“No, sir. Not a problem at all. Plotting my landing now.”
Coda readjusted his flight path, aligning it with Hangar Bay 7C, then swung around so that he was flying parallel to it. Once his fighter and the Jamestown were traveling at matching speeds, the only thing he had to do was ease the fighter in, like an old car switching lanes on the highway—at eight thousand meters per second.
“Clear one, Coda,” the tower officer said. “Call the ball.”
“I’ve got the ball,” Coda said.
“Just like the simulator,” Commander Coleman said. “Trust your training, and you’ll be fine.”
It went against every instinct in Coda’s body, but trust his training, he did. The digital display on his HUD traced a line moving from left to right. His job was to keep a small circle inside a second, larger one. The farther out he was, the more leniency he had, but as he drew closer to the Jamestown, even the smallest movement had amplified effects.
Using the line on the HUD as his guide, Coda used his portside thrusters to ease his fighter starboard closer to the Jamestown. It was close enough now that he could make out the individual cannons lining its surface out of his peripheral vision. Coda kept his eyes locked on the ball, sweating as it veered up and down, side to side, fighting him as if the fighter itself were an energetic puppy that didn’t want to go back into its kennel.
His gaze never veering from his HUD, Coda felt the lights of the Jamestown more than he saw them. Having been in the black for an hour, he found them bright and oppressive. But he was inside the ship now, and squinting against the bright lights of the hangar, Coda brought the fighter gently onto the deck.
After several deep breaths, Coda looked to see if the commander had landed yet. He spotted him only a few meters away, already pulling off his flight helmet. He saw Coda looking and gave him a thumbs-up.
I did it, Coda thought, returning the gesture. I don’t know how, but I did it.
By the time they’d been towed back into the main hangar, Coda had removed his flight helmet and popped the cockpit hatch.
Commander Coleman met him at the bottom of the ladder. “Well done.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How are you feeling?”
“A little wet in the breeches, but other than that…”
Commander Coleman laughed. “The first landing is enough to make any pilot’s butthole pucker. We’ll continue to work on them, and before you know it, you’ll be able to land without leaving a mess inside your flight suit.” He turned to survey the hangar. “Chief!”
“Yes, sir,” the chief said, appearing behind Commander Coleman. “Here you are, sir.” He handed something to the commander, who in turn held it out to Coda.
“This is yours,” the commander said.
Coda took the small flight badge and studied it. Roughly six centimeters by four, it depicted a stylized pair of Nighthawks flying against the backdrop of the sun. Under the image were the words The Forgotten.
“We’ll have it sewn onto your flight suit,” the commander said. “You earned it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Coda said, never looking up. “What are the Forgotten?”
“We are, Coda. The war moved on without fighter pilots. The world left us behind. But where they have forgotten us, so has our enemy, and that will be their downfall. We are the Forgotten Squadron.”
Coda rubbed a reverent finger across the flight badge. Usually, only full pilots were given badges.
The Commander seemed to read his mind. “It doesn’t mean you’ve made the squadron yet, Lieutenant. But there aren’t a thousand people left in the world who have flown a Nighthawk, so as far as I’m concerned, you’re one of us.”
It was too much. During the days of manned starfighters, each squadron had its own badge, and Coda could remember early memories of donning his father’s flight jacket, looking at himself in the mirror, and dreaming of one day growing up to be just like him. That had been before the incident, but his father’s downfall had only increased his desire to earn a badge of his own.
“It’s… It’s amazing, sir,” Coda said, meeting the commander’s eye. “Thank you. I’ll wear it proudly.”
24
Mess Hall, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Coda set down his tray. As he slid into the metal chair, Noodle sucked in a sharp breath and held it. His eyes twinkled with amusement, darting in Coda’s direction. When Noodle didn’t release the breath, Coda finally took the bait.
“What’s he doing?”
“Breathe, Noodle!” Squawks said in an exaggerated impersonation of Commander Coleman. “Come on, Noodle! Just breathe! Breathe, goddamn it!”
Noodle burst into laughter, and Squawks joined him. A couple people sitting nearby looked at them, obviously wondering what the hell was so funny.
“You guys are assholes,” Coda said, which only made them laugh even harder. “Why am I even friends with you?”
“Oh, please,” Squawks said, wiping tears from his eyes. “This is exactly why. Someone has to keep you from believing your own bullshit.”
“You, maybe,” Coda said. “But not him. Noodle is more of the cool, quiet type.”
“It's true.” Noodle nodded.
“Yeah, you're a real rock star,” Squawks said sarcastically.
“I take it you guys were listening?” Coda asked.
It hadn’t been more than ninety minutes since his flight—just enough time to shower, change, and go through a short preliminary debriefing with Commander Coleman. The full evaluation would come later that night, once more of the pilots had flown.
“Every glorious second of it,” Squawks said. “Breathe, Coda! Breathe!”
Squawks and Noodle erupted into laughter again.
“I'm glad I didn't say what I really was feeling then,” Coda said, unsure if either of the two assholes even heard him.
“Don't let them razz you too bad, Coda.”
Coda looked up to see an older pilot wearing the standard gray flight suit of Commander Coleman’s squadron. With thinning salt-and-pepper hair and a face sporting lines of age, he was easily one of the oldest in the squadron. Coda didn't
