Coda fought back a strange swell of emotion, biting the inside of his cheeks to distract him from the lump in his chest. “I appreciate that,” he said softly. “You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”
Moscow made a satisfied face and nodded.
“You know,” Coda said, “when this is all over, we need to grab a drink. Clear the air. Completely. With us on the same side, nothing stands a chance.”
“Hell yeah,” Moscow said. “There’s only one problem: there’s no alcohol on board.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Screw it, then,” Moscow said. “It’s a deal.”
44
Cockpit, Nighthawk
Arradin System, Toavis
“Give it everything you’ve got,” Coleman said over the comm. “Press the advantage.”
He didn’t receive a reply, though he wasn’t expecting one, either. His pilots had other things to worry about—things like the hundred or so Baranyk fighters that they had drawn away from the carrier before the Jamestown had jumped in. The vessel was now in a pitched battle, flanking the Baranyk capital ship and laying into it with heavy close-range fire. The rest of the pilots were still focused on the single-manned Baranyk fighters, though the point-defense cannons on the Jamestown’s starboard side aided them.
Like the rest of his pilots, Coleman had taken longer than he would have liked to settle into the rhythm of the battle. They had never experienced it, and he hadn’t in years. But things were different now. Things felt good. Things felt right.
He pulled a high-g turn, caught an enemy fighter with cannon fire as it streaked past in pursuit of one of his squad mates, spun out of its expanding debris field, then pushed the stick forward, diving below the Z-axis of the battle plane. Another short burst later, another Baranyk fighter was gone. Spinning again, he pulled back up then leveled out, cutting a path along the top of the Jamestown and laying waste to the fighters attacking it.
But despite how well the squadron was faring, they were still facing a significant numbers disadvantage. The worst of the battle was still ahead.
Strafing across the stern of the Jamestown, Commander Coleman flipped, preparing for another pass. Rather than flying toward the bow, he veered starboard, turning back into the thick of the battle. He targeted the nearest friendly fighters and provided aid to those with enemy tails. He could continue to pick off unsuspecting fighters almost at will, but unless some of his pilots were left to assist, it would all be in vain.
He juked, janked, shifted, dove, and climbed, moving with the never-ending music of battle. It was a silent battle, of course. The sounds of gunfire, missile launches, and ship explosions had no way of traveling across the vacuum of space, but the music was in his head. All he had to do was write it down.
Coleman was about to request a status of the Baranyk vessel when a terrible, white-hot explosion erupted from the Oregon.
“What the hell was that?” someone shouted over the comm.
“No!”
Coleman watched in horror as additional explosions ravaged what was left of the Oregon. In seconds, what had been the pinnacle of human ingenuity and invention was nothing more than an expanding debris cloud.
“Someone get me the goddamned status of that enemy vessel,” Coleman bellowed into the comm.
“We’re showing significant damage along its port and starboard sides,” a female voice replied. “If we’d had another twenty seconds, it would have been slag. Without the Oregon…”
Coleman hated the tone of her voice. She sounded defeated. Goddamn it, the battle isn’t over. Not yet.
“Launch all remaining fighters,” Coleman said. “I repeat, launch all remaining fighters. We have to destroy that ship.” He didn’t get a reply, but a few moments later, twelve more fighters shot out of the Jamestown in rapid succession. “All right, Jamestown. Keep up the attack. We’ll provide the extra firepower.”
“What are you doing, Commander?” It was Captain Baez again.
“What we were trained to do, sir,” Coleman said. “We’re going to unload everything we have on that ship. When we’re done, it’ll be nothing but slag.”
“And so will you.”
“No faith, sir.” Coleman tried to keep his voice lighthearted. “Either way, with that ship gone, the Baranyks’ advantage is gone too. Our drone reinforcements can do their job.”
There was a slight pause, followed by “Get it done.”
“With pleasure, sir.” Coleman switched back to his squadron’s frequency. “Take heart, pilots. The men and women of the Oregon honored your sacrifice. Now it’s time to honor theirs. Prepare for an attack run. It’s time we reminded everyone why we’re here.”
Bringing his fighter around in what would become its attack vector, Coleman watched as the rest of his squadron broke off their attacks and fell into a loose formation behind him. The remaining Baranyk fighters saw the sudden change and moved to press the advantage. Their pursuit didn’t go unnoticed by the other pilots of the Forgotten, and Coleman could hear his pilots’ concern. It was evident in the way their breathing increased, the way they cursed under their breath, forgetting that everyone else in the squadron could hear them.
Coleman ignored all of it, keeping one eye on the path in front of him, the other on the pursuing fighters behind. The attack vector would bring them around the stern of the Jamestown and slightly above the Baranyk vessel in what would allow them to devastate the entire length of the enemy ship. But they weren’t there yet, and the enemy fighters were nearing missile range.
Close enough.
“Release your chaff,” Coleman ordered.
Flying in formation, the pilots had little concern of hitting their friendly fighters behind them, and almost as one, the pilots dropped their chaff. Moments later, the canisters detonated, creating clouds of expanding sand particles. At the high velocity, individual grains would be more than enough to wreak havoc on the pursuing fighters, but as close as they were, the fighters entered a thick cloud of it. The pursuing force was decimated, only
