Crack Propagation
By Sophia the Scribe
Crack propagation: when the existence of a small fracture leads to larger ones, driving the material to failure.
A/N: This story is a spin-off of my longer work Metal Under Tension, but is fully serviceable as a stand-alone exploration of a Top Gun 1986 where Maverick dies instead of Goose. (Metal Under Tension does, however, provide some of the comfort—or at least resolution—to the hurt inflicted here.)
Fire or clear!—I can't control it!—Mayday mayday, Maverick's in trouble, he's in a flat spin heading out to sea—
Iceman woke, abruptly. Slider stood over him, pale-faced, exhausted. Iceman nodded weary thanks and glanced over at the clock: oh-three-thirty-seven. An hour ago, he and Slider had been in opposite positions; they neither of them could close their eyes tonight without returning to the fear and panic of the day's hop. This time, Slider had woken him before the worst part—and Iceman was grateful, but it hardly mattered, because the worst part was real.
Maverick was dead.
When Maverick and Goose's Tomcat went down, Iceman and Slider had remained, circling the spot where green dye marker was slowly spreading, until they ran low on fuel and were ordered back to base. They rushed to the ready room for news—but the rescue helicopter hadn't arrived yet, and Viper and Jester were nowhere to be found. Instead, they were swarmed by the rest of their class, worried and shaken. Everyone wanted to know what and how and why, clamoring for news of their classmates—but all they could relay was, yes, we saw two parachutes—yes, there seemed to be movement down in the water, disturbing the dye—no, we don't know anything else. After several more agonizing, restless minutes, they all went out to the helipad to wait there.
Eventually, the chopper arrived. Goose was guided out first, obviously distressed from his gesturing and pleading with search-and-rescue but seemingly uninjured. The panicked fear began to loosen its grip on Iceman's throat—
But his next breath caught, and he froze, heart pounding frantically in his ears. Someone in their class gave an involuntary cry; beside him, Slider dropped to his knees and retched.
Because they were passing Maverick down from the helicopter—passing him, with practicality and respectful efficiency but none of the care shown to those who can still be injured, or feel pain—Maverick, who slumped, limp and unresponsive—passing him down, the medics stepping out separately, shaking their heads and waving away their waiting colleagues.
After that, the day became a blur. Iceman remembered Jester telling them, soberly, what they all already knew with desperate certainty. Hops were cancelled. Goose was nowhere to be found. So they went back to their housing, he and Slider, to sleep—but sleep was light and dreams came easily, and when they woke each other up from screaming nightmares, Maverick was still dead.
There was an inquiry. Iceman stood before the panel, straight-backed and clenched-jawed, and waited for rightful judgment to fall. But an accident was the verdict—not Maverick's fault, and not Iceman's.
Not your fault, they said. Keep your wings, they said.
Goose returned, receiving everyone's stuttered condolences with alternating apathy and rage, tipping over into the latter at the least suggestion that Maverick had been reckless with his own life, and had paid the price. The rest of the class was dampened, subdued; nights at the bar became more about drinking to their dead comrade than good company and the promise of a good time. And Iceman felt their eyes on him, when another round was poured out for Maverick—felt their silent questions, their silent accusations—why does he care? and, does he care?—and knocked back his shots, blank-faced but glassy-eyed behind his aviators.
Goose was a hard man to catch alone, and not now because he was constantly with his pilot, slinging an arm over his shoulders and crowing loudly at his latest joke. Now he was simply absent—flying hops with temporary partners with a grim stoicism but slipping out of the locker room as soon as possible at the end of the day. But at last, unable to wait any longer, Iceman ran out after him, chasing him down in the parking lot.
"Goose!" he cried.
The other man stilled, one hand on his Bronco, but didn't turn around. "What, Iceman?" he bit out eventually.
Iceman cleared his throat, fought for words. "I'm…sorry about Maverick. He…he was…" Tom stuttered, knowing any compliment he might make of Goose's dead friend—who had not been Iceman's friend—would sound patronizing, insincere.
Goose swung around, angry, interrupting his fumbling speech. "You damn well should be sorry. Who, exactly, turned out to be dangerous to his own side?"
Tom stilled. The world contracted around him, around the focal point of Nick's words, the flash of rage in his eyes. He breathed. "I'm sorry," he repeated at last, helplessly, hardly knowing his words. "He was an amazing pilot. I'm sorry." He turned blindly away.
"Wait!" Nick's voice, still angry but now edged with remorse, made him pause. "No…I'm sorry, Ice, that's not fair. I know it wasn't your fault."
"Neither of us believe that," Iceman said, dully but with finality. He strode away, ignoring Goose's further calls. Sometimes there was nothing more to be said.
At last, graduation rolled around, and everyone wordlessly determined to shed the cloud that had been following their class for this one last day. Iceman clutched the Top Gun trophy, painting a smile on his face and clinging to his pride in the accomplishment as he accepted subdued but sincere congratulations, shoving down the shame that mounted with every expression of well done, Iceman, you deserve it.
Goose was there, solemn-faced, with his wife and son. He came up to shake their hands, his and Slider's, and was leaning forward to speak when his bright-eyed little boy piped up innocently above the crowd of mingling dress whites.
"Where's Uncle Mav, Daddy?"
The crowd stilled for a horrified moment, even as Carole Bradshaw hushed her son and took a few steps away, murmuring in his ear. Pain lanced through Iceman; Slider gripped his shoulder bracingly. Devastation was written across Goose's features, but he leaned forward determinedly into Iceman's space and lowered his voice.
"Could we talk later, Tom? You've become an impossible man to catch." The lines of his mouth softened, an attempt at his old grin.
I don't want to talk to you again, Iceman thought. I can't stand either your accusations or your condolences. He was never even my friend.
"I don't think there's anything left to say," he said.
Goose opened his mouth to argue but was interrupted by Viper's call to arms. Iceman pushed away from him and didn't look back. They had orders.
"I'm engaged with five, I repeat, five, I'm in deep shit."
Thirty seconds later, Willard arrived.
Forty-five seconds later, he was in a flat spin, unable to recover, his disabled jet blown out of the sky by the enemy MiGs. The cut-off screams of pilot and RIO echoed through the radio.
Two minutes later, Slider was shouting "Eject, eject!" and Iceman threw them out of their own burning plane.
Was this how Maverick felt, in the last instant of his life?
They clung to each other, he and Slider, bobbing in the tangled parachutes, the empty sky above them a canvas to their failure as the MiGs raced toward the Layton. Minutes stretched interminably as they waited for the rescue helicopter, dye marker spreading about them, gasping into each other's necks as adrenaline dropped, and the world shrunk to the glaring sun, and the tossing sea, and the tears that mixed with ocean spray on Iceman's cheeks, indistinguishable saltwater.
"I'm sorry," Slider told him the next day, remorseful but determined, just before he went to the CO and turned in his wings.
"I'm sorry," Hollywood begged, choking on his failure, scraped raw by the death of two more aviators as he and Wolfman were being flown safely back to the carrier.
I'm sorry, Goose's letter said when it found him on his next deployment. I shouldn't have blamed you, even for a moment. Call me—write back—whatever you need.
(Iceman nodded to Slider in understanding, only closing his eyes in despair once he had left the room. They kept in touch, attended each other's weddings—but, soon enough, the man had his own family, and across-the-country is a long way, and contact faded to yearly Christmas cards.)
(Iceman was unable to answer Hollywood, had no absolution to give for the disaster of a mission, the completeness of their loss—the curse, it seemed, on anyone flying at Iceman's wing. He said nothing, though the shame on Hollywood's face as he walked away curdled in his gut. They never flew together again.)
(Iceman never answered Goose's letters.)
"I'm sorry, sir," Iceman said, posture perfect and eyes staring into the middle distance. "I failed."
If I hadn't killed Maverick…
"It won't happen again."