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

By the time it ended, Coleman was ready for a second drink. It was bad form for a commander to get sloppy drunk, so he did the next best thing: he slid the fifty-first pilot into the fiftieth position.

The rest of the squadron might not know it yet, but they were going to need every pilot they could get.

21

Ready Room, SAS Jamestown

Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

“Where’s Uno?” Coda asked, surveying the half-empty ready room.

The remaining pilots of Commander Coleman’s squadron mingled, sharing smiles, attempting to ignore the vacancies left behind by their departed friends. That was the fighter pilot way: to move on and act as if the cut, the loss, or the death had never happened. Dwelling on it meant confronting failure. Confronting death. One’s own mortality. To a pilot, that meant losing their edge. And the moment a pilot lost their edge, they became slag.

“Have you seen Uno?” Coda asked, turning to Squawks, who, like Noodle, sat next to him.

“He’s probably taking a dump,” Squawks said.

Noodle snorted, but Coda didn’t feel like laughing. “I haven’t seen him all morning.”

“Maybe it’s a stubborn one.”

“A what? No, never mind, I don’t want to know.” Coda shook his head, trying to get the mental image to disappear. “He should be here.”

“Settle down,” Squawks said. “He will be.”

“Yeah…” But for some reason, Squawks’s words didn’t make Coda feel better. Objectively, Coda knew he shouldn’t be worried. Like every other member of their group, Uno had finished above the failure line and would advance to flight status, but Coda still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in his gut. Something wasn’t right.

“Attention on deck!”

The pilots snapped to attention as Commander Coleman stepped into the ready room.

“Take your seats,” he said, taking his usual position behind the podium.

Once the pilots had found their seats, the room fell deathly quiet—something that was even more pronounced by the number of empty seats. When the pilots had first arrived, they’d been excited, nearly bursting at the seams, but that energy had suddenly dissipated, leaving a gloom as if the squadron had lost a major battle and taken fifty-percent casualties.

“Congratulations,” Commander Coleman said, giving his obligatory speech. “The men and women in this room have advanced to basic flight. The chief is still readying your fighters, so despite my better judgment, I’m giving you the day off. Enjoy it, because it’ll be the last one you get before the end of your training.”

The room erupted into cheers, pilots clapping and laughing, slapping each other on the back.

A day off. Coda couldn’t remember what that was like. Twenty-four hours to himself. He didn’t know what he would do. Sleep. Yes, that sounded nice. Sleep. His eyes felt heavy just thinking about it.

“Flight schedules have been downloaded to your tablets,” Commander Coleman said once the ruckus had died down. “Check then double and triple check your flight times and craft number. Failure to arrive on time and at the correct spacecraft will result in an automatic SOD.”

A SOD—or a “sign of difficulty”—was the pilots’ version of a strike, and as in the great American pastime of baseball, after three strikes, the pilot was out of the program.

“This is the real thing, ladies and gentlemen. I expect you to be ready. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Coda turned to his friends as the commander strode out of the room. “Come on.”

“Where?” Squawks asked.

“Just follow me.”

Coda pushed his way through the pilots, making for the ready room door, then chased the commander down the corridor. “Sir!” Coda shouted. “Sir!”

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

“It’s Uno, sir,” Coda said. “We haven’t seen him and were wondering if you knew where he was.”

“Lieutenant Hernandez?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Coda,” Commander Coleman said, “Lieutenant Hernandez is set to depart with the rest of the washouts at oh nine hundred.”

“Washouts?” Coda said. “Sir, there must be a mistake. Uno was above the line.”

“Yes, he was,” Commander Coleman said. “Which is why it was so unexpected when he came to my quarters last night and withdrew from the program.”

“He quit?” Coda couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I thought you said we couldn’t quit.”

Commander Coleman’s face grew hard. He apparently didn’t like having his words thrown in his face any more than anyone else did. “I won’t have a pilot in my squadron who endangers everyone else he flies with. The lieutenant didn’t believe he had what it takes, and I didn’t disagree with him. Anything more than that, and you’ll have to ask him.”

“He’s still here?”

“As I already said, Coda, he departs at oh nine hundred. You can find him in the hangar bay.”

They found Uno sitting against the wall, his arms draped over his knees, watching as specialists worked under the watchful eye of the chief, frantically trying to get the remaining Nighthawks ready for flight. When he saw Coda and the rest approaching, his mouth fell open, and his face grew several shades redder than it had been before.

“Hey,” Coda said, crossing his arms and stopping in front of him.

“What are you guys doing here?” Uno asked.

“What are we… Uno, what are you doing here? The commander said you quit.”

Uno turned away.

“Uno—”

Snapping his head around, Uno jumped to his feet. “What do you want me to say? I told you I couldn’t do this, but you wouldn’t listen. ‘You just need more time,’” Uno said, giving Coda an exaggerated impersonation of himself.

Coda felt his blood rise and forced himself to take a deep breath. “Uno, you were above the line. You want to say you couldn’t do it? You’re full of it. You did it. You passed.”

“Anyone can pass a test, Coda.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Coda asked defensively. Was that a shot at Coda nearly failing FAM Phase?

“It just means I can pass whatever test the commander puts in front of me, but that doesn’t change anything. I know I can’t do this. I know I don’t have what it takes.”

“We don’t believe that,” Noodle said.

“It doesn’t matter what