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

“Of course.”

“Don’t think about it. Just enjoy it. Enjoy this.” Because I don’t think life is going to be as simple as you think it is.

3

Viking Squadron Ready Room, Terran Fleet Academy

Sol System, Earth, High Orbit

Once Viking Squadron had emptied the remaining champagne bottles and were feeling more than a little light in the head, they left the ready room for the final time.

Coda lingered behind, soaking up the view, committing it all to memory. At some distant point in the future, he knew he would think back on this moment and remember when and where his journey had truly begun. He knew that wherever his orders took him, he would be successful. He didn’t have a choice. He was fighting for something greater than himself.

The ready room emptied into a wide corridor, where the floor curved upward in both directions. The Terran Fleet Academy, like all space stations designed before humanity had reverse-engineered Baranyk technology and learned to manipulate gravity, was built around a central axis with a spinning wheel providing artificial gravity. Students and pilots loitered in the corridor, reliving the recent battle. Coda stopped just outside the ready room. Moscow stood with a few members of Shadow Squadron outside a nearby doorway, their eyes intent on the Viking Squadron ready room.

They've been waiting for us.

Adrenaline pulsed through Coda’s veins, making his arms and legs feel light. He knew better than to think that Moscow simply wanted to congratulate him. Coda looked down the corridor to where the rest of his squadron was already disappearing from view, too invested in their celebration to notice their squadron leader had fallen behind.

Coda briefly thought about ignoring Moscow and his thugs, acting as if he hadn’t seen them, but his supreme dislike for the man won out. Besides, he wasn't one to back down from a fight. It wasn't in his blood. It was the same reason he'd sought out Moscow during the simulation.

It’s also why you have several demerits on your academy record. 

Coda leaned his back against the corridor wall just outside the ready room, directly across the corridor from Moscow and his six thugs. “Come to congratulate us on our victory?” Coda looked down at the Ace Squadron pin at his breast then back up at Moscow with a patronizing grin.

Moscow spat at his feet and crossed the hallway. “You know as well as I do that your victory was luck.”

“It doesn't look that way in the standings.”

Moscow stopped directly in front of Coda, his face inches from Coda’s. “I had you, O’Neil.”

In most instances, calling a pilot by something other than their call sign wasn’t necessarily a form of disrespect, but Coda knew better. He saw it in the way Moscow sneered as he said Coda’s last name. He was trying to connect Coda to his father, to remind him who Joseph O’Neil had been… and what he had done.

Burying his anger, Coda feigned nonchalance. “You didn't have dick.”

“You and me, O’Neil, let’s go. One on one.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

Coda looked up, spotting the rest of Viking Squadron heading back down the corridor. Buster was at their head, his pace quick, eyes on Moscow as if expecting the other squadron leader to do something.

“Moscow didn't get enough of Viking Squadron,” Coda said. “He wants a rematch.” It wasn’t exactly what Moscow had proposed, but Coda didn't care. He didn't have any intention of honoring the request anyway.

Moscow shot an uneasy look at the approaching mob of Viking pilots. Even with his gang, he was outnumbered. “That's not—”

“Thing is,” Coda interrupted, turning back to Moscow, “what’s in it for me? Battling you would be like arm wrestling a girl. If I win, who cares? I already beat you. But if I lose, well, then I got beat by a girl. It's a lose-lose. You know what I mean?”

Laughter filled the corridor. Coda smiled and made for his squadron, turning his back to Moscow.

“You're just like him, aren’t you, O’Neil?” Moscow’s voice was cold and sharp, and it cut like a knife driven into Coda’s back. “You’re just like your father.”

Coda froze.

“A coward.”

Before Coda knew what he was doing, he’d spun, his right fist rocketing through the air in a vicious right hook. It connected cleanly with Moscow’s jaw, dropping the larger man. But Coda wasn't done. He was on top of Moscow in an instant, one fist holding his flight suit, the other driving into Moscow’s nose. Blood sprayed across Coda’s pale knuckles, staining the clean metallic surface of the corridor crimson. He heard shouts and screams as someone tried to pull him away, but Coda shoved them off.

Nobody talked about his father like that. Nobody disrespected his family. Nobody could do that but him. The primal instinct buried deep inside him meant to use Andrei as an example of what happened when someone broke that unspoken rule.

When someone finally wrestled him off Moscow, Coda’s eyes stung with tears, and he could barely lift his arms. Lying helpless on the floor, his face barely recognizable, Moscow groaned, moving slowly.

“We need to get out of here,” Buster said. “Come on.”

Buster pulled Coda away from the scene, dragging him up the corridor through the group of Viking pilots. They watched him in shock, eyes wide, mouths agape. Coda’s face burned with shame. He'd lost control of his emotions and let Moscow goad him into doing something stupid.

Maybe he was right. Maybe you are like your father.

Buster hauled him to his private quarters. “Get inside.” Buster shoved him again, and Coda fell into the small room, catching himself on the edge of his bed. His friend followed him into the room, closing the door behind him. “What the hell was that? Christ, man! What was going through that tiny-ass brain of yours?”

“He insulted my family,” Coda said.

“I don't care what he did. We’re twenty-four hours away from graduation and receiving our orders. Do you have any idea what you just jeopardized?”

Coda didn’t know what to say. He couldn't believe the sudden turn of events. An hour ago, he’d been primed to become one of the newest recruits on a ship on