Coda felt his face contort in confusion. Fleet Intelligence harbored some of the smartest men and women the human race had to offer, and if anyone could solve the latest riddle, it was them. He was no mental slouch, but he wasn’t qualified to assist in any intelligence efforts, either.
“Intelligence is working on ways to counter the device so that our ships can retain communication or ways to boost the strength of our signal so that the drones are unaffected when the enemy attempts to use their weapon. But that’s not for us to worry about. That’s not our mission. We’re the backup plan. Hell, we’re the backup plan to the backup plan. The redundancy in case everything Intelligence comes up with fails. We’re another kind of experiment.”
“And what kind of experiment is that, sir?” The words were out of Coda’s mouth before he knew it. Squawks and Noodle looked at him, their mouths agape, leaning away as if attempting to distance themselves from him.
“The best kind, Coda. The kind that’ll put all of you into the cockpits of real starfighters. The kind that will allow you to become real pilots, just as I was.”
Commander Coleman’s words cut to Coda’s very core. He wants me to be a pilot. Not a drone pilot—a fighter pilot. Just like my father. Coda never would have thought it possible. Hell, since the advent of drone warfare, it hadn’t been possible. Now suddenly placed on the same treacherous path as his father, Coda’s doubts resurfaced.
His blood runs through my veins. What if I’m just as weak? What if I fail? What if I cause death and destruction just as he did?
It was almost unimaginable. If Coda failed, the O’Neils would never have a place among the military again. They would be disgraced. Discarded. Hated. Coda tried not to think about the riots in his hometown, about the vile threats and vandals terrorizing what little peace his mother still had.
I can’t do it. I won’t. I can’t risk it.
Even if he avoided the traps of his father, Fleet Intelligence wanted to put Coda and ninety-nine other rookies into the cockpit of a death machine. Casualties among fighter pilots had been the highest among all Fleet personnel and for good reason. The extreme conditions pilots faced in a starfighter were as dangerous as anything the Baranyk could throw at them. Even with inertial dampeners and other systems meant to lessen the strain, the physical toll alone had accounted for nearly ten percent of all fighter deaths, and many of the pilots who had survived suffered lifelong ailments. Flying a starfighter was akin to looking into the face of death itself.
But…
Some of the most renowned military figures had been pilots. It was no coincidence that Coda had recognized Commander Coleman on sight. He could have done the same with a handful of other legendary pilots. Of everyone he looked up to, of all the prestigious drone pilots fighting on the front, he knew their call signs and had maybe even seen a picture or interview with them once or twice, but none of them were as recognized as those original starfighter pilots. If Coda’s goal was restoring honor to the family name, what better chance would he have?
I have too much riding on this.
It was almost poetic, in a sense. He’d dreamed about righting his father’s wrongs, and now he had an opportunity to do it from the same cockpit.
Can I really turn that down?
Coda found himself nodding. Nodding in excitement. Nodding in agreement. Ready to get started.
“I see a lot of nervous faces,” Commander Coleman said slowly. “And rightfully so. I’m not going to sugarcoat it. This isn’t going to be easy. Chances are some of you won’t survive. Statistics say that five of you will stroke out before you ever see battle. And even then, the cards are stacked against you. In my day, a pilot spent six weeks at Advanced Preflight Instruction, then six months at Primary Flight School, and another eighteen weeks at Advanced Flight Training. We have twenty-six weeks.”
Nervous whispers filtered throughout the room.
“The odds are slim,” Commander Coleman continued. “I understand that. Fleet Intelligence understands that. Which is why there are one hundred candidates in this room. Out of all of you, only twenty-four will make the squadron. The rest of you will receive new orders. But unlike you, I understood the challenges and expectations when I accepted this post. I understood the odds and the limitations of our timeline. But I also understood what was at stake. There’s a very real chance that Fleet Intelligence will fail in their attempt to counteract the Baranyk weapon, and if that happens, we are the only thing that stands in the way of our fleet’s total destruction.”
Commander Coleman paused, letting the words sink in. He knew, just as Coda did, that when it was put like that, when they were faced with the ugly, terrible, terrifying truth that their fleet’s destruction meant the eradication of the human race, nobody would quit. They were all here for reason, and they would give it their all or die trying.
“Look around, nuggets. The men and women in this room are the best and brightest fighter minds in the fleet. I personally picked every single one of you, because if there’s anyone who can learn to fly a starfighter under these conditions, it’s you. We will become the most fearsome squadron in the Sol Fleet. Now grab some food and some sleep, because we begin FAM Phase tomorrow at oh six hundred. Dismissed.”
8
Corridor, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Coda was so deep in thought as he left the ready room that he didn’t hear Moscow fall
