Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  Coda laughed with the rest of them. Still, he couldn't help but feel that Tex was right. The food wasn’t that bad—and whatever Commander Coleman was packing into it was working. They were only about halfway through their training, and he was already working out with twice as much weight and had more than tripled the distance he ran on the treadmill while dropping his per-kilometer time by a third. He'd thought he was in great shape before, but any remaining baby fat had disappeared. Even Noodle, the skinniest person in their squadron, had noticeably filled out.

  But it was more than that. Coda had no way to confirm it, but he felt as though his reaction and processing times had improved too. Not to mention his recovery periods. Every day, he was growing faster, stronger, and smarter. To top it all off, they were being trained by the great Commander Coleman himself.

  Yeah, Tex is definitely right. The members of the Forgotten don’t have it bad at all.

  That night after their evening debriefing, Commander Coleman told them that because the squadron had shrunk by half, they no longer needed four barracks, and ordered them to reassemble in Barracks One and Two.

  Coda groaned. Even though it had only been a day and a half since the other pilots had left, he'd started growing accustomed to the extra space and relative privacy.

  At least I'm in Barracks Two and don't have to move.

  Tex was one of the first pilots to make his way into their barracks. He pointed to the open bunk once occupied by Uno. “You mind?”

  Something told Coda that the older man hadn't connected with any of the other pilots in the squadron, likely because of his age and unique background, but he was still reluctant to give up Uno’s place in their quartet so easily. To Coda’s surprise, though, Squawks answered first.

  “It’s all yours,” he said. “But only if you promise to tell us some stories from the front.”

  Tex gave him a small laugh and nodded. “Deal. But I ain’t gonna promise they'll be interesting.”

  25

  Ready Room, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  Tex was the first of their newly formed quartet to fly after Coda, and the older pilot was what Squawks called “a real hoot to listen to.” Every increase in speed and high-g maneuver was accompanied by a hoot, yee-haw, or woo-hoo, and it got so bad that the commander had to tell him to cut the chatter. But that night during their group evaluation, Commander Coleman hadn’t been able to keep from smiling with the rest of them.

  “Tex was obviously meant to be in the cockpit,” Commander Coleman said. “And his excitement is infectious. But if you’re going to hoot and holler, Tex, do so off the radio, and make sure you don’t miss a critical order.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tex said.

  “But I’m glad you’re having fun.”

  Noodle went up after him, and the slender pilot earned high praise from the commander, even if Noodle secretly believed he didn’t deserve it.

  “I couldn’t decide if I wanted to throw up or wet myself,” he had said after the flight.

  “When?” Squawks asked.

  “During all of it,” Noodle said. “You don’t know what it’s like. It’s nothing like the simulator; that’s for sure.”

  Squawks just laughed and called him a wuss, but Coda could see that under the bravado, their friend was growing increasingly uneasy. When it was Squawks’s turn to go up, Noodle and Coda gathered together in the ready room to listen in. They weren’t the only ones, either. Moscow and his gang were hanging out in the back of the auditorium, keeping to themselves.

  Since the uneasy truce had been made in the simulator, Coda hadn’t had much interaction with Moscow or his gang, and it was a welcomed change since it provided him with fewer distractions.

  “All right, Squawks,” Commander Coleman’s voice said over the ready room speakers, “well done today. Let’s bring it in.”

  “Roger that, sir,” Squawks said, his pride barely masked behind military decorum. By all indications, his flight had gone well. Like Coda and Noodle, he’d been able to perform the basic flight maneuvers they’d mastered in the simulator, but as Coda had already found out, when it came to performing a hands-on landing aboard a moving vessel in high orbit, there was a canyon of difference between the simulator and the real thing.

  The seconds ticking by, Coda listened to the commander’s instruction, piecing together the landing sequence in his mind’s eye. Squawks would be parallel to the Jamestown by now, ready to begin his landing procedure.

  “Squawks, you’re a kilometer out. Call the ball.”

  “Roger that. I have the ball.”

  Coda slid to the edge of his seat, growing increasingly nervous. This was the most difficult part of the landing sequence, and Squawks was already muttering curses under his breath.

  “You’re too shallow, Squawks,” Commander Coleman said. “Just like in the simulator. Keep the two together, and you’ll be fine.”

  “Copy that, sir,” Squawks said, though Coda thought he could hear panic in his voice.

  “You’re still too shallow, Squawks,” Commander Coleman said a few seconds later. “Abort and prepare to circle back for another pass.”

  “Negative, sir,” Squawks said. “I’ve got this.”

  “Lieutenant—”

  “Almost there, sir.”

  “Pull up, Lieutenant. Pull up. Squawks, pull up. Pull up! Pull up! Pull up!” Commander Coleman’s shouts were followed by an eerie silence.

  Silent seconds ticked by, the quiet punctuated only by Commander Coleman’s heavy breathing. Coda didn’t move, didn’t think, fearing the worst.

  Had Squawks successfully landed or had he crashed into the side of the Jamestown? Would they have felt the impact? Heard the explosion? Or would it be the equivalent of hitting a bug on the freeway, a nuisance that would have to be washed off when it was convenient?

  Then he heard it. The faint voice of his friend.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.”

  “Oh my god is right.” Noodle ran a hand across his closely shaven scalp. “What just happened?”

  “Your friend is rubbing off on him,” Moscow said, striding down the auditorium stairs. “It’s the O’Neil curse.”

  His emotions already flying high, Coda seethed. His feud with Moscow might have taken on a different tenor lately, but that didn’t undo the months of comments, digs, and verbal jabs. Before Coda could reply, Moscow and his gang continued down the stairs, leaving the ready room behind.

  “I’m seriously going to kick that guy’s ass someday,” Noodle said.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Coda said, his words at odds with his emotions. He wanted nothing more than to let Noodle kick Moscow’s teeth in—hell, he wanted to do it himself—but he was tired of his temper turning him into a failure.

  “You’re just going to let him get away with it?”

  “We’re supposed to be part of the same squadron, Noodle. Fighting him won’t do any good. It’ll just make it worse.”

  Noodle stared at him as if he had just turned into a Baranyk. “What happened to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “He and his gang get to you? Push you into an empty room and have their way with you?”

  Coda’s anger was quickly moving from Moscow to Noodle. If he wasn’t careful, he’d take it out on his friend. “Drop it.”

  “The commander talk to you? Tell you to bury the hatchet?”

  Coda let out a sharp breath, less because Noodle was right, and more because he was being such a persistent little asshole.

  “He did, didn’t he?” Noodle said. “What did he say?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “The hell it doesn’t. Look, Coda, you tell me to sic him, and I’ll bite his leg like a Jack Russell terrier. If you tell me to stand down, I’ll do that too. Just tell me why.”

  Coda imagined Noodle with his teeth around Moscow’s calf and had to hold back a smile. “Then as my friend, listen to me when I say
don’t worry about him. Moscow’s an ass, but…”

  “But what? Coda, I don’t know what the hell happened, but you spent every day fighting with that guy for months, and now you’re defending him? What changed? What do you know that I don’t?”

  Coda drew in a deep breath. “Let’s just say I understand where he’s coming from.”

  “Coda—”

  “It’s not my story to tell. Okay? Just drop it.”

  Noodle snapped his mouth shut and looked away, irritated. That was fine as far as Coda was concerned. Noodle could be mad. He could even think that Coda was defending Moscow. Anything was better than having the squadron know that Coda’s father was responsible for Moscow’s mother’s death. That would drive a wedge between him and everyone else in the squadron so deep that there would be no recovering from it. And at that point, the commander wouldn’t have to choose between Moscow and Coda. The squadron would choose for him.

  The nearly botched landing earned Squawks the first SOD in the squadron. If he got two more, he would be expelled entirely. For nearly a day and a half, he steamed, running landing simulation after landing simulation, obsessing over the mistake. Tex had tried to help him through it by sharing stories about his own experiences and offering small tips and tricks that he’d learned over the years, but Squawks made it abundantly clear that he wanted none of it.

  His mood only improved when other pilots had similar issues. Fortunately for him, the mistakes weren’t uncommon. Of the fifty remaining pilots, nearly one third had to abort their approach and try again, and of them, nearly half failed to accomplish a clean landing on the second attempt. Squawks hadn’t flown the cleanest, but he wasn’t the worst, either, and for the time being, that seemed to be enough for him.

  As the weeks wore on, Coda settled into his new routine. Because the squadron had only two instructors, he was lucky to go up every other day, so when he wasn’t in class or at the gym, he spent most of his time in the simulator. But after he’d tasted the real thing, simulated flying couldn’t scratch the itch. Flying had become a drug and he needed his fix.

  When he had gone up the second time, the commander spent the first part of the training session putting him through the same basic flight maneuvers and critiquing him on the finer details, but they spent the majority of their time doing touch-and-go landings aboard the Jamestown. Coda flew approach after approach, getting ten for the price of one. It was terrifying work, but by the end of the fourth week Coda could approach without pissing himself.

  Once each of the pilots had gone up twice, they began group instruction, flying courses and beginning formations. Then, when the commander was confident they wouldn’t accidentally crash into each other, began dogfighting.

  Their only reprieve was that their flights were no longer scored and tiered. They had progressed to a review phase, and as Commander Coleman and Lieutenant Commander Chavez had done during one-on-one post-Simulation debriefings, they instructed the pilots instead of graded them. But like all breaks, Coda knew it wouldn’t last.

  26

  Commander Coleman’s Quarters, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  Coda took a deep breath, straightened his uniform, and knocked on Commander Coleman’s door.

  “Come in,” Commander Coleman said as the door slid open. Coda stepped in and snapped to attention. “At ease. And have a seat.” The commander gestured at the unoccupied armchair opposite the one the commander had obviously been sitting in.

  Coda sat. Commander Coleman had turned his back to Coda and fumbled with something on his bookcase. His eyes drifting from the commander to the small room, Coda made a mental note that it was the second time he had been summoned to the commander’s personal quarters, and for the first time, he realized the older man didn't have a personal office.

  The realization surprised him. Commander Coleman was a true, real-life war hero on a secret mission to construct a squadron that might very well save humanity, and he couldn't even get a personal office? Secrecy, it appeared, didn't afford luxuries.

  When the commander turned around, he was holding two glasses, one filled with a brown liquid, the other with water. He handed the one filled with water to Coda and sat down in the chair across from him.

  “Thank you, sir,” Coda said, oddly thankful he wasn’t holding the glass with the alcohol. It wasn’t that he wasn’t of age—he was, even if the United States federal government hadn’t long since lowered the drinking age for all enlisted personnel to eighteen years old. Drinking hadn’t been accepted at the academy, and despite stories of fighter jocks being heavy-drinking womanizers, Coda’s experience in the Forgotten had been very different—though he supposed that was likely due to their equally different training circumstances.

  “You’re doing well,” Commander Coleman said, leveling his gaze on him. “You completed FAM Phase by the skin of your teeth, but you were near the top of your class in the simulator, and you’ve made the transition to real flight look surprisingly easy.”

  Coda let the smile wash over his face but played it modest. “I don’t know about easy, sir.”

  “Oh?” Commander Coleman took a sip. “Then tell me how you’re feeling.”

  “I feel good, sir. Confident.”

  “That’s good. A timid pilot is a danger to themselves and everyone they fly with.”

  Coda felt a stab of guilt as his mind wandered to Uno. A lack of confidence had been his friend’s undoing. It had rendered him slow and tentative—“mechanical,” as Uno had put it. Perhaps the commander was right.

  “You don’t have to worry about that with me, sir. I feel… at home out there.”

  Commander Coleman took another sip, his eyes never leaving Coda. “Is that why you’re here?”

  Coda cocked his head to the side, caught off guard by the question. What was the Commander really asking? “I’m here to become the best fighter pilot in the squadron and protect the fleet, sir.”

  “No.” Commander Coleman shook his head. “Not here. I mean here, fighting in this war.”

  Coda stalled, taking a sip of his water. He hadn’t openly expressed his feelings on too many occasions, though they probably wouldn’t come as any great surprise, either. After all, Buster had guessed his true motivations, and he hadn’t exactly the fastest ship in the hangar. Would it help his cause if the commander knew the truth?

  Commander Coleman had flown with his father and had spoken highly of him. Maybe in this instance, separating himself from his father would be counterproductive.

  “You obviously know my father’s story,” Coda said, deciding to take the chance.

  Commander Coleman nodded. “It couldn’t have been easy growing up under that shadow.”

  “It wasn’t,” Coda agreed. “Though it wasn’t as bad at home as it was at the academy. Either way, when I’m done, the O’Neil name won’t be something to be cursed. It’ll be celebrated. Revered.”

  “You want to be a hero.”

  “No.” Coda shook his head. “I don’t want to be a hero. I want to restore honor to my family name. Being a hero is just the quickest way to do it.”

  “That’s a very noble goal.”

  Coda shrugged. Something about the way Commander Coleman had spoken the words made Coda uncertain if the other man truly meant them or if the commander was somehow poking fun at him.

  “You know I flew with him.”

  “That’s what you said, sir.”

  “The man I knew and the man the world thinks it knows are very different.”

  Coda shifted uneasily. Having someone suggest that the person he’d despised his entire life was actually a good person was discomforting. More than discomforting. It went against every mental image he’d crafted of his father and threatened to destroy the entire world he’d built atop it.

  “Unfortunately,” Coda said, “the man I knew was closer to what everyone else sees.”

  That wasn’t entirely true. Coda had many fond memories o
f his father: playing catch in the backyard, going to the zoo, sitting in the cockpit of his father’s Nighthawk. But the pain caused by his father’s betrayal greatly outweighed whatever positive feelings he felt for the man.

  Commander Coleman leaned back in his seat, pursing his lips. Coda was growing increasingly confused by how well the commander had known his father and just how close they had been. Coda wasn’t interested in getting to the bottom of it at the moment. He wasn’t there to talk about this father. He decided to change the subject before the commander had a chance to muster up his response.

  “Why are you here, sir? What’s a decorated war hero doing on an ancient ship flying patrol over a worthless mining colony?”

  “I’m here to assemble the best fighter squadron known to man and protect the fleet.”

  It was obviously a play on Coda’s politically correct response, and hearing it from the commander helped him realize just how ridiculous it really sounded. Because the commander had said it without even the hint of a smile, Coda took his true meaning. Commander Coleman wasn’t going to tell him a damn thing.

  “The truth is, Lieutenant,” Commander Coleman continued, “even though this squadron has surpassed even my wildest expectations, it’s still woefully behind the schedule the fleet needs us on. As much as I would like to continue with basic flight maneuvers and formations for another month, we simply don’t have the time. We need to move forward.”

  Commander Coleman set down his drink then slid his tablet across the table and gestured for Coda to take a look at it.

  “What’s this, sir?”

  “Your flight.”

  A “flight” was a smaller subset of fighters from the same squadron, numbering anywhere from four to six. What a squadron was to a wing, a flight was to a squadron.

  “This is where the training gets fun, Lieutenant. For the next three months, we’re playing war games, and for this mission, I want you to lead other pilots. Assuming you want to, of course.”