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

you believe,” Uno said. “Do you know what I’ve been doing in my bunk the last few nights?”

“I’m not sure I want to know…” Squawks said.

“I’ve been watching the flight vids,” Uno said, ignoring Squawks’s failed attempt at a joke. “Mine. Yours. All of them. And you know what I saw? I saw someone who was slow. Someone who was mechanical. Someone who thought too much. Not like you guys. Not like everyone else.”

“Uno—”

“No, Coda. I already made my decision.”

Coda clamped his mouth shut. There was no arguing that. Uno had quit on his own, and even if Coda somehow convinced him it had been the wrong thing to do, there was little chance the commander would take him back. A fighter pilot with self-confidence issues wasn’t exactly a prized commodity.

“You should have said something,” Coda said. “We’re supposed to be friends.”

“I know.” Uno blew out a long breath. The anger and frustration in his voice disappeared, and for the first time since they’d confronted him, he seemed truly disappointed. “But you guys know me. I like to fail on my own.”

“Deep down, you’re just as selfish as I am,” Squawks said with a smile.

“I guess so,” Uno said, smiling back.

Coda didn’t know how Squawks did it. He’d basically just insulted the man, but instead of getting mad, Uno had thought it was funny. If Coda had done something like that, Uno probably would have decked him.

“Where are they sending you?” Coda asked.

“The Philadelphia.”

“They’re sending you to the front?” Noodle asked.

“Yeah,” Uno said. “I was surprised too. They have me flying a drone again.”

The front. The one place Coda had dreamt about since joining the academy. At any other point in time, he would have been jealous, annoyed that a washout was being stationed in the one place he wanted to be while he was left behind. But strangely, he didn’t feel any of those things, and if someone had given him the opportunity to swap places, he wasn’t sure he would have taken it.

“Anyway, it looks like I’ve got to go.” Uno pointed to where a group of former pilots were boarding a transport ship. “Seriously, though, guys. I’m sorry. Thanks for coming. Thanks for everything.”

Coda clapped hands with Uno and pulled him into a quick hug. “Good luck.”

“You too, Coda.”

Noodle was next, repeating the embrace. “Take care, man.”

“Save some Baranyk for us,” Squawks said, punching him in the arm.

“No promises,” Uno said, then with a final, half-hearted smile, he nodded and turned to go.

Watching Uno walk away, Coda couldn’t help feeling as if the squadron had just had its first real casualty. He also knew it wouldn’t be the last.

22

Ready Room, SAS Jamestown

Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

Coda entered the ready room two hours before his scheduled flight. Commander Coleman was already there, sitting in a chair in the front row of the auditorium seating. His eyes were alive in a way Coda hadn’t seen since joining the squadron. When the commander stood and strode toward Coda, his step was light, almost giddy.

“Good morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Coda. You ready?”

“Can’t wait, sir.”

“Good.” Commander Coleman stepped past Coda and, grabbing a black stylus from the tray, stopped in front of the large digital display board that took up the entire front wall. “You reviewed your flight packet?”

“Yes, sir.”

Commander Coleman handed the stylus to Coda. “Write it out for me then.”

“Sir?”

“I said write it out for me. Who’s flying? What are their call signs? What are our takeoff and landing times? What ship numbers? Communications frequencies? Diversion information? I want all of it, and I’m going to want to know all of it before every flight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coda started writing. Who’s flying? Lieutenant O’Neil and Commander Coleman. Call signs? Coda and Spitfire. Taking off at 0700 from hangar bay 7B in Nighthawks One and Two. Landing at 0800 at the same location. He listed communications frequencies, both primary and emergency, as well as alternative flight paths in the event of engine trouble, carrier malfunction, and invasion. The whole process took nearly twenty minutes. When he was done, he handed the stylus back to Commander Coleman and stepped back to let him review it.

“Well done.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Can you tell me why I had you do this?”

“Because you wanted to be sure I knew it, sir.”

“Because it helps avoid accidents. This is your first flight, so your ship is unarmed, but I’ve flown in training exercises where the pilot accidentally climbed into the wrong fighter and fired real rounds instead of the simulated rounds we’ll be working with today. His mistake nearly cost his CAG his life. Don’t forget that, Coda. Mistakes cost lives.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good, because you’ll do this before every flight. I’ll take two minutes to review it, but other than that, you’ll be on your own to fill it out properly. Get anything wrong, and you’re grounded for the day.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Follow me.”

The commander led Coda through the ready room into the adjoining locker room, where they stopped in front of a locker with Coda’s call sign. Hanging inside was one of the best presents he’d ever received.

“Do you know how to put that on?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Do it.”

Coda began shedding clothing until he was dressed in nothing more than his underwear. The black flight suit, known as a G-suit, fit snugly around every part of his body. During flight, it would squeeze his legs and abdomen, preventing the flow of blood from his brain to help avoid grayout, the loss of vision or awareness, or even blackout, the loss of consciousness altogether. Because it was so snug, the commander had to zip it up in the back for him. Coda repaid the favor.

Once dressed, they moved down the short corridor into the hangar. They passed a number of ship personnel, garnering confused looks and double takes. While their presence was becoming known throughout the ship, there was a difference between knowing and seeing, and seeing two pilots striding purposefully down the corridors of their ship, especially the legendary Commander Coleman