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

knew and the man the world thinks it knows are very different.”

Coda shifted uneasily. Having someone suggest that the person he’d despised his entire life was actually a good person was discomforting. More than discomforting. It went against every mental image he’d crafted of his father and threatened to destroy the entire world he’d built atop it.

“Unfortunately,” Coda said, “the man I knew was closer to what everyone else sees.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Coda had many fond memories of his father: playing catch in the backyard, going to the zoo, sitting in the cockpit of his father’s Nighthawk. But the pain caused by his father’s betrayal greatly outweighed whatever positive feelings he felt for the man.

Commander Coleman leaned back in his seat, pursing his lips. Coda was growing increasingly confused by how well the commander had known his father and just how close they had been. Coda wasn’t interested in getting to the bottom of it at the moment. He wasn’t there to talk about this father. He decided to change the subject before the commander had a chance to muster up his response.

“Why are you here, sir? What’s a decorated war hero doing on an ancient ship flying patrol over a worthless mining colony?”

“I’m here to assemble the best fighter squadron known to man and protect the fleet.”

It was obviously a play on Coda’s politically correct response, and hearing it from the commander helped him realize just how ridiculous it really sounded. Because the commander had said it without even the hint of a smile, Coda took his true meaning. Commander Coleman wasn’t going to tell him a damn thing.

“The truth is, Lieutenant,” Commander Coleman continued, “even though this squadron has surpassed even my wildest expectations, it’s still woefully behind the schedule the fleet needs us on. As much as I would like to continue with basic flight maneuvers and formations for another month, we simply don’t have the time. We need to move forward.”

Commander Coleman set down his drink then slid his tablet across the table and gestured for Coda to take a look at it.

“What’s this, sir?”

“Your flight.”

A “flight” was a smaller subset of fighters from the same squadron, numbering anywhere from four to six. What a squadron was to a wing, a flight was to a squadron.

“This is where the training gets fun, Lieutenant. For the next three months, we’re playing war games, and for this mission, I want you to lead other pilots. Assuming you want to, of course.”

Coda looked up from the names on the tablet. “Yes, sir. Of course.” His eyes went back to the terminal. “But this list… Surely you don’t mean…”

“Don’t mean what?”

Coda’s eyes fell back to the tablet. At the top of the list was Moscow’s name. Commander Coleman not only expected them to work together in the same flight, but he expected Moscow to follow Coda’s orders. It was almost laughable. But how could he say so?

“Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

“No,” Coda said. “It’s just that… well… I think we’d be more successful if I had Noodle and Squawks under my command.”

“Which is exactly why I didn’t put them there. The squadron needs to fight as a single unit, and that means you must be comfortable flying with everyone inside it. More than that, you need to know, in intimate detail, the strengths and weaknesses of everyone around you. That’s not possible if you only surround yourself with your friends.”

Coda bit his tongue. The Commander was right, of course. Why else had Coda been taking notes on every pilot in the squadron?

“You’ll get a chance to fly with your friends,” Commander Coleman continued. “There are no set rosters here, not yet. Not until the squadron gets closer to its final number. For now, the pilots that make up each flight will change with every mission. And the person giving orders will change with every mission as well. For now, at least.”

“What kind of missions, sir?”

“They’ll be simple at first,” Commander Coleman said. “Flight versus flight. Basic combat. But after a while, they’ll get increasingly complex. Multiple objectives. Stacked odds. Scenarios you can expect on the front.”

“When will they start?”

Commander Coleman grinned. “Your pilots are already waiting for you, Lieutenant. Launch is at nineteen hundred.”

27

Simulator, SAS Jamestown

Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

The five pilots that made up Coda’s flight were already waiting for him in the Simulation Room when he arrived. If they were surprised to see him, they didn’t show it, so Coda assumed they’d received their orders separately and had known to expect him as their leader.

Moscow was there, of course, watching Coda with an expression that he couldn’t place. Joining him were Tex and Bear, Reno and NoNo. The only thing he knew of the latter two was that they had performed well in the simulator, finishing in the top thirty overall, and had both been reassigned from drone squadrons on the front.

At least Commander Coleman isn’t giving me a completely green flight.

“Good morning,” Coda said. “Our hop is in two hours. The details are unclear, but our objective is simple: destroy all enemy fighters. Your flight information has already been downloaded to your personal tablets. Read it. Memorize it. Preflight is in one hour. Any questions?”

There weren’t any.

“All right. Let’s get warmed up.”

Coda loaded Reno and NoNo into the simulator first, keying in a scenario that had them flying as a fighter pair against an enemy force outnumbering them three to one. Coupled with the notes he’d taken from their previous simulations, he intended to study their flight patterns and better understand who he was flying with.

Both pilots were deft—even if NoNo had a bit of a habit of shouting, “No! No! No!” when things got hairy—and made short order of the enemy fighters, falling effortlessly into working as a pair. That had likely become second nature to them while on the front, where the drone squadrons flew in complex, highly coordinated formations. To them, staying on the wing of their wingmen was as