Wings of Honor by Craig Andrews (best romantic novels to read .txt) 📕

their navigational thrusters to juke and jank, avoiding the incoming fire. Then in less than a blink of an eye, they streaked past each other.

Coda watched on his battle map as Moscow flipped and burned, pulling a dangerous high-g maneuver to get on Coda’s six. Coda had several options but decided to boost thrust, increasing the distance between them.

He made for Moscow’s capital ship. Its dark exterior was accented with the yellow of the Sol Fleet and quickly grew larger. Identical to Coda’s own capital ship, it was heavily armed with hundreds of port and starboard cannons, missile turrets, and secondary batteries but didn’t open fire as he approached. This was a dogfight, not a race to destroy each other’s capital ships.

Coda sped past the top of the vessel then turned in a downward arc that brought him around its underbelly, speeding toward Moscow’s incoming ship. Coda opened fire, but Moscow immediately veered to port, bringing his fighter parallel to the capital ship.

Coda fired his forward thrusters, shedding speed, and spun to follow. But just as Moscow came back into view, he immediately disappeared, darting under the larger ship. Coda tried to follow, but he’d shed too much speed. By the time he made it under the ship, Moscow’s fighter was nowhere to be seen. Corkscrewing his fighter back around the top of the capital ship, Coda searched for the missing fighter.

Tracer fire streaked past his cockpit. Where did that come from?

Wrenching his neck to see behind him, Coda searched for Moscow, but the multipoint harness restricted his movement, making it difficult to get a visual. More tracer fire flashed, and this time Coda’s fighter shook violently as Moscow’s shot found home.

“Shit!”

Coda was hosed. He maximized thrust and took evasive maneuvers, speeding toward the battle debris.

His fighter shook again. An alarm claxon blared. He wasn’t going to make it.

I’m not a coward, and I won’t run like one.

With Moscow closing on his six, Coda pulled the stick back, ascending above the battle plane, then flipped nose to tail so that he was flying backward, his guns facing his rival’s expected trajectory. Tracer fire lit the black as he pulled the trigger, and the slugs ripped through Moscow’s rearmost wing in a shower of sparks.

Coda hooted, expecting Moscow’s fighter to explode, but excitement quickly turned to disappointment when he realized the damage was only superficial. Like the larger main wings, the offset rear wings were designed for atmospheric flight and weren’t required for spaceflight.

Wounded but not yet destroyed, Moscow juked the remaining incoming fire before bringing his fighter into an attack vector. More alarm claxons sounded. They were different, more urgent.

He’s locking on, Coda realized. He’s going to fire his missiles.

A bright-yellow target appeared on Coda’s HUD. It streaked toward Coda’s fighter, closing the distance between them faster than he would have imagined possible. Coda opened fire, targeting the incoming missile, only to have a second one appear.

You’re hosed. You’re hosed. You’re hosed.

There was a brilliant flash, then all went black. By the time Coda blinked his vision back, he found himself spinning, a dozen emergency lights flashing. All of his maneuvering thrusters were offline.

It took him a moment to realize what had happened. He’d shot the missile, but it had been too close. Its shrapnel must have peppered his fighter. But that was the least of his worries. The second missile was almost upon him.

I lost. I lost to Moscow. Thank god it was only a simulation.

The second, blinding flash was accompanied by a terrible pain that burned through Coda’s entire body. He cried out, his body paralyzed. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could barely think.

By the time the pain dissipated, Coda found himself in complete darkness, his body cold with sweat. With a shaky hand, he pulled his off his VR helmet and found himself back in the simulator.

Moscow was already standing, pumping his fist into the air and screaming his victory. Coda’s friends looked on in disappointment, though Coda barely saw them. Deep down, he knew he was in shock, his body struggling to quantify the pain he’d experienced. Wearily removing his restraints, Coda climbed onto the nearby ladder and climbed down to the deck.

“Tremendous flying,” Commander Coleman said, stepping forward. “Congratulations on your victory, Lieutenant Krylov.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Sir,” Coda said. “There at the end, when the simulation ended, there was… I… It hurt.”

Moscow sneered, obviously not understanding what had happened in the opposite cockpit. Commander Coleman’s reaction surprised Coda the most, though. He laughed.

“Of course it hurt,” Commander Coleman said. “You were shot down.”

“But, sir… It’s only a simulation.”

“It’s a training exercise, Lieutenant. What you felt is a mild deterrent—one meant to prevent my pilots from getting comfortable with being shot down.”

“I don’t know about ‘mild,’” Coda said sarcastically. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but there was nothing he could do about that now, except mutter a quick “sir” and brace against the commander’s wrath.

“The little jolt you felt is nothing compared to the pain of being shot down,” Commander Coleman said. “That, I can guarantee you.”

“Yes, sir. Of course.”

“Good flying, both of you,” the commander said. “Now take a seat at the debriefing monitor and wait for me to return.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison and started for the private alcove at the back of the room.

“I told you,” Moscow said quietly. “You’re nothing. You never were. And now everyone knows it.”

Coda took a deep breath, trying like hell to ignore the insult. Commander Coleman had said the squadron was divided. That it needed to be unified. And that the battle was the first step in accomplishing that goal. As much as he wanted to punch Moscow’s teeth in or challenge him to a rematch, Coda knew it would only counter whatever the commander was working on. So instead, he forced his best smile and said, “It was a good battle, Moscow. Congratulations.”

Moscow sniffed, no doubt expecting the compliment to be followed up with a jab, but when it didn’t come, his sneer faltered.