“Tex?”
“Coming. Hang on.”
“Trying…” Coda’s voice was strained by the excessive G’s of the turn. “He's closing… Tex… the commander…”
“Say again, Coda,” Tex said. “The commander? You want me to fire at the commander?”
“Yes!”
“This is going to be fun.”
Coda leveled off and turned, adjusting course to come around into another pass, but the commander had already completed his maneuver and was coming in on Coda’s flank. He would have missile lock any moment.
Coda’s Hornet training took over. He threw the joystick to the side, rolling his fighter in a series of tight corkscrews, then with his wings perpendicular to the battle plane, he pulled back, performing a tight high-g turn.
The yellow indicator of a missile appeared on Coda’s HUD.
Shoved hard against the gel seat, he prepared to drop his chaff. At worst, the debris would cloud Commander Coleman’s missile sensors, hindering its ability to target Coda. At best, the missile would explode against one of the sand particles.
But he never had a chance. Even his G-suit couldn’t keep him from blacking out during the high-g maneuver. The last thing he saw was the yellow indicator racing toward him.
He had no idea how long he was out. It could have been a second, an hour, or anything in between. When he returned to consciousness, his head pounded as blood returned to the places it should have been. But with every throbbing pulse, Coda’s awareness grew.
He still had controls. By some miracle, his fighter was still operable.
And someone was screaming. No… they were yelling. Moscow. It was Moscow. Why would Moscow be yelling?
Coda blinked, trying to focus. The yellow blip of the missile was gone, as was Tex’s fighter, but so was the red marker of the commander. Trying to shake away the remaining cobwebs, Coda worked to make sense of the situation. Something was wrong. Coda had been dead in Commander Coleman’s sights.
Unless…
Moscow’s shouts suddenly made more sense. Lieutenant Andrei “Moscow” Krylov, Coda’s former rival at the Terran Fleet Academy, had just eliminated Commander Coleman and saved Coda’s ass in the process.
Coda wanted to be sick.
30
Hangar Deck, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
A crowd of people was waiting in the hangar as Coda and the rest of the flight arrived. They clapped and cheered as the victorious pilots cracked their cockpits and removed their helmets. The pilots pumped their fists and yelled excitedly in return, celebrating their first win as a unit.
When Moscow took off his helmet, the crowd erupted, and the few people who weren’t already around his fighter flocked to it. There was no doubt who the crowd thought the hero of the battle was, and Moscow basked in it. He stood on top of his seat, hollering back at his screaming admirers like a rock star trying to make his audience earn an encore.
Coda removed his own helmet and gloves without fanfare. Except for the specialist who rolled over a ladder so that he could climb out of his starfighter, nobody even seemed to realize he was there. He struggled to swallow the bitter lump in his throat. The recognition Moscow was receiving was the same recognition he’d dreamed about since joining the academy.
Tex was the first to come to him, finding him as Coda began his postflight visual inspection. “I’m sorry, Coda.”
“For what?” Coda asked.
“You needed me, and I wasn’t there.”
Coda sighed and brushed off his hands. “To be honest, I don’t even know what happened. I blacked out from the turn. The last thing I saw was the commander’s missile headed my way.”
“I took care of that then got the commander’s attention before he could turn you into slag. That was a mistake, let me tell you. He’s good, Coda, real good. Took care of me in no time. But that’s when Moscow snuck up on him and took him out.”
“Moscow left his wingman?”
“Reckon so.”
Coda shot another look in Moscow’s direction. He was stepping down the ladder, grinning and high-fiving his admirers. Leaving your wingman was a cardinal sin. Space was too large, too empty, the battles too chaotic for one person. The first pilots had long since learned that when facing that alone, they often ended up like… well, like Coda. An afterthought in battle—or worse. That he’d broken the first rule of flight cheapened Moscow’s victory even more.
“You took out the commander’s missile?” Coda asked.
Tex grinned, puffing out his chest. “Sure did.”
“I’ll have to check out the vid,” Coda said. “That must have been a hell of a shot.”
“Like shooting a can in the backyard.”
Coda and Tex found Noodle and Squawks as they headed for the locker room. Even they were commiserating, regarding Coda and Tex as if Coda had lost, as if he’d failed. Coda wanted to scream. He might not have shot down the commander, but damn it, his flight had won! Beginning his breathing exercise, Coda slowly wrestled his emotions back under control. Then Moscow’s voice cut through the din.
“You’re welcome, O’Neil!”
Coda froze. Hearing Moscow call him out, hearing him address him by his last name took him straight back to their fight at the academy.
Turning, Coda locked eyes with Moscow. He couldn’t be sure from the distance, but Moscow’s sneer seemed to falter.
“For what?” Coda shouted back.
Moscow looked at the crowd gathered around him as if deciding whether pushing Coda was worth it. He must have decided it was, because when his gaze returned to Coda, so did his smirk. “For saving your ass.”
Coda barked a sarcastic laugh then wiped the bottom of his nose with his thumb, starting toward him.
“Don’t,” Squawks said, attempting to grab him.
Coda ripped his arm from Squawks’s grip.
Moscow started toward Coda, ready for his rematch, his admirers falling into step behind him. Moscow had at least twenty to Coda’s four, but Coda didn’t care. He had to wipe that patronizing sneer off Moscow’s face.
Before he got his chance, the commander appeared between them. Still dressed in his flight suit, he stood like a rock ready to withstand the force of two
