Coda ran Moscow and Bear through the simulator next, with the former flying lead. They weren’t nearly so smooth, lacking the training and experience that Reno and NoNo had benefited from, but they weren’t completely clueless, either. Having spent dozens of extra hours in the simulator flying with each other, they knew each other’s styles well, even if their instincts were often at odds with one another.
He didn’t have time to run through the simulation with Tex, so rather than have the other man fly his wing, Coda opted for another strategy. If the others were his scalpels, cutting into the enemy with precise, synchronized attacks, then Tex would be his bat, ready to crush any unfortunate fighters flying into his strike zone.
An hour before flight, they began their preflight routine. Commander Coleman sat in the ready room but made no effort to instruct, direct, or review their preflight information. Coda stepped into the role, ensuring that each of his pilots had memorized their flight information and that there wouldn’t be any accidents. After they’d confirmed their information, they stepped into the locker room and suited up. By 1850, they were climbing into their cockpits, ready to be loaded into the launch tubes. Once loaded, Coda radioed his pilots and had them perform systems checks.
“All right, Jamestown Tower,” Coda said after everyone had confirmed they were green across the board. “We are go for launch.
“Copy that, Coda,” the tower said. “You are go for launch at quarter-second intervals. Prepare for launch in five, four, three…”
Coda didn’t listen to the rest. He settled into his seat, waiting for the sudden but welcomed g-forces to slam into his body like a stack of bricks. Maybe it was because of his time in the gym. Maybe it was the growth hormones that strengthened his body from the inside out. Or maybe it was just his state of mind. But no matter the reason, when the forces came, they wrapped him like a warm blanket, comforting him.
He’d been anxious before. Now he was calm. At peace. The commander was right. Flying was in his blood. He was born for this.
28
Cockpit, Nighthawk
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B
Six X-23 Nighthawks shot out of the bow of the Jamestown, entering space at quarter-second intervals. It took one-point-five seconds from the time the first fighter entered space to the last.
“All right,” Coda said, plotting a course that moved them away from the Jamestown toward the coordinates outlined in the mission briefing. “Form up, and keep your eyes peeled. They’re out here somewhere.”
Silence stretched out before them, interrupted only by the slight rumble of their Shaw Drive thrusters and the soft sounds of breathing through Coda’s helmet speakers. The sea of stars and image of the ever-shrinking orange globe behind them might have been relaxing if they hadn’t been flying into battle.
“Contact!” NoNo bellowed as a group of red dots appeared on Coda’s HUD. “I’ve got six bogeys, negative-Z twelve degrees. Thirty thousand kilometers and closing.”
Coda adjusted the battle map in his HUD, switching the battle plane from the original plane to the new one between his fighters and the enemy bogeys. Once completed, he sent it to the rest of his flight, using his power as flight leader to automatically switch theirs, ensuring they all continued to operate under the same information.
“Copy, NoNo. Let’s go get ’em.” Coda brought his fighter into an intercept course with the incoming enemy, the rest of his flight falling into formation behind him. “Fighter pairs. Just like we practiced. Tex, you and I will play centerfield.”
Several affirmatives came through the coms at once, and Coda dug himself deeper into the gel seat. He had three seconds before the enemy vessels were in firing range, but since they were on a direct heading, their combined speed prevented missile lock. It was all guns.
“Let’s see if we can break them up,” Coda said. “Fox-four!”
Coda thumbed the firing switch to guns and pulled the trigger. The cockpit came alive, rumbling as the nose-mounted M-66 cannon hurled thirty-millimeter rounds at the incoming enemy to the tune of four thousand rounds per minute. They were simulated rounds, of course, all tracked and cataloged by their onboard computers, but the effect felt very, very real.
The X-23 held only three hundred rounds, so he kept his trigger finger light, shooting in controlled bursts that lasted only a fraction of a second. The firing bursts had their desired effect, and two seconds from contact, the enemy formation broke apart. Two fighter pairs broke off in opposite directions, veering to the three- and nine-o’clock positions relative to Coda’s incoming squadron. The last pair held course, splitting Coda’s formation down the center.
“Break!” Coda bellowed, and as one, his formation broke apart.
Reno and NoNo who had taken the dash-3 and -4 positions directly behind Coda’s portside wing, brougt their fighters around and went after the bogey that had veered off to their left. Moscow and Bear mirrored their movement, going after the fighter to their right, while Coda and Tex dove above and below the battle plane, taking opposite routes but both making for the third pair that had split their formation.
The g-forces were incredible, slamming Coda into his gel seat hard enough that black spots crept into his vision. Coda’s G-suit tightened in response, constricting around his extremities, preventing his blood from rushing out of his brain. Without the suit, he would have lost consciousness; instead, he felt as though he were being squeezed in an old trash compactor. It was uncomfortable, but he was alert.
Completing the turn, Coda found that the enemy fighter pair had broken apart, making for opposite ends of the battle. Coda keyed on the nearest one. The pilot brought the fighter around level with the battle plane. The angle left Coda’s flank open, and if he had been any slower, the enemy fighter would have managed missile lock. Instead, Coda brought his fighter around, setting himself up on another head-on course.
As he and the other
