The sun was dipping low, painting the base in shades of gold and orange. Out on the edge of the tarmac, a handful of picnic tables had been dragged together, and smoke curled lazily from a grill Price had commandeered. The air smelled of charcoal, burgers, and jet fuel—a weird combination, but nobody was complaining.

Soap had a spatula in hand like it was a weapon. “Lads, I’m telling ye, Scottish burgers are a whole different breed. Secret family recipe.”

Gaz leaned over the grill, skeptical. “Mate, it’s just a burger. Meat, bun, done.”

“Bite yer tongue!” Soap gasped, flipping a patty dramatically. “This is art.”

Price rolled his eyes and poured himself a drink. “Art, my arse. Just don’t burn the bloody lot.”

Ghost, meanwhile, sat at the far end of the table, arms crossed, silently judging everyone—and especially the food. He hadn’t moved since the cooking started, but the tilt of his mask made it clear he was unimpressed.

That’s when the sound of boots on pavement turned heads. You strolled over in your flight suit half-zipped, sunglasses hanging off your collar. Your Air Force crew trailed behind, already laughing and arguing over who had the fastest times in the simulator.

Soap spotted you and nearly dropped the spatula. “Ohhh, here comes the bloody Top Gun gang.”

Gaz smirked. “Careful, Soap. They’ve got a jet that could smoke you before you finish your burger.”

Price gave you a nod as you grabbed a plate. “Glad you showed up. Maybe you can teach these idiots some manners before the food fight breaks out.”

Ghost finally spoke, voice low and dry. “…Bet they still can’t cook.”

The table erupted into laughter, and just like that, the BBQ was in full swing—Task Force 141 and the Air Force side by side, trading jokes, swapping stories, and daring each other into increasingly stupid competitions.