Chapter Text
Maverick’s wrapping up the last class for the day when he hears a knock at the door. “Just a minute,” he calls as he jams the last of his lecture notes into his folder.
“Captain Peter Mitchell?”
“Yeah, who wants to know?” He looks up from the papers and freezes. Two men stand in the doorway of his office, clad in their dress whites. Their expressions are somber, foreboding.
“My name is Lieutenant John Brown. This is Irwin Smith, US Navy chaplain. We have news about your godson, Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw. May we speak with you in private?”
Oh no, no, nonono–
“Bradley’s just been deployed, Lieutenant,” he musters, trying to retain his ranking authority as some sort of assertion that he knows how this goes, shaking his head. “I brought him to the departure base just last week–there must be some mistake.”
The officer gives him a look of practiced sympathy. “Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw was deployed to the USS Hamilton, is that correct?”
Maverick’s voice sounds hollow to his own ears. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“May we enter, Captain?”
Maverick nods yes, numb, and the two men step inside, closing the door behind them and cutting off the white noise from the Top Gun corridors. Inside, the silence is cold.
“Sir. On behalf of the Secretary of the Navy, I regret to inform you that your godson, Lieutenant Bradley Bradshaw, was shot down in a classified location at 1000 hours today, Pacific Standard Time. I am deeply sorry.”
Maverick hears the words, but they don’t feel real. The floor tilts and shifts under him, and something feels terribly, terribly wrong.
It’s another part of him, the part that has been molded into Navy rules and regulations, that asks the needed questions. “His…remains, Lieutenant?”
“None were found, sir.”
That makes Maverick’s head snap up. “What do you mean, none were found?”
“Search and rescue could not be deployed in the location, Captain. However, we have reason to believe that Lieutenant Bradshaw did not survive.”
Maverick shakes, because this is all wrong. “Then his status is MIA, am I correct?”
The casualty assistance officer shares a look with the chaplain before they look back at Maverick. “MIA presumed dead, sir.”
That drives it home, and Maverick has to lean against his desk, knuckles growing white.
The lieutenant quietly leaves his calling card on his desk, as is standard protocol. “CACO will call you in three days with any further updates on his remains or belongings, sir,” he says. “We’ll take care of funeral arrangements. Is there anyone else you wish for us to contact, relatives or next of kin?”
Maverick swallows. “No, Lieutenant, thank you.”
He’ll contact everyone himself–right after he gets on a plane.
Navy regulations stipulate that the casualty notification has to reach the next of kin in not more than eight hours from the reported time of death.
The USS Hamilton, as of Bradley’s last message, was stationed in the North Pacific. The Top Gun base has multiple aircraft at the ready which can carry him to another carrier. From there—
His phone rings, and he answers it without checking the caller. “Hello?”
“Whatever you’re thinking about doing, stop it right now.”
Maverick pauses. “Sli?”
“Who the hell else?” his wingman’s RIO groans. “And that’s Vice Admiral Kerner to you.”
”Thank you for your call, Vice Admiral Kerner,” Maverick grits out, running through his plan in his head again. “But I’m a little busy.”
”I know.” Another sigh. “Look, Mav—I heard about Bradley.”
Maverick freezes, temporarily dropping his keys. “Did you—is he—“ he squeezes his eyes shut. “Did they send search and rescue?”
The resulting silence is answer enough, but Maverick buries it down beneath the adrenaline call pumping through his veins. His kid was out there somewhere—he just knew it. Bradley—Bradley wouldn’t go out like that. If his plane went down, he had to have ejected; and if search and rescue didn’t find him, then Maverick would.
”Just wait, alright? Pickup will be at North Island in 10 minutes, and you’re coming with me to the USS Hamilton. I’ll explain along the way.”
Maverick swallows, and clicks off the call.
The Slider that greets him on the transport to the USS Hamilton looks like he hasn’t slept in days. ”Woah,” Maverick says in concern. “The paperwork that bad, Vice Admiral Kerner?”
Slider fixes him a look that is so reminiscent of Iceman that Maverick suddenly gets a lump in his throat. “You don’t know half of it.” The former RIO sighs ominously. “Look, Mav—I’m sorry. Really, I am. I didn’t know it was Bradley—the baby gosling. I—“ he stops, blinking away tears and biting his lip. Maverick watches him curiously, because Bradley isn’t gone. He’s just lost, somewhere, no matter what those white-clad officers say—and Maverick’s going to get him back.
Like he always does. Like he just did. It’s just been a year since the uranium mission. They’ve just made up—Maverick’s just got his son back after fifteen years and a near-death experience. Bradley—his baby can’t be dead. It’s inconceivable. Impossible. There must be a mistake. Maverick’s just going to have to get to the bottom of this whole mess and bring Bradley home again.
“Why are you apologizing?” he finally says, and Slider looks at him questioningly for a long moment. Maverick’s eyes are still dry. He hasn’t cried. There’s no need to.
“Why aren’t you—never mind,” the Vice Admiral says, shaking his head after searching Maverick’s expression. “Just—you know we’re here for you, right?”
Maverick nods, because of course they are, but in this case—there’s really no need. The help from a Vice Admiral is appreciated, though. Maverick doesn’t want to imagine Bradley’s face when he finds out his dad stole several pieces of million-dollar military equipment to run a SAR.
It would be worth it, though.
“Alright.” Slider sighs again. “Best to start at the beginning.”
The beginning starts with Ice, because of course it does.
“Before he got sick,” Slider starts, “Ice really wanted to leave the Navy better than he found it. He knew there were all kinds of nasty shit, the things that flew under the radar well enough that NCIS or JAG wouldn’t be able to make things stick. Things that were just borderline acceptable through the years, until they snowballed into bigger problems down the line.” He blows out a breath. “So he appointed me and a few others.” He points to the back of the transport, where two younger officers sit. “We’re a small team, special projects line-item hidden somewhere in my official duties, courtesy of the COMPACFLT. Did it so well that undoing it would be more trouble than it was worth.”
Maverick sits up straighter. “And where does Bradley come in?”
Slider looks at him with pained sympathy and a grief of his own. “He didn’t, Maverick. You know how things work. Ice may have appointed us but he…he isn’t around anymore. Bradley was assigned the usual way.”
Something still isn’t making sense. “So why the pick-up, Sli?”
Slider answers by way of a folder turned around to meet Maverick. The photo that stares up at them looks to be about Cyclone’s age, same hard-ass eyes with a glint of—something else. Something wrong.
“Rear Admiral Isaac Trent of the USS Hamilton,” Slider says. “Effectively, Bradley’s CO.”
Maverick flips through the file and something tugs at his gut. “Why are you showing me this?”
Slider steeples his fingers. “Officially, nothing. Unofficially—he’s been in our sights for reckless and imprudent command.”
Maverick steps onto the USS Hamilton with a sinking feeling in his gut, whipping his head around for a glimpse of a six-foot-tall aviator with a mustache. CACO could have been mistaken right off the bat—maybe the casualty was some other poor father’s son. Maybe it wasn’t his boy after all.
If Vice Admiral Kerner had wanted an inconspicuous arrival, his hopes are quickly dashed by the small groups of aviators that start whispering among themselves once they see Maverick pass by.
“Oh shit–Bradshaw’s NOK is Captain Maverick?!”
“Ya think the Butcher–sorry, the Rear Admiral’s gonna survive?”
“Shut it, asshole.”
“Fuck, you really don’t have a filter, do ya?”
“Can’t wait til I get off this boat, man–this deployment gives me bad vibes.”
Maverick hears but he doesn’t acknowledge, the uneasy feeling growing in his gut. Once they round a corner onto a portion of the deck with no prying eyes, Slider huffs and turns to him, offering a black face mask. “Put that on, would ya?”
Maverick grins wryly as he obeys. “Risking your clearance, Vice Admiral Kerner?”
“Among other things,” Slider grumbles. “Just–wait here, alright? I’ve got to check if Joe and Milan have got things in hand before I add you to the mix.”
Maverick gives him a salute, to which Slider rolls his eyes.
“Um, excuse me, sir?”
Maverick turns his head. “Yes?”
A lanky aviator stands at attention. “Lieutenant Junior Grade Nicholai Ross, sir. Callsign Arrow.”
“At ease, Lieutenant.”
The younger man (probably younger than Bradley, and isn’t that a trip–that his kid is the only marker for generations that Maverick actually cares about) chews his lip, probably on the verge of saying something.
Maverick raises an eyebrow. He usually would not pull rank during times like these, but being on the carrier where Bradley was last ali–stationed, has left him somewhat on edge.
“Spit it out, Lieutenant.”
“Sir. I–I was originally slated for the mission where Lieutenant Bradshaw went down. I–he…when he heard the mission parameters, he volunteered.”
That captures Maverick’s attention, makes him face the younger man directly. “Explain.”
“We all attended the mission briefing, sir. Anyone worth a damn who could read the parameters could see that it had the potential to be a suicide mission. No knowing what we'd find, no back-up, no clear return route. But–the Rear Admiral had convinced us that it was necessary. And it made sense. Then I saw my name go up and I–” Arrow takes a deep breath. “–this is basically my first run on the field. I just got married, sir, and my wife’s expecting. I was scared, sir. I’m not proud of it but I was.”
He takes a deep breath. “I was ready to follow orders. But Lieutenant Bradshaw–he asked questions, sir. Wouldn’t take the Rear Admiral at his word. Asked why there was no back-up on standby, why there was no clear escape route. He wasn’t insubordinate, sir, honest–just asking because he cared.”
Looking around, Arrow wrings his hands nervously and drops his voice lower, making Maverick lean in. “The Rear Admiral doesn’t take to being questioned, sir. Eventually he said, ‘if you’re so interested, Lieutenant, why don’t you take the mission?’”
Maverick’s heart drops all the way to the deck floor. “What?”
Arrow straightens back up again. “Just what I said, sir. And I never said anything, but Rooster could see that I was scared. We bunked together, and shared pictures of our family. That’s how he knew I had a baby on the way. That’s–that’s how I recognized you, sir.”
“So he took the mission,” Maverick says numbly.
“Took the Rear Admiral at his word, sir,” Arrow replies sadly. “Not a lot of men would do that. After the briefing, I went up to him to apologize and he wouldn’t accept it. Said that commanding officers shouldn’t do that–said that COs should always teach their pilots how to come home. Said he learned that from his old man.”
Maverick’s knees suddenly feel weak, all of his almost-sixty years pressing down on him in that instant. He had taught, and Bradley had listened. And there were consequences when lessons were applied. He leans his elbows on the railing again and looks away from the younger pilot, blinking his eyes rapidly to stave off the tears.
“I am sorry, sir. That should have been me–”
“None of that, Lieutenant,” Maverick says evenly, no matter how much a wounded and selfish part of him wants to agree. He raises his face to the sky instead so the younger officer doesn’t see, the salty ocean air mixing with his tears. “It helps no one.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” Arrow looks down, gathering his courage. “For what it’s worth, sir, Bradshaw was a good man. Never talked down to us juniors, always standing up for someone when he knew it was needed. Hell of a flyer, too. You–you should be proud, sir.”
Maverick swallows hard to push down the sudden lump in his throat. “I am, Lieutenant. Thank you, for telling me.”
The younger pilot salutes and turns to leave, but another thing pulls at him. “Lieutenant!”
The younger man turns back. “What did you say your name was?”
“Nicholai Ross, sir. But my friends call me ‘Nick’.”
Maverick stands there for what seems to be like an eternity, Arrow’s words echoing over and over in his head like a broken record.
Said that COs should always teach their pilots how to come home. Said he learned that from his old man.
Bradshaw was a good man. Never talked down to us juniors, always standing up for someone when he knew it was needed. Hell of a flyer, too. You–you should be proud, sir.
”I’m so damn proud, son,” he whispers to the salty waves, telling himself that it’s the sea spray on his cheek and not tear tracks moistening his mask. “I am. Now come back to me, sweetheart, so I can tell you in person.”
”Mav.”
Maverick straightens and wipes his eyes hurriedly. Damn sea spray. He turns to see Slider, looking at him in concern. He brushes it off.
“What do you have?”
Slider brings him to the operations room. “They’ve got the recording of Bradley’s last transmission,” Slider says gently. “I can bring you in on my clearance but for the love of God, please keep your cool in that room.”
Maverick nods once and prepares to push past him, heart beating out of his chest, but Slider makes good use of his extra height to block the doorway, eyes cold but not unkind. “I mean it, Captain Mitchell,” his wingman’s RIO says seriously. “One wrong word and I’ll be forced to kick you out. You aren’t supposed to be here at all.”
“I’ll behave, Sli,” Maverick says impatiently, pushing through with a little force, and Vice Admiral Kerner lets him go with a sigh.
“Tom,” he says, looking up, “what are we going to do with our boy?”
Deck confirms, ready for launch.
Maverick enters the darkened operations room just as the control operator’s clear voice echoes over the recording. He sequesters himself into a dark corner and tries to be unnoticeable. There are only a handful of operators in the room, along with Slider and his two officers, but a few already look his way questioningly.
“Vice Admiral Kerner,” a booming voice says. The operators pause the recording. Maverick turns to see the face from Slider’s folder enter the room.
Slider turns, and to his credit, his face gives nothing away. “Trent,” he says cordially, accepting a handshake in lieu of a salute. “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”
“Of course,” the Rear Admiral replies. “Although I must say, I don’t know what about this mission warrants an investigation from the Vice Admiral. Sir.”
Maverick narrows his eyes.
”A lieutenant died, Trent,” Slider says, very pointedly not looking at Maverick’s direction, with no hitch in his voice as he says the words. Maverick can appreciate the use of words—a lieutenant could be anyone. Not Bradley. Not his kid. “For what we hear should have been a simple reconnaisance mission. You understand why we must be concerned.”
“We Navy know the risks, Sir,” the Rear Admiral counters, and he sounds almost dismissive. Anger starts to churn in Maverick’s chest.
“Acceptable risks, Trent,” Slider shoots back just as quick, and Maverick notes the way Trent’s face hardens at the reply. “Of course,” the Rear Admiral agrees. “I think you’ll find that this mission was nothing but.”
And then Slider smiles, teeth bared like a shark. Maverick can’t help but think that Iceman would be proud if he could see his RIO now.
”We’ll be the judge of that.”
The recording starts playing again, Trent standing an uncomfortable distance away from Slider. Maverick thanks his lucky stars that he hasn’t been noticed yet.
Rooster confirming, ready for launch.
Copy that. Rooster, you are cleared for launch.
Maverick can’t help it; a small warmth blooms in his chest at the sound of his kid’s voice. “There you are, baby,” he whispers under his breath. “Now, where did you go?”
The screen in front, supposedly showing the mission plane’s flight tracker along with recording, is dark. Lucky for Maverick, he’s not the only one who notices.
”Pause.” Slider narrows his eyes. “Bring up the lieutenant’s flight tracker.”
The operators look at each other nervously. Slider raises an eyebrow. “Well?”
One of them looks from Rear Admiral Trent to Slider, and gathers her courage. “Sir. Lieutenant Bradshaw was not covered by flight tracking on the mission in question.”
”And why the hell not?!” It’s the first time Maverick has seen Slider raise his voice in a long time, and it’s an echo of the scream caught in his chest.
“Sophisticated enemy systems, Vice Admiral,” Trent answers smoothly, unruffled. “They may have the ability to piggyback off our signals and track our own planes, and then where would we be?”
”And have you tested this theory, Trent?” Slider retorts. “Preferably before you let one of our own fly in blind?”
“They train for this, don’t they?” Trent says, still as slick as oil. “Why, Bradshaw was even a Top Gun graduate. Best of the best.” He leans back on his heels, unbothered and smirking. “Or so they say.”
Maverick balls up his fists by his side and wills himself to be calm. They haven’t listened to the recording yet. He promised Slider he’d behave. Once he hears everything, once he knows enough to know how to get Bradley back, then Trent will get what’s coming to him, one way or another.
Rooster inbound. Commencing recon mission report.
The screen remains dark, so Maverick has no idea where they sent his kid. He’ll figure something else out. For now, he just needs proof that his son’s okay.
Approaching coordinates. Visual report: small base. Two runways. What looks to be a few F-18s and fifth-gens. Trucks, carrying military-grade ammunition.
God, his kid sounds almost bored. Maverick doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
”Pause.” Slider clenches his jaw as he turns to Trent again. “Why didn’t you just send a drone for this mission?”
”Again, sir,” Trent replies, almost patronizingly; Maverick would be in awe of his bravery if he wasn’t so stupid. “Sophisticated enemy technology. They would have intercepted a drone immediately and been in possession of US technology.”
”And you didn’t think a whole fighter plane would be intercepted, Trent?” Slider asks coldly. Trent doesn’t answer, face set in a scowl. When no answer seems forthcoming, Slider signals for the recording to continue.
A crackle comes on as Trent’s own voice plays from the recording. Get closer, Rooster. We need exact visual.
Respectfully, Sir, Maverick’s kid replies, with all the sass of a Mitchell-Bradshaw, I’m at a 100 altitude. Any closer and I’d be scraping the ground. Sir.
Maverick grins. “Atta boy,” he whispers, and is suddenly grateful for the mask that muffles his speech.
Don’t give me that, Lieutenant, Trent replies sternly. Continue with recon.
Copy that, Rooster says, but it’s in a tone of voice that Maverick easily interprets as “go to hell.” He should know—he’s been on the receiving end before.
The recording continues, Rooster listing off various types of military equipment and facilities in the most bored voice he can muster until Trent is satisfied.
Rooster, this is control. Return to base.
Copy, control, his kid says coolly, and Maverick really can’t be prouder. It’s a textbook—if a little stupid—mission, and it makes him feel a little lighter. With a mission like this, those white-clad officers must have been mistaken.
Wait, they’ve got SAMs!
Maverick’s heart drops. Oh no, no, nononono please—
Trent’s voice comes back on. How many?
Too many! Rooster shouts. I’m in range! Employing evasive maneuvers.
Maverick’s breath quickens, his blood thrumming in his ears. The distant explosions echo in the cockpit recording. His hands shake in the helplessness, thinking I should be there I should be there why am I not there they left my baby all alone—
One down, two down—shit, they just keep coming! Low vis, I repeat, low vis, I can’t see—
“No, no, no,” Maverick whispers, praying and pleading to whatever higher power still cared to please oh god save my kid please god he’s too young—
This time, there’s no team, no fall back, no spare, no wingman—
“No, no, no, please God, not him, not my kid—“
I’m out of flares!
— no Maverick.
Can’t shake them, Rooster pants, and Maverick’s heart breaks and begs and pleads some more—
More coming, I can’t—I—I’m—DAD!
“BRADLEY!!”
And then the recording ends in a crackle, and the room stares at Maverick, chest heaving and arm outstretched towards the black screen.
“Give us the room,” Slider says quietly to his lieutenants, who obediently herd out the rest of the operators—leaving only Slider, Maverick, and Trent.
Maverick turns his back and takes a breath to compose himself before rounding on Trent. Sweat beads on his brow and his hands shake. Angry tears threaten to fall.
“How could you—no one should have flown this mission! No flight tracker, no intel, no backup? You call yourself a commanding officer?!”
Trent just takes a step back, unbothered. “Excuse me, who are you? Who gave you clearance?”
“Captain Peter Mitchell, callsign Maverick,” Slider intones, in the same way he would be announcing the opening round of a boxing match. Maverick raises his eyebrow at him but doesn’t move a muscle, crossing his arms and choosing to focus all his energy on the Admiral in front of him who doesn’t seem to feel an ounce of remorse. “He’s with me,” Slider adds.
Trent’s eyes widen imperceptibly, and immediately narrow in scorn. “You’re Bradshaw’s NOK?” the Admiral scoffs. “Well, that just makes a lot more sense,” he drawls, getting closer to face Maverick toe-to-toe. “I’ve heard stories about you, Maverick. Always asking questions, always trying to run around his CO. From what I hear, you’re supposed to be dead by now, given all that,” he flops his hands in the air, “derring-do that you think counts as flying. Guess the apple didn’t fall far from the rotten tree, huh, Mitchell?”
Maverick doesn’t telegraph his blow, and Trent staggers back in surprise, lifting up his hand to his face and coming away with bloody fingers. Maverick unconsciously prepares himself for a return punch, but the Rear Admiral just chuckles darkly. “Well, looks like I hit a nerve,” he says. “What do you think, sir?” he asks Vice Admiral Kerner. “Think we got enough for a dishonorable discharge?”
“Oh, we’re definitely working on it,” Slider replies cryptically, a shake of a head to Maverick as his signal to let me handle this. “As to what just transpired, I saw nothing, Rear Admiral.” Trent splutters, but Slider continues. “Captain Maverick is here as an NOK–and as you very well know, Trent,” Slider steps up, and his voice suddenly becomes very cold, “that is not how we treat NOKs.”
There’s a fury building up in Trent’s eyes, but he wrestles it under control as he looks between Maverick and Slider, clearly figuring out that he is up against something beyond his powers to bully into submission. “I understand, sir,” he says sullenly.
“You will be providing my office with this recording and all other documents related to Lieutenant Bradshaw’s mission,” Slider says, turning around on his way out. “And I mean everything, Rear Admiral. If I find one document out of place, you’ll be facing much more than just a court martial.”
Maverick doesn’t stick around long enough to listen to Trent’s protests–if he stays a second longer, he might just kill the man with his bare hands.
Rooster’s last anguished scream still rings in his ears.
Later, in the Vice Admiral’s makeshift office on the USS Washington, Maverick throws himself into the intel gathered by Slider and his team, trying to drown out the sound of Bradley’s panicked cries. His heart won’t stop beating double-time, and if he wasn’t holding a couple of folders, he’s pretty sure his hands would be shaking to oblivion.
”We’ve had our suspicions about Trent for a while,” Slider says an hour into their review, looking at Maverick in concern but not commenting, running his fingers down the folders as he picks some out to hand to Maverick. “Accomplishes his mission parameters with borderline casualty rates. Not high enough to put up red flags, but high enough to be a concern. He’s gotten a few reprimands for his command, but nothing too serious. We’ve been hearing here and there about unnecessary risks, but no one’s turned in a proper report.”
”Probably because they were all sent to their deaths,” Maverick says the quiet part out loud, gritting his teeth. “I talked to one of the juniors. Dead scared. Whatever he does, he does it so that no one ever finds the courage to report him.”
Maverick blinks back enraged tears as he turns another page in the folder he holds and turns it around for Slider to see. “Look at this. What’s wrong about it?”
Slider takes the file, brow furrowed. It’s a list of all the main squadrons and command detachments handled by Rear Admiral Trent in the last ten years, with their current ranks and statuses.
He almost flinches when he reads BRADSHAW, BRADLEY – LT. – MIA presumed dead, but he schools his features to look up at Maverick. “Apart from the list of deceased?”
Maverick shakes his head, wiping his brow. “No one lasts a year under him. No one gets promoted. Bradley–” he swallows, “Rooster stands out. Lieutenant, on his way to a promotion, has got a few years of flying under his belt already.”
Slider looks at the file again, and what Maverick highlights for him turns his stomach. “He targets the young and the inexperienced,” Maverick says lowly, handing the other man another folder–the compilation of all suspicious deaths under Rear Admiral Trent’s command. “Gives them the impossible missions with the mission objectives as an excuse. These kids believe him, believe it’s necessary, and he sends them off to die.”
Slider’s mind goes a hundred miles per hour, and he closes the folders with a snap.
“I’ve got to make some calls. If this checks out, we’ve got him for more than just a dishonorable discharge.”
“You do that,” Maverick says, backing off from where he had put his hands on the Vice Admiral’s table. “Wherever he ends up, it better be someplace I can’t reach.”
Slider narrows his eyes, but he can’t say he doesn’t understand. “Maverick–”
“He killed Bradley, Sli,” Maverick says, and the words tear themselves out of his throat.
“He killed…my kid,” his throat thickens, and the tears well up, and he feels like drowning as he moves forward to take fistfuls of his friend’s uniform, the admiral stars cutting into his skin as he begs him to understand—
— Maverick!—
– he shakes his head, the impossibility slamming into him, his memories flickering in his mind’s eye as the office fades around him and he sees instead a three year old Bradley in his parents’ arms, a shock of blonde hair in the school line, gummy smiles and rounded cheeks, a grin from his passenger seat, a teenager on the baseball diamond, a young man in his navy blues, a young man at the piano, a young man in a cockpit flying over the sunset, going out in flames, calling for his dad, calling for Maverick and Maverick wasn’t there–
“He killed…” the sob chokes him, and he barely gets the next words out, “my son, Sli. My baby. Bradley’s gone, because of him.”
Maverick lets go, and he falls to the floor.
It feels like he keeps on falling.