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

incoming tidal waves. Coda and Moscow froze at the same time, their attention shifting from each other to the commander, who stood unfazed between them.

“Congratulations,” Commander Coleman said, though his tone was anything but congratulatory. “It’s not often a pilot takes down their instructor in their first battle. Let alone when that instructor is me. Well done, Moscow.”

The jubilant atmosphere that had filled the hangar before returned, and Moscow was once again at the center of it. The crowd behind him shouted their praise, slapping him on the shoulders and back in congratulations. Moscow took it in, smiling, though his eyes never left Coda.

Commander Coleman turned his gaze from Moscow to Coda. “You flew well. Whether by skill or sheer dumb luck, you flew together. And that’s how you’re supposed to do it. Together. For each other.” He appraised Moscow and Coda again, then apparently content with his ability to de-escalate the situation, he nodded. “Get out of those flight suits and shower up. Your debriefing starts in ten.”

With that, the commander strode past Coda without a word, exiting the hangar. Moscow and Coda watched each other for several long seconds before Moscow inclined his head and turned back to his fighter, putting an end to the situation.

Coda started back toward the locker room.

“Well, that was close,” Squawks said behind him.

Coda showered up, dressed, and grabbed a seat in the front row of the ready room. The rest of the flight’s pilots joined him, and to his surprise, so did the rest of the squadron. The commander’s evaluations were going to be a public as public could get.

Any remaining excitement from the flight quickly dissipated when the commander began his evaluation. He was ruthless, cutting into their strategy from every angle. Coda’s initial plan had been sound, except Coda and Tex never should have been flying alone.

“Had you been paired up like the other fighters, you would have had me long before the second pass,” Commander Coleman said, addressing Coda directly. “You have wingmen—use them. It’s no mistake Reno and NoNo killed three fighters to your one. They flew together, and the other pilots didn’t stand a chance.”

Then he graded their speed, approach vectors, accuracy, flight maneuvers, and reaction times—and declared them all subpar. He grounded every pilot in their flight until they completed the updated exercises and scenarios he’d plugged into the simulator.

“And you will stay grounded,” Commander Coleman continued, “until you’ve completed them to my satisfaction. Before the rest of you get too excited, I recommend you look at them too, because I expect you to learn from your fellow pilots. They were graded harshly today, but I assure you, the pilots who fly next will be graded even harder. And then harder after that. It’s a moving goalpost, ladies and gentlemen, but I still expect you to get there.”

That night at dinner, Coda watched as Moscow was surrounded by yet another group of admiring pilots. He was retelling the flight from his perspective, using his hands in place of fighters.

“You’re going to drive yourself nuts comparing yourself to him,” Noodle said.

“I’m not comparing myself to him,” Coda said.

“Of course you’re not,” Squawks said. “I mean, why else would you stare at him your entire dinner?”

“I haven’t been…” Coda’s face grew hot. How long had he been watching him? “Whatever. I’m just trying to figure out why everyone is so infatuated with him all of a sudden. It’s not like he shot down the most fighters.”

“No,” Noodle said. “He only shot down the best one.”

“But it was still my strategy that made it happen.”

“So?”

“So why is everyone all over him?”

“You mean why isn’t everyone all over you?” Tex said. “What do you want, Coda? To win? Or to win glory?”

Coda stewed on the question long after dinner and lights out. He lay on his bunk, his curtain closed, wide-awake. The question had been more insightful than Coda would have expected from Tex, whose slow speech and deep-Southern drawl did little to suggest he offered much in the way of intelligence. But after knowing Coda for little more than a few days, Tex had understood the feeling that plagued Coda every day.

When the commander had asked him why he’d joined the Forgotten, the answer had been so clear. But for some reason, life didn’t seem as simple as it had before. Things weren’t as cut and dry. Even his feud with Moscow was confusing. Were things getting better or staying the same? He couldn’t tell. And more than that, did he want them to get better?

Questions, questions, questions. So many questions. What do I want? To win or to win glory? And most perplexing of all, if he couldn’t have both, which would he choose?

31

Mess Hall, SAS Jamestown

Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

“You’re doing it again,” Noodle said. Then to everyone else at the table, “He’s doing it again.”

“Yes, he is,” Squawks said, his voice somewhere between amused and annoyed. “Hey! Dumbass!”

Something wet and slimy hit the side of Coda’s face. He glanced down, saw a glob of food paste on the stainless-steel table, then looked up at Squawks, who was still holding his food-stained spoon, smiling wryly.

“What?” Coda snapped, grabbing his napkin and wiping the meat paste off his face.

“You’re staring at him again.” Squawks nodded toward Moscow, who sat on the other side of the mess hall. “It’s getting creepy.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“You were staring,” Noodle said.

“You looked like you were about to ask him to dance,” Tex said.

“Got the hots for Moscow now?” Squawks joked. “Didn’t think he was your type, but I guess he is kind of a celebrity now.”

“Shut up,” Coda said.

“Seriously, Coda,” Squawks said. “You’re obsessed. You need a hobby.”

Coda snorted. “A hobby?”

“I’m not kidding, man. You may be a badass in the cockpit, but you’re kind of a stick in the mud outside it.”

“A stick in the mud?”

“Are you just going to repeat everything I say?” Squawks asked. “Yes, a stick in the mud. Boring. Dull. Someone who needs a life.