“Hawk One, Fox Two,” Coda said, squeezing the trigger. A yellow blip appeared on his HUD, shooting toward the enemy fighter. Half a second later, the fighter’s cockpit lights went dark, and the fighter disappeared from the battle map. “Splash one!”
The enemy fighter vanquished, Coda reassessed the battle map just as another enemy fighter disappeared from the battle map.
“Splash two!” Moscow shouted.
He and Bear harried the lone fighter left of their original battle pair while Reno and NoNo were involved in a series of complex flight maneuvers with the second pair struggling to gain the advantage.
“Keep it tight!” Reno yelled. “Don’t get acute!”
Acute meant Reno’s wingman was too wide to be in firing position. A quick glance at his HUD showed that Reno was manipulating the enemy’s flight course in a tactic as old as aerial combat. Time-tested and time-approved, it was still the foundational tactic of space combat.
“You’re too acute, NoNo! You’re too acute! Goddamn it! Break off and come back around.”
“We’ve got a tail, Bear!” Moscow shouted. “You see it?”
“Uh…” Coda could almost hear Bear processing the information on her battle map. Precious moments ticked by as she searched for the enemy vessel. “Oh, no! It’s coming around on our tail. Moscow, it’s on our asses.”
“Break formation,” Moscow said. “See if you can draw it off. I’ll stay on this one. Tex, I think it’s time you brought your bat.”
“Copy that, Moscow,” Tex said. “I’ve got your back.”
Coda grinned. His loose strategy had so far proved effective. Now it was up to the individual pilots themselves to ensure their victory.
Bear’s fighter altered course, attempting to draw the incoming enemy vessel away, but to everyone’s surprise, he stayed on Moscow.
“Tex!” Moscow shouted. “Tex, I need—”
“On it,” Tex said. “Three seconds.”
“I don’t have three seconds.” Moscow darted left and right in a series of evasive maneuvers, delaying the inevitable, all while trying to keep the other enemy fighter in his sights. “He’s almost got missile lock! Tex, where the hell are you?”
Before Tex could respond, the red marker on Coda’s HUD suddenly disappeared.
“Splash three!” Tex shouted. “You’re clear, Moscow. I repeat, you’re clear.”
“Nice shooting, Tex,” Moscow said, relief palpable in his voice. “Bear, you still out there?”
“Still here, Moscow.”
“Good. I’m sending updated vector information now. We can’t let Coda and Tex have all the fun. There’s only three left.”
“Copy that.”
Coda let the words wash over him, keeping his eyes on the larger battle, never listening to any one thing. There was too much going on, too much to keep track of. He had to trust that his brain was able to keep it organized and prioritize what needed to be prioritized. That was easier said than done, though.
Coda screamed as two fighters cut upward through the battle plane, only meters from the nose of his Nighthawk. The thrusters of the other craft cooked the glass of his cockpit, skyrocketing the temperature inside to a near boil. Coda glanced back at the battle map to make sure he wasn’t about to become an improbable casualty of a space collision—and saw how truly messy the battle was.
The battle was like a knot that had been tied over itself again and again, the fighters pulling the ends of the string tighter and tighter. In the infiniteness of space, the battle became a single point of violence less than twenty kilometers in the diameter—something impossibly small at their speeds.
Still recovering from the near collision, Coda didn’t notice the enemy fighter opening fire. By nothing more than an impossible stroke of luck, the digital projectiles missed, and the enemy fighter zipped past him, but not before Coda caught a single important detail.
Where the wings of both flights were accented with the gold of the Sol Fleet, this one was accented with red. Unlike the rest of the pilots in the squadron, this pilot had earned his colors—he’d shot down enemy fighters. He’d fought real battles. Had drawn real blood. The enemy fighter was piloted by none other than Commander Coleman himself.
29
Cockpit, Nighthawk
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B
Coda watched as Commander Coleman brought his fighter around, angling for another pass. Such were the ways of fighter combat, both pilots attempting to outmaneuver the other, often making several runs until one of them made a mistake. Unfortunately, Coda knew that if either of them was going to make a mistake, it would be him. If he stood any shot at defeating the commander, he needed help.
“Tex,” Coda said, “where are you at?”
“Occupied.”
“I’m going to need a hand over here.”
“Bite off more than you could chew?”
“You could say that.”
“Fifteen seconds.”
“Negative,” Coda said. “This one’s too important. Break off and meet me…” Coda keyed in on a point on his HUD and sent the coordinates to Tex. “There.”
Tex sighed. “Breaking off. Rendezvous in six seconds.”
Coda cursed silently. Even six seconds was too long. He and Commander Coleman would be coming around for another pass by then, and already, the commander’s more precise flight paths were giving him the advantage. He would have Coda dead in his sights before Tex could come to his aid. Worse, if Coda broke off his attack and tried to run the commander would have a clear path to his six.
This is why you don't fly solo. Then again, the commander was flying solo too, and that gave him a chance. In theory.
Coda and Commander Coleman’s fighters raced toward each other. Coda squeezed the trigger again, loosing another triple burst. But unlike the nugget pilot, Commander Coleman didn’t flinch. The commander mirrored Coda’s strategy, letting off a burst of his own. Both pilots missed, their fighters zipping past each other faster than their eyes could register.
Coda started his turn almost immediately. Eyeing his HUD, he saw the commander
