"Lieutenant Price."
Chloe stood in perfect attention in front of the desk. Behind it sat a weasel-like man with a thin graying moustache. His face was tanned and weathered and carried its fair share of furrows and grooves, but his eyes shone clear and intelligent as he peered up at the tall and slim woman standing there in the middle of the small office. With a stern look he measured her from top to bottom before he flicked a bony and well manicured hand.
"At ease."
The little man leaned back in the high backed leather chair with a face that couldn't decide if it should show mirth or mild indignation.
"I don't know what you have done to deserve this honor," Leisurely he slapped a hand down on a folder lying squarely on the shining wooden desktop, "But I am damn sure glad to finally have you off my back."
"Sir?" Chloe's face was motionless but on the inside her mind was racing. What was this all about? Did he mean honor in an ironic way, or what? The few times she had been in contact with the Commodore he had usually been very direct and on the point. In her mind she tried to go through all the things that could have got her in any trouble the last months. Sorry to say there were a few.
Commodore Hutchkins raised a pair of gray eyebrows.
"You have no idea what this is all about, do you, Lieutenant?"
"No, Sir."
"This," he said, smiling a small but surprisingly white smile, "Is a request for transfer. You are moving out. Effective immediately."
"S-sir? Moving out? Where?" Chloe couldn't keep her face neutral any longer. She must have looked comically bewildered, because Commodore Hutchkins chuckled and shook his head slightly before grabbing the envelope and holding it out for her.
"You are going to Miramar, California, Lieutenant. You have been selected for the Naval Fighters Weapons School. Congratulations."
Chloe's mouth fell open and her eyes grew so wide they threatened to pop right out of her skull. She could not believe her ears! Every pilot in the navy knew about Naval Air Station Miramar and the Naval Fighters Weapons School. Finally, the words that were echoing in her dazzled brain started to settle, and a big grin formed on her lips.
Topgun! I'm going to fucking Topgun!

ooo

"Sir, I just received a list of the new pilots for the Fighters Weapons School program," Commander Jackson said, popping his head through the open door.
Captain Weilmark, sitting behind a large cluttered desk, put down the document he was reading and peered at Commander Jackson over a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, clasping his hands over his rounded belly.
"All right. Come in, Jim. What kind of jokers have they sent us this year?"
Commander Jackson walked up to his desk and stood, his uniform immaculate as always, his left arm behind his back, the right holding a stack of folders.
"The regular bunch of daredevils and jackasses I would say. Except…"
"Except what?"
Jackson looked uncharacteristically troubled. It made Weilmark feel worried too. Commander Jackson was usually as calm as a rock in the desert.
"We may have a problem, Sir."
Weilmark sighed inwardly. Of course there couldn't be a new class without problems. Of course. Not once. Not ever. His only hope was that the problems would be manageable. He looked up at Jackson but almost didn't dare to ask.
"A problem you say. What kind of problem?"
Jackson gave him a peculiar look.
"Does the name Chloe Elizabeth Price tell you anything?"
Weilmark looked back, surprised. What kind of question was that?
"No, should it? Wait…Have they sent us a - a woman?"
Jackson nodded. "They have, Sir."
Weilmarks already big red face took an even darker shade.
"Damn it, what are they thinking? This is outrageous! Five years they said, at the earliest, if it was ever to be!"
"Apparently someone changed their mind about that, Sir, without bothering to tell us."
Captain Weilmark growled.
"Politicians! They should keep their fingers and noses far away from matters they don't understand. We have neither the accommodations nor the qualifications to deal with women pilots."
"I know, Sir. And it gets worse."
Weilmark gave Commander Jackson an incredulous stare.
"Worse! How can it get any worse?"
"Look, here is a picture of her." Jackson handed him a u.s. letter sized photograph from inside one of the folders.
Weilmark took it and held it close to his face to get a good look. A young, slim but broad shouldered woman clad in the standard Navy flight gear with the helmet under her left arm, her blonde hair cut short, smiled confidently back at him from the photo.
"So, this is her, Lieutenant Price, callsign 'Maverick'. She looks good if that's what you are after, cocky in the right way." He nodded approvingly. "But as a woman, that will only work against her I'd say."
"No, Sir, that wasn't what I meant. Look again, and at her name. You see it?"
Weilmark gave the photo one more look, then put it down, almost irritably, "See what? Stop speaking in riddles for heaven's sake, Jim."
"Well, Sir, to me, it looks like she is almost certainly the daughter of the late Commander William Price."
"What? The Commander William Price? The Duck?"
"The one and only, Sir."
He picked up the photograph again, scrutinizing the woman depicted in it more closely this time. A pair of striking blue eyes under arched eyebrows, close cropped blonde hair, though she seemed to color part of it. A long thin straight nose, pronounced cheek bones, a pointy chin. Reluctantly he had to agree, it was an eerie similarity. But the thing that really gave it away was her look; a self-assured, almost defiant gaze that both challenged and asked for trouble at the same time. It was like a woman version of a face he had known all to well, a long time ago. However much he didn't want to, he had to give it to Jackson. He put down the photo almost with a feeling of dread.
"I'll be damned, Jim, you are right. She has to be."
"Yes, I believe she is, Sir. And I also did a quick enquiry. Her record is far from spotless, though nothing aggravating of course."
"Just like her father's. But I guess she is also an outstanding pilot, just like her father was?"
"Yes, Sir. Unconventional at times, but definitely good enough for Fighters Weapons School, despite her conduct shortcomings."
Weilmark leaned back in his chair, which at the moment didn't feel as comfortable as it usually did.
"Jesus Christ on a bicycle," He said with a head-shake. "The teachers will go ballistic, not to mention the other students. There is no way we can bail out of this, is there?"
"No Sir, I don't think so. Not with these new policies in place."
Weilmark groaned. The first woman at Topgun, and it had to be the offspring of the legendary Commander Price. And of course it had to be on his watch.
"Well, shoot and golly, what a doggone shit-sandwich we've been served. What are we to do?"
They looked at each other for what felt like a long time, until Jackson gave him a careful smile. "We will figure it out, Sir."
Captain Weilmark answered him with a deep sigh, then continued, "Yes, we will, Jim," unsuccessfully trying to reassure himself. Weilmark stared out the rain-streaked window to the wet training field and the silent runways beyond it, his mottled brow deep in wrinkles.
"We will. Somehow."