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

corner of his vision, counting down the time before the tip of the spear was within firing range of Viking Squadron’s capital ship.

This is going to be close.

The two indicators came into alignment on the enemy target, then glowed more brightly and was accompanied by a steady tone. Coda had missile lock.

“Viking One,” Coda announced. “Fox three!”

Coda launched the first of his eight AIM-220s. He didn’t have visual on the missile, it was too small to register in the black, but a yellow indicator identified it on his HUD. It zipped from his fighter, streaking toward its target.

“Splash five!” Coda shouted as the enemy drone exploded in a brief flash of light. He shoved the joystick forward, avoiding the debris from the destroyed drone as another flash of light flared, and another red dot disappeared from his battle map.

Six down. Ten to go.

Five fighters remained in the haft of the spear, the rest creating a V at its head. Positive-Z, Coda and his wingman had a clear firing angle, but just as they got missile lock again the haft of the spear broke away, streaking toward its pursuers. Half of Coda’s squadron was forced to take evasive action and engage the enemy.

Coda and Hound held course. Not me. Not today, Moscow.

He eyed the countdown to their firing range, then searched the battle map hoping to see signs of life from Vikings Fifteen and Sixteen. Viking Squadron’s best chance of winning was if the two fighters could get to Shadow Squadron’s capital ship before Moscow got to theirs. It was a race, and one Coda was beginning to feel less confident about winning.

Two more fighters broke away from Shadow Squadron, flipping nose to tail and plotting an intercept course with Coda and Hound. It was a maneuver only a drone could perform. At a minimum a real pilot would have blacked out under the immense strain. More likely, the inside of the cockpit would have been coated in human soup.

“Evasive maneuvers,” Coda ordered, and he and his wingman split, allowing the attacking fighters to slip between them.

“They’re coming around on our tails,” Hound said.

“Break off,” Coda said. “Stall them. Keep them off my six. I’m staying on the leader.”

“Roger.”

Hound flipped, then spun and shot toward the nearest enemy fighter, opening up his cannons. Coda stayed focused on the tip of the spear, trusting his wingman would keep him safe. Moscow was at the tip of that spear. He knew it.

A glint caught his eye, something closer to a lesser darkness than to light, then was followed by another flash of light just off Moscow’s wing. Coda looked back at his battle map, and all became clear. Buster, on a cleaner attack vector, had fallen into firing range. Coda could almost see Moscow calculating his chances. Could he get into missile range before Buster eliminated him and his wingman?

Not likely.

Moscow must have come to the same conclusion. He aborted their attack run, diving negative-Z below the battle plane and racing back toward the dogfight. Grinning, Coda flipped his drone, plotting a new intercept course.

In his all-or-nothing gambit Moscow had accepted catastrophic casualties and was now significantly outnumbered. Coda’s squadron remained at full strength, while Moscow’s was down nearly two-thirds. If Coda had been in Moscow’s shoes, he would have doubled down on the attack, but the risk of losing that way, losing without firing a single shot, would have been too much for Moscow to bear. At least this way, he could save a little face in front of the room full of superiors and say he’d taken some of Viking Squadron with him.

The battle’s over, Moscow. The rest is just a formality.

Moscow entered the dogfight, attacking with desperate ferocity. His pilots were on the run, most with tails, and disappearing by the second. Moscow provided aid where he could, guiding his pilots into trajectories that brought their pursuers into his firing range. It wasn’t enough to turn the tide of the battle, but Moscow had drawn blood. And as each friendly indicator disappeared from his HUD, Coda grew more and more frustrated.

As the battle had played out, he’d had illusions of completing it without a single casualty. That dream had disappeared.

Coda weaved through the fray, staying on Moscow, and little by little gained on him. Then, as Moscow slipped through the edge of the dogfight, he flipped nose to tail and rocketed directly toward Coda’s fighter.

He knows it’s me. He knows I’m coming.

Coda settled into his seat, blinking to ensure his vision was clear. He wanted Moscow. Wanted to destroy him. Grind him into oblivion. He would only get one shot at this. If he made a mistake, Moscow would turn him to dust, and regardless of whether Viking Squadron won or not, Coda would never live it down.

Coda tightened his grip on the joystick. He and Moscow opened fire at the same time, the two ships speeding toward each other at incredible speeds. They juked and janked, tracer fire ripping passed their cockpits, somehow avoiding the incoming slugs and staying on course.

Three seconds.

Coda held course, continuing the barrage, finger held firmly on the trigger, rounds erupting from the six-barrel gatling gun to the tune of four thousand per minute. Moscow did the same.

Jerking his joystick to the side, Coda pitched his drone into a wide aileron roll. He came out of it slightly below the battle plane expecting to have a clear shot at Moscow’s underbelly. The other pilot had anticipated the maneuver. They were now on a direct collision course. Slugs slammed into each other, giving the pilots a preview of what was to come.

Coda screamed, finger still pressed against the trigger as his ammo ran out. Moscow was still—

The simulation faded to black. The image of Moscow’s incoming drone dissolved in Coda’s VR display.

“No!” Coda bellowed.

He yanked off his helmet and stood, his eyes immediately going to the large battle map overhead. Moscow had killed him. The thought was nearly enough to make him sick. The only thing