Thin Ice

"Alex. You're late. Again." A chill runs down my spine as the instructor gazes at me, his cold, piercing gaze penetrates my brain. Shit. Well, I guess it's my fault for watching videos during lunch. I couldn't help it though, there was a new episode of...ah whatever.
"Sorry sir, the bus was running late."
"The bus is always late Alex. You should have calculated that. No one else here runs as chronically late as you." I glance over at my peers, who are looking away as to not embarrass me, but I'm sure they're all thinking the same thing. As I walk down towards my seat, he leans over and whispers into my ear.

"You're on thin fucking ice. Don't slip any further."

***

"Engine?"
"Check."
"Flight controls?"
"Check."
"Weapons?"
"Check. Or well, lack thereof."
"Salmon, your callsign today is Eagle 5. Verify and read back."
"This is Eagle 5, copy."
"Alright Salmon, you're cleared for launch. But you are on thin. Fucking. Ice."
"Y-yes sir." Geez.

The engine of the trainer craft slowly revs up as the powerful turbines of the jets power up. It races down the runway at a blistering speed, speeding past everything in the blink of an eye until, eventually, I am in the air.
"Eagle 5, airborne." I say into the comms.
"Alrighty, Salmon has hit the air!" That's my callsign. Salmon. It's based on Samuel, except for the fact that I happened to be on cooking duty the day, and we were preparing fish.
"Haha, fishy's here with us now. Hey Popstar, you enjoying the weather?"
"I would appreciate it, if you pulled your throttle down and never pointed it back up, Ballast." Fucking asshole. I forget where his nickname comes from. He's Eagle 7 today.
"Hold the chatter!" Our instructor yells out. "Eagle Squadron, get into element. We're practicing maneuvers first. Understood?"
"Yes sir." We all say, mostly in unison. Adrenaline runs down my body as the plane rises into the deep, dark blue. It's as nerve wracking as it is beautiful.

"Clear weather today, not a cloud in sight, eh?" 
"Negative, I see a whole bunch of them moving in from the east." And he's right, despite being cloudless over here, there is a giant group of them moving in from the east. 

It was like that on the day I met her too. I still remember the weather conditions on award night.

"Eagle Squadron, we have an airliner sighted up ahead. Salmon, stop dozing off and start focusing."
"Huh? Oh, uh, yes sir." Dammit, the instructors always publicly humiliate me in front of everyone. I know I'm kind of a fuckup, but I'm starting to think it's intentional. What about everyone else? It's not like they don't space out.
"With our little fuckup focusing, I think we may as well take the time to practice vertical separation."
"Sir, this isn't in the schedule for today." Ballast says.
"A pilot needs to know when to adapt. Alright everyone, form up and on me. Let's give this plane an escort." The radio crackles, as if he's switching to LR. "Civilian aircraft, do you hear me?" There is a pause. "Shit, they're not responding."

The formation starts to converge upon the craft as I start to hear some confused radio messages between the craft and our instructor.
"An escort? No, we're a simple training squadron. What's going on?" As my plane flies closer to the air transport, there's something very wrong with it. For starters, there are singe marks all over the craft. As my plane flies closer and closer to it, I start to notice the fact that there are holes in the right wing. 
"Eagle 2, are those...holes in the wing?"
"Eagle 5, that doesn't matter. Stay in formation."
"Hang on, I need to see this." I push in for a closer look. It's a small twinjet. Two engines, one under each wing. It's a small regional jet from the looks of it. And...the paint doesn't remind me of any airliner. There's a very conspicuous royal insignia next to the plane, almost as if it's a royal plane.

Wait, this is a state jet. What's a state jet doing all the way out here?

"Eagle 5!" I almost don't hear the voice from my radio as I try to notice the details. That's no civilian liner.
"Eagle 5!"
"Eagle 5, turn right! Turn right!" Sweat pools down my glove before it is wicked away by the automatic sweat wiper system. Right? In the heat of the moment, I can't tell between the directions, and I swerve my craft left, seemingly away from the airliner, not realizing that it is turning right - my left.
"Eagle 5! Wrong way!" I swerve my craft out of the way of the transport, narrowly missing colliding with the airliner. My airplane's instruments beep, giving the dangerous distance message. Some of my squadmates are also yelling at me, adding to the confusion as I scan the right sensors in milliseconds.

On raw instinct, I manage to maneuver out of the way of the transport, narrowly missing the tail. As I do so, I fail to notice that I've overcompensated and drifted into the path of Eagle 4. Another near collision. 
"Salmon, fucking watch it!" I pull my craft away from both hers and the transport, managing to form a good center. I'm back in formation.
"Eagle 5!" The instructor roars though my radio. The panic of almost colliding with the transport - and now Eagle 4 - now gives way to the panic of realizing that I fucked up big time. "Actually, you know what? It's alright. It's alright. Eagle fi- I mean, Alex. I'm sorry."

A strange, serene calm washes over me, like the eye of a hurricane. Something about the calm tone the instructor is taking is actually more unnerving than just yelling at me. 

"You're out Alex. You're out." There's a pause. "Please, don't take this too hard."
"What?" I ask weakly, as the instructor's long range radio crackles again.
"What I mean is that you're no longer a pilot. Return home, and get landed. You're no longer a part of the program."