40
Barracks, SAS Jamestown
Alpha Centauri System, Proxima B, High Orbit
Claxons blared.
Coda’s eyes snapped open. Flashing red lights bathed the barracks in a bloody light, intensifying the alarm as fifty pilots woke to the same scene. He was out of his bunk in a flash. His bare feet touched the cold floor, the sensation bringing with it a level of alertness that banished any lingering fatigue.
Tex rolled out of the upper bunk, colliding with Coda. The larger man was denser than Coda had expected, the collision rattling his teeth.
“Sorry,” Tex muttered, his drawl more pronounced in his sleepiness.
“You’re fine.” Dressed in only his underwear, Coda pulled out a pair of standard issue flight pants and began pulling them on. “What do you think is going on?”
Before Tex could answer, the door to the barracks opened, and Commander Coleman, already dressed in a full flight suit, stopped in the doorway. “I need you in the ready room in two minutes. This is not a drill.”
Commander Coleman disappeared, no doubt going to the second barracks. Coda’s eyes moved from the doorway to Tex. The other pilot’s wide-eyed expression mirrored Coda’s. Without another word, Coda pulled a tank top over his head, threw on his socks and boots, and was out the barracks door in less than a minute.
Commander Coleman was already in the ready room by the time Coda arrived. He watched with a grim expression as the pilots filed in and took their seats. Coda grabbed a seat in the second row. Noodle, Tex, and Squawks found seats beside him. Two minutes after the claxons had sounded, Commander Coleman stepped up to the podium.
“At oh one hundred this morning,” he began, “the SAS Jamestown received an emergency alert from Sol Command. The forward mining operation of Toavis is under heavy Baranyk bombardment. Our fleet, which arrived minutes after the attack began, has been rendered useless by the Baranyk Disrupter, and we have been called in to issue aid.”
Excited whispers filled the room as Coda exchanged wide-eyed looks with his friends.
“We picked the wrong night to drink ourselves into a stupor,” Squawks said quietly.
Coda chuckled then realized he didn’t feel as bad as he’d expected to. Either the alcohol from Squawks’s still was some magical concoction that left its drinkers without a hangover, or the additives in their food helped his body metabolize the alcohol quicker than normal.
“This is the real thing,” Commander Coleman continued. “This is what we’ve been training for. Toavis is critical to the fleet’s ability to maintain its forward operating bases, and we have over one hundred thousand people on the ground. I don’t need to tell you how important it is. I only need to tell you to trust your training. Trust your fellow pilots. Do that, and I have no doubt you’ll be victorious.”
Commander Coleman hit a button on his tablet, dimming the lights and calling up the display at the front of the room. A moment later, the display showed an updated flight roster of thirty-six pilots.
“We’re being called in before your training could be completed, so the final cuts to the squadron never occurred,” Commander Coleman said. “For this mission, we will be going with the following flight roster. The first twenty-three pilots here will make up Alpha Squadron.” He clicked another button, and a thin red line separated the pilots of Alpha Squadron from the rest. “The next twelve will be standby, loaded up and ready to launch in our extra Nighthawks. The rest of you, stay alert and be ready for additional orders. Any questions?”
Coda had a thousand questions but one in particular. His name wasn’t included in either list… neither was Moscow’s. He found the other pilot seated in the row in front of him, the same silent question on his lips. Like Coda, though, he seemed to have decided to hold his tongue. This sort of thing was better to talk to the commander about directly.
“Twenty-three pilots, sir?” someone behind Coda asked. “A squadron has twenty-four.”
“I’ll be leading Alpha Squadron,” Commander Coleman said.
“Hell yeah, sir.”
“All right,” Commander Coleman said. “Your orders have been sent to your tablets. I’ll meet you in the hangar once we’ve arrived. Good luck, godspeed, and let’s kill some Baranyk.”
Fifty pilots rose as one. Alpha Squadron and the standby pilots made for the adjoining locker room, while the rest waited behind for what would become of them. Though they were part of the first wave, Coda’s friends lingered, watching Coda awkwardly and offering sympathetic looks.
“You’re the best of us,” Noodle said. “You should be out there too.”
Coda shrugged, attempting to ignore the terrible feeling of disappointment eating him alive. “Don’t worry about me. Just take care of each other and kill some Baranyk for me.”
“Oh, we’re definitely going to do that,” Squawks said, but even his boast fell flat.
With a tight smile, Noodle nodded then turned and strode down the stairs, making for the locker room. Tex and Squawks followed after offering their own disappointed expressions. Coda watched them go, wondering if he should have said something more. They were going to battle, going to war, and there were no guarantees they would come back.
He didn’t call out, but he also made sure to watch until they disappeared from view. Stay safe, guys.
As soon as they had entered the locker room, Coda dashed down the stairs. He had his own business to attend to. If the commander wasn’t following his pilots into the locker room, there was only one place he was going: the Jamestown CIC.
Sprinting through the corridors, Coda caught up to the commander before he made it to the bowels of the ship where the commander center was located.
“Sir!” Coda closed the distance between them. “Sir, please.”
Commander Coleman stopped and turned to face Coda. “What is it, Coda?”
“It’s just that my name wasn’t included on the active roster, sir.”
“You and Lieutenant Krylov are part of an active investigation, Coda. Why would
