The desert heat shimmered off the tarmac at NAS Miramar, making the line of F-14 Tomcats look like ghosts in motion. Pete “Maverick” Mitchell stepped out of the hangar, helmet under his arm, the sun slicing across his aviators. He’d been here barely an hour and already felt the weight of the place — the quiet intensity, the smell of jet fuel, the unspoken competition hanging in the air like static. This wasn’t a carrier deck or a routine sortie. This was Top Gun. The best of the best. And somehow, he’d made it in.

He caught sight of an older man walking across the hangar floor — steady stride, weathered face, crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command attention. Every mechanic, every pilot in the hangar instinctively moved aside when he passed.

“Lieutenant Mitchell?” the man asked, stopping in front of him. His voice was deep, steady, with the kind of calm authority that could cut through engine noise.

“Yes, sir.” Maverick straightened, a reflex born of both respect and defiance.

The man studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I’m Commander Mike Metcalf. Call sign Viper.”

Maverick blinked — the Viper. The one pilots swapped stories about, half legend, half myth. A man who’d flown more combat missions than anyone cared to count.

Viper extended a hand, and Maverick shook it. His grip was firm, deliberate, not testing — measuring.

“I’ve heard about you,” Viper said quietly. “You’ve got talent. A little wild, but… that can be sharpened.”

“Thank you, sir,” Maverick said, though there was an edge to his tone — a mix of pride and caution. Compliments didn’t come easily in the Navy, especially from men like this.

Viper’s gaze lingered, just a fraction too long. “You remind me of someone I used to know,” he said. “Flew with your old man, a long time ago. Duke Mitchell. He was a good man. Damn good pilot. You’ve got his look in your eyes — like the sky owes you something.”