stranger • robert "bob" floyd

04

Church wrung his hands from where he held them, clasped tightly behind his back, eyeing the empty desk ahead. The door at the side of the room softly clicked open, revealing Admiral Simpson with Bates in tow.

"Sir," He greeted Cyclone quickly, straightening his back and setting his shoulders as the man moved to sit at his desk. Bates chose to sit in a neighboring chair near a window.

"Commander," Cyclone murmured, huffing out a sigh as he sat down. Church stiffened at the tone.

"Calling your current teachings unorthodox would be an understatement, Commander." Cyclone began slowly, irritation easily seeping into his voice. It was toeing the edge of anger, which was an emotion Church was unfamiliar with in regards to the admiral in question. The air boss usually had nothing but good things to say to him. He contemplated putting up a defense, which could easily be determined as fair in his situation. It hadn't been his fault Maverick was a loose cannon.

"Of course, sir, I apologize. On both my part as well as Captain Mitchell's." He began, laying down some niceties in an attempt at some damage control.

"Your flying was dangerous," Cyclone muttered, half-mindedly twirling a pen in his non-dominant hand. "but no more than Maverick's. I'm guessing he took off and you followed his lead?"

Church's tongue darted out to wet his lips, before he worried his bottom lip under his teeth, unsure of how to respond without incriminating the other man.

Luckily, they were saved by Maverick's entrance.

"You... wanted to see me, sir?" Maverick began hesitantly, eyes darting between either of the men. Cyclone narrowed his gaze at the captain, inviting him in with a jerk of his head. Maverick was quick to follow the order, moving to stand beside Church, but not without shooting a wary look toward his co-instructor.

"The hard deck is 5,000 feet above ground level." Cyclone reminded, leaning back in his chair. "A parameter is set not just for the safety of our pilots, but for the safety of their aircraft." His tone switched from feigned nonchalance to biting.
"5,000 feet is not just a rule, it is a law, as immutable as gravity." His voice raised, leaning forward in his seat.

"The hard deck will be much lower for this mission, sir." Maverick murmured, almost placatingly.

"And it will not change without my approval!" Cyclone's open palm harshly met the top of his desk. "Especially not in the middle of an exercise. And that Cobra maneuver of yours? That could've got all of you killed. I never want to see that shit again." He bit out, shaking his head before gesturing to Church.
"Commander Cyrus may have walked the edge, no doubt at your request, but he didn't blow past it in the process of attempting to kill his students!"

Maverick was silent, and Church wasn't sure if the man was purely unaffected or just good at hiding it.

"These pilots," Cyclone began lowly, sitting rigid in his chair. "Their records are clean, unlike your own. They have years of promise in the navy and I won't let you be the reason they lose their wings."

There was a beat of nothing before Bates chose to end the heavy silence filing the office space.

"What exactly do you suppose you two were teaching, Captain?" Warlock asked from his seat at the edge of the room, voice a godsend in comparison to the air boss'.

"That as good as they are, sir, they still have something to learn." Maverick explained quickly. Church nodded his head, almost unconsciously, in agreement. He caught the eye of Cyclone, who fixed him with an immediate look of disapproval.

"You are talking about the best fighter pilots on the planet, Captain." Cyclone sounded incredulous.

"And they've been told that their entire career—" Maverick countered, voice even. "while they've been dropping bombs from a high altitude with little to no dogfighting. The parameters of this mission call for something they have never encountered. Something—"

Cyclone leaned over his desk, impatient. "Okay, you have less than three weeks to teach them how to fight as a team and how to strike the target."

"And how to come home."

Warlock's head turned to eye Clycone as the air boss' angry expression dropped slightly, taken aback.

"And how to come home, sir." Maverick reminded again.

Cyclone looked down for a moment, before leaning back into his seat, eyes catching both Warlock's and Church's before settling back onto Maverick.
"Every missions has its risks. These pilots accept that." He reminded slowly.

"I don't, sir."

Cyclone paused, taking in a silent breath. "Every day from this moment forward you will brief us on your instructional plans in writing. And nothing will change without my express approval."

"Including the hard deck, sir?" Maverick asked without a beat of silence.

"Especially the hard deck, Captain."

Maverick moved the hands from around his back, a folder revealed and quickly placed on top of the man's desk.
"Sir," he murmured.

"What is this?" Cyclone, pointed at the folder, eyebrows furrowing.

"It's a request to lower the hard deck, sir." Maverick stated quickly, back ramrod straight as his eyes soared past Cyclone's own in favor for staring at the wall behind him. "To practice a low-level bombing run per mission parameters."

Warlock hid a smile behind his hand while Church bit the inside of his cheek, nearly afraid to make eye contact with Cyclone.

"You could learn a thing or two about timing, Captain." Admiral Bates muttered when they had left, clearly somewhat amused, walking alongside Maverick on a shared journey down the hallway, before parting ways with him moments after. Church was quick to fill the space that Warlock had left, fixing his superior with an unreadable expression.

Maverick's head turned to eye him, moving back to look in front of them, before doing a double-take after noticing the other's expression. He raised his brow, clearly a sign that he was allowing for the younger man to speak his mind.

"Sir," Church began, struggling. "This is assignment is incredibly... delicate."

"Yes?" Maverick replied, in question rather than confirmation, prodding the other to continue.

"Admiral Simpson has shown interest in my efforts, helped me in my career... I'm afraid this assignment may be my last—"

"Commander," Maverick began, stopping in his tracks, and turning to fully face the other pilot. Dane was slow to respond, having to backtrack his steps to meet the other.
"Church," He amended, setting a hand at the man's shoulder.

"Today was..." He grimaced, dropping his attempt at finding the right adjective. "But that's done, I'll properly brief you on all trainings from now on."

Dane shifted on his feet, watchful eyes darting between either of Maverick's in assessment.

"You have my word." The man continued, and he had seemed genuine, and apologetic. The commander had nodded his head in response, slowly, but sure.