Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  “I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” Coda asked.

  “You know what the commander says,” Squawks said. “If you aren’t making mistakes, you aren’t trying new things. Well, try that.”

  Coda sighed and brought the cup to his lips. The alcohol, whatever it was, may have smelled like engine solvent, but it tasted like pure rubbing alcohol, and it burned like liquid fire. In an instant, his entire midsection was warm, and his face felt flushed.

  “There you go,” Squawks said like a proud parent. He took the cup from Coda then gave each of the four pilots a smaller cup and filled them with the alcohol. “All right. Let’s do this.”

  They settled into a small circle, sitting on various boxes and pieces of equipment as if sitting around a campfire.

  Tex held his cup high. “To Whiskey.”

  “To Whiskey,” they repeated then took a sip in salute.

  Coda winced as the fluid burned its way down his throat. “It’s weird,” he said. “I’ve been so focused on making the squadron, I barely knew her.”

  “None of us one did,” Noodle said.

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Coda said. “You guys were right when you said I was clueless. Outside of you three and Moscow, I barely know anyone. Hell, I barely know anything about you guys.” He turned to Tex. “Like, I know you were in the Nighthawk program before it was discontinued, but that’s it. I don’t even know where you’re from.”

  “His call sign is ‘Tex,’ dumbass,” Squawks said sarcastically. “Where do you think he’s from?”

  “I’m from Georgia,” Tex said, throwing an amused look in Squawks’s direction. “But you dumb Yankees can’t tell one southerner from another.”

  Everyone laughed.

  “Other than that, there’s not much to know.”

  “There’s always more to know,” Coda said. “You lived there your whole life?”

  “Yeah,” Tex said. “Family’s owned a cotton farm for eight generations. My brother’s running it now.”

  “Didn’t want to go into the family business?” Noodle asked.

  “No.” Tex shook his head. “When you ain’t ever been more than a hundred miles away from home your whole life, sometimes all you want to do is get as far away as possible. And you can’t get no farther away than space, you know?”

  Coda found himself nodding. He knew all too well what it meant to get away, but the one thing he wanted to run away from was the one thing he could never escape. “You been back since you left?”

  “Naw,” Tex said. “They wouldn’t want me back, anyway. I didn’t leave on the best terms.”

  “Me, neither,” Noodle said. He stared into his cup as if it held the secrets of life. “Parents both went to Stanford. Dad’s in Advanced Robotics. Oversees the plant that builds the processors for the Hornets. Mom’s in Communications. They both expected me to follow in their footsteps, go to the family school and all that. But I grew up around the drones, saw the early models, and watched as they became what they are today. When it came down to it, I didn’t want to build them. I wanted to fly one. So I joined the academy.”

  “How’d they take it?” Coda asked, knowing how his own mother had taken his decision to enlist.

  “Dad blew a gasket, and Mom…” Noodle winced. “Well, I’ve never seen anyone cry so much.” He took a deep pull. Coda couldn’t tell if Noodle’s glassy eyes were from the drink, the memory, or both. “I get it,” Noodle continued. “I’m their only kid. Their whole life. And I just up and abandoned them.”

  “A man needs to find his own way,” Tex said.

  Noodle’s eyes found Tex, and he nodded. The two couldn’t have come from more different backgrounds, and yet in that moment, they were the same.

  “So why join the Forgotten?” Coda asked. “If flying Hornets was your dream, then why are you here?”

  Noodle grinned. “Because as cool as the Hornets were, the Nighthawks are even cooler. Besides, as Squawks likes to say, chicks dig pilots.”

  “Damn right,” Squawks said.

  Everyone laughed. Coda found that his smile lingered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d sat around with friends, with nothing to do except enjoy each other’s company. It had probably been his last day at the academy, before his fight with Moscow, before his entire world had been upended. He’d forgotten how good it felt.

  Coda's story was well known to everyone, his friends most of all, so it didn’t come as any surprise when their eyes passed over him, falling on Squawks. What did surprise him was how much it stung. His friends might know about his father and how driven Coda was to fix his mistakes, but they knew little about the person he was. Before he’d been Coda, he’d been Callan O’Neil, with his own hopes and dreams, his own hobbies and loves. And some day after his service, he would become that man again. It hurt that his friends didn’t want to know who that person was.

  Squawks, it seemed, wasn’t enthused, either. He stared back at Noodle and Tex as if irritated that he was expected to share next. “Are we here to talk or to drink?”

  “Both,” Noodle said. “Come on.”

  “It’s not a happy story,” Squawks said.

  “Has anyone’s been?” Noodle pressed.

  “Well…” Squawks paused, winced, and shifted uncomfortably. “While all of you were disappointing your families, I was trying to find out who I was. I grew up in the system. Don’t know who my mom or dad are. They could be drug dealers or Stanford grads—I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know, but I can guess. You guys wanted to fly? You wanted to wipe the shit off your family name? That’s great. I was just looking for some clothes, three squares, and a place I didn’t need to move out of every six months.”

  A heavy silence fell over the group. Coda looked from Squawks to Noodle then to Tex. Nobody said anything.

  “I don’t know what to say, Squawks,” Coda said, breaking the silence. “None of us knew.”

  “It’s not something I usually talk about.” Squawks looked toward Tex. “Every man needs to find his own way, right? Well, every man has his own secrets too.”

  “I wish I was entitled to my own secrets,” Coda said. “I can’t take a dump without it being compared to my father.”

  He’d meant it as a joke, but he didn’t get more than a slight chuckle.

  “This is going to sound sappy, or maybe this stuff’s stronger than I thought it was,” Noodle said, twirling the remaining alcohol in his cup. “But I think you found more than some clothes, three squares, and a roof, Squawks.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. You found us, man.”

  “Lucky me,” Squawks grinned. “A hick, a nerd, and a traitor’s son. The three worst friends anyone could ask for.”

  “Says a guy who talks more in his sleep than most do awake,” Noodle said. “We didn’t do much better.”

  “Ha! No, you didn’t.” Squawks said. Then again, more introspect. “No, you didn’t.”

  A gentle quiet permeated the group. In the wake of their squad mate’s death, they had found a way to grow closer, to become better friends. Three of them had shared something deeply personal about themselves. Coda couldn’t believe it, but he had the strong urge to participate. His mind drifted back to the first time they came together as a group, the first time they had shared something else about themselves.

  Coda turned to Squawks. “You once asked me where my callsign came from.” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to violate the peace. “The truth is, it’s something I came up with.”

  “What’s it mean?” Squawks asked.

  “A coda is something that comes at the end of a play or a dance,” Coda said. “Like the final moment when the actors come back on stage to be recognized for their performance. To me it’s the end of the whole story with my family… to my father. And when I’m done it’ll reshape the way the world looks at us.”

  Coda took a sip, too afraid to make eye contact with any of his friends. Said out loud, it sounded ridiculous. Somewhere
between arrogant and self-righteous.

  “The call sign’s a constant reminder of why I’m here, what I’m fighting for,” Coda continued. “That’s the idea anyway.”

  “You fly with the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Squawks said.

  “Yeah.” It really felt like it sometimes.

  “No wonder you’re so slow,” Squawks deadpanned. “You’re overloading your thrusters every time you go out.”

  “I was going to say ‘no wonder he’s so short,’” Noodle added, “but he’s taller than I am so that wouldn’t have made sense.”

  “Or so frumpy all the time,” Tex added.

  The three of them roared with laughter. Coda couldn’t believe it. He had shared something about himself that he hadn’t shared with anyone, not even Buster, and they were laughing at him. Anger growing, he shot a look at Squawks… and saw something in his expression that calmed his frayed emotions.

  “You’re such an asshole,” Coda said.

  “That’s what you like about me,” Squawks said.

  Coda shook his head, eyeing the three of them. “You really are the three worst friends anyone could ask for.”

  “Hell yeah.” Noodle raised his cup, laughing. “To the three worst friends anyone could ask for.”

  Tex followed his lead. “To the three worst friends anyone could ask for.”

  Coda and Squawks shared a look, then did the same. “To the three worst friends anyone could ask for.”

  Taking a swig, Coda’s eyes fell on the group, and he was struck with an overwhelming sense of camaraderie. It was even stronger than what he’d felt at the academy. He wanted to graduate with these men. Fly with them. Fight with them. More than anything in his entire life, he wanted to remain part of the Forgotten. But he also knew that the decision wasn’t up to him. In that, he was completely and utterly powerless.

  “Guys?”

  “Yeah, Squawks?” Noodle said.

  “Do I really talk that much in my sleep?”

  Laughing, Coda banished thoughts of the squadron from his mind. For tonight at least, he was with friends.

  39

  Hangar Deck, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  Commander Chadwick Coleman traced a finger along the wrecked fuselage of Coda’s Nighthawk. Unlike Moscow’s fighter, which had lost a wing, Coda’s was mostly intact. The main damage was to the navigational thrusters along its nose and the puncture in the fuselage’s belly. Had the X-23 still relied on combustible fuel instead of the electromagnetic propulsion created by the Shaw Drive, the accident would certainly have claimed another life. Unfortunately, one death had been enough to ground the entire squadron for over a week.

  Coleman sighed, rounding the back of the fighter and starting back toward its nose. Their training was falling farther and farther behind schedule, something he couldn’t afford. The timelines had already been tight. Beyond tight. They’d been downright impossible. And in all reality, it was remarkable how far his pilots had come. Still, for the first time since accepting the post, he felt that the squadron had no chance of success.

  If I just had another eight weeks, we could have built something special. Something to be honored. Something to be feared.

  But no, that wasn’t the whole story. He’d been challenged with more than just compressed timelines. Coda and Moscow had been able to set aside their differences or if he hadn’t uncovered the root cause of their rivalry before inviting both to join the squadron. He’d made so many mistakes. So many unnecessary mistakes.

  What’s done is done. There’s nothing you can do about that now.

  The real question keeping him up at night was whether or not he would get a chance to correct those mistakes. Whether his squadron would ever get a chance to fly. To fight. To prove to the world that their time—and Whiskey’s sacrifice—had been worth it.

  Coleman’s tablet vibrated, and for a moment, he wondered if some sardonic god had heard him and granted his wish.

  Pulling the device from his pocket, Coleman froze. The edges of the normally transparent tablet were outlined in red, marking the message as urgent. Even more concerning, the message was from Captain Baez, commander of the Jamestown, not someone at Sol Command. The emergency was local, maybe even aboard the ship. Had one of his pilots gotten into trouble?

  Coleman opened the message to find a simple note requesting his immediate presence in Captain Baez’s quarters. Coleman sent his reply, saying he was on his way, and started across the hangar. He was barely halfway across when his tablet vibrated again. Thinking it was the Captain’s reply, Coleman pulled the tablet back out of his pocket.

  His step faltered.

  The message was from Admiral Orlovsky and was coded Priority One. Like the first, the second message was text-based, allowing Coleman to read it where he stood without fear of a security breach, and what he read sent shivers down his spine. Commander Coleman broke into a run. His wish had been heard and granted.

  40

  Barracks, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  Claxons blared.

  Coda’s eyes snapped open. Flashing red lights bathed the barracks in a bloody light, intensifying the alarm as fifty pilots woke to the same scene. He was out of his bunk in a flash. His bare feet touched the cold floor, the sensation bringing with it a level of alertness that banished any lingering fatigue.

  Tex rolled out of the upper bunk, colliding with Coda. The larger man was denser than Coda had expected, the collision rattling his teeth.

  “Sorry,” Tex muttered, his drawl more pronounced in his sleepiness.

  “You’re fine.” Dressed in only his underwear, Coda pulled out a pair of standard issue flight pants and began pulling them on. “What do you think is going on?”

  Before Tex could answer, the door to the barracks opened, and Commander Coleman, already dressed in a full flight suit, stopped in the doorway. “I need you in the ready room in two minutes. This is not a drill.”

  Commander Coleman disappeared, no doubt going to the second barracks. Coda’s eyes moved from the doorway to Tex. The other pilot’s wide-eyed expression mirrored Coda’s. Without another word, Coda pulled a tank top over his head, threw on his socks and boots, and was out the barracks door in less than a minute.

  Commander Coleman was already in the ready room by the time Coda arrived. He watched with a grim expression as the pilots filed in and took their seats. Coda grabbed a seat in the second row. Noodle, Tex, and Squawks found seats beside him. Two minutes after the claxons had sounded, Commander Coleman stepped up to the podium.

  “At oh one hundred this morning,” he began, “the SAS Jamestown received an emergency alert from Sol Command. The forward mining operation of Toavis is under heavy Baranyk bombardment. Our fleet, which arrived minutes after the attack began, has been rendered useless by the Baranyk Disrupter, and we have been called in to issue aid.”

  Excited whispers filled the room as Coda exchanged wide-eyed looks with his friends.

  “We picked the wrong night to drink ourselves into a stupor,” Squawks said quietly.

  Coda chuckled then realized he didn’t feel as bad as he’d expected to. Either the alcohol from Squawks’s still was some magical concoction that left its drinkers without a hangover, or the additives in their food helped his body metabolize the alcohol quicker than normal.

  “This is the real thing,” Commander Coleman continued. “This is what we’ve been training for. Toavis is critical to the fleet’s ability to maintain its forward operating bases, and we have over one hundred thousand people on the ground. I don’t need to tell you how important it is. I only need to tell you to trust your training. Trust your fellow pilots. Do that, and I have no doubt you’ll be victorious.”

  Commander Coleman hit a button on his tablet, dimming the lights and calling up the display at the front of the room. A moment later, the display showed an updated flight roster of thirty-six pilo
ts.

  “We’re being called in before your training could be completed, so the final cuts to the squadron never occurred,” Commander Coleman said. “For this mission, we will be going with the following flight roster. The first twenty-three pilots here will make up Alpha Squadron.” He clicked another button, and a thin red line separated the pilots of Alpha Squadron from the rest. “The next twelve will be standby, loaded up and ready to launch in our extra Nighthawks. The rest of you, stay alert and be ready for additional orders. Any questions?”

  Coda had a thousand questions but one in particular. His name wasn’t included in either list… neither was Moscow’s. He found the other pilot seated in the row in front of him, the same silent question on his lips. Like Coda, though, he seemed to have decided to hold his tongue. This sort of thing was better to talk to the commander about directly.

  “Twenty-three pilots, sir?” someone behind Coda asked. “A squadron has twenty-four.”

  “I’ll be leading Alpha Squadron,” Commander Coleman said.

  “Hell yeah, sir.”

  “All right,” Commander Coleman said. “Your orders have been sent to your tablets. I’ll meet you in the hangar once we’ve arrived. Good luck, godspeed, and let’s kill some Baranyk.”

  Fifty pilots rose as one. Alpha Squadron and the standby pilots made for the adjoining locker room, while the rest waited behind for what would become of them. Though they were part of the first wave, Coda’s friends lingered, watching Coda awkwardly and offering sympathetic looks.

  “You’re the best of us,” Noodle said. “You should be out there too.”

  Coda shrugged, attempting to ignore the terrible feeling of disappointment eating him alive. “Don’t worry about me. Just take care of each other and kill some Baranyk for me.”

  “Oh, we’re definitely going to do that,” Squawks said, but even his boast fell flat.