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

wide with disbelief. “It’s Coda, sir. We have—”

“Coda, this is a private—”

“Sir, please—”

“—channel. You are to confine yourself—”

“Moscow and I know how to defeat the Baranyk.”

There was a slight pause.

“Out with it then, Lieutenant.”

“The drones, sir,” Coda said.

Commander Coleman cursed. “The drones are inoperable. Now remove your—”

“No,” Coda said. “The drones are not inoperable. We just can’t navigate them once they’re outside our hull. But this is space, sir. Nothing can stop them once they’re moving.”

“You’re not making any sense, Lieutenant. You have three seconds.”

“We launch the drones at the ship, sir. They’re kamikazes. Space-age Molotov cocktails. And they’ll inflict just as much damage as our missiles. Maybe more, depending how much kinetic energy we can create.”

Coda held his breath. One second. Two. Four. He looked at Moscow helplessly. It was their best idea. Their only idea. If Commander Coleman didn’t use it, if he didn’t appreciate Coda’s butting in, then Coda was sure he had just doomed any chance he would have at ever piloting a Nighthawk again.

“Captain Baez,” Commander Coleman said. “Are you listening to this?”

“I am, Commander.”

“How many drones do we have on board?”

“Two squadrons of pilots,” Captain Baez said. “With twice as many drones.”

Two squadrons. Forty-eight pilots. Ninety-six drones. And that was just aboard the Jamestown. Coda’s heart lurched in his chest. They had more than enough drones. They had hope. They could win.

“Make it happen, Lieutenant,” Commander Coleman said.

Coda beamed. “Yes, sir.”

“We’re counting on you, Lieutenant. You understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Good. Get down to the Drone Operation Center, and radio me when you’re set.”

“Yes, sir.” Coda ended the transmission then turned to face Moscow, who was wearing a grin of his own. “We did it.”

“Not yet,” Moscow said. “But we gave ourselves a chance.”

46

Drone Operation Center, SAS Jamestown

Arradin System, Toavis

The Drone Operation Center reminded Coda of the Coliseum back at the Terran Fleet Academy. Rows of steep stadium seating circled a three-dimensional imaging display. Only here, there were no spectators. Coda and Moscow had arrived only moments before, finding the display already showing the battle and the drone pilots plugged in.

The Jamestown continued to defend itself against the enemy fighters that remained from the destroyed Baranyk carrier, but it was otherwise on the outskirts of the battle. Nearer to the planet, the remains of the human fleet were engaged with three Baranyk carriers in orbit, and even with numbers squarely on their side, they were showing signs of losing the battle. The human ships took heavy fire, burning in multiple locations, their once-pristine hulls pocked and damaged, smoke spewing from them like steam from a kettle.

Coda and Moscow remained on a platform at the base of the image, the seating spiraling up around them. Unlike the Nighthawks, which had to be manually loaded into the launch tubes, the drones were already preloaded, their activation handled by their pilots remotely.

As the last of the pilots settled into their seats, Coda began his briefing. “We don’t have a lot of time, and our mission, as simple as it may be, is critical to the success of this battle. As we speak, the Jamestown is navigating toward the Baranyk ship equipped with the Disrupter. Once in position, we will launch our drones, piloting them at full thrust into a collision course with the Baranyk carrier itself.”

“Won’t the weapon render all controls useless?” one of the drone pilots asked.

Unable to tell which pilot had asked the question, Coda looked in the general direction of the voice. “Yes, but the Baranyk signal isn’t omnidirectional. It needs to be pointed at its target. That will give us the precious time needed to plot our course of attack. Any other questions?”

“How long are we talking?”

“From the moment our drones are spotted? Two to three seconds. Maybe. We can’t count on more than five from the moment our drones leave the launch tubes.”

Hushed voices filled the large space as the pilots muttered their disbelief.

“Fortunately,” Coda said above the din, “our target is huge and vulnerable. We’re not fighter pilots here. We’re shooting a gun. Just point it at its target, and let it fly.”

There were no further questions after that, and Coda sat down at his own station beside Moscow. “You ready to do this?”

“Just like our days back at the academy.”

“Only now, we’re on the same side,” Coda said.

“I can hear the Baranyk crying for mercy already.”

The world as Coda saw it disappeared as he slid on his VR helmet. Gone was the Drone Operation Center, replaced by the first-person view of the inside of a drone cockpit. After spending so much time in the Nighthawk, Coda needed several moments to refamiliarize himself with the view. He brought his drone online then activated his radio, patching in the rest of the drone pilots into Commander Coleman’s squadron’s line.

“Coda to Commander Coleman. We’re ready, sir.”

“Excellent,” Commander Coleman said. “Prepare to launch on my mark.”

Coda shifted in his seat, listening to the accompanying radio chatter. Commander Coleman and Captain Baez were working through the intricacies of the plan, moving the Jamestown into position.

For the first time since radioing the commander, nerves fluttered in his stomach. His arms and legs felt weak, and he felt like he needed to throw up, piss, or both. Steadying his breathing, he put himself through a quick relaxing exercise.

The thought of sitting in that office back at the academy brought a smile to his lips. So much had changed since those days, not the least of which was his relationship with Moscow. Things had been bad then had become worse, and now they sat side by side, having come up with a battle plan that would save the other members of their squadron.

“Still with me, Coda?” Commander Coleman asked.

“Still here, sir. Waiting for your order.”

“Show them what you’ve got,” Commander Coleman said. “Mark!”

Someone other than Coda handled the launch, but at the commander’s order, the launch tube became a blur, and at one-sixteenth-of-a-second intervals, he and the rest of the forty-nine pilots were hurled into the black.

There was no