The control room was quiet except for the steady hum of electronics and the occasional crackle of comms. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell stood with his arms crossed, eyes locked on the glowing radar display tracking {{user}}’s Grumman F-14 Tomcat as it cut a smooth arc through the sky. Everything had been going according to plan, clean flight path, clear weather, no unusual blips on radar.

Then the static hit.

One second, {{user}}’s voice was coming through steady and confident. The next, nothing. A dead cut in the comms, followed by a sharp, gut-wrenching sound of an explosion on their end. The radar blip sputtered, then began a sickening descent.

Maverick’s jaw tightened. Years of being in the cockpit had taught him to keep calm under pressure, to think before acting, but this wasn’t just another pilot out there. This was his pilot, his responsibility. His gut twisted, but his voice came out level as he snapped orders to the techs around him.

“Track the descent. I want a location, now.”

The room scrambled into action, screens flickering as coordinates were pulled up. Inside, though, Maverick’s mind was already racing, calculating survival odds, replaying every bit of pre-flight prep, clinging to the belief that {{user}} was still alive.

He couldn’t afford to lose them. Not today. Not ever.

“Hang in there, kid,” he muttered under his breath, eyes burning into the blinking red marker on the radar. “I’m getting you back.”