Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  “Five seconds.”

  I really do have to take a piss.

  “Three.”

  There was a muffled banging noise followed by hissing air. Was something wrong?

  “Two.”

  Two? Why’s he still counting down? Where’s the emergency abort?

  “One.”

  Another bang. Another hiss. Both louder than before. Then like a bolt fired from the world’s largest ballista, Coda rocketed forward. Thrown back in his seat, he watched as the distant black dot at the end of the tunnel grew alarmingly fast. He had just enough time to blink before he was spit out into the night.

  I’m flying, Coda thought as the Jamestown grew smaller behind him. I’m actually doing this!

  And then the panic hit him.

  23

  Cockpit, Nighthawk

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B

  Coda’s heart was in his throat. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, making his hands tremble, his movements sharp. The Jamestown was little more than a shadow against the orange glow of Proxima B, but its subtle shifting out his starboard window, coupled with the null gravity, was more than enough to send his body into a panic.

  Up became down and down became sideways as he fought to find some semblance of gravity. In that terrible moment, he realized that regardless of how realistic the simulator was, nothing could ever truly replicate the experience of spaceflight.

  “Breathe,” said a calming voice on his radio. Who? Who was talking to him? “Breathe, Coda.” Commander Coleman’s X-23 appeared at Coda’s wing, close enough that Coda could see the other man seated inside the cockpit. “Just follow the blues of my thrusters. Acknowledge?”

  “Acknowledged,” Coda said, forcing the words through the lump in his throat.

  Commander Coleman’s fighter moved ahead of Coda’s effortlessly. Coda took a deep breath then pushed the throttle forward with his left hand, increasing speed, and formed up behind Commander Coleman’s left wing in the dash-two position, using the blue of his Shaw Drive thrusters as much as the navigational path that had popped up on his HUD. They followed the path for several minutes, leaving the various orbits of fleet ships and satellites behind.

  “All right, Coda. Just like we practiced in the simulator. Stay with me.”

  Commander Coleman’s fighter rocketed forward, quickly leaving Coda behind. With the aid of his computer, Coda initiated his main thrusters and matched speed. One second, he was moving at a comfortable five kilometers per second; the next, he was moving at more than twice that. Thrown back in his seat, with what felt like the weight of the world on his chest, he finally understood what five G’s truly felt like, and along with the sensation came something else: true, unbridled joy.

  Letting out a long yell, Coda fell in behind Commander Coleman, but because the commander had launched forward before him, the blue of his thrusters appeared as little more than a pair of blue stars shining in the distance. Coda brought up his targeting computer, identified Commander Coleman’s ship, and locked on. No sooner had he done so than the commander strafed right, turning forty-five degrees.

  Coda followed, and the G’s increased. If he hadn’t been harnessed in so tightly, he would have been thrown against the left side of his cockpit. As it was, his body cried out against the restraints, and he could feel the blood inside his body forced from his extremities. The flight suit tightened, compensating for the movement, keeping the blood where it belonged and preventing him from blacking out.

  Before he’d fully adjusted to the sensation, the commander turned again, bringing his fighter around ninety degrees to the left. Coda followed again, and again, the harness and flight suit adjusted for the increased g-forces. Coda still felt his vision grow fuzzy.

  This is going to take a lot of getting used to.

  Zigging and zagging, they flew, Coda always matching Commander Coleman’s maneuvers. For an hour, Coda followed him, doing barrel rolls, corkscrews, aileron rolls, and split-S maneuvers—everything he’d already mastered in the simulator—and by the end of the hour, the overwhelming panic he’d felt when he’d shot out of the Jamestown had been replaced by a growing confidence.

  “All right, Coda. That’s enough for one day. Lead us home.”

  “Copy that, sir.”

  With the Jamestown behind them, and Coda once again in the dash-two position behind Commander Coleman’s starboard wing, the correct maneuver would have been to make a wide one-hundred-eighty-degree turn, but his confidence was growing by the second, and Coda wasn’t interested in correct. He wanted some fun.

  Coda fired his nose thrusters, flipping the front of his ship backward. It was a maneuver he’d done in the simulator a thousand times, but in the short time since the beginning of the exercise, he had forgotten how little the two had in common. He was thrown up, down, and backward, then all three all over again. By the time he stabilized the fighter, he was still facing the wrong direction.

  Breathing heavily, Coda reoriented himself, finding the two other ships, and braced himself against the commander’s impending rebuke. However, what he heard was even more unnerving.

  Commander Coleman was laughing. He appeared in front of Coda, their fighters nose to nose, Commander Coleman flying backward so that he was looking directly into Coda’s cockpit.

  “That didn’t look comfortable,” Commander Coleman said.

  “I feel like my brain was put on spin cycle.”

  “I bet. Are you hurt?”

  “Only my ego, sir.”

  “What did you learn?”

  “That I’m an idiot?”

  “I won’t argue with you there,” Commander Coleman said. “That wasn’t very good headwork. But tell me why you’re an idiot.”

  “Because I can’t do things out here the same way I did them in the simulator.”

  “Very good, Coda. I won’t argue with your stupidity, but part of this was my fault. In my day, a pilot would fly eight simulations before flying their first real flight. You’ve flown more than eighty. We never had the opportunity to get comfortable in the simulator. You did. And you’re going to have to unlearn a lot of it.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “It’s going to be a process, and we’re going to spend some time getting comfortable. After that, the real work will begin.”

  “Sounds good, sir.”

  “All right. Let’s try that again, shall we? Home’s that way.” Commander Coleman pointed behind Coda, laughed again, then used his forward-facing thrusters to create some distance between them, giving Coda space to turn around and plot a course back to the Jamestown.

  As they drew closer, Coda radioed in. “Jamestown Tower, this is Hawk Two requesting clearance to land.”

  “Roger that, Coda. You are cleared for landing in hangar bay 7C.”

  “Copy, Jamestown Tower. Thank you.”

  Coda set a course that would bring them into the fighter recovery bay then toggled up the landing procedure on his HUD. Selecting the automated sequence, he let go of his stick. Instead of following the designated path, though, the fighter drifted off course.

  Cycling through his systems again, Coda made sure his autopilot was activated. After confirming it was, he reattempted to connect with the Jamestown’s auto-docking procedure. It failed a second time.

  “Is there an issue, Lieutenant?” Commander Coleman asked.

  “My auto-docking isn’t engaging.”

  “That’s because we’re not using the auto-docking procedure.”

  “Sir?”

  “The enemy has a way to disrupt our connection with our drones. Who’s to say they couldn’t do the same with an automated landing? We’ll be hands-on the whole way in.”

  Hands-on. The words filled Coda with dread. He’d practiced landing in the simulator, of course, but he’d already learned that the simulator wasn’t the same. Now he was supposed to land on a ship that was traveling at eight thousand meters per second while coming in on an adjacent flight path.


  “Is that going to be a problem, Coda?” Commander Coleman asked.

  Coda had no idea what to say. Yes, sir, I’m petrified? He would never live that down, especially since he knew his radio communications were being broadcast in the ready room for anyone who wanted to listen. He didn’t expect a big draw; he wasn’t the first pilot who’d flown, but he had been the first out of his friends. That meant Noodle and Squawks were likely listening in.

  “No, sir. Not a problem at all. Plotting my landing now.”

  Coda readjusted his flight path, aligning it with Hangar Bay 7C, then swung around so that he was flying parallel to it. Once his fighter and the Jamestown were traveling at matching speeds, the only thing he had to do was ease the fighter in, like an old car switching lanes on the highway—at eight thousand meters per second.

  “Clear one, Coda,” the tower officer said. “Call the ball.”

  “I’ve got the ball,” Coda said.

  “Just like the simulator,” Commander Coleman said. “Trust your training, and you’ll be fine.”

  It went against every instinct in Coda’s body, but trust his training, he did. The digital display on his HUD traced a line moving from left to right. His job was to keep a small circle inside a second, larger one. The farther out he was, the more leniency he had, but as he drew closer to the Jamestown, even the smallest movement had amplified effects.

  Using the line on the HUD as his guide, Coda used his portside thrusters to ease his fighter starboard closer to the Jamestown. It was close enough now that he could make out the individual cannons lining its surface out of his peripheral vision. Coda kept his eyes locked on the ball, sweating as it veered up and down, side to side, fighting him as if the fighter itself were an energetic puppy that didn’t want to go back into its kennel.

  His gaze never veering from his HUD, Coda felt the lights of the Jamestown more than he saw them. Having been in the black for an hour, he found them bright and oppressive. But he was inside the ship now, and squinting against the bright lights of the hangar, Coda brought the fighter gently onto the deck.

  After several deep breaths, Coda looked to see if the commander had landed yet. He spotted him only a few meters away, already pulling off his flight helmet. He saw Coda looking and gave him a thumbs-up.

  I did it, Coda thought, returning the gesture. I don’t know how, but I did it.

  By the time they’d been towed back into the main hangar, Coda had removed his flight helmet and popped the cockpit hatch.

  Commander Coleman met him at the bottom of the ladder. “Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “A little wet in the breeches, but other than that…”

  Commander Coleman laughed. “The first landing is enough to make any pilot’s butthole pucker. We’ll continue to work on them, and before you know it, you’ll be able to land without leaving a mess inside your flight suit.” He turned to survey the hangar. “Chief!”

  “Yes, sir,” the chief said, appearing behind Commander Coleman. “Here you are, sir.” He handed something to the commander, who in turn held it out to Coda.

  “This is yours,” the commander said.

  Coda took the small flight badge and studied it. Roughly six centimeters by four, it depicted a stylized pair of Nighthawks flying against the backdrop of the sun. Under the image were the words The Forgotten.

  “We’ll have it sewn onto your flight suit,” the commander said. “You earned it.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Coda said, never looking up. “What are the Forgotten?”

  “We are, Coda. The war moved on without fighter pilots. The world left us behind. But where they have forgotten us, so has our enemy, and that will be their downfall. We are the Forgotten Squadron.”

  Coda rubbed a reverent finger across the flight badge. Usually, only full pilots were given badges.

  The Commander seemed to read his mind. “It doesn’t mean you’ve made the squadron yet, Lieutenant. But there aren’t a thousand people left in the world who have flown a Nighthawk, so as far as I’m concerned, you’re one of us.”

  It was too much. During the days of manned starfighters, each squadron had its own badge, and Coda could remember early memories of donning his father’s flight jacket, looking at himself in the mirror, and dreaming of one day growing up to be just like him. That had been before the incident, but his father’s downfall had only increased his desire to earn a badge of his own.

  “It’s… It’s amazing, sir,” Coda said, meeting the commander’s eye. “Thank you. I’ll wear it proudly.”

  24

  Mess Hall, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  Coda set down his tray. As he slid into the metal chair, Noodle sucked in a sharp breath and held it. His eyes twinkled with amusement, darting in Coda’s direction. When Noodle didn’t release the breath, Coda finally took the bait.

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Breathe, Noodle!” Squawks said in an exaggerated impersonation of Commander Coleman. “Come on, Noodle! Just breathe! Breathe, goddamn it!”

  Noodle burst into laughter, and Squawks joined him. A couple people sitting nearby looked at them, obviously wondering what the hell was so funny.

  “You guys are assholes,” Coda said, which only made them laugh even harder. “Why am I even friends with you?”

  “Oh, please,” Squawks said, wiping tears from his eyes. “This is exactly why. Someone has to keep you from believing your own bullshit.”

  “You, maybe,” Coda said. “But not him. Noodle is more of the cool, quiet type.”

  “It's true.” Noodle nodded.

  “Yeah, you're a real rock star,” Squawks said sarcastically.

  “I take it you guys were listening?” Coda asked.

  It hadn’t been more than ninety minutes since his flight—just enough time to shower, change, and go through a short preliminary debriefing with Commander Coleman. The full evaluation would come later that night, once more of the pilots had flown.

  “Every glorious second of it,” Squawks said. “Breathe, Coda! Breathe!”

  Squawks and Noodle erupted into laughter again.

  “I'm glad I didn't say what I really was feeling then,” Coda said, unsure if either of the two assholes even heard him.

  “Don't let them razz you too bad, Coda.”

  Coda looked up to see an older pilot wearing the standard gray flight suit of Commander Coleman’s squadron. With thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a face sporting lines of age, he was easily one of the oldest in the squadron. Coda didn't know him well; he bunked in one of the other barracks and was on a different schedule than Coda’s.

  “There ain’t many pilots who wouldn't cry for momma while making a landing in high orbit.”

  Noodle and Squawks looked at the newcomer and exchanged a look that said, “Who the hell is this guy?” But between the newcomer coming to Coda’s defense and his thick southern drawl, Coda immediately liked him.

  “It's Tex, right?” Coda asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “I take it you had your first flight?”

  “Naw, not yet,” Tex said. “Not in the Nighthawk, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I've flown other ships. Made some hands-on landings. They ain't fun.”

  “No, they’re not,” Coda agreed.

  “You mind if I sit?”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.” Tex slid into the seat Uno normally occupied, a detail that didn’t go unnoticed by Noodle and Squawks. Tex must have felt their uneasiness, because he offered them a kind nod.

  “So,” Coda said, interrupting the growing silence, “you've flown spacecraft before?”

  Tex stabbed his food paste and shoveled in a bite. “I'm a puddle jumper,” he said, talking around the mouthful.

  “A what?” Squawks asked.

  Tex swallowed. “A puddle jumper. A bus driver.”


  Squawks’s confused face made it clear he had no idea what the man was talking about, but he shrugged, apparently not interested enough to figure it out.

  “You flew transports?” Noodle asked.

  Tex pointed at him with his fork, nodding. “Marines, mostly.”

  “On the front?”

  “Where else?”

  A quiet appreciation filled the table.

  “Then why'd you leave?” Suddenly interested again, Squawks asked the question that was on all of their minds. They all dreamed of getting to the front and making their mark on the war, even if each had his own reason. To leave that behind was like walking away from a winning lottery ticket.

  “Same reason I joined the fleet the first time,” Tex said. “Wanted to fly a Nighthawk. My folks thought I was crazy. Told ’em I didn't want to wake up at sixty-three and regret not following my dream. ‘You won't have to worry about waking up at sixty-three,’ they told me. ‘You won't make it to thirty-six flying one of them things.’ Well, the way I see it, I've already made it to thirty-six, so I don't have to worry about that no more.”

  Coda grinned. “My mom said something similar when I joined up.”

  “Mine too,” Noodle said. “They wanted me to go to school. Get one of those advanced robotic manufacturing jobs Captain Hughes was always talking about. I couldn't do it, though. The drones were just too damn cool.”

  “They never did it for me,” Tex said. “I was actually in the strike fighter program before they shut it down. Had a chance to be one of the first drone pilots. But like you said, I just couldn't do it. I wanted to fly. So when the opportunity came again, I couldn't pass it up.”

  “But the front…” Squawks said.

  “Ain’t as glorious as they make it out to be,” Tex said. “’Specially for a marine transport pilot. I'd be on the same shit planet, eating the same shit food, sleeping in the same shit housing, staring at the stars, wondering where my life had gone wrong. You don't know how good you got it here.”

  “I think you’ve been roughing it for too long,” Squawks said, stirring his meat paste with a disgusted look.