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

The simple fact of the matter was Coda had a blind spot the size of the Milky Way where Moscow was concerned. He’d abandoned the battle at large, focusing all of his effort and energy on shooting down the one fighter that would bring him the most personal gain. And it had cost him. Again.

“When you’re in battle,” Captain Hughes had said after Coda had beaten Moscow to a bloody pulp in the Terran Fleet Academy corridors, “your fellow wingmen need to have absolute trust in you. There’s no room for grudges. There’s no room for ego. And there sure as hell isn’t room for pilots who aren’t capable of learning from their mistakes.”

Captain Hughes had been right. Not only was there no room for personal animosity, but Coda also couldn’t learn from his mistakes.

The realization was like a blow to the gut. Coda thought he’d been doing well. God knew there’d been times when he’d wanted to slam Moscow’s head into the deck, but he’d held back. He’d even stopped a fight between Moscow and Uno in Dr. Naidoo’s classroom. But it was all fool’s gold. When push came to shove, Coda could always be counted on to follow Moscow into a foxhole. This time, neither he nor Moscow had died. Whiskey had.

There was no question who the review board would conclude was at fault. Bile crept into the back of Coda’s throat. He could taste its sour burn. He was responsible.

“The hero is awake,” Noodle said as he strode into sick bay with Squawks and Tex.

Coda looked at his friends. The words cut deep. “Don’t feel like a hero.”

“Please,” Squawks said. “Everyone’s talking about it. Even Moscow doesn’t have anything bad to say for once.”

“Yeah?” Coda asked. “And what are they saying about Whiskey?”

His friends’ smiles and easygoing nature vanished, and it quickly became obvious that they had talked prior to coming in. Make sure Coda was in good spirits. Don’t pull him into the muck with everyone else.

“Nobody’s saying much,” Squawks said. “You know how it is. Everyone acts like nothing happened.”

“Well, it happened,” Coda said, then he told them about the pending investigation.

“I was wondering why everyone was grounded,” Noodle said.

“It’s standard procedure,” Tex said. “Maybe not grounding the entire squadron, but that’s how these things go. The top brass needs to find something to cover their ass.”

“You mean someone to blame,” Coda said.

“It’s really not a big deal,” Tex said.

“Not a big deal?” Coda repeated. “Tex, Whiskey is dead.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” Tex said. “I was talking about the review itself. I’ve been through one too.”

“You have?” Squawks said. “For what?”

“Failure to complete a training syllabus,” Tex said as if reciting the description from an official memo. “But they can be called for almost any reason. Too many SODs, a failure to meet goals, actions discrediting space aviation, mishaps—whatever blows their hair back.”

“Exhibiting a trend of unsafe behavior that culminated in the death of one of your squad mates?” Coda said. “That’s what me and Moscow are under investigation for.”

Tex whistled. “That’s not good, Coda. That means they’ll be elbows deep in your cookie jar. They’ll dig into your whole life. Not just what’s happened on the Jamestown, but everything. The academy. Your school. Your…”

“My what?”

“Your family, Coda,” Noodle said.

“You think they’ll rope his dad into this?” Squawks asked.

All eyes went back to Tex, but the older man looked like he was trying to find a place to hide. Unlike Squawks and Noodle, who had spoken with Coda about his father on a few occasions, the subject was still taboo to the older pilot.

“I…” Tex stammered. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Noodle said. “He had nothing to do with it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Coda said softly. “It’s never mattered. Whatever weakness flowed through him flows through me. That’s how everyone’s always acted. How everyone has ever looked at me.”

“That’s not true,” Noodle said.

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” Squawks said. “Noodle is right. Forty-eight pilots and Commander Coleman himself just watched you risk your life to save Moscow’s. Whatever they say, your squad mates know you’re nothing like your father.”

“We’ll see,” Coda said. It was the only thing he could think of. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, but he didn’t have anything else to talk about. Except for the vids on his terminal and the random conversation with the medical staff, nothing else had happened. There was nothing to share with his friends.

“Keep your head up,” Tex said. “You’ll get a chance to speak your piece. Just know what you want to say before you go in there, and you should be all right.”

“You don’t think they’re coming here, do you?” Noodle asked.

“Well,” Tex said, “that’s how mine were done.”

“Yeah, but you were at a training facility with training staff. We’re light-years away from the top brass.”

“That’s true,” Tex said. “Huh. I don’t know what they’re going to do then.”

The sudden uncertainty did little to improve Coda’s mood. At least in a face-to-face conversation, he would have had a chance to make his argument. The board could see his remorse, and he could explain what had been going through his mind. He would have been able to attack the questions about his father head-on and quell any similarities that could be drawn between the two.

“I bet they do it through written questions,” Noodle said. “They’ll get their information, and it’ll be cheaper than shuttling them out here.”

“That makes sense,” Tex said. He turned his attention back to Coda. “Know what you want to say, and say it. That’s the best advice I can give. And be honest. They can smell bullshit like it’s stuck to the bottom of your boot.”

37

Private Room, SAS Jamestown

Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit

Noodle’s prediction that the review board would use written questions and statements was only partially true. When the official questions came in, they did arrive in a written format but only to supplement the video messages they accompanied. The commander brought Coda, who was still recovering from