Coda kept pursuit, giving chase as if he were playing a childhood game of tag. And like those early games, it was only a matter of time before the pursuer gained the advantage. Little by little, Coda drew closer.
Moscow must have seen it too, because he suddenly veered off course, diving steeply below the battle plane in what looked like a reverse high yo-yo maneuver. At their increased speeds, Coda barely had time to replicate the maneuver…
And spot his mistake.
Moscow wasn’t performing a high yo-yo—he was performing a high yo-yo defense. Where the first maneuver was designed to maintain speed, the high yo-yo defense was deceptive, allowing the defender to shed velocity and cause the pursuer to overshoot. Moscow was trying to force Coda in front of him, where he could turn the pursuer into the pursued. But it worked too well. Coda was coming in hot—way too hot.
Throwing the stick hard to the right, Coda tried to avoid colliding with Moscow’s fighter. His nose missed, but a terrible shriek crossed the underbelly of his fighter. After a brief flash of light, Coda was spinning.
Up became down then down became forward as his fighter tumbled out of the fray. He had just enough time between spins to see Moscow’s fighter spiraling out of the battle too, its starboard wing completely ripped away. A second flash illuminated the dark, this time brighter and tinged with orange.
An explosion.
Oh god! A third fighter had collided with the wreckage from Moscow’s fighter.
“Mayday! Mayday!” the voice on the radio screamed. Coda couldn’t tell who it was. “Multiple collisions. I repeat: multiple collisions. Send immediate recovery!”
Coda shut away the panicked voice. Multiple claxons in his cockpit told him he had more immediate problems of his own.
Quickly assessing the situation, he found the underbelly of his fighter had been breached, and the collision had knocked out several of his portside navigational thrusters. The cockpit was leaking oxygen and losing pressure, but his flight suit was designed to protect him in situations like that. Correcting the spin without full navigational thrusters would be much more difficult, though.
Worst of all, his HUD showed that he was well below the battle plane and streaking toward the moon. With no friction to slow him down, he was flying toward the moon at nearly the same speed that he had been flying in pursuit of Moscow. If he didn’t correct it and fast, he would provide the moon with a brand-new crater. Fortunately, his onboard computer was still active, and the fighter’s spin was correctable—even with his fighter’s damaged thrusters.
Coda had the computer measure his spin and leveraged the autopilot to counter its rotation with several well-timed bursts. Almost immediately, he felt the spin subside, then quickly thereafter, it stopped altogether.
And that was when he saw it.
Like Coda, Moscow was streaking toward the moon’s surface, but his fighter appeared to be entirely inoperable. Its cockpit and marker lights were completely dark, and there was no sign of its navigational thrusters. The X-23 was little more than battle debris caught up in the moon’s gravitational pull.
“Jamestown Tower,” Coda said. “Alpha One. What’s the ETA on the recovery vessels?”
“Alpha One, Jamestown Tower. ETA in four minutes.”
“Four minutes.” Coda chewed on the words. Moscow didn’t have four minutes. He didn’t have anything even close to that. Unless Coda did something, it wouldn’t be him that would be leaving a fresh crater on Theseus.
It would be Moscow.
35
Cockpit, Nighthawk
Alpha Centauri System, Theseus
Coda’s first thought was to let Moscow fall, let his fighter crash into the surface of Proxima B’s only moon. That would certainly solve many of his problems. No more rivalry. No more looking over his shoulder. No more trying to play nice with a man who wanted nothing of it. And Commander Coleman wouldn’t have to choose between two of his best pilots—chance would do it for him.
But even as the thought came to him, Coda knew he couldn’t let it happen. He wasn’t wired that way. He hadn’t grown up drowning in his father’s misdeeds only to let something similar happen on his watch—regardless of how much he hated Moscow. Shoving the throttle forward, Coda directed his damaged fighter toward Moscow’s.
Halfway there, he realized he had no idea what he would do once he got there. He didn’t have any tow cables or anything to latch to Moscow’s fighter that he could use to pull him to safety. What was he going to do?
I’ll crash into him again if I have to. Throw him off course. Wait… That gave him an idea.
Coda adjusted his course. Rather than intercepting Moscow’s spacecraft, he would arrive at a point below it. Only, no, that wouldn’t be enough. He had to arrive well below Moscow’s fighter in order to provide himself with enough time.
That means I’ll only get one shot at this.
Well, if he was only going to get one shot at it, he had to give himself as much room for error as possible. Plotting a revised course, he settled into his seat, preparing himself for what would amount to little more than a suicide run.
What are you doing, Coda? Why are you risking your life for the only person you hate more than your… The only person more than your father?
That was it, wasn’t it? He was willing to risk his life to save Moscow’s because he had dedicated his entire military existence to undoing the damage his father had done. He couldn’t undo the deaths, and he couldn’t bring back Moscow’s mother, but he could do everything he could to save her son.
“Charlie One, Charlie One, this is Alpha One. Do you copy?” Coda waited for a response, then when none came, tried again. “Moscow, it’s Coda. Do you copy?”
Still nothing.
Following the flight path indicated on his HUD, Coda moved into position, bringing his Nighthawk into a low orbit around Theseus and directly into the middle of Moscow’s incoming trajectory.
“Andrei, it’s Coda. Are you there?”
Moscow never responded. His comms were likely dead. After all, Coda hadn’t heard his mayday on the radio.
Unless he’s injured… or worse.
Was Coda trying to save someone who couldn’t be saved? Risking his life for someone who was already dead? There was no way to be sure, and he didn’t have time to radio the tower and have them check the vitals measured by his flight suit. Moscow’s fighter was coming in too hot.
Coda brought up Moscow’s Nighthawk on his HUD, measuring its incoming velocity and rate of spin. Like an outfielder tracking down a pop fly, Coda calculated the multiple points where he could catch Moscow’s vessel. Then, firing his forward thrusters, he propelled his fighter backward, deeper into the moon’s gravitational pull. The maneuver meant that Moscow’s fighter was still gaining on his but at a slower rate than before.
As Moscow’s fighter came closer, Coda feathered his thrusters, gaining more reverse speed, thereby slowing the rate of Moscow’s pursuit until they had nearly matched speed. Moscow’s fighter was in visual range now. Its portside wing was missing, and the glass of his cockpit was cracked.
Still plummeting toward the moon, Moscow’s fighter closed the remaining distance. With one eye on the catch point, Coda gave his rear thrusters a single short burst, slowing his rate of descent. Half a second later the two fighters collided in a second crash of metal and…
…Coda caught Moscow’s damaged fighter.
“I’ve got you!”
The two fighters were lodged against each other, their wings and fuselages intertwined like two hooks looped together. The positioning brought their two cockpits side by side, and Coda could finally see Moscow. The other pilot was slumped against his seat, not moving. He was either dead or unconscious, but there was nothing Coda could do about that at the moment. Increasing power to his rear thrusters, Coda gently slowed their descent. His Nighthawk groaned under the combined strain. The fighters were designed to deal with intense g-forces. They wouldn’t break apart, would they?
“Come on,” Coda said, encouraging the fighter. “You’ve got this. You can do it. Come on.”
Little by little, he increased thruster power, never more than half a percent at a time. His fighter was intact, with only moderate damage, but Moscow’s was barely hanging together.
The seconds ticked by, becoming minutes, and despite the occasional metal groan, they eventually escaped the moon’s gravity well. Breathing a sigh of relief, Coda surveyed the battle space. The other fighters had disappeared, and a quick glance at his HUD showed that they had all returned to the Jamestown.
“Jamestown Tower, this is Alpha One. What’s the ETA on that recovery ship?”
“There was a malfunction with the hangar bay doors, Alpha One. The recovery ship is still several minutes out.”
Coda cursed. After literally catching him in space, Coda couldn’t afford to sit around and wait.
“Copy that, Jamestown Tower. Alpha One requesting clearance for emergency landing.”
“Coda,” Commander Coleman’s voice said over the radio. “What’s your status?”
“I’ve got Moscow, sir. His ship is… attached to mine.”
“Alpha One, repeat,” Commander Coleman said.
“I said he’s attached to me, sir. Our wings are crisscrossed, wedged together. It’s not pretty, but I’ve got him.”
“What’s his condition?”
“Unknown, sir,” Coda said. “His ship is intact, but…” Coda heard other voices in the background and realized the commander hadn’t been talking to him.
“Increased heart rate… blood pressure dropping…” He could barely make out the words, but what he heard didn’t sound encouraging.
“Coda,” Commander Coleman said. “This is what you’re going to do…”
Coda’s mouth went dry as the commander gave him his emergency landing orders.
“Do you copy?”
“Copy, sir.”
“All right. We’ll see you aboard soon.”
“Alpha One, Jamestown Tower. Proceed to Landing Bay 7C and prepare for emergency landing.”
“Acknowledged. Proceeding to Landing Bay 7C. Coda, out.”
Coda’s ship was already moving—slowing down would likely mean their two fighters would separate again—so he angled the nose of his ship around to point toward the Jamestown. Or at least where the Jamestown would be. They’d practiced emergency landings in the simulator but never anything like what Coda was about to attempt.
His course plotted and speed set, Coda’s only job was to make the small adjustments needed to keep his fighter on the designated path indicated on his HUD. This far out, that task was simple, but as he grew closer, it would become increasingly difficult. What he hadn’t counted on, and what his computer struggled to compensate for, was the added mass of Moscow’s fighter and the reduced navigability due to his damaged thrusters.
For the first time since the first week practicing landings, Coda almost succumbed to his fear. But what he had now that he hadn’t had before was hours of training. Experience.
Banishing the emotions from his mind, he focused only on the task at hand. He adjusted, readjusted, and felt the ship moving under him, always anticipating what he would need to do next. When the Jamestown finally came into view, he was still green, his ship well within the range of error. But then he realized just how fast he was truly going.
Unable to slow down, Coda and Moscow were approaching the Jamestown at more than ten times the speed of a normal landing. Terror seized him as the Jamestown grew at an alarming rate.
This is going to hurt, Coda thought, squeezing his eyes shut.
The last thing he saw before shooting into the landing bay was the giant net that had been erected in its center. Then there was groaning, crashing, sparks, and above all, incredible, excruciating pain, followed by deep, impenetrable darkness.
36
Sick Bay, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Coda’s eyelids felt as if they were weighed down with lead weights. It took nearly everything he had to open them, and when he finally succeeded, keeping them open was twice as difficult. The blinding white light wasn’t doing him any favors, either.
He found himself in sick bay, surrounded by empty gurneys and a distracted medical staff. Unlike the rest of the Jamestown, the sick bay was pristine. No industrial walls accented with the signs of old battles. No dated equipment or furniture. The place was immaculate. Everything was white or chrome, and it all seemed to be alive, glistening from the lights of the various monitors and equipment spread throughout the room.
A nurse appeared at his side. She laid a hand on his forehead and shushed him, telling him to take it easy, then brought a small cup of water up to his dry lips. The water was cool and soothing and felt like heaven as it tamed his scratchy throat.
“Thanks,” Coda said once he’d drunk his fill. “How long have I been out?”
“Shhh,” she said again. “Save your questions.”
“For what?”
The telltale sound of a door hissing open caught her attention, and she looked up. “For him.”
Coda followed her eyes, spotting a thickly built man with closely cropped black and white hair and ebony skin. Commander Coleman. Coda swallowed reflexively, but the commander’s customary hard expression softened when he saw Coda was alert.
“Sir,” Coda said, trying to sit up to give him a proper salute.
“No,” Commander Coleman said, stopping beside Coda’s bed. “No need for that.”
Coda was thankful for the commander’s sudden lack of military decorum. The movement had hurt.
“How are you feeling?” Commander Coleman asked as the nurse left to go back to whatever she’d been doing before Coda had woken up.
Coda laughed softly, and even that stirred more pain. “Funny. I was just thinking my body felt like a giant bruise.”
“Something that’s not far from the truth, I’m afraid. There’s a reason we don’t practice emergency landings. They’re… painful.”
Coda couldn’t argue with him there. “How bad is it?”
The commander shrugged. “You had some significant bruising, a couple broken ribs, multiple lacerations, separated shoulder, whiplash, and a minor concussion. Nothing too serious.”
Nothing too serious. Any one of the ailments the commander had mentioned would have been enough to send anyone to the doctor. With all of them combined, there was no telling how long he was going to be grounded. Still, even as pained as he was, he didn’t feel as bad as the commander’s words suggested.
“How long have I been out?”
“Two days. You’re healing quite nicely.”
Two days. That wasn’t enough time to heal but only the most minor of cuts. What exactly are they pumping me full of? The thought brought another to the front of his mind. “How’s Moscow?”
“Moscow’s fine. Better than you. He was discharged this morning.”
Coda closed his eyes, nodding. The pain was worth it then.
“That was a brave thing you did,” Commander Coleman said. “And for someone you dislike.”
“He’s part of my squadron,” Coda said.
“Your squadron?”
Was that a smile at the edges of the commander’s lips? “Don’t make me laugh, sir.”
“My apologies.” There was something else in the commander’s expression, something he left unsaid.
“He would have done the same thing for me, sir.”
“Would he?” Commander Coleman raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. I pray we never have to find out. In either case, you have my thanks. You prevented a terrible accident from claiming even more lives.”
“Even more lives, sir?”
Commander Coleman’s gentle demeanor vanished, rep
laced by the hard expression Coda was more accustomed to. “Sooner or later, death comes to all pilots, Coda.”
“Who was it?”
“Don’t worry about that right now,” Commander Coleman said. “Right now, you need to—”
“Who was it, sir?”
Commander Coleman exhaled. He had to know that if Coda didn’t get the information out of him now, he would get it from his next visitor. At least this way, he could control the message. “Whiskey.”
“Whiskey…” Coda repeated, ashamed of the sudden wave of relief flooding through him. It hadn’t been Squawks or Noodle. Hadn’t been Tex. Coda closed his eyes, trying to reconcile the guilt.
Commander Coleman must have misunderstood the gesture, because he rested a hand on Coda’s shoulder. “Do this long enough, Coda, and you will know more. Whether we’re dealing it out or falling victim to it, death will always surround us. Get some rest.” The commander patted him on the shoulder before making back toward the door.
“Sir?”
Commander Coleman stopped and turned.
“When will I fly again?”
“I don’t know, Coda. All flights have been grounded until the investigation has been completed.”
Coda felt his blood go cold. “Investigation, sir?”
“Yes. A review board is being assembled to investigate the death of Lieutenant Jones. It’s standard procedure following a mishap of this nature.”
“Who’s being investigated, sir?” Coda asked, already knowing the answer.
“Coda—”
“No, sir, I need to know what to expect.”
Commander Coleman sighed. “You and Lieutenant Krylov are under investigation for exhibiting a trend of unsafe behavior that culminated in the death of one of your squad mates. After a review of the facts by the officer board, you, Lieutenant Krylov, or both may be expelled from the squadron and never allowed in the cockpit of a Nighthawk again.”
Wings of Honor Page 18