a sideshow of a sideshow

Of course he’d been game. Forty-five minutes later and they’d been blazing across the sky, two comets in an endless sea of blue.

“Just a walk in the park, huh, Kazansky?” asked Maverick, levelling off beside Iceman.

“Not bad at all,” Iceman had replied. Both planes had performed beautifully.

“You know, I’m not entirely satisfied,” Maverick had said, and Ice swore he could see a twinkle in Maverick’s eyes. “I think the engines are a little sluggish.”

It was complete horseshit and they both knew it. But the thought of heading back to his desk was hardly appealing.

“You got something in mind, Maverick?”

“Maybe,” said Maverick, and grinned. “You up for a little dogfight, Kazansky?”

Iceman reached up and clipped his oxygen mask across his face. “I am, if you are,” he’d replied.

“Guns only.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Maverick gave him a half-assed salute. “Game on,” he said, and peeled off.

It wasn’t long before Ice saw Maverick’s Skyhawk streaking towards him. He pulled his own plane into a climb and banked hard right, reversing the turn as Maverick approached to try and get the upper hand. But Maverick was hardly some snotty-nosed kid straight out of flight school and countered with a hard turn of his own, passing so close it rattled the entire damned plane. Maintenance was going to kill them.

“Alright,” Iceman murmured, reversing to bring his plane nose-to-nose with Maverick’s again. “Show me what you’ve got.”

They’d flown together before, but never like this, just the two of them, spiralling across the sky like a pair of eagles, neither one able to fully gain the upper hand. Ice almost managed to nail Maverick as he dove past at point-blank range, but he couldn’t get tone and overshot his position badly. Maverick, ever the aggressor, tried to force a rolling scissors that Ice only pulled out from by the skin of his teeth. He jinked, trying desperately to shake Maverick, the radar warning receiver blaring in his ear. He was breathing hard, cold sweat on the back of his neck, almost giddy with the thrill of it.

Don’t think, just do, he heard Maverick say. Any second now it was going to be over. Don’t think, just do.

He yanked back on the stick and threw the throttle forward, pulling his plane almost vertical as Maverick passed right by him, briefly weightless as he pushed the stick forward again and dove after Maverick. For a moment he had him dead to rights, clear shot and everything. But he hesitated, a second too long, and then Maverick was nosing his plane up into a steep climb.

Goddamn, he thought to himself as he chased Maverick into the sun, his heart pounding in his chest. You really are the better pilot.

Thirty seconds, and he was dead.

“Jesus Christ,” came Maverick’s voice over the radio as he levelled off with Iceman again. They were both gasping for air like they’d just run ten miles. “Goddamn.” He was laughing, a pure, joyful sound.

“How’s your fuel?” asked Ice.

“Nearly running on fumes.”

“Nearly’s not so bad,” said Ice. He glanced over through the canopy and caught Maverick’s eye.

“You son of a bitch,” said Maverick, and Ice could tell he was smiling. “You goddamned son of a bitch. Tower, this is Ghostrider, requesting a flyby.”

“Negative, Ghostrider,” came Air Boss Johnson’s voice over the radio, exactly as Iceman knew he would. “The pattern is full.”

Iceman grinned and switched radio channels. “Admiral Johnson, Commander Kazansky. Good afternoon, sir,” he said.

“Commander Kazansky, this is an open channel,” snapped Johnson.

“I’d like to request a flyby, sir. And I know for a fact that—”

Johnson gave an unhappy grunt. Ice glanced over at Maverick, who gave him a thumbs up.

“Ghostrider, pattern is clear. You’re cleared for flyby.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ice saw Maverick punch the canopy in celebration.

“Thank you, Tower,” said Iceman, and switched channels.

“Goddamn it, Kazansky, you son of a bitch…”

—

Something between them eases after that, and for the next few days it feels like they’re back to where they were as young hotshot instructors. The kids are still struggling — and they are kids, even though many of them are older than Kazansky was in 1988 — but under Maverick’s demanding instruction, they’re getting close.

“We don’t have enough time,” admits Maverick on the morning of the fourth day as he pours them both coffee. “If we had another week, maybe two…”

“I know,” says Kazansky, taking his mug. “But intel says otherwise.”

“Yeah,” says Maverick, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “I just wish…”

“I know,” says Kazansky again. He peers into the depths of his coffee, finding no answers. “You care about them,” he says.

“Of course I do,” says Maverick tersely. “They’re my responsibility.”

“Is that why you nearly killed yourself by pushing past Mach 10 with the Darkstar?”

“Jesus, Kazansky, you aren’t my shrink,” snaps Maverick.

“You don’t have a shrink,” says Kazansky. “And Hondo filled me in on the particulars of your little stunt yesterday. You kept the project alive by pushing yourself to the breaking point. Are you going to do that with this team too?”

Maverick glares at him. “I’ll do what I have to,” he says, and Kazansky knows better than to argue with him.

But it’s clear by the next day that no matter how hard Maverick pushes himself, no matter how hard he pushes his team, they just can’t do it. The team is demoralised, unable to complete the ingress run in time, unable to hit the target successfully, unable to climb out of the valley. They’re pushing themselves and their aircraft to the breaking point. Nothing seems to be working.

—

That night Kazansky dreams of flying. It’s the same dream, always is, sickening in its familiarity. He’s 40,000 feet in the air, burning across the regulation blue Southern California sky, Maverick and Goose on his wing, Slider in the backseat. Clear skies above, clear seas below. He’s got the enemy in his sights, his finger on the trigger, but he can’t get the angle, he can’t, he’s always too slow, and…

The lonesome notes of a bugle rouse him to attention. He raises his head. A coffin, draped in a flag, lies before him, surrounded by rows upon rows of identical white headstones. Beyond the cemetery, the sea stretches to infinity, as blue as the sky above.

Not many people have shown up for the funeral. A few stony-faced members of the brass from North Island, the men and women of the strike team, Hondo Coleman, Penny Benjamin, a few others Kazansky doesn’t recognise. All standing in orderly lines at a respectful distance. Only Kazansky and Rooster are standing off to the side where family usually stands. Rooster’s face is impassive, but his eyes are shadowed with grief. The flag is taken up, folded, placed in Kazansky’s arms. He hands it to Rooster, who takes it in his hands like it’s a sword to throw himself upon. And Kazansky knows then, he just knows, that Maverick sacrificed himself to bring the team home. There’s no body here, nothing but an empty casket to bury, but it still matters. He steps forward.