Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

“Both of them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But Uno completed his… wait, Uno’s helping him?”

  “That’s what you do when you need help, isn’t it? You ask for it. Just like you did when you asked me to spot you.”

  “Can he do that?”

  “Did anyone say he couldn’t? Seriously, Coda, if you’re not resourceful enough to figure this out, maybe you don’t belong in a cockpit.”

  Noodle smiled as if to suggest he was joking, but there was too much truth in the statement for Coda to laugh. He hadn’t thought to ask for help, partly because he didn’t know he could, but also because he didn’t like doing it. He’d always wanted to succeed on his own, and if that meant failing on his own too, then so be it. But if he didn’t get through a quarter of the program in the next forty-eight hours, that hypothetical situation would become a very real possibility.

  “So, uh, you think you could help me out?” Coda asked awkwardly.

  “Me?” Noodle said. “Coda, I think you misunderstood. I’m not doing much better than you are. I’ll finish, but just barely, and that’s with me putting in extra work. No, you’re going to have to talk to Uno or something.”

  “All right,” Coda said. “I’ll do that.”

  Coda found Uno and Squawks in one of the training rooms, huddled close to the screen. Uno was pointing at something and explaining it in simpler terms. Coda didn’t recognize it, so it must have been from a later module. That was a good sign. If Squawks was closer to completing the CAI, that meant Uno would have more time to help him, wouldn’t it?

  “Making progress?” Coda asked from the doorway.

  Uno and Squawks looked up immediately then at each other. Coda couldn’t tell for sure, but Squawks appeared to be trying to decide whether to be embarrassed and concerned.

  “Relax,” Coda said. “Noodle said I could find you here. What module is that?”

  “Fifty-seven,” Uno said. “The inner workings of Shaw Drive mechanics.”

  Coda couldn’t believe his luck. Just before heading to the gym, he’d completed module fifty-six. Squawks was literally working his way through the very course he was set to begin.

  “Do you have room for one more?”

  “Are you wanting to help too?” Uno asked.

  “Actually, no.” Coda’s face grew hot. “I’m looking for a tutor if you have space for another student.”

  “You need help?” Uno asked, a hint of surprise in his voice.

  Coda nodded. “A lot of it. I’m actually on module fifty-seven too.”

  “No way,” Squawks asked.

  “Yep.”

  Squawks looked at Uno and shrugged as if saying the decision was up to him.

  “I don’t mind,” Uno said. “But there’s no way for you to undock and work in here with us.”

  “That’s fine,” Coda said. “What I need is someone who helps me understand this stuff. I can figure the rest out.”

  “Then grab a chair,” Uno said.

  “Thank you,” Coda said.

  In a nearby room, Coda found a chair that wasn’t bolted to the floor then squeezed it in next to the two pilots. The room was already tight with two and was completely crammed with three, but even as the room grew hot, nobody complained.

  Uno was a born teacher. He often paused the videos, taking time to explain them in greater detail and with less technical language. He answered their questions patiently and without condescension, and even though the video took twice as long to get through, they completed the module in half the time Coda had taken to complete the previous one.

  They worked late into the night, not stopping until a full two hours after the three of them were supposed to be in bed. In that time, they had wrapped up two other modules, ending on the sixtieth. With Uno’s help, Squawks had completed eighty-percent of the program and had rising evaluation scores.

  Armed with a tablet full of notes, his eyes bleary with exhaustion, Coda returned to his training room and fired up the computer. There was no way to fast forward through the video, so he was forced to watch it from the beginning. At first, he tried to tell himself that he would watch it again, but ten minutes into the first video, Coda was struggling to hold his eyes open. Scared he would fall asleep and lose an entire night, he pulled out his personal hand terminal and set an alarm for every ten minutes.

  When he got to the exam, he was pleased to find that the questions were the same questions Squawks had answered, only in a different order. Between his familiarization with them and Uno’s tutelage, Coda breezed through the evaluation, posting his best score yet.

  Suddenly feeling better than he had in days, he began the next module.

  12

  CAI Room, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  For two full days, Coda worked with Uno and Squawks, and for two full nights, he took what he’d learned from their group study and applied it to his own evaluations. By the end of the second night, Coda wasn’t worried about completing the remaining modules in time, but he was growing increasingly concerned that his test scores wouldn’t be high enough to pass.

  Commander Coleman had set the benchmark at a cumulative eighty percent, and while Coda was within spitting distance of that mark, the long days and nights were beginning to take their toll. In the last forty-eight hours, he hadn’t managed more than thirty minutes of continuous sleep, and faced with severe sleep deprivation, he found himself making stupid mistakes—misreading questions, making basic arithmetic errors, and simply highlighting the wrong answers.

  By the time he was ready to begin the final module his uptick in scores had taken a dive, and he would have to score a ninety-six on his final exam to meet the commander’s benchmark.

  As with nearly every other test, the questions began simple: Identify the various components of the X-23’s navigational thrusters. The X-23 leverages how many navigational thrusters for its X, Y, and Z-axis maneuvers? Unlike the Shaw Drive propulsion system, which leverages electromagnetic propulsion, the navigational thrusters used what fuel?

  Coda calmly punched in the answers for each, and it wasn’t until he was a third of the way through the exam that he even needed to consult his notes.

  Name the optimal compression range for the aft- and port-side nose thrusters. In the event the liquid oxygen compressor is damaged, what other system can provide emergency navigational abilities? What steps are required to bypass the compressor to make this possible?

  He was halfway through the exam when he got his first question wrong. It was a ridiculous question about hydrogen composition mixes where the four possible answers varied by less than a tenth of a percent. By that point, almost an hour into the exam, his adrenaline rush of having nearly completed FAM Phase had worn off, and he made his second mistake, simply miscounting the correct number of zeroes after a decimal point. It was exactly the kind of question that pissed him off.

  Who cares what the optimum hydrogen composition mix is for the navigational thrusters? That’s not my job.

  Captain Hughes had criticized him for not trusting others—well, he sure as hell trusted that the Deck Chief knew how to service the X-23 better than he did.

  Seething, Coda queued up the next question and immediately erupted into a series of curses. Of course it was a follow-up question. It only made sense that the test was doubling down on something he obviously didn’t understand. Something he didn’t care about. Worse still, he had twenty-five questions to go, and if he got another question wrong, he would have to answer every other question correctly in order to score marks high enough.

  His emotions getting the better of him, Coda punched in the first answer he thought might be correct, and to his welcomed surprise, the terminal flashed green.

  Sometimes it was better to be lucky than good. Knowing he’d somehow dodged a self-inflicted bullet, Coda put himself through a relaxing exercise that his anger counselor at the academy had taught him. He closed his eyes and breathed in slowl
y through his mouth for ten seconds, held it for ten seconds, then out his nose for an equal amount of time. After five long breaths, he opened his eyes. Feeling a renewed sense of clarity, he read the next question.

  The monitor flashed green with another correct answer.

  Five questions later, five right answers. Then ten. Twenty. Before he knew it, he had five to go and only needed to get four correct.

  Three left. Then two.

  His body trembled as he read the second-to-last question. It would almost be fitting if he missed the last two questions—to come so close only to fail. That was something his father would have done.

  Coda read the question three times, and his answer five more, consulting his notes every time to ensure he wasn’t making a stupid mistake. Satisfied he wasn’t, he held his breath and punched in the answer with a shaky hand. His eyes welled with tears as the green bracket appeared, and alone in the small room, Coda let them flow freely down his face.

  I did it, he thought. I did it.

  The words of the final question were blurry through his tears, but even then, barely able to read them, he still got it right.

  Walking into the ready room that night, Coda was hit with a strange mix of excitement and dejection. The pilots milling around the auditorium seating wore grim expressions that randomly broke into smiles. Everyone in the room had lost someone they’d known to the commander’s exceedingly high benchmark, and while it was tough to say goodbye, it was equally tough not to feel proud of what they had accomplished.

  Coda found Uno and Squawks talking to Noodle. Unlike the rest, they wore openly relieved expressions, smiles shining through bloodshot eyes and pale faces. Their excitement only grew when they spotted Coda.

  “You did it?” Uno asked.

  “Ninety-eight percent!” Coda shouted triumphantly.

  “I told you!” Uno slapped him on the chest and gave him a friendly shove. “I knew you could do it.”

  “By the skin of my teeth,” Coda said. “I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you. Any of you. Thank you.”

  Uno beamed, and the others inclined their heads in recognition. Before anyone could say anything more, the door to the ready room opened. Commander Coleman strode in.

  “Attention on deck!” someone shouted, and every pilot inside the ready room snapped to attention.

  “At ease,” Commander Coleman said. “And find your seats.”

  It wasn’t until everyone had sat down that Coda noticed just how empty the room was. He couldn’t say who was missing, or even how many, but it was a sizable number.

  Moscow, unfortunately, wasn’t one of them. He met Coda’s gaze and didn’t look happy. His group was down a member, and Coda’s unexpected success was surely salt in the wound. Shoving the thought to the back of his mind, Coda turned his attention back to Commander Coleman, who waited at the front of the room.

  “For the last two weeks, you and every member of this squad have been familiarizing yourself with the inner workings of the X-23 Nighthawk. Look around. The pilots you see here are the pilots who passed.”

  “How many are left, sir?”

  “Eighty-seven.”

  Eighty-seven, Coda repeated in his head. Thirteen percent of their total number had already been removed from the program. The commander had said competition was fierce, but Coda hadn’t expected it to be this intense.

  “FAM Phase is meant to separate the mentally strong from the weak,” Commander Coleman continued. “Every pilot who sits with you tonight has displayed the mental fortitude required to pilot an X-23. Like you, they deserve to be congratulated.”

  Polite applause filled the room, followed by half-hearted hoots of excitement.

  “Congratulations,” Commander Coleman said without a hint of pride in his voice, “you have completed FAM Phase. Tomorrow, you’ll begin to truly understand what it means to fly an X-23 Nighthawk.”

  13

  Simulator, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  The operational flight trainer was one of the most beautifully intimidating pieces of equipment Coda had ever seen. Mounted in the center of a gyroscope was an exact working replica of the cockpit of an X-23 Nighthawk, its insides already alive with multicolored lights, screens displaying simulated flight data, gauges, switches, knobs, dials, and more.

  Commander Coleman stood in front of it like a proud parent. “Welcome, nuggets, to the simulator.”

  A wave of awe swept through the pilots, and Coda heard more than a few hushed whispers. Smiling, Coda looked at his friends standing beside him. Squawks and Noodle were smiling too—the kind of smile that was so wide, it had to hurt. Uno, however, looked as though he was going to lose his stomach. His already-pale face had turned a sickly green color.

  “Once upon a time,” Commander Coleman said, “pilots trained in primitive versions of what you see in front of you. They were static, didn’t move, and focused more on training pilots to understand the cockpit than the sensation of flying. That’s not the case here, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Commander Coleman took hold of one of the outer tubes of the gyroscope and gave it a hard push. The various tubes making up the frame of the simulator began to move, and when they did, the cockpit spun with it.

  “The Simulator will spin you. It’ll twist you. It’ll hum, throb, and shake you. And when you crash, it’ll hurt. It’s not flying, but it’s damn close.”

  Coda was smiling again—he couldn’t help it. The commander saw it too.

  “What are you smiling at, Coda?” he barked.

  “Just excited to get started, sir.”

  “Good,” Commander Coleman said. “That’s good. But the pilot with the honor of giving it its first spin is the pilot who completed their CAI first.”

  “Oh no,” Uno whispered.

  “Lieutenant Hernandez.”

  “No, no, no, no, no,” Uno continued to whisper. His eyes took on a wild look, as if he were a spooked animal about to flee.

  “Uno!” Commander Coleman snapped. “Get up here.”

  Uno suddenly pitched forward and lost his stomach on the dull-gray deck. The pilots standing in formation around him shied away, giving him a wide berth as he vomited again. Coda looked on in confusion, unsure of whether to laugh or console the friend who had gotten him through the computer-aided training.

  Moscow’s shrill laugh cut through the sound of Uno’s retching.

  “Knock it off!” Coda shouted, pointing a finger at Moscow, then was at Uno’s side. “You all right?”

  Uno turned away.

  The sound of heavy bootsteps caught Coda and Uno’s attention, and they looked up to find Commander Coleman making his way toward them. Uno sprang to his feet, snapping once again to attention as Commander Coleman stopped.

  “Sir,” Uno said. “I…”

  “Don’t just stand there!” Commander Coleman shouted. “Find a mop and clean it up.”

  “Yes, sir,” Uno said.

  “And while you’re at it, scrub the entire deck. I can’t have my Simulation Room smelling like vomit.”

  “Yes, sir,” Uno said then, his face red and eyes bloodshot, darted out of the room.

  Commander Coleman watched him leave, shaking his head. “At least he didn’t piss himself.”

  The jibe stoked Coda’s anger, but when nobody else, not even Moscow, said anything more, Coda realized what the commander had done. By speaking up first, he’d taken the opportunity away from everyone else and effectively neutralized their response. Despite his previous criticisms of the commander, Coda was growing to respect the man more and more every day.

  “Coda!” Commander Coleman said. “Get up here. It looks like you get your chance after all.”

  “Yes, sir!” Coda said.

  “Lucky bastard,” Squawks mumbled as Coda left him behind.

  Commander Coleman grabbed one of the still-spinning arms of the gyroscope, bringing it to a halt when the cockpit was positioned right-sid
e up. He locked it in place by yanking a nearby lever then looked expectantly at Coda.

  “Well? Climb in.”

  Coda looked at the cockpit, his excitement beginning to give way to nervousness. The gyroscope was nearly twice his height and, since it was spherical in design, just as deep. That meant the cockpit was well off the ground, more or less at Coda’s eye level. Surely, he wasn’t supposed to climb the arms of the gyroscope to get in, was he?

  Commander Coleman cleared his throat, and Coda looked at him then followed his eyes to a ladder set off to the side of the simulator.

  Right. Of course.

  He fetched the ladder and climbed into the cockpit. It was exactly as he’d expected it to be, a complete working replica of the same X-23 cockpit he’d sat in during their first day of FAM Phase. However, resting on the seat was a VR helmet similar to the one he’d worn back at the academy.

  Commander Coleman stepped through the labyrinth of arms of the gyroscope, settling in next to the cockpit. “Know what you’re doing?” he asked quietly.

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Good. Take it easy. Uno isn’t the only nugget I’ve seen empty his stomach, though they usually wait until after they’ve flown the simulator.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fire it up.”

  Coda reached for the switch that would ignite the X-23’s thrusters then paused. He looked to the commander, suddenly unsure. Was it the right switch? He didn’t want to break something or embarrass himself.

  “What are you waiting for?” Commander Coleman asked, loudly enough for everyone to hear.

  Coda flipped the switch, and immediately, his seat began to rumble. In that moment, the two weeks he had spent in front of the computer were worth it.

  “It’s something, isn’t it?” Command Coleman said, his voice quiet again.

  “Hell, yeah, sir.”

  “Nervous?”

  “A little, sir.”

  “I’ll be with you the entire time, guiding you through a series of exercises. Stay calm and take it slow. Nobody is going to be an expert their first time out. That’s why we use the simulator, understand?”