Red Bull

twelve

MAVERICK GOT FIRED. I guess the navy was simply tired of trying to clean up after his messes.

"To reiterate, Captain Mitchell is no longer your instructor. As of today, there are new mission parameters." Cyclone informs us, "Time to target is now 4 minutes."

We watch in disgust as the screen changes the countdown from 2 minutes and 30 seconds, to 4 minutes.

"You'll be entering the valley at a reduced speed, not to exceed 420 knots." Admiral Bates steps to the front, adding to his Vice Admiral's speech.

"Won't we die?" Rooster ask, and the room becomes thick with challenged tension.

"Every pilot in this room is thinking what he's saying." Coyote starts, "We've been conditioned day in and day out that our enemy has the technological advantage now. Captain Mitchell and yourself have explained that their planes are far greater than ours. With the new time line you just gave us, they'll have enough time to shoot us down."

Admiral Bates tells him condescendingly, "You have a fighting chance against enemy aircraft, more than the odds of surviving a head on collision with a mountain."

He turns back to the monitor, but I continue the fight. "Do we have a fighting chance with our F-18s against fifth generation fighters?" I ask.

My question is ignored, "You'll be attacking the target from a higher altitude, level with the North Wall."

So they'll answer back Rooster and Coyote, but not me? What a sexist—

"I believe she asked a question, sir." Bob defends me once again.

Everyone kinda just slowly turns to look at Bob in his defiant moment, because it's so out of character for him. He's the quiet, nerdy WSO. Bob would never talk back to a superior, especially in a high tension moment like this.

But them again, he just became x1000 times hotter in my book. I doubt I would ever be able to get over my crush on Bob from this moment on. It's okay, I'll try to pretend like those feelings don't exist, but if I can, I'll just take them to my grave.

Vice Admiral Simpson looks down at Bob. "Do you want to get kicked off the mission?" He turns to me, "One to one, no, you don't have a chance. But you do have numbers." Cyclone actually answers my question.

As a gesture of gratitude, I grab Bob's hand, and I squeeze it once. It's something me and my mom used to do, especially when my dad would go off on another pessimistic rant of his.

Maybe I shouldn't have shared something so personal with Bob, but I doubt he would ever question the meaning of it to me.

Our eyes still trained ahead, our ears tuned to our instructors, Bob squeezes my hand back, and I let go.

And yet, Cyclone is interrupted by a steady rhythm of beeps.

They're coming from the course simulation.

Which was impossible, because that meant someone was about to enter the course now. We hadn't started training today, it had to be a mistake. It had to be Maverick.

The familiar voice of Captain Pete Mitchell buzzes over the radio, "Maverick to Range Control, entering point Alpha. Confirm Green Range."