Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  “As long as one of their other ships isn’t equipped with the weapon,” Captain Baez said.

  “Yes,” Commander Coleman said. “As long as none of the others are equipped with the weapon.”

  Coda could almost hear the two men thinking. How much would it cost them to assault one of the Baranyk carriers? Was it worth the risk?

  “Make it happen, Commander. The Washington and Jamestown will provide cover.”

  “Copy that, sir,” Commander Coleman said. “Form up. Our job is to distract the enemy and provide aid for the Oregon until the Jamestown and Washington can arrive. Our target is this Baranyk carrier.” He must have identified the carrier in question and sent it directly to their onboard computers. “According to the Jamestown, this is the ship with the weapon that renders our drones inoperable. We destroy it, and we turn this battle in our favor. Any questions?”

  There weren’t any.

  “All right. Let’s do this.”

  Coda leaned forward in his seat. Something told him that the next battle wouldn’t go as smoothly as the last. From the sound of things, the Baranyk hadn’t thought the new human fighters were much of a threat, but they wouldn’t make that mistake a second time.

  Come on, guys. You can do this.

  So focused on the sounds of the battle, Coda almost didn’t hear the door to the ready room slide open. Moscow stepped inside then, spotting Coda, froze. He clearly hadn’t expected company.

  “Here they come,” Commander Coleman said over the speakers. “Forty contacts, positive-Z six degrees, one hundred thousand meters and closing. Break in three, two, one. Break!”

  Moscow’s eyes slid from Coda’s to the walls of the ready room, no doubt looking for the speakers, then still refusing to look in Coda’s direction, he made his way across the ready room and took a seat on a far chair.

  Screams and panicked voices filled the room.

  “They’re everywhere!”

  “There’s too many of them!”

  “I lost sight of Hawk Twelve!”

  “He’s on my six! Bear, you see them?”

  “Where’s my wingman? Where’s Hawk Four?”

  “Hard left! Hard left! Bring it around. I’ve got them.”

  “I can’t shake them!”

  “Break right and two degrees negative-Z. Now!”

  “Mayday! Mayday! Hawk Six is down. I repeat, Hawk Six is down.”

  Coda tried to remember who Hawk Six was. Dot? Burn? Baldy? And who were Hawks Twelve and Four? He hadn’t studied the flight roster closely enough to remember. He listened, half hoping to hear one of his friends over the radio. That would mean they were in trouble, but it would also mean they were alive.

  “Damn it!”

  “Keep it level. That’s it. Two sec—”

  “Ahhh!”

  “Hawk Fourteen is down.”

  Coda flinched with every confirmation of another human death. They were getting cut to shreds out there.

  “I’m hit! I’m hit!”

  “Jamestown actual,” Commander Coleman bellowed, “where the hell are you?”

  “Sixty seconds, Commander.”

  “You’re going to have to do better than that.” Commander Coleman’s voice was more concerned than Coda had ever heard it. “We don’t have sixty seconds.”

  “Negative, Commander. If we increase thrust any more, we won’t be able to slow down in time.”

  “Then jump!”

  Silence.

  “What are they waiting for?” Moscow asked, speaking for the first time. He was looking in Coda’s direction, his eyes wide.

  “Probably seeing if it’s doable,” Coda said.

  “Of course it’s doable,” Moscow said. “The Shaw Drive can’t make galactic jumps, but intersolar jumps are… bah, you already know all that.”

  “The Jamestown is a defensive ship around a quiet mining colony,” Coda said. “Captain Baez probably hasn’t ever seen real action, let alone made a quantum jump mid battle. And you and I know how difficult those are to plot. One tiny mistake, and they’ll jump into the planet’s core.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Moscow said. “Captain Baez needs to do something. We’re getting destroyed out there.”

  Coda couldn’t argue with that. If the battle was even half as bad as it sounded, the squadron couldn’t hold out much longer.

  “Commander, Jamestown actual. Jump coordinates sent to your computer. Avoid the area at all costs.”

  “Copy that,” Commander Coleman said. “All pilots fall back. The Jamestown is jumping in. Let’s see if we can draw a few of these fighters away from the rest in the meantime.”

  “He’s dividing their forces,” Moscow said.

  Coda nodded.

  “We should be out there,” Moscow added. “Not locked in here.”

  They weren’t technically locked in the ready room, but Coda knew what Moscow was getting at. “Yeah, well, we sure did a damn good job of messing that up.”

  “Yeah…” Moscow’s voice was tinged with regret. “You think we’ll ever fly again?”

  Coda blew out a long breath. “No idea.” He toyed with the idea of telling Moscow of his exchange with Commander Coleman in the corridor but decided it wouldn’t make either of them feel any better. “Thanks for putting in a good word, by the way. You know, during the review.”

  The last step in the investigation had been for Coda to review all statements and offer a counter or clarification statement of his own. In doing so, he’d been privy to all statements made about him and had been surprised to see that Moscow had come to his defense, going so far as to say that he believed the squadron was better off, and its pilots safer, with Coda in it.

  Moscow shrugged. “It’s true.”

  “Well, I still apprecia—”

  The world stretched in front of Coda. The Jamestown initiated its jump. Coda held his breath, wondering if it would be his last, then let it out as the world snapped back to normal, the jump completed.

  “All pilots,” Commander Coleman’s voice boomed over the radio, “reverse course and engage. Use the Jamestown to your advantage. Smash them like a bug under your foot.”

  Coda tried to picture the battle outside, only dimly aware that he and Moscow were now a part of it. The Jamestown would have likely arrived parallel to the Baranyk carrier, with the Oregon flanking it from the other side. The distant rumble of cannon fire vibrated through the floor of the ready room as the Jamestown opened its main batteries. With it, the radio chatter changed pitch again, becoming more encouraging.

  “Here we go!”

  “Nice shot!”

  “Take it! Take it!”

  “Bingo!”

  The chatter brought a smile to his face. Even tucked away in the relative safety of the Jamestown, Coda felt as though he were playing a role in their success. Those were his wingmen out there. His friends. He rubbed his hands together as if washing them, his eyes drifting back to Moscow.

  “For what it’s worth, I feel the same way. You’re a damn good pilot, Moscow. And if I’m allowed back into the squadron, I want you there with me.”

  “Thanks, Coda.” It was the first time Coda could remember Moscow calling him by his call sign instead of his last name. “I never said that, you know, after the accident. I never said thank you.”

  It was Coda’s turn to shrug, though in truth, he didn’t want the conversation to end. For the first time he thought he and Moscow were really getting somewhere. “You didn’t have to. I didn’t save you for any other reason than because I’d want someone to do it for me. Golden rule and all that crap, you know?”

  Moscow grinned. It was a small thing but further proof that the ice was thawing between them. “Either way, I was an ass. You tried to talk to me, tried to be the better man, and well, I didn’t help things.”

  “I just wanted to keep flying,” Coda said with a knowing grin.

  Ha! Well, I should have followed your example. Instead, I let my emotions get the best of me. If I ha
d, we’d be out there right now. You’re not a bad guy, Coda. You’re not your… You’re not your father. Whatever happens, I want you to know that.”

  Coda fought back a strange swell of emotion, biting the inside of his cheeks to distract him from the lump in his chest. “I appreciate that,” he said softly. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”

  Moscow made a satisfied face and nodded.

  “You know,” Coda said, “when this is all over, we need to grab a drink. Clear the air. Completely. With us on the same side, nothing stands a chance.”

  “Hell yeah,” Moscow said. “There’s only one problem: there’s no alcohol on board.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Screw it, then,” Moscow said. “It’s a deal.”

  44

  Cockpit, Nighthawk

  Arradin System, Toavis

  “Give it everything you’ve got,” Coleman said over the comm. “Press the advantage.”

  He didn’t receive a reply, though he wasn’t expecting one, either. His pilots had other things to worry about—things like the hundred or so Baranyk fighters that they had drawn away from the carrier before the Jamestown had jumped in. The vessel was now in a pitched battle, flanking the Baranyk capital ship and laying into it with heavy close-range fire. The rest of the pilots were still focused on the single-manned Baranyk fighters, though the point-defense cannons on the Jamestown’s starboard side aided them.

  Like the rest of his pilots, Coleman had taken longer than he would have liked to settle into the rhythm of the battle. They had never experienced it, and he hadn’t in years. But things were different now. Things felt good. Things felt right.

  He pulled a high-g turn, caught an enemy fighter with cannon fire as it streaked past in pursuit of one of his squad mates, spun out of its expanding debris field, then pushed the stick forward, diving below the Z-axis of the battle plane. Another short burst later, another Baranyk fighter was gone. Spinning again, he pulled back up then leveled out, cutting a path along the top of the Jamestown and laying waste to the fighters attacking it.

  But despite how well the squadron was faring, they were still facing a significant numbers disadvantage. The worst of the battle was still ahead.

  Strafing across the stern of the Jamestown, Commander Coleman flipped, preparing for another pass. Rather than flying toward the bow, he veered starboard, turning back into the thick of the battle. He targeted the nearest friendly fighters and provided aid to those with enemy tails. He could continue to pick off unsuspecting fighters almost at will, but unless some of his pilots were left to assist, it would all be in vain.

  He juked, janked, shifted, dove, and climbed, moving with the never-ending music of battle. It was a silent battle, of course. The sounds of gunfire, missile launches, and ship explosions had no way of traveling across the vacuum of space, but the music was in his head. All he had to do was write it down.

  Coleman was about to request a status of the Baranyk vessel when a terrible, white-hot explosion erupted from the Oregon.

  “What the hell was that?” someone shouted over the comm.

  “No!”

  Coleman watched in horror as additional explosions ravaged what was left of the Oregon. In seconds, what had been the pinnacle of human ingenuity and invention was nothing more than an expanding debris cloud.

  “Someone get me the goddamned status of that enemy vessel,” Coleman bellowed into the comm.

  “We’re showing significant damage along its port and starboard sides,” a female voice replied. “If we’d had another twenty seconds, it would have been slag. Without the Oregon…”

  Coleman hated the tone of her voice. She sounded defeated. Goddamn it, the battle isn’t over. Not yet.

  “Launch all remaining fighters,” Coleman said. “I repeat, launch all remaining fighters. We have to destroy that ship.” He didn’t get a reply, but a few moments later, twelve more fighters shot out of the Jamestown in rapid succession. “All right, Jamestown. Keep up the attack. We’ll provide the extra firepower.”

  “What are you doing, Commander?” It was Captain Baez again.

  “What we were trained to do, sir,” Coleman said. “We’re going to unload everything we have on that ship. When we’re done, it’ll be nothing but slag.”

  “And so will you.”

  “No faith, sir.” Coleman tried to keep his voice lighthearted. “Either way, with that ship gone, the Baranyks’ advantage is gone too. Our drone reinforcements can do their job.”

  There was a slight pause, followed by “Get it done.”

  “With pleasure, sir.” Coleman switched back to his squadron’s frequency. “Take heart, pilots. The men and women of the Oregon honored your sacrifice. Now it’s time to honor theirs. Prepare for an attack run. It’s time we reminded everyone why we’re here.”

  Bringing his fighter around in what would become its attack vector, Coleman watched as the rest of his squadron broke off their attacks and fell into a loose formation behind him. The remaining Baranyk fighters saw the sudden change and moved to press the advantage. Their pursuit didn’t go unnoticed by the other pilots of the Forgotten, and Coleman could hear his pilots’ concern. It was evident in the way their breathing increased, the way they cursed under their breath, forgetting that everyone else in the squadron could hear them.

  Coleman ignored all of it, keeping one eye on the path in front of him, the other on the pursuing fighters behind. The attack vector would bring them around the stern of the Jamestown and slightly above the Baranyk vessel in what would allow them to devastate the entire length of the enemy ship. But they weren’t there yet, and the enemy fighters were nearing missile range.

  Close enough.

  “Release your chaff,” Coleman ordered.

  Flying in formation, the pilots had little concern of hitting their friendly fighters behind them, and almost as one, the pilots dropped their chaff. Moments later, the canisters detonated, creating clouds of expanding sand particles. At the high velocity, individual grains would be more than enough to wreak havoc on the pursuing fighters, but as close as they were, the fighters entered a thick cloud of it. The pursuing force was decimated, only a handful of the remaining Baranyk fighters able to successfully navigate the debris cloud.

  “Good headwork, sir,” Noodle said over the radio.

  “We’re not done yet,” Coleman said. “Switch to missiles, and lock onto the enemy craft. Fire everything you have. We have to take out that ship.”

  Coleman crested the bow of the Jamestown then brought his fighter around for his attack run. We can do this.

  Coleman unloaded his entire arsenal. And so did his pilots. In one glorious moment, nearly one hundred missiles streaked toward the enemy vessel. With its point-defense cannons focusing on the Jamestown, the missiles wreaked havoc across its hull. Explosions—more than he could count—riddled the enemy ship, and as he streaked past the bow of the ship, he brought his fighter around, watching, waiting for some sign that the attack had been enough.

  It started with what looked like a normal explosion. And then there was a second gout of flame. Then a third. Before he knew it, the entire ship was coming apart.

  Coleman screamed into the radio, his voice mixing with the voices of the remaining fighters. They had done it. It had cost them the Oregon and nearly a quarter of their squadron, but they had destroyed the enemy vessel armed with the Baranyk weapon. Toavis had a chance.

  “Jamestown,” Coleman said triumphantly, keying the entire squadron into the communication. “Prepare to launch drone fighters, and instruct the rest of the fleet to do the same.”

  No answer came.

  “Jamestown, acknowledge.”

  Still no answer.

  “Did the explosion knock out their communications?” one of his pilots offered.

  Maybe. But the uneasy feeling seeping into his gut suggested otherwise.

  “James
town actual, this is Commander Coleman. Release all drone fighters. Acknowledge.”

  “Negative, Commander,” Captain Baez said. His voice was low, breathless. Defeated.

  “Why not, sir?” Coleman said. “We just watched the Baranyk ship turn to slag. It’s time to press the advantage.”

  “Because, Commander. That ship wasn’t the only one equipped with the weapon.”

  “Say again, sir?” There had to be a mistake. They had unloaded everything they had on the ship. They didn’t have anything left.

  “I said that ship wasn’t the only one equipped with the weapon. We’re still registering the Baranyk signal from at least one other source. Our drones are useless. It’s just us.”

  It’s just us. But that won’t be enough.

  Coleman’s reply died on his lips.

  45

  Ready Room, SAS Jamestown

  Arradin System, Toavis

  “We’re still registering the Baranyk signal from at least one other source,” Captain Baez said. “Our drones are useless. It’s just us.”

  Coda saw Moscow looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He ignored him, trying to focus on what Captain Baez had just said. Another signal? Commander Coleman had just bet everything on the fact that the Baranyk ship they just destroyed was the only one equipped with the Disrupter. How could they repel the Baranyk forces now?

  “Don’t do it,” Moscow said. “Don’t do it.”

  “Don’t do what?” Coda asked.

  “The commander’s going to order an assault on the other Baranyk carrier.”

  Coda thought for a moment, trying to come up with another option. There wasn’t one. “He doesn’t have a choice.”

  “Sure he does,” Moscow said. “Order the remaining fighters back to base for rearmament. It took every missile we had to destroy that carrier, and that was after it was already heavily damaged.”

  “There’s not enough time. Even ten years ago, it took twenty minutes to rearm a single Nighthawk and re-launch. And that was when the crews were well versed in the process. How long would it take now? Thirty minutes? Forty? The battle will be over by then.”