“Ha! No, you didn’t.” Squawks said. Then again, more introspect. “No, you didn’t.”
A gentle quiet permeated the group. In the wake of their squad mate’s death, they had found a way to grow closer, to become better friends. Three of them had shared something deeply personal about themselves. Coda couldn’t believe it, but he had the strong urge to participate. His mind drifted back to the first time they came together as a group, the first time they had shared something else about themselves.
Coda turned to Squawks. “You once asked me where my callsign came from.” He kept his voice soft, not wanting to violate the peace. “The truth is, it’s something I came up with.”
“What’s it mean?” Squawks asked.
“A coda is something that comes at the end of a play or a dance,” Coda said. “Like the final moment when the actors come back on stage to be recognized for their performance. To me it’s the end of the whole story with my family… to my father. And when I’m done it’ll reshape the way the world looks at us.”
Coda took a sip, too afraid to make eye contact with any of his friends. Said out loud, it sounded ridiculous. Somewhere between arrogant and self-righteous.
“The call sign’s a constant reminder of why I’m here, what I’m fighting for,” Coda continued. “That’s the idea anyway.”
“You fly with the weight of the world on your shoulders,” Squawks said.
“Yeah.” It really felt like it sometimes.
“No wonder you’re so slow,” Squawks deadpanned. “You’re overloading your thrusters every time you go out.”
“I was going to say ‘no wonder he’s so short,’” Noodle added, “but he’s taller than I am so that wouldn’t have made sense.”
“Or so frumpy all the time,” Tex added.
The three of them roared with laughter. Coda couldn’t believe it. He had shared something about himself that he hadn’t shared with anyone, not even Buster, and they were laughing at him. Anger growing, he shot a look at Squawks… and saw something in his expression that calmed his frayed emotions.
“You’re such an asshole,” Coda said.
“That’s what you like about me,” Squawks said.
Coda shook his head, eyeing the three of them. “You really are the three worst friends anyone could ask for.”
“Hell yeah.” Noodle raised his cup, laughing. “To the three worst friends anyone could ask for.”
Tex followed his lead. “To the three worst friends anyone could ask for.”
Coda and Squawks shared a look, then did the same. “To the three worst friends anyone could ask for.”
Taking a swig, Coda’s eyes fell on the group, and he was struck with an overwhelming sense of camaraderie. It was even stronger than what he’d felt at the academy. He wanted to graduate with these men. Fly with them. Fight with them. More than anything in his entire life, he wanted to remain part of the Forgotten. But he also knew that the decision wasn’t up to him. In that, he was completely and utterly powerless.
“Guys?”
“Yeah, Squawks?” Noodle said.
“Do I really talk that much in my sleep?”
Laughing, Coda banished thoughts of the squadron from his mind. For tonight at least, he was with friends.
39
Hangar Deck, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Commander Chadwick Coleman traced a finger along the wrecked fuselage of Coda’s Nighthawk. Unlike Moscow’s fighter, which had lost a wing, Coda’s was mostly intact. The main damage was to the navigational thrusters along its nose and the puncture in the fuselage’s belly. Had the X-23 still relied on combustible fuel instead of the electromagnetic propulsion created by the Shaw Drive, the accident would certainly have claimed another life. Unfortunately, one death had been enough to ground the entire squadron for over a week.
Coleman sighed, rounding the back of the fighter and starting back toward its nose. Their training was falling farther and farther behind schedule, something he couldn’t afford. The timelines had already been tight. Beyond tight. They’d been downright impossible. And in all reality, it was remarkable how far his pilots had come. Still, for the first time since accepting the post, he felt that the squadron had no chance of success.
If I just had another eight weeks, we could have built something special. Something to be honored. Something to be feared.
But no, that wasn’t the whole story. He’d been challenged with more than just compressed timelines. Coda and Moscow had been able to set aside their differences or if he hadn’t uncovered the root cause of their rivalry before inviting both to join the squadron. He’d made so many mistakes. So many unnecessary mistakes.
What’s done is done. There’s nothing you can do about that now.
The real question keeping him up at night was whether or not he would get a chance to correct those mistakes. Whether his squadron would ever get a chance to fly. To fight. To prove to the world that their time—and Whiskey’s sacrifice—had been worth it.
Coleman’s tablet vibrated, and for a moment, he wondered if some sardonic god had heard him and granted his wish.
Pulling the device from his pocket, Coleman froze. The edges of the normally transparent tablet were outlined in red, marking the message as urgent. Even more concerning, the message was from Captain Baez, commander of the Jamestown, not someone at Sol Command. The emergency was local, maybe even aboard the ship. Had one of his pilots gotten into trouble?
Coleman opened the message to find a simple note requesting his immediate presence in Captain Baez’s quarters. Coleman sent his reply, saying he was on his way, and started across the hangar. He was barely halfway across when his tablet vibrated again. Thinking it was the Captain’s reply, Coleman pulled the tablet back out of his pocket.
His step faltered.
The message was from Admiral Orlovsky and was coded Priority One. Like the first, the second message was text-based, allowing Coleman to read it where he stood without fear of a security breach, and what he read sent shivers down
