Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  “They’re going for our supply lines, Chadwick. Destroying not only our drones, but our ability to manufacture more. The courier carrying this message is equipped with a new Shaw Drive prototype. I need your report, including roster updates, capabilities, and battle readiness. And, Chadwick, I hope your work is going better than it is out here, because we’re going to need your pilots. We’re going to need you. I look forward to your report. Good luck, Commander.”

  The image of the admiral disappeared as the screen faded to black. Coleman sat there for several moments before toggling the vid attached to the message. By the time it ended, Coleman was ready for a second drink. It was bad form for a commander to get sloppy drunk, so he did the next best thing: he slid the fifty-first pilot into the fiftieth position.

  The rest of the squadron might not know it yet, but they were going to need every pilot they could get.

  21

  Ready Room, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  “Where’s Uno?” Coda asked, surveying the half-empty ready room.

  The remaining pilots of Commander Coleman’s squadron mingled, sharing smiles, attempting to ignore the vacancies left behind by their departed friends. That was the fighter pilot way: to move on and act as if the cut, the loss, or the death had never happened. Dwelling on it meant confronting failure. Confronting death. One’s own mortality. To a pilot, that meant losing their edge. And the moment a pilot lost their edge, they became slag.

  “Have you seen Uno?” Coda asked, turning to Squawks, who, like Noodle, sat next to him.

  “He’s probably taking a dump,” Squawks said.

  Noodle snorted, but Coda didn’t feel like laughing. “I haven’t seen him all morning.”

  “Maybe it’s a stubborn one.”

  “A what? No, never mind, I don’t want to know.” Coda shook his head, trying to get the mental image to disappear. “He should be here.”

  “Settle down,” Squawks said. “He will be.”

  “Yeah…” But for some reason, Squawks’s words didn’t make Coda feel better. Objectively, Coda knew he shouldn’t be worried. Like every other member of their group, Uno had finished above the failure line and would advance to flight status, but Coda still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut. Something wasn’t right.

  “Attention on deck!”

  The pilots snapped to attention as Commander Coleman stepped into the ready room.

  “Take your seats,” he said, taking his usual position behind the podium.

  Once the pilots had found their seats, the room fell deathly quiet—something that was even more pronounced by the number of empty seats. When the pilots had first arrived, they’d been excited, nearly bursting at the seams, but that energy had suddenly dissipated, leaving a gloom as if the squadron had lost a major battle and taken fifty-percent casualties.

  “Congratulations,” Commander Coleman said, giving his obligatory speech. “The men and women in this room have advanced to basic flight. The chief is still readying your fighters, so despite my better judgment, I’m giving you the day off. Enjoy it, because it’ll be the last one you get before the end of your training.”

  The room erupted into cheers, pilots clapping and laughing, slapping each other on the back.

  A day off. Coda couldn’t remember what that was like. Twenty-four hours to himself. He didn’t know what he would do. Sleep. Yes, that sounded nice. Sleep. His eyes felt heavy just thinking about it.

  “Flight schedules have been downloaded to your tablets,” Commander Coleman said once the ruckus had died down. “Check then double and triple check your flight times and craft number. Failure to arrive on time and at the correct spacecraft will result in an automatic SOD.”

  A SOD—or a “sign of difficulty”—was the pilots’ version of a strike, and as in the great American pastime of baseball, after three strikes, the pilot was out of the program.

  “This is the real thing, ladies and gentlemen. I expect you to be ready. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Coda turned to his friends as the commander strode out of the room. “Come on.”

  “Where?” Squawks asked.

  “Just follow me.”

  Coda pushed his way through the pilots, making for the ready room door, then chased the commander down the corridor. “Sir!” Coda shouted. “Sir!”

  Commander Coleman stopped and turned to face him. “What is it, Coda?”

  “It’s Uno, sir,” Coda said. “We haven’t seen him and were wondering if you knew where he was.”

  “Lieutenant Hernandez?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Coda,” Commander Coleman said, “Lieutenant Hernandez is set to depart with the rest of the washouts at oh nine hundred.”

  “Washouts?” Coda said. “Sir, there must be a mistake. Uno was above the line.”

  “Yes, he was,” Commander Coleman said. “Which is why it was so unexpected when he came to my quarters last night and withdrew from the program.”

  “He quit?” Coda couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I thought you said we couldn’t quit.”

  Commander Coleman’s face grew hard. He apparently didn’t like having his words thrown in his face any more than anyone else did. “I won’t have a pilot in my squadron who endangers everyone else he flies with. The lieutenant didn’t believe he had what it takes, and I didn’t disagree with him. Anything more than that, and you’ll have to ask him.”

  “He’s still here?”

  “As I already said, Coda, he departs at oh nine hundred. You can find him in the hangar bay.”

  They found Uno sitting against the wall, his arms draped over his knees, watching as specialists worked under the watchful eye of the chief, frantically trying to get the remaining Nighthawks ready for flight. When he saw Coda and the rest approaching, his mouth fell open, and his face grew several shades redder than it had been before.

  “Hey,” Coda said, crossing his arms and stopping in front of him.

  “What are you guys doing here?” Uno asked.

  “What are we… Uno, what are you doing here? The commander said you quit.”

  Uno turned away.

  “Uno—”

  Snapping his head around, Uno jumped to his feet. “What do you want me to say? I told you I couldn’t do this, but you wouldn’t listen. ‘You just need more time,’” Uno said, giving Coda an exaggerated impersonation of himself.

  Coda felt his blood rise and forced himself to take a deep breath. “Uno, you were above the line. You want to say you couldn’t do it? You’re full of it. You did it. You passed.”

  “Anyone can pass a test, Coda.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Coda asked defensively. Was that a shot at Coda nearly failing FAM Phase?

  “It just means I can pass whatever test the commander puts in front of me, but that doesn’t change anything. I know I can’t do this. I know I don’t have what it takes.”

  “We don’t believe that,” Noodle said.

  “It doesn’t matter what you believe,” Uno said. “Do you know what I’ve been doing in my bunk the last few nights?”

  “I’m not sure I want to know…” Squawks said.

  “I’ve been watching the flight vids,” Uno said, ignoring Squawks’s failed attempt at a joke. “Mine. Yours. All of them. And you know what I saw? I saw someone who was slow. Someone who was mechanical. Someone who thought too much. Not like you guys. Not like everyone else.”

  “Uno—”

  “No, Coda. I already made my decision.”

  Coda clamped his mouth shut. There was no arguing that. Uno had quit on his own, and even if Coda somehow convinced him it had been the wrong thing to do, there was little chance the commander would take him back. A fighter pilot with self-confidence issues wasn’t exactly a prized commodity.

  “You should have said something,” Coda said. “We’re supposed to be friends.”

  “I know.” Uno blew out a long breath.
The anger and frustration in his voice disappeared, and for the first time since they’d confronted him, he seemed truly disappointed. “But you guys know me. I like to fail on my own.”

  “Deep down, you’re just as selfish as I am,” Squawks said with a smile.

  “I guess so,” Uno said, smiling back.

  Coda didn’t know how Squawks did it. He’d basically just insulted the man, but instead of getting mad, Uno had thought it was funny. If Coda had done something like that, Uno probably would have decked him.

  “Where are they sending you?” Coda asked.

  “The Philadelphia.”

  “They’re sending you to the front?” Noodle asked.

  “Yeah,” Uno said. “I was surprised too. They have me flying a drone again.”

  The front. The one place Coda had dreamt about since joining the academy. At any other point in time, he would have been jealous, annoyed that a washout was being stationed in the one place he wanted to be while he was left behind. But strangely, he didn’t feel any of those things, and if someone had given him the opportunity to swap places, he wasn’t sure he would have taken it.

  “Anyway, it looks like I’ve got to go.” Uno pointed to where a group of former pilots were boarding a transport ship. “Seriously, though, guys. I’m sorry. Thanks for coming. Thanks for everything.”

  Coda clapped hands with Uno and pulled him into a quick hug. “Good luck.”

  “You too, Coda.”

  Noodle was next, repeating the embrace. “Take care, man.”

  “Save some Baranyk for us,” Squawks said, punching him in the arm.

  “No promises,” Uno said, then with a final, half-hearted smile, he nodded and turned to go.

  Watching Uno walk away, Coda couldn’t help feeling as if the squadron had just had its first real casualty. He also knew it wouldn’t be the last.

  22

  Ready Room, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  Coda entered the ready room two hours before his scheduled flight. Commander Coleman was already there, sitting in a chair in the front row of the auditorium seating. His eyes were alive in a way Coda hadn’t seen since joining the squadron. When the commander stood and strode toward Coda, his step was light, almost giddy.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Good morning, Coda. You ready?”

  “Can’t wait, sir.”

  “Good.” Commander Coleman stepped past Coda and, grabbing a black stylus from the tray, stopped in front of the large digital display board that took up the entire front wall. “You reviewed your flight packet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Commander Coleman handed the stylus to Coda. “Write it out for me then.”

  “Sir?”

  “I said write it out for me. Who’s flying? What are their call signs? What are our takeoff and landing times? What ship numbers? Communications frequencies? Diversion information? I want all of it, and I’m going to want to know all of it before every flight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Coda started writing. Who’s flying? Lieutenant O’Neil and Commander Coleman. Call signs? Coda and Spitfire. Taking off at 0700 from hangar bay 7B in Nighthawks One and Two. Landing at 0800 at the same location. He listed communications frequencies, both primary and emergency, as well as alternative flight paths in the event of engine trouble, carrier malfunction, and invasion. The whole process took nearly twenty minutes. When he was done, he handed the stylus back to Commander Coleman and stepped back to let him review it.

  “Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Can you tell me why I had you do this?”

  “Because you wanted to be sure I knew it, sir.”

  “Because it helps avoid accidents. This is your first flight, so your ship is unarmed, but I’ve flown in training exercises where the pilot accidentally climbed into the wrong fighter and fired real rounds instead of the simulated rounds we’ll be working with today. His mistake nearly cost his CAG his life. Don’t forget that, Coda. Mistakes cost lives.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good, because you’ll do this before every flight. I’ll take two minutes to review it, but other than that, you’ll be on your own to fill it out properly. Get anything wrong, and you’re grounded for the day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Follow me.”

  The commander led Coda through the ready room into the adjoining locker room, where they stopped in front of a locker with Coda’s call sign. Hanging inside was one of the best presents he’d ever received.

  “Do you know how to put that on?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Do it.”

  Coda began shedding clothing until he was dressed in nothing more than his underwear. The black flight suit, known as a G-suit, fit snugly around every part of his body. During flight, it would squeeze his legs and abdomen, preventing the flow of blood from his brain to help avoid grayout, the loss of vision or awareness, or even blackout, the loss of consciousness altogether. Because it was so snug, the commander had to zip it up in the back for him. Coda repaid the favor.

  Once dressed, they moved down the short corridor into the hangar. They passed a number of ship personnel, garnering confused looks and double takes. While their presence was becoming known throughout the ship, there was a difference between knowing and seeing, and seeing two pilots striding purposefully down the corridors of their ship, especially the legendary Commander Coleman himself, was akin to seeing a living legend.

  Commander Coleman led Coda through the hangar, avoiding technicians and machinery with an efficiency gained through years of practice. Their fighters were set apart from the rest of the hangar, hitched to a pair of forklifts that would assist loading them into the launch tubes. A middle-aged man with thinning dark hair and a round face covered in grease was overseeing the last of their preparations.

  “Chief,” Commander Coleman said.

  The chief looked up. “Sir,” he said, giving the commander a quick salute. “We’re just wrapping up now, sir.”

  “Very good. We’ll take it from here.”

  “Of course, sir.” The chief stepped away from the fighters and ordered his specialists to do the same. Rather than disappearing entirely, though, they only gave the commander some space.

  “What are you doing, sir?” Coda asked, watching as Commander Coleman ran a hand down his fighter’s fuselage.

  “Visual inspection.”

  “Isn’t that what the chief was doing?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Then why are you doing it again, sir?”

  “Because it’s my ass in the cockpit.”

  That was good enough for Coda. He circled his own fighter, trying to mimic his commander’s steady gaze. The only problem was, he didn’t know what to look for. The commander seemed to sense his confusion, and without taking his attention away from his own fighter, he told Coda what to look for.

  “Loose parts, dents, cracks, anything that can cause friction or come apart in a high-g maneuver.”

  Coda started his review again, taking in the finer details of the fighter, running a careful hand down its fuselage, offset wings, and rear thrusters. It was the first time he’d seen one of the fighters since the first day of FAM Phase, and after flying countless simulations since that day, he found it even more impressive.

  “Looks good, Chief,” Commander Coleman said. “Good work.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Coda?”

  “Looks good to me, sir.”

  “All right. We’ve got four minutes ’til launch. Load up.”

  One of the specialists rolled over a ladder, which Coda used to climb into his cockpit. Settling down inside, he immediately secured his harness then slid on his helmet. The specialist helped him lock it into place, and a moment later, cold oxygen blew into the flight suit, giving the entire thing a miniature pressurized environment. The cockpit would be pressurized too, of
course, but in the event of an emergency, the suit would give him roughly another thirty minutes to get to safety.

  Manned spaceflight was built around contingency after contingency after contingency, and while many called it redundant, Coda, who was seconds away from shooting into the cold, lifeless void of space, was beginning to understand that redundancy might save his life.

  With everything in place, he closed the cockpit, maneuvered the emergency lever to lock it into place, and powered on his guidance, engine, and communication systems.

  “Hawk Two, this is Hawk One. Do you copy?” Commander Coleman’s voice sounded slightly tinny through the speakers of Coda’s helmet.

  “Copy, Hawk One. Loud and clear.”

  “Copy that, Coda. Begin final systems check and prepare for launch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Coda ran through the final check, verifying that each of his systems was online and functioning properly. Once confirmed, he radioed back to the commander. “Final systems check complete, sir. I’m good to go.”

  “Same here, Coda. Strap in and have fun.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The forklift moved him into the launch tube, locking the bottom of his fighter to a pulley that was attached to a track at the bottom of the deck. When it was time to launch, the pulley would rocket forward, dragging his fighter along with it, and hurl it into space.

  “Jamestown Tower, Hawks One and Two are green and ready for takeoff.”

  “Roger, Hawk One,” Lieutenant Commander Chavez said over the radio. “Hawks One and Two are cleared for launch from launch tubes three and five, firing at one-second intervals in ten seconds.”

  The prelaunch sensation reminded Coda of being a kid and riding a roller coaster. His legs felt light, and he thought he had to pee. And this time, he didn’t have the reassuring smile from his father to let him know everything was going to be all right. Worst of all, just as it had been when he was a child, once he was strapped in and the ride started moving, there was no shutting it down. He was truly at the mercy of whatever came next.