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

“I mean it, Andrei. Good flying.”

Moscow grunted something Coda couldn’t decipher and put some distance between them. Coda sighed. Playing nice with Moscow wasn’t going to be easy—especially if the other pilot had no intention of meeting him in the middle. Still, considering that their last encounter had ended in a shoving match, he couldn’t help but feel like this was an improvement. At this pace, we’ll be friends in no time.

But even as he thought it, he knew it would never happen. They would never be friends, but maybe they could tolerate being in the same room, fly in the same squadron. That was something Coda wanted. Wasn’t it?

19

Simulator, SAS Jamestown

Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

Battles. It was battles all day, every day as the pilots worked through the remaining roster, taking each other one-on-one in custom simulations built by the commander himself. Battle became life, an all-encompassing game that they lived, breathed, and dreamed. There was no class or studies. Only the gym and the game. Only winning and losing. And losing meant going home, so when they weren’t in the simulator, they were watching the battle unfold on the display board.

Coda spent his time studying the other pilots, taking detailed notes about their strengths and weaknesses. He’d then eavesdrop on the commander’s evaluation to see how his own reviews stacked up. Oftentimes, he picked up on things that Commander Coleman highlighted, but the commander always had more to add, and Coda, even when he wasn’t flying, continued to learn.

By the third day, a hierarchy was already beginning to take shape, and Coda was surprised to find that experience didn’t necessarily translate into success within the simulator. He and Moscow continued to be outliers in that regard, both placing within the top fifteen pilots, well above the failure line.

Their friends weren’t quite so fortunate. Noodle and Squawks rode the line, above it some days and below it others, while Uno was consistently below it. Moscow’s friends were doing even worse.

That night at dinner, after a particularly embarrassing rout, Uno was even more agitated than usual. “I’m sick of it,” he said. “It’s too complicated. There’s too much to keep track of.”

He wasn’t the first pilot to voice the complaint or the first to be overwhelmed by the sheer number of commands the pilots were responsible for. Unlike transports and bombers, the Nighthawk was a single-pilot starfighter. They didn’t have the luxury of a navigator. It was just the pilot and the computer, and regardless of how much slack the computer picked up, there was still far more the pilots had to pay attention to than their previous drone training had prepared them for.

“The stick has over sixty combinations alone,” Uno said, resorting to raw numbers and statistics as he always did when he was trying to make a point. “Did you know that? Sixty! Just tonight, I was trying to designate a target and turned off the cockpit lights. No joke. Yesterday, I thumbed the wrong weapon and dropped a bomb instead of firing my guns.”

They all laughed. Noodle, caught in the unenviable position of having taken a drink of milk a moment before, spit it out all over his food.

“Probably make it taste better,” Squawks said, and Noodle almost lost it again.

“I’m serious,” Uno said. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You just need to calm down,” Coda said.

“I can’t,” Uno said. “The commander calls it ‘finger fire.’ Says it’s been around for hundreds of years. And he says it’s only going to get worse when we start flying for real and there’s radio chatter. ‘Helmet fire,’ he called it. I don’t think I’m cut out for this.”

“You just need more time in the simulator,” Coda said.

Uno barked a laugh. “And when am I going to get that? The commander has it running all day, and we’re already putting in extra time as it is.”

“Wait,” Noodle said. “You’ve been flying without us?”

“What do you think we’ve been doing every night?”

“It’s the only personal time we get,” Squawks said. “For all I know, you’ve been dating a pretty little lady.”

“The only date we’ve had has been with the simulator,” Uno said. “Little good it’s done me.”

“We’ll be there again tonight,” Coda said, ignoring Uno’s bitter tone. “Come if you want. It might help your scores.”

Commander Coleman stepped out of the Simulator Room just as Coda and the rest were approaching. Noodle and Squawks had taken Coda up on his offer to join them for after-hours practice, and they all froze as the commander spotted them.

“Good evening, Commander,” Coda said.

“Coda,” he said. “Gentlemen. You’re not looking to sabotage my simulators, are you?”

“Just logging in some extra time, sir,” Coda said.

“Personal time was built into your schedules to keep you sharp.”

“We understand, sir. Thing is”—Coda nodded toward the door—“that’s all we think about. All we dream about. And the way we see it, the better we fly, the better we’ll sleep, and the sharper we’ll be.”

Commander Coleman nodded appreciably. “I completely understand, Lieutenant. Be easy on my equipment.”

“Will do, sir.”

The commander turned down the corridor as Coda and the rest entered the Simulation Room. Having been the pilots’ home for the last few weeks, it smelled strongly of sweat and agitation.

“Squawks, Uno, get ready to go. I’ll get you queued up.”

“Who put him in charge?” Squawks asked sarcastically as he and Noodle made for their cockpits.

“You did by joining my extra sessions,” Coda said then cycled through the various preprogrammed simulations in the control panel on the wall. After selecting one to his liking, he turned to join his squad mates. As he did, the door opened again, and Moscow strode in. He was joined by three of his friends, and all four of them froze, each eyeing the other. Apparently, Coda and his friends weren’t the only ones planning to log extra time in the simulator.

Moscow appraised the scene and grimaced. “Come on,” he said to the others, turning to go.