed down potential pairings and will be testing to see how you work as a group of four."

My toe taps anxiously on the ground and my eyes dart to and from the radio, desperately awaiting to hear Maverick's voice. The length of briefings vary drastically from person to person. Sometimes you get a leader who wants to get started on the task at hand as soon as possible, my personal favorite type of person, while other times they need to go over every tiny little detail. Unfortunately for me, at least when it comes to today, Cyclone seems to be the later.

"First group will be Hangman and—" A smile spreads across my face as a faint beep cuts through the room, signaling that someone has entered the course. A few moments later, the image of an unidentified plane enters the screen. The admiral furrows his brows at the sight. "Who the hell is that?"

"Maverick to Range Control," the man in question's voice cracks through the radio. "Entering Point Alpha."

I glance over to Hondo, who is struggling to push down his own grin, and motion for him to turn up the radio. Everyone is going to want to hear this. The expressions around the room differ widely. On one end of the spectrum there is Fanboy, who is practically jumping in his seat with anticipation of what's about to happen, while Hangman, who simply leans back in his chair with a toothpick in-between his teeth and a smirk that tells me he is already expecting things to crash and burn, claims the other side. Most of the pilots, however, are like Bradley, who shifts around in his seat as he looks to his fellow recruits as if to ask if anyone else is actually seeing what is about to happen.

"Moran." Cyclone's stern voice pulls me back to attention. I brace myself for whatever tongue lashing is about to be released on me, but it never arrives. My superior simply crosses his arms over his chest, his line of sight staying firmly on the screen in front of him. "You better hope Captain Mitchell knows what he's doing."

"Sir," I smirk, "he's never been more sure of anything in his life."

"Setting time to target to two minutes and fifteen seconds." A conglomeration of scoffs of disbelief and words questioning Maverick's sanity echo between the pilots behind me. I don't blame them, seeing as I had the same reaction less than twenty-four hours ago.

"Two minutes and fifteen seconds?" When my partner adamantly nods his head, I can no longer hide my incredulousness. A chuckle escapes my lips. "Have you lost your damn mind?"