“Beyond that, they are thought to be tunnel dwellers since in our first encounter with them, they had primarily lived underground, going undetected for months. Since other Baranyk colonies were found underground, the evidence seems to support that theory. Unfortunately, since the fleet’s ability to probe belowground remains greatly limited, the Baranyk remain nearly impossible to detect, and that remains one of our biggest challenges with the war.”
“Good,” Dr. Naidoo said.
“Show off,” Squawks muttered.
“But spoken as if read out of a book,” Dr. Naidoo said. “Tell me what you know, not what you’ve read.”
“I… um…” Uno shifted in his seat. “I guess I don’t understand the question, ma’am.”
“Tell me its strengths. Its weaknesses. Tell me what they want or why we are at war with them.”
Uno chewed on his lip, his face making a pained expression, as if not knowing the answer hurt.
“Anyone?”
Nobody took the bait.
“It’s okay,” Dr. Naidoo said. “We train you to fight, not to think. It doesn’t matter why we’re at war with them if those we are at war with threaten everything we know and love, does it?”
Several pilots voiced their agreement.
“But back to you,” Dr. Naidoo continued. “You were trained to fly a drone, to fight distantly, not hand to hand. If you were a squad of marines, you would have no doubt received something similar to what I’m going to teach you, but you didn’t. You didn’t need to. But if you are to be pilots, you will have a very real chance of meeting one of these things in person, and I’m going to make sure you’re ready.”
“Ma’am,” Ginger said. He was one of the experienced drone pilots who had joined them from the front. “We’re fighter pilots. We’ll be blowing the Baranyk out of space. Why would we ever run into one in person?”
“A fair question,” Dr. Naidoo said. “Have you been trained on ejection procedures yet?”
“No.”
“Well, let’s just say if you’re successful, you may be moored on an alien moon or planet. And if you are shot down, you can bet it’ll be Baranyk-infested territory. If you want to survive until a rescue team can be assembled, you’ll need to know how the Baranyk think, how they hunt, and where they’re vulnerable.”
“Understood, ma’am.”
“Make no mistake,” she continued. “This is not weapons training. It’s far more important than that. So download the course curriculum onto your tablets, and we will begin.”
An uncomfortable knot settled into Coda’s stomach.
Learn to fly, Commander Coleman had said. Save the world. Reclaim your honor.
No one had ever said anything about battling the Baranyk in person. One-on-one. Maybe Uno had been right all those nights ago. Maybe he should have read the fine print.
17
Barracks, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Coda returned to his bunk, mentally and physically exhausted. The two hours of class with Dr. Naidoo had been followed by four more with a different instructor. That alone would have been enough, but the advanced mathematics and physics lessons had been followed by an evening workout, dinner, and evening debriefing. By the time he staggered into the barracks, he felt as though he’d been run through the wringer, so his heart dropped when his tablet vibrated and he read its message.
My quarters. 2100. And it was signed by Commander Coleman.
The commander wanted to see him. Why? Even after performing well in the latest simulator scenarios, Coda was still below the failure line, but then again, so was everyone else in their quartet, and nobody else seemed to have received the message.
The incident in the classroom then?
That didn't make sense, either. It had been little more than a shoving match, and between Moscow and Uno more than anyone else. Why would Coda be summoned and not one of them?
Commander Coleman’s quarters were near the rest of the barracks in their semiprivate section of the ship. Coda stopped outside the door. He looked for a communicator, something similar to what they'd had at the academy, but didn’t find one and resorted to knocking.
The door slid open, exposing a small room with a bunk set into the bulkhead. A writing table, bookshelf, and two chairs spaced around a circular table filled the room. Commander Coleman sat in one of the chairs.
“Sir,” Coda said, stepping into the room and snapping to attention.
“Have a seat.”
“Thank you, sir.” Coda made for the second chair and sat down.
“Dr. Naidoo said she walked into an issue in her classroom today.”
It is about the scuffle then. Strange.
“It was nothing, sir. A few pilots were jarring, and it got a little out of hand. Nothing to be worried about.”
“Nothing to worry about.” The commander chewed on the words. “Dr. Naidoo said Lieutenant Krylov was at the center of it.”
“I suppose, sir.”
“There seems to have been a number of incidents between you two.”
“Yes, sir.”
Commander Coleman took a deep breath, rose from his seat, then made for the small bookshelf where a bottle of brown liquor waited. He poured two fingers’ worth into a snifter, swirled its contents, and returned to his seat. After taking a sip, he exhaled through his teeth.
“You see,” Commander Coleman said at last, “I've got a problem. My squadron is divided, and you and Moscow are at the heart of it. That's not going to work. The pilots of this squadron need to have complete and absolute trust in their wingmen. And I’m not talking about belief, Coda—they need to know that they can count on those they fly with. Do you think they can do that now?”
“No, sir.”
“I agree. Unfortunately, it seems you and Moscow are more than just academy adversaries.”
“Sir?”
“Do you know what the SAS Benjamin Franklin is, Coda?”
Coda’s blood went cold. “The Benjamin Franklin, sir?
