Little Top Gun(ish)/Marauders Fic incoming...
“Here’s how this plays out.” Air Vice Marshal Minerva McGonagall states to the room at large. Gaze unwavering as she braces ringless hands across the cool marble table top. “We have our three fighter pilots, as previously detailed to you all in their evaluation and history files, marshaled to our base northwest of Thurso along the Brims coastline and our priority center there, Hogsmeade. At which time, we’ll inform them of the current situation and have them introduced to their French counterparts, whom also, shall join them in Thurso. The team of six fighter pilots will train as unit for the duration of four weeks, at which point we assess their compatibility as a squadron and initiate them into the Horcrux Project. By the deadline of July 31st, MI5 in co-operation with the Royal Marine and Royal Airforce will have all resources necessary to undertake the downfall of these extremists.”
There’s an underlying tension which exists in briefing rooms. Minerva wonders briefly whether or not it ever truly leaves the space, or if the foreboding atmosphere lingers like an unattainable gamble. Not one commanding officer enters into these rooms without some form of trepidation bubbling within them as they await the inevitable delivery of complications and long off outcomes. Whilst there could be some comfort to be found in the familiar and to be expected routine of such briefings, it solemnly brings anyone any comfort. Briefings such as those, Minerva could at least claim to be used to. Having the Foreign Secretary currently sat in the room however, was a different ballpark to be messing in. Though as Vice Air Marshal the matter of acquaintance with such figures came with the territory.
The village of Waddington in Lincolnshire seems the last location imaginable to be host to many of Britain’s highest ranked military officials. Yet inside the intelligence base founded in 1916 to establish intelligence links for the duration of World War I, many lives have been calculated and sacrificed by the people in suits whom seldomly face any true risk to their own lives. It’s a demeaning system when one thinks about it. How easily others’ lives are offered up to the front line. Placed in scenes which rarely provide a safe return home. A sacrifice, some would deem it, self-offering sacrifice of the men, women and people who offer their greatest internal value, their life, in the hope of giving others a brighter future.
It's these decisions McGonagall suffers deliberating on most. The battle-hardened frowns and somber expressions worn by many of her comrades which surround her at the table of marble. Those people, the ones she looks upon now and see the internal struggle they too endure day in and day out, offering up lives for the sake of petty disagreements and struggles, which more often than not would be avoided if only people learnt to communicate effectively and without pride.
“I believe the mission brief states the names of the pilots chosen by each respective country?” Admiral Kingsley states from where he’s seated furthest away from where Minerva stands.
“Indeed. The FAF have sent their profiles of the three pilots, Lieutenant Evan Rosier, Lieutenant Dorcas Meadowes and Commander Regulus Black.”
“Black? Sirius’s Blacks brother? Is that wise having siblings placed within this team? For a mission of such high importance this seems a prime way of encouraging personal bias.”
“Commander Sirius is most certainly one of the RAF’s chosen fighter pilots. To have him not be one of our three would only weaken our chances of success. The Black brothers will cooperate not because of any sworn brotherhood that may or may not exist between them but rather for the sake of their nations and the people of Europe. Simple as that Admiral.” Minerva replies in a clipped tone. Having known placing the two infamous brothers into this squadron would be similar to intentionally stirring a hornets nest, it was fact beyond question that both brothers possessed flying capabilities nigh impossible to rival. Sirius, despite his ego Minerva thought tiredly, was one of the most naturally gifted fighter pilots she’d known in her forty seven years of military service.
“And who else,” Admiral Scrimgeour mused in his west London drawl, “from the RAF has been put forth?”
“Lieutenant Lily Evans and Commander James Potter.”
“Potter and Black, you’ve got to be joking Minerva!”
“I most certainly am not, Commodore.” Minerva answered cooly back to Commodore Sinistra. “Should we wish to dispel this rising threat to our national security, as well as that of greater Europe, then only our best shall do. We can have no more than six air crafts airborne in order for our enemy’s honing devices to not detect us through our newly innovated radar scrambler. Three British pilots, and three French.”
“Surely there must be better choices than Black and Potter? Keep one if you must but surely their antics upon their last international mission when placed in the same squadron ensured that there not be a repeat!” Kingsley spoke out this time.
“Should we wish to succeed we need our best, I hardly think any of you could fly better than those pilots now could you? This is not up for discussion anyhow. Our pilots have been signed off and approved and shall arrive at Thurso as marshalled on Monday at seventeen hundred. Is that understood?”
A general muttering of agreement was heard around the table. Minerva made sure to watch as each official nodded in turn before she was finally satisfied.
National security was her job and if reuniting the estranged brothers was what it took to stop this brewing war before it could truly begin and start to clock a body count, then that was what would have to be done. War didn’t halt to mend broken bonds, it raged on whilst everyone entrapped in its grasp frantically sought to survive it. Relationships could be bound or broken amidst its throws, no amount of training could erase the instinct to protect loved ones yet she’d ask that of her pilots if this was to be the price. She couldn’t risk the security of her country, not of her people and homeland, the needs of the few would not outweigh the needs of the many. A philosophy Minerva had sworn to herself in a decade long since past, one she held onto through all her trials and tribulations faced in a position such as hers. She would ask of these brothers to mend, perhaps not entirely, but enough so that they could encapsulate the meaning of squadron. Of equals, of partners faced with odds no betting person would bid on. She would ask it, no, order it from them, and hope secretly and desperately, that neither young man would end as a casualty.
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