Coda circled the X-23, studying its contours. The Nighthawk wasn’t just bigger than the Hornet, there were subtle variations in the curve of the body and a slightly different angle to its wings. Its navigational thrusters were more numerous and spaced out more evenly to increase maneuverability.
Like the Z-18, however, the Nighthawk’s matte-black exterior seemed to absorb the light of the hangar, and Coda knew from his studies that it was resistant to radar, lidar, and other forms of detection. Most of the battles on the front were fought at range with missiles, but the larger battles often devolved into close-quarter combat—dogfighting—and the fighter’s dark exterior made it difficult to spot amid the black of space.
Uno took Squawks’s place in the cockpit, easily outmuscling Noodle for the next position in line. Coda didn’t mind. He would get his turn, and besides, he was equally fascinated by how the fighter’s hundreds of plates fit together so perfectly that the ship almost looked as though it had been carved from a solid block of metal.
When he finally took a seat in the cockpit, the childlike excitement that had consumed the others overcame him as well. Where the Hornet drones were little more than cold predators, there was something majestic about the Nighthawk. A history. A connection to every pilot who had sat in its cockpit. Beyond the luminous dials, instrument panels, buttons, switches, and triggers was the smell of sweat, blood, and human resolve. Squawks was right—the fighter was awesome. Coda couldn’t wait to see what it could do.
Unfortunately, the commander had other ideas, and by “real fun,” he had actually meant unbelievably tedious. After their session with the Nighthawks, Commander Coleman brought each of them to a private room no larger than a broom closet and had each sit on a deck-mounted metal chair in front of an embarrassingly old computer terminal.
“What is this, sir?” Coda asked, sitting down on the uncomfortable chair.
“This is your Computer Assisted Instruction,” Commander Coleman said. “It will guide you through all of the technical workings of your starfighter.”
Coda looked at the ancient screen skeptically. It looked like it would sooner project a grainy black-and-white image than it would anything Coda was accustomed to.
“Is there an issue, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir,” Coda said. “It’s just that… sir, how old is this?”
“The Jamestown is one of the oldest ships in the fleet, and it’s not equipped with the fancy technology you were pampered with at the academy. If you’re looking for state-of-the-art equipment, Coda, you signed up for the wrong squadron.”
With that, the commander turned to leave. Coda watched him go, silently cursing himself. As far as early impressions went, he wasn’t making a very good one. Turning back to the terminal, he sighed, ready to begin. There was only one problem.
“Sir!” Coda shouted as the door hissed closed. “I don’t even know how to turn this thing on.”
The Commander didn’t return. He didn’t even respond.
“Great,” Coda mumbled. He looked over the terminal and, seeing no buttons or switches, touched the screen. It immediately came to life, displaying a propaganda-like image of a squadron of X-23s overlaid with a menu of options. There were seventy-five modules to choose from, and with a sigh, Coda toggled the first one, titled Program Overview.
The menu disappeared, replaced by a clean-cut private citizen who no doubt worked for the contractor who had built the X-23. The man gave a standard introduction, highlighting the Nighthawks’ capabilities, top speed, and success in battle as if he were reading straight from a brochure—which he no doubt was. Contractors were every bit as concerned about securing their next contract as they were about fulfilling their present one, and that meant constantly touting their successes.
Ten minutes into the program overview, Coda’s legs began to tingle. The metal chair was cutting off the circulation to his lower half. Worse yet, since it was bolted to the floor, he had no way to move it to a more comfortable position.
Two weeks, Coda thought. I’ve got two weeks of this. The thought filled him with dread, but failure wasn’t an option. He had to get through it so he could get to the good stuff.
When the overview ended, Coda immediately moved onto the next module, and for the next two hours, he listened and took notes on an introduction to the miniature Shaw Drive equipped on the X-23. It was dry stuff, which the presenter made worse with a slow, monotone voice that catered to the lowest common denominator.
Coda’s eyes burned, and at one point, he nearly fell asleep. He would have let himself if the video didn’t stop periodically to give him a short quiz, making sure he was paying attention. And the longer the video played, the more difficult the quizzes got. Coda began missing questions, and the module responded by forcing him to rewatch entire sections until he passed the mid-module exam.
He felt triumphant when he finally got to the end of the first module, but the feeling quickly turned to despair when he saw the one-hundred-question test that awaited him. Despair then turned to irritation when he failed the test and was forced to retake the module from the beginning.
After a brief meltdown, he forced himself to take the module more slowly, often replaying certain parts so he could take more detailed notes and ensure he understood the content. When he came to the test again, he passed it without issue, though not with the score he would have liked. Still, passing was passing, and as the old saying went, “Cs get degrees.”
That afternoon, Coda and his group of friends met in the mess hall. The room was like every other mess he'd eaten in. Stainless-steel tables and chairs lined the room and were all bolted securely to the floor. Refreshment stations serving recycled water and black coffee framed the food buffet, where cooks lethargically spooned slop onto their plates.
“What is this?” Squawks asked, staring at his tray. “Looks like you puked on my plate and called it a meal.”
He wasn't far from the truth. The food, if one could call it that, was a brown paste that resembled something between meatloaf and Jell-O.
“Why can't I have some of that?” Squawks pointed at a tray of hamburgers piled on a warming tray.
“You're with the new squadron, right?” the cook asked.
“Yeah.”
“Then this is what you get.” The cook spooned a second helping onto Squawks’s plate and gave him a sarcastic look.
“This is some horseshit,” Squawks said.
“I don't think we’re going to get prime rib and scallops,” Coda said as the cook scooped a spoonful onto his tray. “Come on. Let's find a place to sit.”
They found a table near the refreshment station and sat, poking their food as if it were a strange creature that had washed up on the beach. Noodle was the first to brave a bite. The rest of the group watched as he chewed, swallowed, and made a face Coda couldn't read.
“Well?” Squawks asked.
Noodle just shrugged. “Tastes like someone mixed some proteins, fats, vitamins, and water in a blender and called it good. It's not going to win any cooking awards, but I've had worse.”
Hearing it wasn't as bad as it looked, Coda took a bite of his own and was pleasantly surprised by its lack of taste. Like Noodle, he shrugged and helped himself to more.
“If we’re saving the fleet, we should at least eat like it,” Squawks said, stirring his food with a disgusted expression.
“We are eating like it,” Uno said.
“What do you mean?” Coda asked.
“Think about it,” Uno said. “Flying a starfighter takes a serious toll on the body. Whatever’s in here, it's more than just fat and protein.”
“What are you saying? You think there’s steroids or growth hormones in here or something?” Coda’s appetite was disappearing by the second.
“Of course there is,” Uno said. “They said there would be.”
“Who did?” Squawks asked.
“The commander.”
“He didn't say anything like that to me.”
“Me, neither,” Coda said.
“It was in the paperwork.” Uno looked around the table and was met with a series of blank expressions. “I'm the only one who read the release, aren't I?”
The group nodded.
“Wow,” Uno said. “You guys signed up for something without reading what would be required?”
“They said it was classified,” Noodle said.
“The mission was classified,” Uno said. “Not what would be required to fulfill that mission.”
“What did it say?” Coda asked.
“You pretty much figured it out already. They have us on a special diet chocked-full of your standard fat and proteins but with an added helping of experimental growth hormones meant to strengthen our bodies for the stresses of space flight.”
Coda slid his tray away. The word “experimental” turned his stomach, and he was left with a mental image of himself growing a third arm.
Noodle came to a very different conclusion. “I'm going to get jacked, aren't I?”
“Sorry, Noodle,” Squawks said. “He said ‘experimental,’ not ‘miracle.’
“Shut it, Squawks.”
“It’s okay, little guy. One of these days, you’ll hit puberty.”
“And one of these days, I’m going to kick your ass.”
“You’re welcome to try,” Squawks said. “Just remember, I’ve got bigger muscles.”
“You’ve got a bigger mouth too,” Noodle said.
Laughter erupted around the table. Squawks took the jibe in stride, laughing the loudest of all.
“Well played,” Squawks said, giving Noodle a fist bump. “There’s hope for you yet.”
The banter was familiar to Coda, even welcomed. Viking Squadron had bickered like family too, and Coda believed it was a true sign of camaraderie. When your wingmen made fun of you, that meant they liked you. If they ignored you… well, that was an altogether different story.
“Whether Noodle will ever fill out remains to be seen,” Uno said. “But either way, I’m sure the commander will have us in the gym soon. So eat up. It might be the difference between life and death out there.”
“If I don't die of boredom first.” Squawks pushed his tray away. “Seriously. FAM Phase can suck it. Who knew being a pilot would be so boring?”
Noodle began mimicking the instructor’s slow monotone voice, and everyone laughed again.
“I don't know,” Uno said. “It's not that bad.”
“What?” the other pilots said in unison.
Uno’s face colored, and he kept his eyes on his tray, absently poking at the food paste with his fork. “I kind of like it. It’s interesting.”
“You’re messed up in the head, man,” Squawks said.
The conversation eventually drifted in other directions, but Coda’s mind was occupied with what Uno had said. Like the pilots in Viking Squadron, those in Commander Coleman’s would have their own strengths and weaknesses, and it would be vital that their squadron leader know how to use them accordingly.
Coda made a mental note of Uno’s. He didn’t know if he would ever be in a leadership position again, but if he was, he promised himself he would be ready.
10
Ready Room, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Uno’s prediction that they would spend plenty of time in the gym proved to be true. Apart from their mealtimes and daily briefings, it offered the only reprieve from their computer-aided training.
Coda had never been much for working out, but he took to it immediately, relishing the opportunity to get away from the droll voice of the narrator. The highly technical overview of the inner workings of the X-23’s guidance system had been more than enough to turn his brain to mush, and he was growing increasingly frustrated with the process.
He was a pilot. Building a fighter wasn’t his job—flying one was. Who cared how the guidance system worked as long as it did? But after making a less-than-ideal first impression, he wasn't about to voice his displeasure. Instead, he took his aggression out in the gym.
The only person who seemed to hate the gym more than the CAI was Noodle. He complained about it as much as Squawks griped about the food.
The goal of their workouts, Commander Coleman had said, wasn't to bulk up. They weren't interested in pure strength; it would only get in the way. Instead, they were after enhanced flexibility and muscular endurance. That meant, in addition to heavy cardio and partner stretching, they focused on exercises that strengthened their cores, utilizing low weight with high reps. After the gym and the mental undertaking of the CAI, Coda went to bed exhausted, both mentally and physically.
Three days into FAM Phase, Commander Coleman posted their first progress report on the display boards of the ready room, and to Coda’s great surprise, he was dead last. Every other pilot had completed more CAI modules than he had, and most had better scores. Worse yet, Moscow was in the top ten and made sure Coda knew it. The only thing that kept Coda sane was that Uno had not only finished the most but had also remarkably scored the highest on each of the evaluations.
When Coda asked him how he'd scored so high, Uno had just shrugged and repeated that he found the subject matter interesting. Unfortunately, such advice wasn't helpful, and even after reapplying himself, Coda didn’t make up enough ground to dig his way out of the bottom quarter of the class by the end of the week. For the first time in his life, Coda was failing at something, and he had no idea how to fix it.
That night, during their daily briefing, Commander Coleman reviewed their progress, calling out everyone in the bottom half by name. It was public humiliation at its worst. When he got to Coda’s name, Moscow snickered and muttered something to one of the nearby pilots. Coda couldn't make out what he’d said, but the outburst had drawn the commander’s attention.
“What was that?” Commander Coleman asked, pausing his review.
Moscow stiffened, his smile disappearing immediately.
“I asked you a question, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then answer it.”
“Sir,” Moscow said, “I just wonder when the first cuts are going to be made. You know, when the first pilots will be sent home.”
“Afraid of your competition, Lieutenant Krylov?”
“No, sir,” Moscow said, apparently refusing to take the bait. “I’m more afraid of flying with pilots who can’t pass a simple test, sir.”
Commander Coleman chewed on the words, his face a mask of displeasure. Coda waited for him to scold Moscow, but to his surprise, the commander did the opposite. “I would be too, Moscow. That is why any pilots who haven’t completed their computer-aided instruction by the end of next week will be cut from the program.” He surveyed the ready room. “Hear me now, nuggets. You have seven days. Make them count.”
11
Gym, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Uno was the first pilot to complete his CAI, finishing four full days before the deadline, with an impressive cumulative score of ninety-six percent. The next batch of graduates came a day later, and to Coda’s great frustration, Moscow was among them.
“Ninety-three percent,” Moscow said when Coda passed him in the gym. “That’s what I scored, O’Neil. Did you see it? You won’t even make it through ninety-three percent of the material.”
Coda seethed but said nothing. He strode past Moscow, making for the free weights on the other side of the gym. When he got to the bench press, he slapped a series of weights on either side of the bar and lay down into position.
“What are you doing?” Noodle asked, appearing above him. “We’re not supposed to be using these weights.”
Coda ignored the question—it should have been pretty damn obvious what he was doing. “Spot me.”
“Coda—”
“Spot me,” Coda repeated, then without waiting for a response, he lifted the bar from the bracket and lowered it onto his chest. It
felt lighter than he’d expected. Fewer than two weeks into the program, his body was growing stronger and showing signs of increased muscle definition. He finished the first four reps without issue. By the fifth, the bar began to get heavy. By seven, he was noticeably slower, and by the ninth, his arms were shaking.
“One more,” Noodle said, placing his hands under the bar in case Coda’s arms gave out. “Come on, Coda. One more.”
Feeling as though he was lifting the weight of the world itself, Coda pushed with everything he had. When the bar slammed back into place with a satisfying clang, he let out a triumphant scream then, breathing heavily, sat up. Noodle was grinning at him.
“Thanks,” Coda said.
“You’re welcome,” Noodle said. “What was that all about, anyway?”
Coda just shook his head. He didn’t want to be reminded of the CAI.
“How’d your session with the computer go?” Noodle asked, proving there was no getting away from it.
“Not good.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“I’ve got three days left, Noodle, and I’m only seventy-five percent of the way through it. I might as well start packing.”
“That’s a bit dramatic.”
“Yeah? And what should I be doing?”
“Well, for starters, I wouldn’t be in here. There’s only so much time in the day, Coda, and you can’t afford to waste any of it in here.”
“I’m not sure the commander would agree.”
“The commander isn’t here,” Noodle said. “Neither is Squawks or Uno or a bunch of other people.”
Coda surveyed the room with fresh eyes. Noodle was right. Squawks and Uno were nowhere to be found, and the gym was noticeably emptier than usual.
“Where are they?” Coda asked.
Noodle raised an eyebrow as if the answer was obvious.
Wings of Honor Page 6