Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  “Then do it in waves,” Moscow said. “Ten fighters at a time.”

  Coda thought for a moment. That made more sense, but he still didn’t think it would work. And the commander didn’t, either.

  “All fighters,” Commander Coleman said. “Prepare to assault the second Baranyk carrier.”

  “I knew it!” Moscow shouted. “Damn it, this isn’t a battle we can win.”

  “He has to try,” Coda said. “That’s his job. That’s our job.”

  “Fine,” Moscow said, casting him a frustrated look. “But he can’t win this way. He has to think outside the box, the same way he did when he used chaff against the incoming fighters.”

  “What, though?”

  “I don’t know.” Moscow pinched his forehead as if attempting to massage an idea into being. “I don’t know. But sometimes it’s not about sheer force. It’s about getting creative. Have you ever heard of a Molotov cocktail?”

  “Of course,” Coda said. “They were used during World War II to help fight tanks.”

  “Not exactly,” Moscow said. “They were actually created before then and gained notoriety when the Soviet Union invaded Finland. Molotov, who was the Foreign Minister of the Soviet Union and involved in the invasion, said that he was just providing aid to the starving Finns. The Finns knew it was a lie, of course, and attacked the invading tanks with what they called ‘Molotov bread baskets.’ The weapons worked so well, the Finns began mass-producing them, and the Molotov Bread Baskets became Molotov Cocktails. Point is, even the underequipped and outnumbered Finns were able to repel Soviet tanks with little more than glass jars filled with gasoline. That’s what we need.”

  “Flaming jars of gas?”

  “Something that turns a weakness into a strength,” Moscow said. “Or a strength into a weakness. The Molotov cocktail didn’t work because it was powerful. It worked because it exploited the tanks’ weaknesses.”

  “The Baranyk carriers don’t have a weakness,” Coda said. “That’s the problem.”

  “No,” Moscow said. “Everything has a weakness. But that’s not what I was thinking. What’s our biggest weakness?”

  “Numbers,” Coda said slowly. “Numbers because our drones are inoperable.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Holy shit!” Coda said, finally understanding Moscow’s train of thought. “Moscow, that’s genius!” He jumped to his feet, rushing to the terminal on the wall of the ready room. Unlike his personal tablet, it was linked to the Jamestown’s shipboard communication.

  “What are you doing?” Moscow asked.

  Coda ignored him, punching in the correct frequency. When he had it correctly inputted, he opened the channel. “Commander Coleman? Commander Coleman, do you copy?”

  “Who is this?” Commander Coleman asked.

  Coda shot a look toward Moscow, whose eyes were wide with disbelief. “It’s Coda, sir. We have—”

  “Coda, this is a private—”

  “Sir, please—”

  “—channel. You are to confine yourself—”

  “Moscow and I know how to defeat the Baranyk.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “Out with it then, Lieutenant.”

  “The drones, sir,” Coda said.

  Commander Coleman cursed. “The drones are inoperable. Now remove your—”

  “No,” Coda said. “The drones are not inoperable. We just can’t navigate them once they’re outside our hull. But this is space, sir. Nothing can stop them once they’re moving.”

  “You’re not making any sense, Lieutenant. You have three seconds.”

  “We launch the drones at the ship, sir. They’re kamikazes. Space-age Molotov cocktails. And they’ll inflict just as much damage as our missiles. Maybe more, depending how much kinetic energy we can create.”

  Coda held his breath. One second. Two. Four. He looked at Moscow helplessly. It was their best idea. Their only idea. If Commander Coleman didn’t use it, if he didn’t appreciate Coda’s butting in, then Coda was sure he had just doomed any chance he would have at ever piloting a Nighthawk again.

  “Captain Baez,” Commander Coleman said. “Are you listening to this?”

  “I am, Commander.”

  “How many drones do we have on board?”

  “Two squadrons of pilots,” Captain Baez said. “With twice as many drones.”

  Two squadrons. Forty-eight pilots. Ninety-six drones. And that was just aboard the Jamestown. Coda’s heart lurched in his chest. They had more than enough drones. They had hope. They could win.

  “Make it happen, Lieutenant,” Commander Coleman said.

  Coda beamed. “Yes, sir.”

  “We’re counting on you, Lieutenant. You understand?”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Good. Get down to the Drone Operation Center, and radio me when you’re set.”

  “Yes, sir.” Coda ended the transmission then turned to face Moscow, who was wearing a grin of his own. “We did it.”

  “Not yet,” Moscow said. “But we gave ourselves a chance.”

  46

  Drone Operation Center, SAS Jamestown

  Arradin System, Toavis

  The Drone Operation Center reminded Coda of the Coliseum back at the Terran Fleet Academy. Rows of steep stadium seating circled a three-dimensional imaging display. Only here, there were no spectators. Coda and Moscow had arrived only moments before, finding the display already showing the battle and the drone pilots plugged in.

  The Jamestown continued to defend itself against the enemy fighters that remained from the destroyed Baranyk carrier, but it was otherwise on the outskirts of the battle. Nearer to the planet, the remains of the human fleet were engaged with three Baranyk carriers in orbit, and even with numbers squarely on their side, they were showing signs of losing the battle. The human ships took heavy fire, burning in multiple locations, their once-pristine hulls pocked and damaged, smoke spewing from them like steam from a kettle.

  Coda and Moscow remained on a platform at the base of the image, the seating spiraling up around them. Unlike the Nighthawks, which had to be manually loaded into the launch tubes, the drones were already preloaded, their activation handled by their pilots remotely.

  As the last of the pilots settled into their seats, Coda began his briefing. “We don’t have a lot of time, and our mission, as simple as it may be, is critical to the success of this battle. As we speak, the Jamestown is navigating toward the Baranyk ship equipped with the Disrupter. Once in position, we will launch our drones, piloting them at full thrust into a collision course with the Baranyk carrier itself.”

  “Won’t the weapon render all controls useless?” one of the drone pilots asked.

  Unable to tell which pilot had asked the question, Coda looked in the general direction of the voice. “Yes, but the Baranyk signal isn’t omnidirectional. It needs to be pointed at its target. That will give us the precious time needed to plot our course of attack. Any other questions?”

  “How long are we talking?”

  “From the moment our drones are spotted? Two to three seconds. Maybe. We can’t count on more than five from the moment our drones leave the launch tubes.”

  Hushed voices filled the large space as the pilots muttered their disbelief.

  “Fortunately,” Coda said above the din, “our target is huge and vulnerable. We’re not fighter pilots here. We’re shooting a gun. Just point it at its target, and let it fly.”

  There were no further questions after that, and Coda sat down at his own station beside Moscow. “You ready to do this?”

  “Just like our days back at the academy.”

  “Only now, we’re on the same side,” Coda said.

  “I can hear the Baranyk crying for mercy already.”

  The world as Coda saw it disappeared as he slid on his VR helmet. Gone was the Drone Operation Center, replaced by the first-person view of the inside of a drone cockpit. After spending so much time in the Nighthawk, Coda n
eeded several moments to refamiliarize himself with the view. He brought his drone online then activated his radio, patching in the rest of the drone pilots into Commander Coleman’s squadron’s line.

  “Coda to Commander Coleman. We’re ready, sir.”

  “Excellent,” Commander Coleman said. “Prepare to launch on my mark.”

  Coda shifted in his seat, listening to the accompanying radio chatter. Commander Coleman and Captain Baez were working through the intricacies of the plan, moving the Jamestown into position.

  For the first time since radioing the commander, nerves fluttered in his stomach. His arms and legs felt weak, and he felt like he needed to throw up, piss, or both. Steadying his breathing, he put himself through a quick relaxing exercise.

  The thought of sitting in that office back at the academy brought a smile to his lips. So much had changed since those days, not the least of which was his relationship with Moscow. Things had been bad then had become worse, and now they sat side by side, having come up with a battle plan that would save the other members of their squadron.

  “Still with me, Coda?” Commander Coleman asked.

  “Still here, sir. Waiting for your order.”

  “Show them what you’ve got,” Commander Coleman said. “Mark!”

  Someone other than Coda handled the launch, but at the commander’s order, the launch tube became a blur, and at one-sixteenth-of-a-second intervals, he and the rest of the forty-nine pilots were hurled into the black.

  There was no time for formations, no time to form up. As soon as Coda’s drone was beyond the Jamestown, he directed it at the Baranyk carrier. At the distance, it was nearly invisible, so he relied on the Jamestown’s computer to target it and plot a collision course. Once it was within his sights, Coda punched it, accelerating the drone to full throttle. Aside from the ever-increasing speedometer and the subtle shift of space, there was no way to tell if the drone had responded to his command or not. No accompanying g-forces. No sudden weight on his chest. Nothing.

  “Hornet One is a go and on course,” Coda said.

  “Hornet Two is a go,” Moscow echoed then gave an enthusiastic hoot.

  More pilots announced their successful course.

  Coda tried to determine how much time had passed since his launch. Three seconds? Four? He would lose operational control at any moment. Spinning around, he saw nearly two full squadrons of drones racing through the black. It was a beautiful sight. One he had dreamed about during his early days at the academy.

  … and then it disappeared.

  The Baranyk had hit them with their weapon.

  47

  Cockpit, Nighthawk

  Arradin System, Toavis

  “Hawk One, this is Hornet One,” Coda said over the radio. “We have lost control. I repeat, the Baranyk have targeted our drones and we have lost navigation.”

  Coleman let the words wash over him. The drone pilots had launched only seconds ago. Had they had enough time?

  “Captain Baez,” Coleman asked, “how many drones were able to successfully plot a collision course?”

  “Looks like forty-three, Commander.”

  “Copy that,” Coleman said.

  Forty-three out of an even fifty. That number was remarkable, considering the small window they’d been given to work with. Commander Coleman had often discounted the drone piloting program. In his opinion, flying what amounted to a glorified paper airplane wasn’t flying. But there was little doubt that their pilots were good at what they did.

  I’ll have to go easier on them in the future.

  As expected, a number of Baranyk fighters broke away from the battle, moving to intercept the incoming drones. They would make short order of the human attack force if it had no backup.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen,” Coleman said. “The drones are away. Time to make sure they find their target. Let’s go. Time to plow the road!”

  He punched the throttle, rocketing toward the battle and Baranyk vessels. Positioned as they were, the Nighthawks were a full two seconds ahead of the drones and approaching the incoming enemy from their flank. The Baranyk flew in a tight formation, which was a mistake, given that Coleman and the rest of his fighters were out of missiles.

  As the first fighter came into range, Coleman opened fire, squeezing the trigger in short, controlled bursts. He shot down two fighters before the rest of his squadron opened fire. Within moments, a dozen more became space dust. With the smaller human force the larger immediate threat, the Baranyk fighters altered course, moving to engage the Forgotten. Coleman hooted as the drone ships zipped past unmolested, their path to the capital ship clear.

  Then the dogfight began. He swerved, avoiding an incoming Baranyk fighter, opened fire, and shot down a second. Then he veered, peppering a third while bringing the capital ship back into view. Its point-defense cannons shot down many of the incoming drones, but dozens of explosions erupted against its hull. Terrible gouts of flame inflicted more damage than anything his missiles had been able to accomplish.

  Coda had been right.

  But would it be enough? Coleman longed to have more kamikaze drones, but they had purposely left the second squadron aboard the Jamestown. The Baranyk weapon would be pointing in the Jamestown’s direction already, further shortening the drones’ operational window. More importantly, if their attack succeeded in destroying the Disrupter, the remaining drones would become fully operational and able to enter the battle. For that same reason, they had reserved the drones on the other ships as well. They would need them. Because god be damned, they were going to succeed.

  Coleman went positive-Z. The Baranyk ship disappeared from view just as more explosions riddled its hull. The sudden change of course was the only thing that saved Coleman’s eyes. A triumphant explosion lit up the black as the second Baranyk carrier erupted into flames.

  Jubilant shouts filled the radio.

  “Captain Baez,” Coleman said as he shot down another Baranyk fighter. “Tell me that did it. Tell me we’ve eliminated the Baranyk signal.”

  The radio remained silent as the Jamestown was no doubt running the diagnostics. Coleman spun then pulled a tight, high-g turn, catching another fighter in his sights. But he wasn’t done. He shot down two more before Captain Baez’s voice came on the radio.

  “All ships, this is Captain Baez. The Baranyk signal has been eliminated. Launch all drones. I repeat, launch all drones.”

  More triumphant cheers echoed across the line.

  Coleman opened a private channel. “Sir, what if there’s a third signal? We just committed every drone in our fleet.”

  “This battle is over, either way, Commander,” Captain Baez said. “Either the signal is destroyed and our drones can engage, or it’s not, and we’re forced to retreat.”

  “Forced to retreat?” Coleman repeated. “The strategy worked. If there’s another ship with the weapon, we can—”

  “The Baranyk will just shoot down the next wave of drones. The strategy could only work once. And my intel shows me that nearly all of your fighters are down to their last ten percent of ammunition. You are ordered to return to base.”

  Coleman wanted to argue. He wasn’t done. He’d waited years to get back into the cockpit, to get back into battle, and he wasn’t ready to give that up. But he’d been given a direct order, and besides that, Captain Baez was right. They were all dangerously low on ammunition.

  “Acknowledged.” Coleman switched to his pilots’ channel. “All fighters, this is the commander. Good work. We’ve done our jobs and given the fleet a chance. RTB for rearmament and await further instruction.”

  Coleman shot down another Baranyk fighter before flipping around and blazing a trail back to the Jamestown. He passed the Jamestown drones headed to battle, and something told him that Coda and Moscow, who had led the previous assault, wouldn’t have given up their place in the squadron. Despite everything that had happened, they would get their chance to fight after all.

  Do
your squad mates proud, gentlemen. You’ve already earned my admiration.

  48

  Drone Operation Center, SAS Jamestown

  Arradin System, Toavis

  It was joy. Pure, unbridled, glorious, never-felt-before joy.

  Tucked away in the safety of the drone fighter pod in the Drone Operation Center, Coda grinned as his drone belched fire and death, tearing through Baranyk fighters with reckless abandon. He zigged and zagged, through and around, above and below hordes of Baranyk fighters still taking part in the battle. Even after the destruction of the second Baranyk carrier, they showed no signs of giving up. Their carriers and the remaining vessels from the Sol Fleet duked it out about Toavis like heavyweight boxers trading haymakers. Hornet drones poured from the human carriers, assaulting the Baranyk carriers like swarms of angry bees.

  Moscow was on his wing the entire time, mirroring Coda’s flight when Coda wasn’t mirroring his. Coda had spent so much time studying his former rival that Moscow’s flight strategy was as familiar as his own, and together, they created a true fighter pair. They cut through the Baranyk droves like a knife through water. Coda had already lost count of how many fighters he had shot down, but he was sure it was over twenty.

  This is what the commander meant, Coda realized. This is what he meant when he said that a pilot needed to know everything about his wingmen. If the entire squadron was this comfortable with each other, nothing could stop us.

  “Coda, you’ve got one on your tail. Drop negative-Z, twenty degrees, and loop right in three, two, one, break!”

  Trusting Moscow completely, Coda dove below the battle plane and pulled his drone around in what would have been an excessive high-g maneuver capable of causing blackout. Separated from the stresses of spaceflight, Coda took out another pair of fighters while Moscow cleared his tail.

  “Thank you,” Coda said, meaning every word. Though he was safely tucked away in the bowels of the Jamestown, they had expended their extra drones in the process of destroying the Baranyk carrier. If his drone was shot down, he would be out of the battle.