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

a handful of the remaining Baranyk fighters able to successfully navigate the debris cloud.

“Good headwork, sir,” Noodle said over the radio.

“We’re not done yet,” Coleman said. “Switch to missiles, and lock onto the enemy craft. Fire everything you have. We have to take out that ship.”

Coleman crested the bow of the Jamestown then brought his fighter around for his attack run. We can do this.

Coleman unloaded his entire arsenal. And so did his pilots. In one glorious moment, nearly one hundred missiles streaked toward the enemy vessel. With its point-defense cannons focusing on the Jamestown, the missiles wreaked havoc across its hull. Explosions—more than he could count—riddled the enemy ship, and as he streaked past the bow of the ship, he brought his fighter around, watching, waiting for some sign that the attack had been enough.

It started with what looked like a normal explosion. And then there was a second gout of flame. Then a third. Before he knew it, the entire ship was coming apart.

Coleman screamed into the radio, his voice mixing with the voices of the remaining fighters. They had done it. It had cost them the Oregon and nearly a quarter of their squadron, but they had destroyed the enemy vessel armed with the Baranyk weapon. Toavis had a chance.

“Jamestown,” Coleman said triumphantly, keying the entire squadron into the communication. “Prepare to launch drone fighters, and instruct the rest of the fleet to do the same.”

No answer came.

“Jamestown, acknowledge.”

Still no answer.

“Did the explosion knock out their communications?” one of his pilots offered.

Maybe. But the uneasy feeling seeping into his gut suggested otherwise.

“Jamestown actual, this is Commander Coleman. Release all drone fighters. Acknowledge.”

“Negative, Commander,” Captain Baez said. His voice was low, breathless. Defeated.

“Why not, sir?” Coleman said. “We just watched the Baranyk ship turn to slag. It’s time to press the advantage.”

“Because, Commander. That ship wasn’t the only one equipped with the weapon.”

“Say again, sir?” There had to be a mistake. They had unloaded everything they had on the ship. They didn’t have anything left.

“I said that ship wasn’t the only one equipped with the weapon. We’re still registering the Baranyk signal from at least one other source. Our drones are useless. It’s just us.”

It’s just us. But that won’t be enough.

Coleman’s reply died on his lips.

45

Ready Room, SAS Jamestown

Arradin System, Toavis

“We’re still registering the Baranyk signal from at least one other source,” Captain Baez said. “Our drones are useless. It’s just us.”

Coda saw Moscow looking at him out of the corner of his eye. He ignored him, trying to focus on what Captain Baez had just said. Another signal? Commander Coleman had just bet everything on the fact that the Baranyk ship they just destroyed was the only one equipped with the Disrupter. How could they repel the Baranyk forces now?

“Don’t do it,” Moscow said. “Don’t do it.”

“Don’t do what?” Coda asked.

“The commander’s going to order an assault on the other Baranyk carrier.”

Coda thought for a moment, trying to come up with another option. There wasn’t one. “He doesn’t have a choice.”

“Sure he does,” Moscow said. “Order the remaining fighters back to base for rearmament. It took every missile we had to destroy that carrier, and that was after it was already heavily damaged.”

“There’s not enough time. Even ten years ago, it took twenty minutes to rearm a single Nighthawk and re-launch. And that was when the crews were well versed in the process. How long would it take now? Thirty minutes? Forty? The battle will be over by then.”

“Then do it in waves,” Moscow said. “Ten fighters at a time.”

Coda thought for a moment. That made more sense, but he still didn’t think it would work. And the commander didn’t, either.

“All fighters,” Commander Coleman said. “Prepare to assault the second Baranyk carrier.”

“I knew it!” Moscow shouted. “Damn it, this isn’t a battle we can win.”

“He has to try,” Coda said. “That’s his job. That’s our job.”

“Fine,” Moscow said, casting him a frustrated look. “But he can’t win this way. He has to think outside the box, the same way he did when he used chaff against the incoming fighters.”

“What, though?”

“I don’t know.” Moscow pinched his forehead as if attempting to massage an idea into being. “I don’t know. But sometimes it’s not about sheer force. It’s about getting creative. Have you ever heard of a Molotov cocktail?”

“Of course,” Coda said. “They were used during World War II to help fight tanks.”

“Not exactly,” Moscow said. “They were actually created before then and gained notoriety when the Soviet Union invaded Finland. Molotov, who was the Foreign Minister of the Soviet Union and involved in the invasion, said that he was just providing aid to the starving Finns. The Finns knew it was a lie, of course, and attacked the invading tanks with what they called ‘Molotov bread baskets.’ The weapons worked so well, the Finns began mass-producing them, and the Molotov Bread Baskets became Molotov Cocktails. Point is, even the underequipped and outnumbered Finns were able to repel Soviet tanks with little more than glass jars filled with gasoline. That’s what we need.”

“Flaming jars of gas?”

“Something that turns a weakness into a strength,” Moscow said. “Or a strength into a weakness. The Molotov cocktail didn’t work because it was powerful. It worked because it exploited the tanks’ weaknesses.”

“The Baranyk carriers don’t have a weakness,” Coda said. “That’s the problem.”

“No,” Moscow said. “Everything has a weakness. But that’s not what I was thinking. What’s our biggest weakness?”

“Numbers,” Coda said slowly. “Numbers because our drones are inoperable.”

“Exactly.”

“Holy shit!” Coda said, finally understanding Moscow’s train of thought. “Moscow, that’s genius!” He jumped to his feet, rushing to the terminal on the wall of the ready room. Unlike his personal tablet, it was linked to the Jamestown’s shipboard communication.

“What are you doing?” Moscow asked.

Coda ignored him, punching in the correct frequency. When he had it correctly inputted, he opened the channel. “Commander Coleman? Commander Coleman, do you copy?”

“Who is this?” Commander Coleman asked.

Coda shot a look toward Moscow, whose eyes were