Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  “Andrei…”

  Moscow’s hand became a fist, and for a second, Coda thought Moscow was going to hit him. Moscow regained control at the last moment, though, his fist falling to his side. “Stay away from me, O’Neil. If anyone finds out about this, I swear on my mother’s grave, I will kill you.”

  “Fine,” Coda said.

  “I mean it, Coda.”

  Coda shrugged. “So do I.”

  They stared at each other for several moments. When Moscow finally turned to go, Coda let out a long breath. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I just need to leave him alone.

  But even as he thought the words, Coda knew keeping his distance wouldn’t be enough. He would never feel comfortable flying in a squadron where he knew someone hated him. Where someone wanted him dead. No, the commander was right. There was only enough room in the squadron for one of them. The only thing Coda could do was make sure that person was him.

  32

  SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  Avoiding Moscow proved to be simpler than Coda anticipated. With flights occurring every day, the squadron’s previous schedule was thrown out the air lock. Workouts and classes on Baranyk physiology and biology were still required, and they still logged dozens of hours a week in the simulator, but all of those things came in at a distant second to logging time in their starfighters.

  When they did occupy the same space, mostly during dining hours and squadron briefings, Coda didn’t so much as even acknowledge Moscow’s presence. And Moscow did the same. If the commander noticed the sudden change in how they stepped around each other, he didn’t say anything.

  As the days turned into weeks, Coda spent more and more time in the cockpit, flying hop after hop, sometimes as flight leader, sometimes not, sometimes as the flight with offensive objectives, sometimes as the defending force. And he dedicated himself to his training like never before. When he wasn’t in the cockpit, he was in the simulator, and when he wasn’t in the simulator, he was studying the recent flight vids, analyzing and learning from his fellow pilots. Squawks had said he needed a hobby, but that was a luxury Coda couldn’t afford. Not yet.

  He won, he lost, and he was shot down, but every hour of every day, he grew more confident. As his notebook filled up, he began to understand his wingmen like never before. He leveraged the knowledge when he was flying with them and exploited it when he was flying against them. Their flight strategies became as recognizable to him as their voice, their laugh, or even their walk.

  After their fourth week of Nighthawk battles, the commander unveiled his new leaderboard. Coda wasn’t surprised to find his name near the top but had to grind his teeth when he saw he was still trailing Moscow.

  The commander never said as much, but Coda assumed it was because the quality of kills were weighted in the ranking. Shooting down a pilot who was in the bottom quarter didn’t count as much as shooting down someone in the top or, for that matter, shooting down the commander himself. Moscow’s kill of Commander Coleman continued to pay dividends, but Coda was gaining on him, and he knew that before long, he would knock his rival out of the top spot.

  But seeing Moscow’s name atop the leaderboard proved to Coda one thing above all else—try as he might, there was no way he could avoid Moscow forever. Sooner or later, their paths would cross again. What he didn’t know was just how soon that would be.

  Or that it would coincide with the first catastrophic training accident.

  33

  Cockpit, Nighthawk

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B

  Coda didn’t know what he enjoyed more: the silence or the stars. The brief moments between sliding on his VR helmet and the following radio chatter had always been one of his favorite moments back at the academy. It offered freedom, as if he were floating on a pristine lake nestled somewhere deep in the heart of Earth. There was no responsibility, no rivalry, no fight to regain honor. There was… nothing. And because Coda knew the silence would never last, it was something to be cherished.

  But those moments, like the simulator he’d experienced them through, had been artificial. Here, though, the silence was real, and it was unique. The absence of radio chatter was new, different, and unnerving. Not like the stars. They burned like distant embers, flashing and flickering blue, white, and gold. They called to him, inviting him to join them like beautiful sirens beckoning an old seafaring captain.

  But both moments had one thing in common: they were always interrupted.

  “Something feels different about this one,” Squawks said. His voice was slightly muffled, cracking through the speakers of Coda’s helmet.

  “Forget your lucky underwear?” Noodle asked. It was the first time Coda had flown with the two of them together.

  “No,” Squawks said. “It isn’t that. I’ve got them on, and I didn’t wash them either.”

  “That’s disgusting,” Noodle said.

  “Gotta keep the streak alive, you know?” Squawks added.

  “What kind of streak are you talking about?” Tex asked.

  “Okay, too far, too far,” Noodle said. But he was laughing. Laughing was good. Laughing kept them loose. Because Squawks was right—something did feel different.

  “Stay sharp,” Coda said. “This one feels different because it’s bigger.”

  He didn’t necessarily believe his own words, but they seemed to sate the growing concern among his wingmen. Like all good lies, there was just enough truth sprinkled in to make it sound credible. Of course, it really was a bigger hop, the largest they’d flown yet, and unless Coda was mistaken, it was about to turn into a real mess.

  He glanced at his HUD. Twelve fighters made up two flights of six. He was flight leader of Alpha Flight, Tex the flight leader of Bravo. Their recent hops had put them up against increasingly numerous enemies, often outnumbering them by fifty percent. If that trend continued, how many enemies could they expect today? Sixteen? Twenty? The latter would mean more than thirty Nighthawks in the entire engagement. Not a small number by any stretch.

  At the moment, though, the HUD was empty, showing only the green indicators of the two flights and the Proxima B’s moon to their left. Like Earth’s moon, its surface was rough and littered with craters, though instead of the light gray that Coda was accustomed to, Theseus was a mix of reds and oranges, almost like the surface of Mars.

  Coda eyed it closely. According to their mission detail, an enemy mining colony existed on the back side of the moon, but intelligence was spotty, and they didn't know the size of its defensive force. The primary mission was to scout the moon and relay the information to Command, but if the mining station was vulnerable, they were to take it out. In Coda’s mind, that left only one option.

  “Bravo One, Alpha One,” Coda said. “Tex, you copy?”

  “Loud and clear, Coda.”

  “You ready to see what they got cooking?”

  “Is a frog’s ass watertight?”

  “Say again, Tex?”

  “Does Howdy Doody have wooden balls?”

  “Uh…”

  “Yes, you dumb Yankee!”

  “All right,” Coda said, still more than a little confused. “Then take your flight around the moon, full burn, and we’ll meet you on the other side.”

  “Sounds good, boss.”

  The green indicators marking Tex’s flight on Coda’s HUD veered away, darting toward the moon.

  “All right, Alpha Flight,” Coda said, “new coordinates coming your way. Keep the formation tight and stay on me.”

  A series of affirmatives came in through the radio, and Coda punched it, settling in on a course that would have him rendezvous with Tex’s flight on the back side of the moon. The flight path brought them close enough to the moon that he could make out individual rock formations. Their red peaks glinted in the sunlight, hinting at the valuable metals beneath the surface. Like Proxima B, Theseus was critical to the Centauri system’s mining operation, and being the clos
est star system to Sol, the operation was one of the most important in the fleet.

  “Entering communications blackout,” Tex said. “See you on the other side, Coda.”

  Since they didn't have access to the satellite system orbiting the moon, the moon’s natural body would restrict their window of communication, creating dead zones proportionate to where the two forces were in relation to each other. For the next two minutes, each flight would be entirely alone.

  “Acknowledged,” Coda said. “Good luck.”

  The next two minutes felt like an eternity. Coda didn’t know what to expect, and his imagination ran amok. He imagined the entire squadron waiting for them, thirty-eight fighters ready to take on Coda’s twelve, and helmed by the commander himself. It would never happen, at least not this early in their training. Besides, Coda knew that his imagination was always worse than whatever reality held in store.

  Except when it wasn’t.

  “Coda!” Tex’s voice erupted on Coda’s radio. “Coda! Goddamn it, can you hear me? Requesting immediate assistance! I repeat, immediate assistance!”

  “Coda copies.” He struggled to keep his voice even. “Approaching from the east, two degrees positive-Z in… fifteen seconds. I repeat, Alpha Flight, rendezvous in fifteen seconds.”

  “Hurry, Coda,” Tex’s voice came again. “They're on us like a pent-up bull.”

  Coda toggled his flight’s private frequency. “Be alert and prepare for contact. We’re coming in hot.”

  The curve of the moon blocked their view of the battle, but after a few moments, it came into focus. From the distance, it looked like little more than a swarm of mosquitos flying above a pool of water, but as they sped closer, Coda was able to take in the full situation. His HUD showed almost thirty contacts, and it was changing every second as green dots disappeared and more reds materialized. It was a true rat’s nest, and even with Coda’s flight, their total forces would still be outnumbered nearly two to one. Fortunately, despite the previous panic in Tex’s voice, his flight appeared to be holding up better than expected.

  The enemy had obviously known they were coming, but in space, there was only so much they could do to prepare. The enemy could come from any position, from any angle, at any time, and that meant defending forces were limited in the defensive measures they could prepare. Space combat had become a mano a mano fistfight built around three foundational pillars: track, deploy, and attack.

  Coda had scratched off the first two. It was time to move to the third.

  34

  Cockpit, Nighthawk

  Alpha Centauri System, Theseus

  “Fighter pairs,” Coda said. “Target the pursuing fighters first. Let's get them off our friends’ backs. Prepare to break in… three, two, one, break.”

  Coda’s formation broke into three pairs. Squawks, who was in the dash-two position, was his wingman, and together, they zipped into the fray. Toggling his weapons switch, Coda ensured it was set to missiles and let his computer select a nearby enemy fighter harassing one of Bravo Flight’s pilots. Then matching course, Coda performed a tight maneuver to get on its six.

  “Bravo Four,” Coda said. “Bravo Four, this is Alpha One. I've got your enemy in my sights. Prepare to break to positive-Z, six degrees in three. Acknowledge.”

  “Acknowledged, Coda,” came the voice on the radio. “It sure is good to see you.”

  With the enemy fighter nearly in his sights, Coda didn't have time to chat. “Break!”

  Bravo Four suddenly veered course, and as Coda expected, the enemy pilot took the bait. Moving to intercept, Coda waited for his targeting computer to get a lock. The X-23’s anti-radar did its job, slipping missile lock like a banana peel in an old cartoon, but that would delay the inevitable for only so long.

  After two more breaths, Coda had lock and fired his first missile. The yellow icon streaked toward the red indicator on this HUD, and a moment later, the enemy vessel disappeared from the battle map. In real life, the fighter went completely dark, save for its emergency markers as the ship’s onboard computer steered it safely from the battle.

  “Splash one!” Coda boomed into the radio.

  “Thank you, Coda.”

  “No problem, Bravo Four. Let’s get back in there.”

  Coda brought his fighter around in a wide arc, targeting the next fighter that had unwittingly opened up its flank to Coda’s incoming vector. As quickly as Coda registered the opportunity, he got tone. Less than a second later, another missile was on its way.

  “Splash two!”

  Coda completed the arc and made for another pass through the knot of fighters. It was the equivalent of running through a swarm of yellow jackets. At breakneck speeds, fighters zipped in every direction. He and Squawks took out two more fighters before they erupted through the far edge.

  Coda brought his fighter back around, preparing for another pass, then spotted an enemy fighter in pursuit. “Evasive maneuvers,” Coda said.

  Squawks split from Coda, pulling above the battle plane. The enemy stayed with Coda, moving into firing position.

  “He’s coming around on my six,” Coda said. “Where are you, Squawks?”

  “I've got you, Coda. Continue course.”

  Coda strafed left and right, weaving in and out of the edges of the dogfight, using its natural chaos to his advantage. Fighters were everywhere, blazing so fast that he barely had time to see them, let alone take evasive maneuvers to avoid a collision. He was nearly clipped more than once, and the encounters left him in a cold sweat. The commander had armed them with digital rounds and missiles, and he’d even put restrictions on speed and elevation as it pertained to the moon—there would be no canyon runs on this flight—but there was nothing the commander could do to prevent fighters from colliding with each other.

  Despite his attempts to shake him, the enemy drew closer. “I can’t hold him much longer, Squawks!”

  “Two seconds.”

  An alarm claxon blared. Coda didn’t have two seconds.

  “Alpha Two!” Squawks shouted. “Fox Three. Bingo!”

  The enemy indicator disappeared from Coda’s HUD. “Good shooting, Squawks. I owe you one.”

  “Like shooting fish in a barrel, right, Tex?”

  Tex’s laughter echoed through the comm. “Easy as fallin’ off a log.”

  “Whatever that means,” Squawks said, reappearing on Coda’s wing.

  Coda focused his HUD, studying the mass of ships. “Squawks, break formation. It’s not going to do us any good in there.”

  “The commander’s going to have your ass,” Squawks said, reminding Coda of the commander’s disdain for fighters going at it alone.

  “Break formation but follow my lead. Make it appear as if I’m a lone wolf and see who takes the bait.”

  “Copy that.”

  Squawks’s fighter veered off perpendicular to Coda’s, darting into the mass of fighters with complete disregard for his own safety. Coda followed a moment later, entering from a different angle.

  Fighters zigged and zagged in every direction, moving faster than Coda could track, but though he’d been overwhelmed in his first two passes, the world seemed to slow now. His actions were measured, never rushed. His heartbeat remained within its resting boundaries. Again, he allowed the computer to analyze the various flight trajectories. This time, he let it select his targets for him.

  Targeting brackets appeared around another enemy fighter. It moved more slowly than the rest, its movements timid, as if the pilot was afraid of making a mistake.

  Uno was right. He never would have made it out here. Coda followed his target through the mass of fighters, recognizing the other pilot by her flight style. Bear, how many times has the commander told you that speed is life?

  Getting into firing range took less than three seconds, and even then, seeing no reason to waste his missiles, Coda switched to guns. As the fighter moved into his crosshairs, Coda let off a quick double burst.

  Bear’s cockpit we
nt black as she vanished from Coda’s HUD. Coda didn’t take any time to celebrate before moving on to the next target. He thumbed the switch back to missiles, then took out two more fighters before spotting an incoming third.

  Pulling back on the stick, Coda darted above the battle plane, then rolled into a steep-pitch turn, and let the enemy craft fly beneath him. Then he pulled out of the turn directly behind the other fighter. The pilot never saw him coming.

  “Splash twelve!” Coda boomed as its cockpit went dark. “Keep it going, boys. We’ve got them on the ropes now.”

  But Coda’s celebration was interrupted as Squawks’s voice cut through the rest of the radio chatter. “Coda, you’ve got company. Incoming bogeys. Ten o’clock, six degrees positive-Z.”

  Coda found the fighter pair on his HUD. “I see them.”

  “Move to intercept and hold course,” Squawks said. “I’ll provide cover.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  Coda pulled his fighter into a head-on course, daring the incoming fighters to engage. Tiny sparks shot from the front of the crafts as their cannons came alive. Coda fired his own bursts, but like the enemy fighters’, his weren’t effective. Squawks’s cannons, however, were. He cut in from negative-z, taking out the enemy wingman from below.

  “Sorry, Coda,” he said as he zipped past the lead fighter. “Thought I could get both of them.”

  Coda had no time to respond. The incoming fighter was coming in too hot. Coda offset left, avoiding a collision as he and the other fighter passed each other in the black, then he pulled above the battle plane in a tight loop. Crossing over, Coda rolled out behind the other fighter, who was angling for another pass.

  The other fighter saw his own mistake and increased speed to get away from Coda’s pursuit. Only one pilot had the ability to recognize his own mistake so quickly: Moscow.

  Grinning, Coda punched the throttle, going after the other fighter. He toggled his long-range targeting system, preparing to switch to the accompanying long-range missiles, but Moscow was too elusive. He ducked and dodged, flying dangerously close to other spacecraft, providing himself with cover, just as Coda had done before.