“Fox-two! Fox-two!” The chilling exhalation of a missile launch tore through Newsom’s helmet. Ice-cold metal screamed past his canopy, a blurred streak of kinetic fury that detonated with a concussive thump just beyond Maverick’s tail. “Governor, break right! Hard! Now!”
The call was pure instinct, a guttural command that sliced through the cacophony in Newsom’s ear. His hands, slick with sweat inside his Nomex gloves, hauled the stick over. The F/A-18 Super Hornet groaned in protest, its G-meter spiking. The world outside twisted into a kaleidoscope of blue and grey, the horizon line canting wildly as he pulled a crushing 9Gs. He felt his vision tunnel, the edges blurring, but he fought it, a snarl escaping as he forced breath into his lungs.
“Chaff! Flare! Break!” Maverick’s voice was a steel wire, taut but unbroken. “He’s still on you!”
Newsom saw it then, too late to react with anything but a desperate prayer. In his mirror, the enemy Sukhoi – a sleek, dark predator – was glued to his six, a shimmering heat signature blooming beneath its wing. Another missile, burning brighter and faster than the last.
“I’m too slow, Mav!” Newsom gritted out, the words squeezed from his chest.
“He knows it,” Maverick replied, his tone devoid of panic despite the impossible situation. “But he doesn’t know us.”
Then, an impossible thing happened. Maverick, who had just pulled a violent evasive maneuver himself, looped back. He didn’t just turn; he executed a gut-wrenching, high-G Immelmann, throwing his jet into a tight, upward arc that put him directly between Newsom’s tail and the incoming missile.
“Negative, Mav! Don’t!” Newsom yelled, his heart seizing. It was a suicide move.
“Just fly, Governor!” Maverick barked, his voice straining. “Keep that speed up! I’ll get him off your back!”
The missile, having locked onto Newsom’s heat signature, suddenly found a larger, hotter target directly in its path. It diverted fractionally, shifting its aim. Maverick’s F-18, a blur of grey, spewed a torrent of flares – blinding, brilliant stars against the dark sky. The missile went for the flares, a confused serpent striking at shadows. It detonated harmlessly, a brilliant white flash that momentarily blinded Newsom’s vision.
But the enemy Sukhoi was still there, now fully focused on Maverick. Its pilot, no doubt furious at the thwarted kill, pressed the attack.
“I’m engaged! Two contacts!” Maverick reported, his voice tight. “Governor, you’re clear! Maintain your vector! Get to the target!”
Newsom, still reeling from the near-death experience, fought the urge to turn back, to help his mentor. Every fiber of his being screamed to protect the man who had just saved his life. But Maverick’s command was absolute. Get to the target.
He leveled out, pushing the throttles forward, feeling the raw power of the Super Hornet surge beneath him. He glanced at his radar: Maverick, a tiny friendly icon, was now deep in a swirling dogfight, a ballet of death against two aggressive enemy bogeys. One of them, he knew, was the one that had almost ended his mission, his life.
“Maverick, I’m at Point Alpha. Approaching target coordinates.” Newsom’s voice was a raw whisper, laced with a fear he hadn’t known existed. Not for himself, but for the man he was leaving behind.
“Roger that, Governor. Good hunting.” Maverick’s voice crackled, overlaid with the distinct sounds of an alarm – a missile lock, perhaps. “Don’t worry about me. I just bought myself some alone time.”
Newsom didn't believe him. He wouldn't. He knew what Maverick was doing, what he’d always done. He was the distraction, the shield, the opening. He was the one who went in first, the one who stayed behind, so others could complete the mission.
The terrain below was rugged, the mountains jagged teeth against the twilight sky. Ahead, shrouded in a strange, shimmering electromagnetic haze, was the silhouette of their objective: a massive, fortified complex, bristling with SAM sites and AAA. The very air around it felt hostile.
He was alone now, truly alone. No wingman, no guardian angel. Just the hum of his engines, the glare of his HUD, and the cold, hard reality of the mission. The reality Maverick had fought so hard to give him a chance to complete.
He armed his ordnance. A slight tremor ran through his hand as his thumb hovered over the pickle button. “Target acquired,” Newsom said, his voice firm, resolute. “Initiating final approach.” His hands were steady now, his breathing controlled. He was no longer just the Governor. He was a pilot, on a mission, with a debt to repay. And he would not fail.
Somewhere behind him, a distant, muffled explosion echoed, a faint tremor in the air. Newsom didn't look back. He couldn't. Not yet.
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NEWSOM : Top Gun [Partie 6] - Un extrait d'un générateur de romans IA
« Renard-deux ! Renard-deux ! » Le souffle glacial d’un tir de missile transperça le casque de Newsom. Le métal glacé hurla sous sa verrière, une traînée de fureur cinétique floue qui explosa avec un bruit sourd juste derrière la queue de Maverick. « Gouverneur, freinez à droite ! Fort ! Maintenant ! »
L’appel était un pur instinct, un ordre guttural qui trancha la cacophonie dans l’oreille de Newsom. Ses mains, moites de sueur sous ses gants en Nomex, tirèrent le manche. Le F/A-18 Super Hornet gémit en signe de protestation, son accéléromètre grimpant en flèche. Le monde extérieur se tordit en un kaléidoscope de bleu et de gris, la ligne d’horizon s’inclinant violemment sous une force écrasante de 9 G. Il sentit sa vision se rétrécir, les contours se brouiller, mais il résista, un grognement s’échappant tandis qu’il respirait à pleins poumons.
« Paille ! Fusée ! Casse ! » La voix de Maverick était d'une voix de fer, tendue mais ininterrompue. « Il est toujours sur toi ! »
Newsom le vit alors, trop tard pour réagir autrement que par une prière désespérée. Dans son rétroviseur, le Sukhoi ennemi – un prédateur sombre et élégant – était rivé à son six, une signature thermique chatoyante s'épanouissant sous son aile. Un autre missile, plus vif et plus rapide que le précédent.
« Je suis trop lent, Mav ! » grinça Newsom, les mots s'échappant de sa poitrine.
« Il le sait », répondit Maverick d'un ton dénué de panique malgré l'impossibilité de la situation. « Mais il ne nous connaît pas. »
Puis, l'impossible se produisit. Maverick, qui venait lui-même d'effectuer une violente manœuvre d'évitement, fit demi-tour. Il ne se contenta pas de tourner ; il exécuta un Immelmann déchirant à haute altitude, projetant son jet dans un arc de cercle serré et ascendant qui le plaça directement entre la queue de Newsom et le missile en approche.
« Négatif, Mav ! Ne fais pas ça ! » hurla Newsom, le cœur battant la chamade. C'était un suicide.
« Vole, Gouverneur ! » aboya Maverick d'une voix tendue. « Continue à voler ! Je vais te le débarrasser ! »
Le missile, après s'être verrouillé sur la signature thermique de Newsom, trouva soudain une cible plus grande et plus chaude directement sur sa trajectoire. Il dévia légèrement, modifiant sa visée. Le F-18 de Maverick, une tache grise, lança un torrent de fusées éclairantes – des étoiles brillantes et aveuglantes se détachant sur le ciel sombre. Le missile se dirigea vers les fusées éclairantes, tel un serpent confus frappant les ombres. Il explosa sans faire de dégâts, un éclair blanc éclatant qui aveugla momentanément Newsom.
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