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

himself, was akin to seeing a living legend.

Commander Coleman led Coda through the hangar, avoiding technicians and machinery with an efficiency gained through years of practice. Their fighters were set apart from the rest of the hangar, hitched to a pair of forklifts that would assist loading them into the launch tubes. A middle-aged man with thinning dark hair and a round face covered in grease was overseeing the last of their preparations.

“Chief,” Commander Coleman said.

The chief looked up. “Sir,” he said, giving the commander a quick salute. “We’re just wrapping up now, sir.”

“Very good. We’ll take it from here.”

“Of course, sir.” The chief stepped away from the fighters and ordered his specialists to do the same. Rather than disappearing entirely, though, they only gave the commander some space.

“What are you doing, sir?” Coda asked, watching as Commander Coleman ran a hand down his fighter’s fuselage.

“Visual inspection.”

“Isn’t that what the chief was doing?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Then why are you doing it again, sir?”

“Because it’s my ass in the cockpit.”

That was good enough for Coda. He circled his own fighter, trying to mimic his commander’s steady gaze. The only problem was, he didn’t know what to look for. The commander seemed to sense his confusion, and without taking his attention away from his own fighter, he told Coda what to look for.

“Loose parts, dents, cracks, anything that can cause friction or come apart in a high-g maneuver.”

Coda started his review again, taking in the finer details of the fighter, running a careful hand down its fuselage, offset wings, and rear thrusters. It was the first time he’d seen one of the fighters since the first day of FAM Phase, and after flying countless simulations since that day, he found it even more impressive.

“Looks good, Chief,” Commander Coleman said. “Good work.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Coda?”

“Looks good to me, sir.”

“All right. We’ve got four minutes ’til launch. Load up.”

One of the specialists rolled over a ladder, which Coda used to climb into his cockpit. Settling down inside, he immediately secured his harness then slid on his helmet. The specialist helped him lock it into place, and a moment later, cold oxygen blew into the flight suit, giving the entire thing a miniature pressurized environment. The cockpit would be pressurized too, of course, but in the event of an emergency, the suit would give him roughly another thirty minutes to get to safety.

Manned spaceflight was built around contingency after contingency after contingency, and while many called it redundant, Coda, who was seconds away from shooting into the cold, lifeless void of space, was beginning to understand that redundancy might save his life.

With everything in place, he closed the cockpit, maneuvered the emergency lever to lock it into place, and powered on his guidance, engine, and communication systems.

“Hawk Two, this is Hawk One. Do you copy?” Commander Coleman’s voice sounded slightly tinny through the speakers of Coda’s helmet.

“Copy, Hawk One. Loud and clear.”

“Copy that, Coda. Begin final systems check and prepare for launch.”

“Yes, sir.”

Coda ran through the final check, verifying that each of his systems was online and functioning properly. Once confirmed, he radioed back to the commander. “Final systems check complete, sir. I’m good to go.”

“Same here, Coda. Strap in and have fun.”

“Yes, sir.”

The forklift moved him into the launch tube, locking the bottom of his fighter to a pulley that was attached to a track at the bottom of the deck. When it was time to launch, the pulley would rocket forward, dragging his fighter along with it, and hurl it into space.

“Jamestown Tower, Hawks One and Two are green and ready for takeoff.”

“Roger, Hawk One,” Lieutenant Commander Chavez said over the radio. “Hawks One and Two are cleared for launch from launch tubes three and five, firing at one-second intervals in ten seconds.”

The prelaunch sensation reminded Coda of being a kid and riding a roller coaster. His legs felt light, and he thought he had to pee. And this time, he didn’t have the reassuring smile from his father to let him know everything was going to be all right. Worst of all, just as it had been when he was a child, once he was strapped in and the ride started moving, there was no shutting it down. He was truly at the mercy of whatever came next.

“Five seconds.”

I really do have to take a piss.

“Three.”

There was a muffled banging noise followed by hissing air. Was something wrong?

“Two.”

Two? Why’s he still counting down? Where’s the emergency abort?

“One.”

Another bang. Another hiss. Both louder than before. Then like a bolt fired from the world’s largest ballista, Coda rocketed forward. Thrown back in his seat, he watched as the distant black dot at the end of the tunnel grew alarmingly fast. He had just enough time to blink before he was spit out into the night.

I’m flying, Coda thought as the Jamestown grew smaller behind him. I’m actually doing this!

And then the panic hit him.

23

Cockpit, Nighthawk

Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B

Coda’s heart was in his throat. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, making his hands tremble, his movements sharp. The Jamestown was little more than a shadow against the orange glow of Proxima B, but its subtle shifting out his starboard window, coupled with the null gravity, was more than enough to send his body into a panic.

Up became down and down became sideways as he fought to find some semblance of gravity. In that terrible moment, he realized that regardless of how realistic the simulator was, nothing could ever truly replicate the experience of spaceflight.

“Breathe,” said a calming voice on his radio. Who? Who was talking to him? “Breathe, Coda.” Commander Coleman’s X-23 appeared at Coda’s wing, close enough that Coda could see the other man seated inside the cockpit. “Just follow the blues of my thrusters. Acknowledge?”

“Acknowledged,” Coda said, forcing the words through the lump in his throat.

Commander Coleman’s fighter moved ahead of Coda’s effortlessly. Coda took a deep breath then pushed the throttle forward with his left hand, increasing speed, and formed up behind Commander Coleman’s left