Wings of Honor by Craig Andrews (black authors fiction .TXT) 📗

“Care to elaborate?”

“I’m not like you and Squawks. I don’t want the attention. I like to figure things out on my own. Not in front of a group.”

Everything suddenly clicked. Coda had misunderstood. Uno wasn’t afraid of the simulator. He was afraid of learning in front of everyone, or more specifically, afraid of failing in front of everyone. His call sign suddenly took on a different meaning. Uno might have developed a reputation for shooting down fighters in a single shot, but what if he was a bit of a loner too? It made too much sense to be a coincidence.

“That might have worked back at the academy, Uno, but that’s not going to fly here. There’s too much attention on our entire group. Too much pressure.”

“I know.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t log extra time, though,” Coda said. “Try to figure things out on your own after hours. God knows I’m planning on it.”

“You are?”

“Of course,” Coda said. “I barely squeaked by FAM Phase, remember? I’ve got some ground to make up. We can do it together.”

“You’d do that?”

“Of course. As far as I’m concerned, I owe you one, and like I said, I was already planning on it anyway.”

“You’re a good guy, Coda.”

“Thank you, but don’t tell anyone, all right?”

Uno laughed. It was a tentative thing, but it was a start. “All right.”

“Here’s what I propose. Morning workout is at oh six hundred, so we meet here every day at oh five hundred and get in an extra hour. If we’re feeling up to it, we can log more time after hours too.”

“Sounds good.”

“Good,” Coda said. “Let’s get started then.”

“Now? What happened to tomorrow?”

“You were the only pilot who didn’t log simulator time today. I’d be willing to bet the commander has you go first again tomorrow. Let’s get you comfortable with it.”

Uno looked as though he might be sick again, and shot a nervous glance at the simulator. “Do you even know how to use that thing?”

“I’m sure we can figure it out.” Coda slapped Uno on the back. “Come on, let’s get to work.”

Uno took a deep breath and climbed to his feet, then together, they made for the simulator. Coda suspected it would be the first of many long nights.

15

Barracks, SAS Jamestown

Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

“Wake up! Wake up!” Commander Coleman shouted as he entered the barracks. “Rise and shine!”

It took Coda two precious seconds to register what was going on. His first thought was that he had overslept their morning workout, but as quickly as the thought came, he dismissed it. Across the room, Uno and Squawks were just as confused as he was. If he had overslept, then they had too, and that was unlikely.

“Get your asses up!” Commander Coleman strode down the center of the barracks, already dressed in the blue of the Sol Fleet. “You can get your beauty sleep on your own time!”

Coda kicked off his blanket and scrambled out of bed, snapping to attention. The metal decking was cold against the bottoms of his feet, and like most of the other pilots in the room, he was dressed in nothing but his underwear.

“What’s going on, sir?” Squawks asked. “Workout’s not for another hour.”

“That was yesterday’s schedule,” Commander Coleman said. “Today’s is different. You have two minutes to get dressed and meet me in the gym. Move!”

Without another word, Commander Coleman left the room. Coda hastily pulled a navy-colored tank top and pair of gray sweatpants from the drawers below his bunk and threw them on. As soon as he had on his shoes and socks, he was hustling out the door.

Uno caught up to him before he’d made it more than few steps. “What do you think’s going on? You think this is part of the training? Sleep deprivation and all that?”

“I have no idea,” Coda said. “But I’m sure we’re about to find out.”

Commander Coleman was waiting for them in the back of the gym, his arms folded across his chest. Another officer stood at his shoulder. With graying hair and a disapproving scowl creasing his tan face, he was at least as old as Commander Coleman and every bit as intimidating.

Coda snapped to attention in front of them, waiting for the rest of the squadron to arrive. They made it seconds later, every one of them beating the commander’s time. As the last stragglers fell into formation, Coda realized that the squadron had been split in half. The pilots in the gym had come from two barracks. Unfortunately, the other barracks was Moscow’s. He apparently wasn’t getting away from his academy rival any time soon.

“Someone tell me what time it is,” Commander Coleman said.

“Oh four thirty, sir,” someone said from behind Coda.

“That it is,” the commander said. “As you’ve no doubt figured out, our training resources are limited, but in their great resourcefulness, the fleet has mustered up and installed a second simulator. But we still have more pilots than we do equipment, so this group is being rewarded with the morning shift. For the next two weeks, I want your asses in here by oh four thirty, working up a lather. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

“Good,” the commander said. “Let me also introduce you to Commander Chavez, who will be aiding your instruction moving forward. For those that don’t already know, the commander and I have flown many missions together, and I consider him one of the finest pilots to have ever flown in the fleet. More than that, before transferring to my squadron, he was my NFO aboard the Pittsburgh, making him one of the foremost experts of the X-23’s systems and flight capabilities. I’m honored to have him as part of our squadron.”

“The honor is all mine, sir,” Commander Chavez said.

Commander Coleman nodded and returned his gaze to the squadron. “We’ll see you in the Simulation Room at oh six hundred. Get to it.”

They got to it, and for once, Noodle wasn’t the person who complained the loudest.

“This is horseshit,” Squawks wailed. “It’s