As the weeks wore on, Coda settled into his new routine. Because the squadron had only two instructors, he was lucky to go up every other day, so when he wasn’t in class or at the gym, he spent most of his time in the simulator. But after he’d tasted the real thing, simulated flying couldn’t scratch the itch. Flying had become a drug and he needed his fix.
When he had gone up the second time, the commander spent the first part of the training session putting him through the same basic flight maneuvers and critiquing him on the finer details, but they spent the majority of their time doing touch-and-go landings aboard the Jamestown. Coda flew approach after approach, getting ten for the price of one. It was terrifying work, but by the end of the fourth week Coda could approach without pissing himself.
Once each of the pilots had gone up twice, they began group instruction, flying courses and beginning formations. Then, when the commander was confident they wouldn’t accidentally crash into each other, began dogfighting.
Their only reprieve was that their flights were no longer scored and tiered. They had progressed to a review phase, and as Commander Coleman and Lieutenant Commander Chavez had done during one-on-one post-Simulation debriefings, they instructed the pilots instead of graded them. But like all breaks, Coda knew it wouldn’t last.
26
Commander Coleman’s Quarters, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Coda took a deep breath, straightened his uniform, and knocked on Commander Coleman’s door.
“Come in,” Commander Coleman said as the door slid open. Coda stepped in and snapped to attention. “At ease. And have a seat.” The commander gestured at the unoccupied armchair opposite the one the commander had obviously been sitting in.
Coda sat. Commander Coleman had turned his back to Coda and fumbled with something on his bookcase. His eyes drifting from the commander to the small room, Coda made a mental note that it was the second time he had been summoned to the commander’s personal quarters, and for the first time, he realized the older man didn't have a personal office.
The realization surprised him. Commander Coleman was a true, real-life war hero on a secret mission to construct a squadron that might very well save humanity, and he couldn't even get a personal office? Secrecy, it appeared, didn't afford luxuries.
When the commander turned around, he was holding two glasses, one filled with a brown liquid, the other with water. He handed the one filled with water to Coda and sat down in the chair across from him.
“Thank you, sir,” Coda said, oddly thankful he wasn’t holding the glass with the alcohol. It wasn’t that he wasn’t of age—he was, even if the United States federal government hadn’t long since lowered the drinking age for all enlisted personnel to eighteen years old. Drinking hadn’t been accepted at the academy, and despite stories of fighter jocks being heavy-drinking womanizers, Coda’s experience in the Forgotten had been very different—though he supposed that was likely due to their equally different training circumstances.
“You’re doing well,” Commander Coleman said, leveling his gaze on him. “You completed FAM Phase by the skin of your teeth, but you were near the top of your class in the simulator, and you’ve made the transition to real flight look surprisingly easy.”
Coda let the smile wash over his face but played it modest. “I don’t know about easy, sir.”
“Oh?” Commander Coleman took a sip. “Then tell me how you’re feeling.”
“I feel good, sir. Confident.”
“That’s good. A timid pilot is a danger to themselves and everyone they fly with.”
Coda felt a stab of guilt as his mind wandered to Uno. A lack of confidence had been his friend’s undoing. It had rendered him slow and tentative—“mechanical,” as Uno had put it. Perhaps the commander was right.
“You don’t have to worry about that with me, sir. I feel… at home out there.”
Commander Coleman took another sip, his eyes never leaving Coda. “Is that why you’re here?”
Coda cocked his head to the side, caught off guard by the question. What was the Commander really asking? “I’m here to become the best fighter pilot in the squadron and protect the fleet, sir.”
“No.” Commander Coleman shook his head. “Not here. I mean here, fighting in this war.”
Coda stalled, taking a sip of his water. He hadn’t openly expressed his feelings on too many occasions, though they probably wouldn’t come as any great surprise, either. After all, Buster had guessed his true motivations, and he hadn’t exactly the fastest ship in the hangar. Would it help his cause if the commander knew the truth?
Commander Coleman had flown with his father and had spoken highly of him. Maybe in this instance, separating himself from his father would be counterproductive.
“You obviously know my father’s story,” Coda said, deciding to take the chance.
Commander Coleman nodded. “It couldn’t have been easy growing up under that shadow.”
“It wasn’t,” Coda agreed. “Though it wasn’t as bad at home as it was at the academy. Either way, when I’m done, the O’Neil name won’t be something to be cursed. It’ll be celebrated. Revered.”
“You want to be a hero.”
“No.” Coda shook his head. “I don’t want to be a hero. I want to restore honor to my family name. Being a hero is just the quickest way to do it.”
“That’s a very noble goal.”
Coda shrugged. Something about the way Commander Coleman had spoken the words made Coda uncertain if the other man truly meant them or if the commander was somehow poking fun at him.
“You know I flew with him.”
“That’s what you said, sir.”
“The man I
