note: ok. so. here we are. i've been planning this for awhile, and i really want to take my time with it. after a hot minute wishing and hoping for an interesting idea for Top Gun, i think i've finally got something that i'm excited about. no idea how popular it will be, but, i don't really care. writing this for me and my self indulgence, so, there's that. i alluded to it on my profile a couple of days ago, this is alternative and colloquially called "the plus size one," and is a IcemanxOC fic. that said, i'm planning to take my time and write this the way i want to, with research to be as accurate as creative license and Google will let me. and so we start here, at the Pentagon.if you're so lead, please drop a review or a favorite, i don't bite.


Pentagon
Washington, VA

Sunlight has barely crept up to the horizon's line, which glows with what promises to be a wildfire sky. Orange, muted reds and yellows blossom like some kind night flower in the early hours of morning when Dr. Anthony Lewis swings the Diplomat into an open spot of Zone B, the spot he's been parking in for the last twenty-one years.

Edging the sedan forward more than necessary, the metallic bite of his bumper kissing the concrete stop grates down his spine roughly. Grimacing, Kathy will not be pleased—this is a new car. Her new car. Had his pickup not been in the shop, he'd be driving that, but he'd slipped her keys into his pocket before kissing her lightly and accepting proffered coffee. Insisted he'd be careful with the powder-blue Dodge. The look of disbelief on her face, at the time, had been unwarranted—or so he'd thought.

Never have to worry about ground clearance with the Ford, it's nearly a grumble as he pops the thing into park, turns over the console to gather his briefcase and the stack of research he's been toting back and forth for the last two weeks. Shuffling through leaflets of paper, portfolio-covers of briefs and research materials, he checks the Timex on his wrist. Has to double take.

Shit. Shit shit shit—it's Thursday. The Thursday. Another glance at his watch confirms the time; it's just after 5:45, he has a little under three hours to prepare for the briefing. A briefing he hasn't even started on, yet. A briefing on the one-hundred-and-twelve page thesis his assistant had dropped on his desk Friday last week—the briefing he was supposed to be preparing for all week.

Shit. Shit. SHIT.

SecDef had called this briefing on that damn MiG sighting over the Indian a few weeks ago, to determine next steps. Interaction with the enemy's new, state-of-the-art aircraft was almost unheard of, wholly unexpected. But, it had happened, and the Pentagon was left to respond, of course. Next steps were crucial in the afterburn of the incident. Two pilots, in particular, had first-hand knowledge of the engagement. There was said to be photographic evidence.

It was the last thing on his list of priorities. As Acting Deputy Under Secretary of Defense for Research and Engineering, his plate was already overboiling with responsibilities and research. No less than half a dozen departments reported to him, all with updates that were far more damn important than a response initiative. But, he understood—the more they knew about enemy aircraft, the better off they'd be for the next decade of US aerospace development.

He needed a plan. Anthony needed the AAR—he needed his secretary. But Kelly wasn't in office for another hour and a half, which meant he'd have to march down to archives and get a copy of the report himself. Again. Because God knew where his original copy was in that damn closet of a space the Pent dared to call an office.

Scooping up his materials, Anthony kicks the doors closed to the wife's Diplomat. Shuffles the papers and books in his hand as he stuffs the keys into his suit jacket. Fuck he's already sweating and it isn't even warm yet. Virginia humidity is a bitch, but it isn't even soupy yet—there's actually still a snap of cold in the air.

A glance down at the top notebook page he'd ripped out of his planner glares up at him, the coffee-stained, moisture-wrinkled page with his familiar scrawl unmissable. It's today's date, location and time. The name circled in Sharpie marker is the largest damn thing on the memo, and he stops short. Blinks, head canted. His brain attempts to jog, then he shakes his head. Breaking back into a trot to the secure entrance, he punches in his code.

Who the hell was Charlotte Blackwood?