Wings of Honor

by Craig Andrews

  With a tight smile, Noodle nodded then turned and strode down the stairs, making for the locker room. Tex and Squawks followed after offering their own disappointed expressions. Coda watched them go, wondering if he should have said something more. They were going to battle, going to war, and there were no guarantees they would come back.

  He didn’t call out, but he also made sure to watch until they disappeared from view. Stay safe, guys.

  As soon as they had entered the locker room, Coda dashed down the stairs. He had his own business to attend to. If the commander wasn’t following his pilots into the locker room, there was only one place he was going: the Jamestown CIC.

  Sprinting through the corridors, Coda caught up to the commander before he made it to the bowels of the ship where the commander center was located.

  “Sir!” Coda closed the distance between them. “Sir, please.”

  Commander Coleman stopped and turned to face Coda. “What is it, Coda?”

  “It’s just that my name wasn’t included on the active roster, sir.”

  “You and Lieutenant Krylov are part of an active investigation, Coda. Why would you expect otherwise?”

  “I just thought…”

  “No, Coda. We don’t have time for this. You and Lieutenant Krylov were left off the flight roster intentionally, and unless some act of God convinces me to change my mind and break all military regulation, it will stay that way. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a battle to plan.”

  Commander Coleman strode away, rounding another corner and leaving Coda behind. Coda waited there, lost and, for the first time in a long time, unsure of what to do. He’d had his chance, and he had ruined it. He was a failure. A disgrace. He was just like his father.

  41

  CIC, SAS Jamestown

  Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

  The CIC buzzed with activity as Commander Coleman strode in. Laid out in a rough circular shape, the CIC was made up of two levels: an outer ring and the pit, which was taken up almost entirely by a three-dimensional hologram that displayed a frozen image of battle. Coleman didn’t immediately recognize the image, but he assumed it had been taken from Toavis.

  Captain Baez stood in the pit, studying the image. His XO, Commander Zhang, was at his side, receiving a steady flow of information that would help them prepare the ship for the upcoming battle.

  “Docking into Jumpgate Centauri-3, sir,” a voice said as Commander Coleman made for the pit. “Jump sequence initiating. Jump in two minutes.”

  “Understood,” Captain Baez said, glancing from the image to one of the officers on the upper ring. The gesture brought his eyes to Coleman. He nodded. “Commander.”

  “Sir,” Coleman said. “The squadron has their orders. They’re ready when you are.”

  “Good,” Captain Baez said. “We’re going to need them.” His attention returned to the battle image. “Another drone jumped in while you briefed them. The battle isn’t going well.”

  Coleman grimaced then studied the image closer. Toavis was a green planet, so rich in color that it almost looked like a gas giant, but underneath a thick atmosphere was a rocky surface rich in nickel, lithium, and other precious metals vital to the Terran manufacturing operations. Stretched out in front of it, however, were six Baranyk carriers.

  Like all Baranyk ships, they had an organic appearance, as if they had been born instead of built. The Sol Fleet had recovered more than one ship during the war and had found that the appearance wasn’t too far from reality. While not alive as some of the conspiracy theorists on Earth and Mars believed, the ships weren’t manufactured in the same way the human ships were either. There were no separate panels fastened together, no rivets, bolts, or rebar. But the results were just as lethal.

  The orange, red, and yellowed claw-shaped Baranyk ships were actively engaged with the human vessels, and even outnumbering the Baranyk fleet by two ships, the humans were clearly overmatched. Humanity, it seemed, had come to rely too heavily on the drone attack and had truly forgotten about how deadly the early days of the Baranyk War had been.

  “How old is this?” Coleman asked.

  “We received the message less than ten minutes ago,” Captain Baez said. “But the image itself is over an hour old.”

  Coleman cursed. An hour old? There was no telling how much damage had been done since the image was taken.

  “Recent intel suggests,” Captain Baez said, as if reading his mind, “that one of the Baranyk ships has broken away from the larger force and has begun assaulting the planet. The Virginia has been called in as well, which should sway the odds back into our favor.”

  The Virginia. Admiral Orlovsky’s personal ship was one of the most advanced ships in the entire fleet. If it had been called in, the situation was even direr than Coleman had first thought.

  “Docking procedure complete, sir,” the same voice from before said. “Initiating jump sequence on your command.”

  Captain Baez cast Commanders Coleman and Zhang a weary look. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” Then to the officer above, he said, “Jump.”

  “Yes, sir. Initiating jump sequence in five, four, three…”

  Coleman studied the map, wondering what they were about to step into, as the odd feeling that always accompanied a jump overcame him. The world seemed to stretch in front of him, his own sense of self and consciousness stretching with it. Gripping the padded rail around the pit, Commander Coleman steadied his breathing, waiting for the sensation to end. When it did, the CIC came alive with fresh activity.

  “Arrived at Toavis, sir. Data streaming in now.”

  The holographic image at the center of the pit had gone dark but was slowly updating as the information, moving at the speed of light from the battle, streamed in. It wasn’t a smooth process, however. The images of the ships that had been clear and easily recognizable before had become grainy, as if they had been taken with a low-resolution camera then blown up to a larger size. It was more than enough, though, to see that even the arrival of the famed Virginia hadn’t been enough to turn the tide of the battle.

  All six of the Baranyk carriers still remained, but of the original human ships, only six still offered resistance. The other two were ruined wrecks, slowly descending into Toavis’s gravity well. Joining them were hundreds of the inoperable human drones. They were still, lifeless, almost like a school of dead fish floating listlessly on the surface of the ocean. As Captain Baez had indicated, one of the Baranyk ships had begun assaulting the planet’s surface without opposition.

  “Get to your fighter,” Captain Baez said, “and have your pilots provide support to the remaining battle cruisers. Without their combined firepower, we don’t stand a chance.”

  42

  Cockpit, Nighthawk

  Arradin System, Toavis

  Commander Coleman closed the hatch and settled into the cockpit of his Nighthawk. Going through his preflight routine, he buckled and unbuckled his harness three times then yanked on the straps another three times after it had clicked into place. Satisfied he was strapped in properly, he flipped on the switch to the Shaw Drive thrusters.

  To some outside the pilot brotherhood, the preflight routine might look a little obsessive-compulsive, and maybe it was, but Coleman was convinced it kept him alive and one couldn’t argue with results.

  The final step to his preflight routine was pulling the creased and faded picture from the inside of his G-suit. He hadn’t flown in battle since losing his wife and daughter, since his wife had given him the ultimatum: his Nighthawk or them. And Coleman, not knowing that the X-23 program was about to be discontinued, had picked his fighter.

  Well, that was only half true. He hadn’t necessarily picked his fighter; he just hadn’t picked her. Any person who forced another to pick between two things they loved wasn’t a person he wanted to spend his life with. It was Aniyah, though, who had suffered the true tragedy. Growing up without her father couldn’t have been easy, and had he known h
is ex-wife would win sole custody of their child then refuse to let him see her, he might have chosen differently.

  Stroking the side of his daughter’s young face with his thumb, Coleman apologized, uttered a quiet prayer, then set the picture on the instrument panel where it would be on the edges of his vision, just as his family would forever be on the edges of his mind. One day, he would see them again. One day, he would hug his daughter tightly enough to make up for the countless hugs they’d missed over the years. But first, Commander Coleman needed to win the battle.

  Being the last to arrive, Coleman was the last pilot loaded into the launch tube. His pilots were antsy, chattering over the comm.

  “All right, quiet down,” Commander Coleman said. “Launching in one minute. Sound off. Hawk One is a go.”

  “Hawk Two is a go.”

  “Hawk Three is a go.”

  One by one, they sounded off, confirming there were no malfunctions and that they were green to go. When the final confirmation came in, they had twenty seconds to launch.

  “Remember,” Commander Coleman said, “keep it tight. Fly together. And trust your training.”

  “We’ll do you proud, sir,” Squawks said.

  “Good to hear it, Squawks. It’s my pleasure to fly with each and every one of you. Now settle in. Here we go.”

  Coleman was thrown back in his seat as his fighter raced through the launch tube. The pulley screamed, the seat of the Nighthawk vibrated, then… Commander Coleman was hurled into the silent black. The other twenty-three Nighthawks were shot out of the bow in less than four seconds.

  “Form up,” Commander Coleman ordered. “Delta formations.”

  Behind him, the rest of the squadron fell into four separate V-shaped formations made up of six fighters apiece. He plotted a course for the nearest human vessel, the SAS Washington, which was little more than a black dot against the green of the planet behind it.

  “Looks like we’ve been spotted, sir. I’ve got five Baranyk fighters closing.”

  Commander Coleman glanced at his HUD, seeing the red indicators marking the incoming Baranyk fighters. Only five? Against a number five times that?

  They think we’re drones.

  “Jamestown actual, this is Commander Coleman. Are you reading the signal of the Baranyk Disrupter?”

  “Affirmative, Commander,” Captain Baez said. “It appears as if the Baranyk are attempting to use it against you.”

  “Well, it’s good to know it doesn’t work on us.” Truth be told, Coleman had harbored a nagging concern before their training had ever begun that the Baranyk weapon would fry the Nighthawk computers just as it did the Hornets. “Can you tell where it’s coming from?”

  “There’s a lot of distortion,” Captain Baez said. “We’re working on it.”

  “Acknowledged. We have other fish to fry, but if you locate the source of that signal, you let me know.”

  “Of course, Commander.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Coleman closed the channel then reopened the one with his pilots. “Do not engage the incoming fighters. I repeat, do not engage. Stay on me. Three-quarter thrust.”

  Punching the throttle, he swerved, plotting a new course that would keep them wide of the incoming fighters. The rest of his squadron followed.

  “They’re swinging around!” came a panicked voice on the radio. “They’re moving onto our six.”

  They’re scared, Commander Coleman realized. Nervous and not thinking straight. “They’re not in firing range,” he said calmly. “Shooting them down might have alerted the enemy that their weapon doesn’t work on us. We need to provide support to our ships before that happens. Understood?”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good, because it looks like we’ve piqued more interest.”

  More of the enemy fighters attacking the Washington broke off their assault, moving into an attack vector to meet the Forgotten head on. They moved as a single unit, like a flock of birds or school of fish. Early on, Sol Intelligence had thought the Baranyk were a hive mind, not unlike aliens in the popular science fiction novels of the twentieth century, but that wasn’t the case at all. Like their human counterparts, the Baranyk were capable of individual thought.

  “Prepare to break formation and fire on my mark.” Commander Coleman watched as the enemy fighters closed the distance. “Break!”

  The human fighters broke formation, twelve pairs shooting off in twelve different directions. Commander Coleman’s Nighthawk came alive, vibrating as he opened fire. Two incoming Baranyk fighters broke apart as he zipped through the threshold and into the thick of the battle. It was pure chaos, with ships everywhere, flying at speeds human evolution hadn’t yet caught up with.

  Alternating between manual guns and computer-aided targeting, Coleman shot down four Baranyk fighters in as many seconds then brought his Nighthawk parallel with the Washington, though at a safe distance from its point-defense cannons. Not that there was a true “safe distance,” of course, but there were perhaps a hundred Baranyk fighters between him and the Washington, and that, at least, gave him the illusion of cover.

  The maneuver kept him in prime firing position. He opened fire again. There were more flashes of light as Baranyk mass became space dust. Missiles streaked in from other vectors as more of his pilots came to the Washington’s aid.

  With the exception of a few enemy fighters, the Baranyk focused all of their effort on the larger capital ship. Seeing the larger vessel up close, Commander Coleman understood why. Gaping holes littered its hull, spewing fire along its length, and fewer than half of its point-defense cannons still appeared operable. The ship was a wounded bird, and the enemy knew it.

  “All fighters,” Commander Coleman said, “focus on the main contingent. The Washington doesn’t have long.”

  Coleman squeezed off several more shots, eliminating three more fighters as the rest of his squadron arrived. Two flights, one beginning at the Washington’s bow, the other at the stern, sliced through the enemy like a propeller through water. They mowed down more than half of the enemy’s force in a single pass.

  The remaining Baranyk fighters broke into two flights of their own as if finally taking the human force seriously. But it was already too late. The next wave of human pilots arrived, flanking them from the Washington port side and using it as a backstop. The Forgotten had the remaining Baranyk fighters in a vise, and within moments, they were no more.

  Bringing his fighter around, Coleman surveyed the battle. The Washington was still engaged with the Baranyk carrier, each ship throwing volley after volley of torpedoes and medium-range artillery at their enemy. In the distance and partially hidden by the curvature of Toavis, the Virginia, Oregon, and other three human battle cruisers were involved in a similar slugfest with all but one of the remaining Baranyk carriers. The last one was somewhere below the planet’s thick atmosphere.

  Come on, Baez. Get the Jamestown into the battle. We won’t have numbers for long.

  The human squadron had provided much-needed support and had bought the Washington some extra time, but the battle was far from over. And now the enemy knew the human fleet had an advantage of its own. But as severely outnumbered as the human pilots were, would the advantage be enough?

  “All fighters form up and prepare for an attack run.”

  They hadn’t gotten to the point in their training that would have focused on bombing runs. As a result, Coleman hadn’t ordered the Nighthawks equipped with the heavier artillery used to assault the Baranyk carriers. They’d have to do the job with missiles… and a little bit of luck.

  “Two missiles apiece. The Washington has done a number on her. We don’t need to exhaust our reserves.”

  Coleman triple-checked that his weapons switch was selected to missiles, then with his pilots forming up behind him, he angled his Nighthawk on a flight path that would have them streak past the center of the enemy carrier in a high-speed pass. The Baranyk carrier, perhaps sensing the danger, shifted focus from
the Washington to the Forgotten. Point-defense cannons lit up their flight path.

  “Evasive maneuvers!” Coleman shouted, throwing his fighter starboard to avoid a stream of incoming projectiles. “And fire!”

  Trails of white vapor streaked from the quick-moving fighters toward the massive ship, then a moment later, more than twenty explosions ravaged its hull. Not three seconds after the last explosion lit the void, white-hot fire ballooned out of the center of the Baranyk vessel, splitting it in two and throwing the two ends of the ship in opposite directions. Cheers sounded over the comm as the pilots celebrated their victory.

  “Well done,” Coleman said. “Prepare for delta formations. We’re not done yet. There’s still five more of these bastards to go.”

  43

  Ready Room, SAS Jamestown

  Arradin System, Toavis

  Coda sat alone in the ready room, bathing in the battle’s radio chatter. He hadn’t found a way to tap into the holographic display that they had in the CIC, but he had found a way to pipe into the radio frequencies and play it across the ready room’s speakers. It wasn’t the same as being in the battle. It wasn’t even the same as watching it, but it was the best he had been able to come up with.

  He listened with bated breath, often having to remind himself to breathe at all. There had been some panicked chatter at the beginning of the battle then mostly silence as the pilots focused on the task at hand. Now, though, it was beginning again.

  “Jamestown actual, this is Commander Coleman. Were you able to identify the source of the Baranyk signal?”

  “We have, Commander,” Captain Baez said. “Sending you the information now. What do you have in mind?”

  “With their fighters, they’ve still got us outnumbered out here,” Commander Coleman said. “If we can eliminate the weapon, we eliminate the signal. Then we get full use of our drones and the odds swing back into our favor.”