Chapter Text
She was a woman, yes, but first and foremost she was a scientist. An aeronautical-engineering analyst for the Center for Naval Analyses. A “civilian contractor,” in contrast to her military counterparts. A TOPGUN instructor whose expertise focused on the technological prowess of the enemy. She spoke Russian. She had a PhD in astrophysics and really earned it. The Pentagon listened to her because they knew she could calculate vectors and thrust angles and the proficiencies of young pilots better than anyone in the country.
But she also believed in the Scientific Method the way zealots believe in God. So it really shouldn’t have surprised anyone that she fell for Pete Mitchell.
(No one called him that, except to introduce him. They called him Maverick. She even called him Maverick in bed.)
At first, she really did just want to know about the MiG-28. Classified, secret, off-limits. The fact that he wouldn’t tell her only intrigued her. Why wouldn’t he tell her? What about it was so secret? He was a pilot in the United States Navy: weren’t they eager to brag? Yes, she could dig through the files, call up an old friend at CNA’s operations research branch and just ask, but if she just asked, she might have lost out on the opportunity to conduct an experiment.
She was interested in the fact that Maverick did everything all-or-nothing. No in-between. He flew by the seat of his pants and fucked like it, too. When he should’ve been defensive, he flew aggressively. Every time she thought he’d overshoot, he’d reign in his gunsights and hit the target. She’d sit in that TACTS trailer laughing to herself, wondering how she got so lucky—Maverick, the one percent of the one percent. She just wanted to be the one to tame him.
His reply: “If I wanted help, I would’ve asked for it.”
Sure, Lieutenant. Sure you would have. God damn, he was an asshole when he wanted to be. Just like he could be sweet and tender when he wanted to be. Maybe he just didn’t ever learn how to talk to a woman. His arsenal of sweet-talking missiles was always calibrated a little off; he’d give you some pick-up line that had no business working and it was his charming lack of self-awareness that would get you in his bed. And those capable hands, and those sharpshooting eyes—
“So you’ve already left?” —She remembered saying, her voice hard and bitter. He’d already left.
But then he came back; then he took a position at TOPGUN; then she fell for him and their experiment started; then she was staring down at the rotary phone on her desk trying to get the order of the words right— “Hi, Mr. McDonnell. I’ve thought about C.N.A.’s offer, and I’m very flattered, but I think I’ll stay here at TOPGUN in Miramar for the foreseeable future. Thank you so much for considering me.”
Let’s see if we can make this work.
The rules of engagement: Do not break the hard deck. Do not flirt with women who aren’t me. Do not leave your wingman. Show up on time when we set a date for dinner. Define the enemy before you engage. Not every argument has to end with sex. Maintain contact with ATC. Just because you don’t pull your punches in the air doesn’t mean it’s gloves-off with me, too.
Right. Try getting a young stud with the call sign “Maverick” to follow the rules of engagement.
All-or-nothing. Days without coming over, days without calling, days at work without eye contact, then he’d bring over flowers and champagne and woo her with sweaty sex against a bare mattress. “Sorry for not calling,” he’d say, and at first she’d tell him “No apologies,” but then she gave up. It would’ve been nice to hear him apologize for once. Actually: it would’ve been nice to see him change.
It was too confusing. The experiment had too many variables. He didn’t know who he was and neither did she; she loved him but hated him sometimes when he walked out the door; she hated how little she knew him and how much she wanted him to know her. Did he ever ask? Did he ever ask about her PhD, about her parakeet in a cage on the back porch, about her dog, about the salads she ate religiously, about her 1958 Porsche Speedster parked out front, about her high school gymnastics trophies, about her lipstick, about her hair, about her job? Did he ever ask?
He’d tell her about his day, he’d tell her about his father, he’d tell her about Goose, but he’d never talk about himself. That was private. He’d never tell her about the MiG.
(The MiG! It all came down to the MiG. Why won’t you tell me about the MiG?)
“One day I’ll tell you about the MiG,” he’d reassure her, licking a stripe from her collarbone to her ear; she could hear the cocky smile in his inflection. “One day.”
(When they argued, he’d take off on his motorbike and ride for hours. As he put the key in the ignition, shoulders squared-off and inscrutable, she’d stand in the driveway shouting and he’d pretend not to hear her.)
In the back of her mind she knew he was planning to propose, to tell her about the MiG before he dropped to one knee, and that was a romantic idea she might have swooned over once. But at the forefront she was impatient, furious, doubtful. You famous MiG insulter, you, pressing her into the mattress with those hips and those hands and those intent green hawk’s eyes, had you been lying to her the whole time?
She’d stand in front of the TACTS trailer with Maverick at her side grinning behind his mirrored aviators, reflecting back a room full of tired hotshots, and wonder where she went wrong, why he wouldn’t tell her now. Pleading in her head: C’mon, Maverick. Marry me so you can tell me about the MiG.
“One day,” he told her. “One day.”
Always holding it over her head, until the experiment lost its value, her hypothesis warped beyond all constraints and parameters, and she was standing there in the Captain’s office as he explained to her that Maverick kept breaking the rules and did she think he really was a good fit for TOPGUN, and she said, “No, I don’t think so.”
“Yes, hello, I’m looking for Mr. McDonnell. —Hi, Mr. McDonnell. This is Charlie out at Miramar. I was wondering if the Director of Engineering Policy Research position from last year is still open? —It is? Is there any way I might be able to fill it?”
Making love to Maverick against the kitchen counter, in the shower, between the sheets. Standing over him as he slept, charming and handsome in a young immature way even in sleep, and thinking, What the hell am I still doing with him, anyway? Calling it quits, taking off in the middle of the night for D.C. and never looking back.
She did hear that the Captain took her advice, kicked Maverick out of TOPGUN. It made her heart a little sore, a little guilty.
But only until she heard they called him back a year later.
She never would find out about the MiG-28. But it wasn’t worth it, in the end.