Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  Coda looked up from the names on the tablet. “Yes, sir. Of course.” His eyes went back to the terminal. “But this list… Surely you don’t mean…”

  “Don’t mean what?”

  Coda’s eyes fell back to the tablet. At the top of the list was Moscow’s name. Commander Coleman not only expected them to work together in the same flight, but he expected Moscow to follow Coda’s orders. It was almost laughable. But how could he say so?

  “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

  “No,” Coda said. “It’s just that… well… I think we’d be more successful if I had Noodle and Squawks under my command.”

  “Which is exactly why I didn’t put them there. The squadron needs to fight as a single unit, and that means you must be comfortable flying with everyone inside it. More than that, you need to know, in intimate detail, the strengths and weaknesses of everyone around you. That’s not possible if you only surround yourself with your friends.”

  Coda bit his tongue. The Commander was right, of course. Why else had Coda been taking notes on every pilot in the squadron?

  “You’ll get a chance to fly with your friends,” Commander Coleman continued. “There are no set rosters here, not yet. Not until the squadron gets closer to its final number. For now, the pilots that make up each flight will change with every mission. And the person giving orders will change with every mission as well. For now, at least.”

  “What kind of missions, sir?”

  “They’ll be simple at first,” Commander Coleman said. “Flight versus flight. Basic combat. But after a while, they’ll get increasingly complex. Multiple objectives. Stacked odds. Scenarios you can expect on the front.”

  “When will they start?”

  Commander Coleman grinned. “Your pilots are already waiting for you, Lieutenant. Launch is at nineteen hundred.”

  27

  Simulator, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  The five pilots that made up Coda’s flight were already waiting for him in the Simulation Room when he arrived. If they were surprised to see him, they didn’t show it, so Coda assumed they’d received their orders separately and had known to expect him as their leader.

  Moscow was there, of course, watching Coda with an expression that he couldn’t place. Joining him were Tex and Bear, Reno and NoNo. The only thing he knew of the latter two was that they had performed well in the simulator, finishing in the top thirty overall, and had both been reassigned from drone squadrons on the front.

  At least Commander Coleman isn’t giving me a completely green flight.

  “Good morning,” Coda said. “Our hop is in two hours. The details are unclear, but our objective is simple: destroy all enemy fighters. Your flight information has already been downloaded to your personal tablets. Read it. Memorize it. Preflight is in one hour. Any questions?”

  There weren’t any.

  “All right. Let’s get warmed up.”

  Coda loaded Reno and NoNo into the simulator first, keying in a scenario that had them flying as a fighter pair against an enemy force outnumbering them three to one. Coupled with the notes he’d taken from their previous simulations, he intended to study their flight patterns and better understand who he was flying with.

  Both pilots were deft—even if NoNo had a bit of a habit of shouting, “No! No! No!” when things got hairy—and made short order of the enemy fighters, falling effortlessly into working as a pair. That had likely become second nature to them while on the front, where the drone squadrons flew in complex, highly coordinated formations. To them, staying on the wing of their wingmen was as natural as breathing.

  Coda ran Moscow and Bear through the simulator next, with the former flying lead. They weren’t nearly so smooth, lacking the training and experience that Reno and NoNo had benefited from, but they weren’t completely clueless, either. Having spent dozens of extra hours in the simulator flying with each other, they knew each other’s styles well, even if their instincts were often at odds with one another.

  He didn’t have time to run through the simulation with Tex, so rather than have the other man fly his wing, Coda opted for another strategy. If the others were his scalpels, cutting into the enemy with precise, synchronized attacks, then Tex would be his bat, ready to crush any unfortunate fighters flying into his strike zone.

  An hour before flight, they began their preflight routine. Commander Coleman sat in the ready room but made no effort to instruct, direct, or review their preflight information. Coda stepped into the role, ensuring that each of his pilots had memorized their flight information and that there wouldn’t be any accidents. After they’d confirmed their information, they stepped into the locker room and suited up. By 1850, they were climbing into their cockpits, ready to be loaded into the launch tubes. Once loaded, Coda radioed his pilots and had them perform systems checks.

  “All right, Jamestown Tower,” Coda said after everyone had confirmed they were green across the board. “We are go for launch.

  “Copy that, Coda,” the tower said. “You are go for launch at quarter-second intervals. Prepare for launch in five, four, three…”

  Coda didn’t listen to the rest. He settled into his seat, waiting for the sudden but welcomed g-forces to slam into his body like a stack of bricks. Maybe it was because of his time in the gym. Maybe it was the growth hormones that strengthened his body from the inside out. Or maybe it was just his state of mind. But no matter the reason, when the forces came, they wrapped him like a warm blanket, comforting him.

  He’d been anxious before. Now he was calm. At peace. The commander was right. Flying was in his blood. He was born for this.

  28

  Cockpit, Nighthawk

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B

  Six X-23 Nighthawks shot out of the bow of the Jamestown, entering space at quarter-second intervals. It took one-point-five seconds from the time the first fighter entered space to the last.

  “All right,” Coda said, plotting a course that moved them away from the Jamestown toward the coordinates outlined in the mission briefing. “Form up, and keep your eyes peeled. They’re out here somewhere.”

  Silence stretched out before them, interrupted only by the slight rumble of their Shaw Drive thrusters and the soft sounds of breathing through Coda’s helmet speakers. The sea of stars and image of the ever-shrinking orange globe behind them might have been relaxing if they hadn’t been flying into battle.

  “Contact!” NoNo bellowed as a group of red dots appeared on Coda’s HUD. “I’ve got six bogeys, negative-Z twelve degrees. Thirty thousand kilometers and closing.”

  Coda adjusted the battle map in his HUD, switching the battle plane from the original plane to the new one between his fighters and the enemy bogeys. Once completed, he sent it to the rest of his flight, using his power as flight leader to automatically switch theirs, ensuring they all continued to operate under the same information.

  “Copy, NoNo. Let’s go get ’em.” Coda brought his fighter into an intercept course with the incoming enemy, the rest of his flight falling into formation behind him. “Fighter pairs. Just like we practiced. Tex, you and I will play centerfield.”

  Several affirmatives came through the coms at once, and Coda dug himself deeper into the gel seat. He had three seconds before the enemy vessels were in firing range, but since they were on a direct heading, their combined speed prevented missile lock. It was all guns.

  “Let’s see if we can break them up,” Coda said. “Fox-four!”

  Coda thumbed the firing switch to guns and pulled the trigger. The cockpit came alive, rumbling as the nose-mounted M-66 cannon hurled thirty-millimeter rounds at the incoming enemy to the tune of four thousand rounds per minute. They were simulated rounds, of course, all tracked and cataloged by their onboard computers, but the effect felt very, very real.

  The X-23 held only three hundred rounds, so he kept his trigger finger light, shooting in controlled bursts that last
ed only a fraction of a second. The firing bursts had their desired effect, and two seconds from contact, the enemy formation broke apart. Two fighter pairs broke off in opposite directions, veering to the three- and nine-o’clock positions relative to Coda’s incoming squadron. The last pair held course, splitting Coda’s formation down the center.

  “Break!” Coda bellowed, and as one, his formation broke apart.

  Reno and NoNo who had taken the dash-3 and -4 positions directly behind Coda’s portside wing, brougt their fighters around and went after the bogey that had veered off to their left. Moscow and Bear mirrored their movement, going after the fighter to their right, while Coda and Tex dove above and below the battle plane, taking opposite routes but both making for the third pair that had split their formation.

  The g-forces were incredible, slamming Coda into his gel seat hard enough that black spots crept into his vision. Coda’s G-suit tightened in response, constricting around his extremities, preventing his blood from rushing out of his brain. Without the suit, he would have lost consciousness; instead, he felt as though he were being squeezed in an old trash compactor. It was uncomfortable, but he was alert.

  Completing the turn, Coda found that the enemy fighter pair had broken apart, making for opposite ends of the battle. Coda keyed on the nearest one. The pilot brought the fighter around level with the battle plane. The angle left Coda’s flank open, and if he had been any slower, the enemy fighter would have managed missile lock. Instead, Coda brought his fighter around, setting himself up on another head-on course.

  As he and the other fighter sped toward each other, Coda opened fire, forcing the enemy fighter to dive below the battle plane to avoid the incoming slugs. Coda threw the stick forward then barrel-rolled, bringing his fighter directly behind the other. The steady, single note of missile lock sounded in Coda’s ears.

  “Hawk One, Fox Two,” Coda said, squeezing the trigger. A yellow blip appeared on his HUD, shooting toward the enemy fighter. Half a second later, the fighter’s cockpit lights went dark, and the fighter disappeared from the battle map. “Splash one!”

  The enemy fighter vanquished, Coda reassessed the battle map just as another enemy fighter disappeared from the battle map.

  “Splash two!” Moscow shouted.

  He and Bear harried the lone fighter left of their original battle pair while Reno and NoNo were involved in a series of complex flight maneuvers with the second pair struggling to gain the advantage.

  “Keep it tight!” Reno yelled. “Don’t get acute!”

  Acute meant Reno’s wingman was too wide to be in firing position. A quick glance at his HUD showed that Reno was manipulating the enemy’s flight course in a tactic as old as aerial combat. Time-tested and time-approved, it was still the foundational tactic of space combat.

  “You’re too acute, NoNo! You’re too acute! Goddamn it! Break off and come back around.”

  “We’ve got a tail, Bear!” Moscow shouted. “You see it?”

  “Uh…” Coda could almost hear Bear processing the information on her battle map. Precious moments ticked by as she searched for the enemy vessel. “Oh, no! It’s coming around on our tail. Moscow, it’s on our asses.”

  “Break formation,” Moscow said. “See if you can draw it off. I’ll stay on this one. Tex, I think it’s time you brought your bat.”

  “Copy that, Moscow,” Tex said. “I’ve got your back.”

  Coda grinned. His loose strategy had so far proved effective. Now it was up to the individual pilots themselves to ensure their victory.

  Bear’s fighter altered course, attempting to draw the incoming enemy vessel away, but to everyone’s surprise, he stayed on Moscow.

  “Tex!” Moscow shouted. “Tex, I need—”

  “On it,” Tex said. “Three seconds.”

  “I don’t have three seconds.” Moscow darted left and right in a series of evasive maneuvers, delaying the inevitable, all while trying to keep the other enemy fighter in his sights. “He’s almost got missile lock! Tex, where the hell are you?”

  Before Tex could respond, the red marker on Coda’s HUD suddenly disappeared.

  “Splash three!” Tex shouted. “You’re clear, Moscow. I repeat, you’re clear.”

  “Nice shooting, Tex,” Moscow said, relief palpable in his voice. “Bear, you still out there?”

  “Still here, Moscow.”

  “Good. I’m sending updated vector information now. We can’t let Coda and Tex have all the fun. There’s only three left.”

  “Copy that.”

  Coda let the words wash over him, keeping his eyes on the larger battle, never listening to any one thing. There was too much going on, too much to keep track of. He had to trust that his brain was able to keep it organized and prioritize what needed to be prioritized. That was easier said than done, though.

  Coda screamed as two fighters cut upward through the battle plane, only meters from the nose of his Nighthawk. The thrusters of the other craft cooked the glass of his cockpit, skyrocketing the temperature inside to a near boil. Coda glanced back at the battle map to make sure he wasn’t about to become an improbable casualty of a space collision—and saw how truly messy the battle was.

  The battle was like a knot that had been tied over itself again and again, the fighters pulling the ends of the string tighter and tighter. In the infiniteness of space, the battle became a single point of violence less than twenty kilometers in the diameter—something impossibly small at their speeds.

  Still recovering from the near collision, Coda didn’t notice the enemy fighter opening fire. By nothing more than an impossible stroke of luck, the digital projectiles missed, and the enemy fighter zipped past him, but not before Coda caught a single important detail.

  Where the wings of both flights were accented with the gold of the Sol Fleet, this one was accented with red. Unlike the rest of the pilots in the squadron, this pilot had earned his colors—he’d shot down enemy fighters. He’d fought real battles. Had drawn real blood. The enemy fighter was piloted by none other than Commander Coleman himself.

  29

  Cockpit, Nighthawk

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B

  Coda watched as Commander Coleman brought his fighter around, angling for another pass. Such were the ways of fighter combat, both pilots attempting to outmaneuver the other, often making several runs until one of them made a mistake. Unfortunately, Coda knew that if either of them was going to make a mistake, it would be him. If he stood any shot at defeating the commander, he needed help.

  “Tex,” Coda said, “where are you at?”

  “Occupied.”

  “I’m going to need a hand over here.”

  “Bite off more than you could chew?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Fifteen seconds.”

  “Negative,” Coda said. “This one’s too important. Break off and meet me…” Coda keyed in on a point on his HUD and sent the coordinates to Tex. “There.”

  Tex sighed. “Breaking off. Rendezvous in six seconds.”

  Coda cursed silently. Even six seconds was too long. He and Commander Coleman would be coming around for another pass by then, and already, the commander’s more precise flight paths were giving him the advantage. He would have Coda dead in his sights before Tex could come to his aid. Worse, if Coda broke off his attack and tried to run the commander would have a clear path to his six.

  This is why you don't fly solo. Then again, the commander was flying solo too, and that gave him a chance. In theory.

  Coda and Commander Coleman’s fighters raced toward each other. Coda squeezed the trigger again, loosing another triple burst. But unlike the nugget pilot, Commander Coleman didn’t flinch. The commander mirrored Coda’s strategy, letting off a burst of his own. Both pilots missed, their fighters zipping past each other faster than their eyes could register.

  Coda started his turn almost immediately. Eyeing his HUD, he saw the commander doing the same.

  �
��Tex?”

  “Coming. Hang on.”

  “Trying…” Coda’s voice was strained by the excessive G’s of the turn. “He's closing… Tex… the commander…”

  “Say again, Coda,” Tex said. “The commander? You want me to fire at the commander?”

  “Yes!”

  “This is going to be fun.”

  Coda leveled off and turned, adjusting course to come around into another pass, but the commander had already completed his maneuver and was coming in on Coda’s flank. He would have missile lock any moment.

  Coda’s Hornet training took over. He threw the joystick to the side, rolling his fighter in a series of tight corkscrews, then with his wings perpendicular to the battle plane, he pulled back, performing a tight high-g turn.

  The yellow indicator of a missile appeared on Coda’s HUD.

  Shoved hard against the gel seat, he prepared to drop his chaff. At worst, the debris would cloud Commander Coleman’s missile sensors, hindering its ability to target Coda. At best, the missile would explode against one of the sand particles.

  But he never had a chance. Even his G-suit couldn’t keep him from blacking out during the high-g maneuver. The last thing he saw was the yellow indicator racing toward him.

  He had no idea how long he was out. It could have been a second, an hour, or anything in between. When he returned to consciousness, his head pounded as blood returned to the places it should have been. But with every throbbing pulse, Coda’s awareness grew.

  He still had controls. By some miracle, his fighter was still operable.

  And someone was screaming. No… they were yelling. Moscow. It was Moscow. Why would Moscow be yelling?

  Coda blinked, trying to focus. The yellow blip of the missile was gone, as was Tex’s fighter, but so was the red marker of the commander. Trying to shake away the remaining cobwebs, Coda worked to make sense of the situation. Something was wrong. Coda had been dead in Commander Coleman’s sights.