Martin looked up from his notes. He had been wincing as Magic slowly went through the gunshot. He knew that this was a pretty big make or break moment for him.

“I’ve only known a few people that could pull that off,” Magic said, “and none of them were brand new lieutenants.”

Martin tried not to smile as he realized the compliment. It was a pretty big deal to hear that from the squadron Weapons Officer.

“Were you trying to do that?” Magic asked. “Or was it luck?”

“I guess it was just luck,” Martin said humbly. “I just did what looked right.”

Magic considered the statement for a moment, creating an uncomfortable silence as he seemed to look Martin up and down.

“Well, luck or not, it was a good shot. But I wouldn’t make a habit of it. We teach lag BFM for a reason. We want results you can replicate over and over, not lucky shots. This is a bit too aggressive. If you miss a shot like this in combat, you’re dead.”

Martin nodded.

After asking if Martin had any further questions, he advanced to the next set. They debriefed the final four shorter-range sets the same as the first two, and then Magic sat down across the debriefing table from Martin after recapping their objectives.

“Overall, I’d say you did a good job today. Definitely above average,” Magic said leaning back in the chair.

Martin exhaled as the words “Above Average” hung in the air. He had been worried during the entire debrief that he might have to refly the flight. He definitely wasn’t expecting such praise.

“You’ve got good hands and a good attitude. I saw your pilot training gradebooks. You’ve done well. You might be a little too aggressive, and that could get you in trouble, but I can work with aggressive. It’s way easier to throttle someone back than try to make them more aggressive.”

Martin nodded sheepishly. He didn’t know how to respond to such high praise.

“Has the boss talked to you yet?”

“About what?” Martin asked, tilting his head to the side.

Magic looked at his watch and said, “About why it’s six o'clock and there’s no fucking popcorn yet.”

Martin’s faced reddened. As the most junior guy in the squadron, his additional duty was to keep the squadron bar cleaned and stocked with beer and snacks, and ensure fresh jalapeno popcorn was ready every evening.

“No excuse,” Martin said stoically.

“I’m just giving you shit!” Magic busted out laughing. “I meant about the F-22 thing.”

Martin gave him a confused look.

“I guess not. Well, don’t be surprised if the boss talks to you about it. I know you just got here and everything, but the Reserves are standing up their F-22 associate program and looking for a young wingman with good hands to be the first young Reserve guy in the community. Think you might be interested?”

“Hell yes!” Martin replied. His stoic demeanor was replaced by a childish enthusiasm. He couldn’t contain himself.