July 13, 1998. United States Navy Fighter Weapons School, Miramar, California.
"The thing about the fifth generation series of aircraft will be stealth," Maverick said. "That's the advantage. They'll come equipped with AESA radars and LPI networks. The military remains partial to the Boeings, but -"
"- Lockheed Martin is... incorrigible," Iceman said, strolling up the aisle, posture ridiculously erect as usual, hands in his pockets. The students snapped to attention as he walked by.
"President Clinton -"
Laughter broke out at the mention of Clinton. Iceman snapped his fingers once, and it died. He stepped up beside Maverick and made a quick diagram on the blackboard.
"This is how Russia's economy works," he said, sketching in a triangle. "They've privatized a great deal of their industry."
"Except," Maverick continued, "for the energy and defense-related sectors."
"Which means..." Iceman turned.
A hand went up.
"Lieutenant?"
"They're primed for a massive economic collapse?"
"Correct," Maverick jumped in. "Clinton has -"
More laughter. Maverick put up a hand. "Yeah, it's very funny, adultery is very funny. Shut the fuck up," he snarled.
This was met with stunned silence. Behind him, Iceman sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"- passed legislation that led to the formation of the NTO," Maverick said.
Jester walked in and cleared his throat.
"Can I speak with you two in private for a moment?"
"Dismissed," Iceman told the class, fiddling with his watch.
With a murmur of "yes sir," they filed out.
"Sorry," Jester offered.
"We were wrapping it up, anyway," Maverick muttered. He didn't add thank God, but he was thinking it. Teaching with Iceman was like being in hell, if the devil chewed Dentyne.
"Let's use my office," said Jester, clearing his throat.
"Lead on, Macduff," Maverick replied.
"Lay on," Iceman said, getting up.
"Huh?"
"Lay on is the orig -"
Maverick interrupted him with a hand gesture that was a mix of "suck my dick" and "shove it up your ass". Iceman reciprocated in kind.
When the glass door had closed behind them, Jester did a bit of pacing and then leaned down, hands on his desk, and raised his eyebrows at the pair of them.
"Yeah?" Maverick said. A strand of hair fell into his eyes, and he smoothed it back.
"The boys upstairs want to move the operation to Fallon."
Maverick blinked. "Fallon?" he demanded, voice rising a few octaves.
"Yes."
"In Nevada?"
"Yes."
"Jesus," Maverick said.
Iceman's left hand was on his hip and the other was pulling a pen out of his pocket. He played with it nervously for a moment. "They have a base there?"
"Of course," Jester said, crossing his arms.
"I can't move to Nevada," Maverick said. He was suddenly feeling very clammy. "Did they say why?"
"We may merge with NSAWC."
"Why would we do that?"
Jester hesitated.
"Heatherly -"
"It's BRAC." He sounded defeated. "They've been pushing for it for years. We put it off. You put it off," he told Maverick.
"But - custody." Maverick stared at his feet. "My hearing..."
"Nothing's finalized yet," Jester said.
"How come I wasn't the first to hear about this?"
Jester and Iceman exchanged an uncomfortable glance.
"Three guesses," said Iceman.
/
"Typical German, I guess."
Maverick was in the stall of the men's, unsuccessfully trying to get a coffee stain out of his browns with those shitty tan paper towels and that shitty pink hand soap. Two lieutenants had wandered in and begun discussing Iceman.
He was half listening to them, half absorbed in his own self-pitying thoughts. It was just starting to sink in - my wife left me. She's taking my son away from me.
Denial went a long way in the Mitchell family, but it didn't last forever.
"Fucking Nazi, more like."
The other lieutenant chuckled in response and shifted his weight around as he did his fly. "Maybe he's gay."
"Maybe he's a gay Nazi."
"He's real good, though. You see that dive the other day?"
"I think Maverick's better."
"You're crazy."
"No, come on, he's always coming up with stuff. Commander Kazansky's just like, oh hey, this is how you're supposed to do it. Like that's going to help us when we have our asses pinned five to one and the textbook's saying to roll over and play dead."
Maverick grinned to himself.
"Yeah, but he's actually seen it. He's been out there. I mean, what's Mitchell done? He was good fifteen years ago. He's kind of a has-been."
"He's just... I don't know. You call Stacy back?"
The conversation faded as they rounded the corner.
/
July 13, 1998. Marine Corps Air Station, Miramar, California.
A few members of the Coast Guard were there to testify, their uniforms standing out like crocuses against the wood paneling of the courtroom.
Maverick felt slightly on edge.
"They'll find in our favor," Jester muttered. "Don't worry."
As usual, Iceman looked like he wanted nothing better than to be somewhere else.
Maverick couldn't blame him. They'd been there for hours, fielding dirty looks from the JAG Corps.
"You'd think we were the Tailhook kids," Maverick replied.
Jester snorted.
Maverick shifted back and forth. Spending a night with Iceman and then sitting on a hard wooden bench for a prolonged period of time was - ill-advised, to say the least.
"We've reached a decision," one of the officers said from behind the desk, steepling his fingers.
Jester took in a deep breath.
"We're clearing the STFI program of all responsibility from the incident occurring June twenty-fifth."
He locked eyes with Maverick and gave him a tiny nod, as if to say, you're welcome.
/
July 14, 1998. 28th Street Diner, Miramar, California.
"You gotta cut him loose, Mitchell."
"Who?"
"Kazansky."
Maverick took a sip of his milkshake. "Ever hear of Ted Boeck?"
"No," Viper said, rolling up his sleeves.
"He wrote a piece on us," Maverick said. "TOPGUN, I mean. Didn't interview me."
Viper scoffed and muttered something about gonzo journalism. He slid his aviators off and set them on the table.
"There's a giant target on my back, y'know?"
"Your father had that same martyr complex," Viper said. "Look where it got him."
Maverick sighed.
"What do you think I did when Bradshaw died?"
"I don't recall you doing shit."
Viper blew a ring of smoke at him.
"Excuse me, sir, but this diner is non-smoking," said a waitress as she went by. Viper put his cigar out on the table and clasped his hands.
"Damage control, kid."
"Why do I have to cut Tom loose?"
Viper wrinkled his nose, evidently at the first-name basis. Maverick corrected himself. "Iceman."
"It's deeply inappropriate, first off."
Maverick bit back what he could have said, namely "what about you and Jester?"
"We've never had a good professional relationship," Maverick said.
"Simple clash of egos, Mitchell. It was a big pain in the ass, dealing with the two of you. I've never had two pilots pull each other's pigtails like that."
Maverick sighed.
"Then again, no one ever really liked you."
"Thanks."
"You were a safety hazard. You make guys nervous. Anyway - I'll just say this. It's gonna come back to bite you in the ass."
"I'll take my chances," replied Maverick.
/
A/N: Lots of acronyms today.