Enemy One (Epic Book 5) (10 page)

Blake sucked in a heavy breath, angling his head only slightly sideways—just enough to signal that he was indeed responding to the question—before flatly answering, “We’ve lost contact with the Fourteenth.”

“How?” The Vector captain sounded genuinely befuddled.

Another pause came before Blake responded. “They were able to board their Vulture to flee the city. Two Superwolves were close enough to attempt an intercept, but…they were shot down.”

Behind Blake, Klaus blinked. “Shot down by who?”

“By the, umm…by the Vulture.”

“The
Vulture
?”

Blake nodded. “Yes, the Vulture.”

The German’s thudding footsteps drew closer. “How does a Vulture shoot down a Superwolf?”

“I don’t know.”

One of the communications operators swiveled around in his chair, speaking urgently. “Mr. President! We’ve just made contact with the second pilot.”

“That’s good,” said Blake, his lack of enthusiasm betraying his words. “I’m glad they both managed to eject.”

“No, sir…he didn’t eject.”

Blake turned to look at the man curiously. “What do you mean, he didn’t eject?”

“The second Superwolf wasn’t shot down. It was forced to land. The Vulture hacked it.”

“
Hacked
it?”

The operator nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Klaus’s expression matched the concern of Blake’s. Both men approached the operator as he continued to explain.

“Somehow they were able to hack into the Superwolf’s systems and take control away from the pilot. They commandeered it shortly after it landed.”

“Commandeered?” Blake asked. “Are you saying the Fourteenth
took
it?”

Frowning, the operator answered, “Yes, sir. They had a second pilot—according to our pilot, she was a blond-haired American woman. He didn’t hear her name.”

At the revelation, Blake’s eyes squinted. “There was no such pilot in the Fourteenth’s dossier. Where did she come from?” He seemed to pose the question more to himself. Reaching down, he unclipped his comm from his belt and brought it to his lips. “Blake to Intelligence.”

“Intelligence,” a man answered.

“Are you aware of the situation with the stolen Superwolf?”

“We were just made aware, Mr. President.”

Blake nodded absently. “This pilot, this ‘blond-haired American woman,’ who could she be?”

A distinct pause came over the line. “Kang would actually like to discuss that with you, sir. He’s requesting that you come here.”

Tilting his head in puzzlement, Klaus listened to the exchange.

Very subtly, Blake’s countenance shifted. “I shall come at once.” Closing the channel, he secured the comm back on his belt. His focus turned to Klaus. “I suppose I’m due at Intelligence.”

Hesitating, the Vector captain nodded. “I will come with you—”

“I need you here,” Blake said quickly, nearly cutting Klaus off, “monitoring the War Room. There are judges who could do the same, but none with your tactical experience. I know watching a spinning globe isn’t the most exciting job in the world, but it serves a purpose.” He forced a smile. “Consider it a glimpse of your future occupation as a judge.”

Klaus was unamused.

“But I’m afraid I must be going now,” said the Briton. “Kang’s not one to wait, and this is likely quite important. Forgive me if I leave curtly.”

The German scrutinized Blake, as if searching for something. At long last, he too faked a smile and nodded.

“We’ll catch them, rest assured.” Patting Klaus on the shoulder, Blake said, “We’ll speak again soon.” Offering a farewell, he slid past Klaus toward the War Room exit.

His gaze sweeping the rest of the War Room, Klaus took in the activity going on, from the various operators at computer and communication consoles, to the array of radar screens mounted against the far wall, to the row of televisions broadcasting live feeds from news outlets across the world. Finally, his attention returned to the holographic globe as it slowly rotated in the center of the room and the pair of red X’s on its surface. Leaning forward with his elbows on the circular handrail, just as his predecessor had before making his exit, Klaus watched and waited for something to happen.

*
      
*
      
*

“STOP!” SAID JAYA as she marched behind Archer in the hallways. “I said stop!”

Spinning around in the hallway, Archer pointed his finger in the young woman’s face. “Do you have any idea what this is going to do? That was our one chance to bring Remington in while things are still under control, and our state-of-the-art Superwolves got shot down by a Mark-1 bloody
Vulture
.”

Jaya glared. “Getting angry will not help the situation.”

“Yes, well it damn well feels good at present,” said Archer, turning to continue his march toward the conference room. Jaya followed.

“This situation is still under control,” she said adamantly. “Remington cannot hide forever. Once he is in custody—”

“
Whose
custody?” Archer asked.

“Our custody!”

The champagne-blond judge scowled. “That’s precisely the point. He could be heading anywhere right now. Whatever initiative we had is gone.” Stopping again, he lowered his voice and turned to her. “Remington didn’t infiltrate
Cairo
on his own accord. Thoor sent him there to retrieve a Ceratopian—we both know that. If this Ceratopian has something to do with H`laar, or if he bloody
is
H`laar, then we
must
get to him first, at all costs.”

“We must, and we will,” Jaya said, hurriedly following when Archer’s hurried pace resumed. “We have good people in place.”

Archer scoffed. “You sound almost as if you had something to do with that.” Before she could respond, the judge continued. “I want to know everything there is to know about Remington—who he is, where he’s from, why he’s aligned himself with the Nightmen, his bloody favorite color. Everything.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to know every single person in EDEN he’s ever encountered, and I want them spoken to.”

The Indian woman nodded. “Judge Rath should be touching down in
Cairo
at any moment to speak with Logan Marshall and Giro Holmes.”

“Who is Logan Marshall?”

“Marshall was one of the tertiary officers under Captain Rockwell. Holmes—”

Cutting her off, he said, “I know who Giro Holmes is.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get me everything on Remington, as quickly as possible. If we can find out where he’s headed on our own, we could potentially reach him before Faerber.”

At that, Jaya cocked her head curiously. “If I may ask a question?”

“You may not.”

Jaya fell silent.

Turning toward her, Archer exhaled a controlled breath. “Worry only about your assigned job. Right now, your assigned job is Scott Remington. When you have a full profile, come back to me.”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“That is all.” Without another word, Archer turned around, pushing open the conference room doors and stepping inside. The doors closed in his wake, leaving Jaya alone in the hall. Her eyes narrowing, the young Indian woman pursed her lips. After taking a single step backward, she turned to leave in the direction whence she came.

*
      
*
      
*

INTELLIGENCE WAS BY far the most inaccessible and secure department at EDEN Command. Only the president was authorized to make unannounced visits—even the twelve judges had to either ask permission or receive an invitation to step into its halls. Its mere mention conjured up fanciful imagery, and it was widely regarded as the ultimate realm of wonder, where the secrets of the world were maintained. Its reputation was of pristineness and preciseness—a marvel of technology and human mystery.

As tended to be the case, reality told quite a different tale.

Three sets of secured doors kept Intelligence separate from the rest of EDEN Command, with each set guarded twenty-four-seven by four security officials who only had clearance for their posts, and no deeper. Each door presented an array of entry tests ranging from finger and eye scanners, to voice recognition, to full-body x-ray windows. It wasn’t until someone made it all the way through, beyond that third set of doors that the truth was revealed: Intelligence was as low-tech as a department could get.

Filing cabinets lined the walls, each containing row upon row of unlabeled manila folders. A cataloguing cabinet akin to Old Era decimal systems sat at the end of a simple carpeted hallway lined with wooden doors. There was scarcely a computer to be found—the word processor of choice was pencil and tablet, and in rare exceptions, closed-circuit word processors almost akin to high-tech typewriters. Kang Gao Jing, the Intelligence director, had a simple philosophy: you can’t hack into paper. As much as Intelligence utilized technology from other departments, it was insatiably paranoid about relying on it itself. In adopting that philosophy, the entire department became a walk-in time machine to the past.

As soon as Blake stepped inside, he was greeted by two things, the first a smell that reminded him of a retirement home, and the second the man who’d spoken to him on the comm: a man whose nametag identified him simply as “Douglas.” Blake didn’t recognize him, but his trips to Intelligence were rare. The few times he had been invited in as a judge, it had been Jaya Saxena who’d met him. “Welcome in, Mr. President,” Douglas said, his accent American.

“Good day to you, as well.”

“Kang is in his office, waiting to speak with you. Do you like coffee? Tea?”

Blake forced his pleasantries. “Tea is good.”

“I’ll brew some right away.”

Offering a bow of appreciation, Blake watched Douglas walk into Intelligence’s kitchenette before making his own way down the hall.

If Intelligence was EDEN’s realm of mystery, Kang was the man behind the curtain. Outside of Intelligence’s walls, there probably weren’t twenty people at EDEN Command who’d ever seen the man and even fewer who knew who he was, where he’d come from, or how he’d landed behind the three security doors that shrouded his department from the rest of the world. Blake was among them.

Before the Alien War was a thing, Kang Gao Jing was China’s minister of state security, where he’d been in charge of China’s counter-terrorism and political security for nineteen years. He was good at what he did, which was how he’d remained at the position for as long as he had, surviving multiple regime changes. He’d been a shoe-in for the job of EDEN Intelligence director, despite his being in his upper sixties when the organization was established. Upper sixties became upper seventies as the war waged on, but Kang was still Kang—a man who spoke to virtually no one but still managed to have his fingers around every string that dangled from the puppet that was EDEN Command. At least, that was how people viewed him. He was treated with so much reverence by the Council that some couldn’t help but wonder whether it was he or the president who was truly in charge. The binder of job descriptions ranked Kang right beneath the judges. No one actually believed it.

Kang’s office door was as nondescript as any other. It was a wooden door with a drab nameplate that simply read, “Intelligence Director.” There was no fancy scanner beside it, no futuristic mechanism that opened it. The extent of Kang’s office security was a push-button lock on the doorknob and a two-dollar sliding bolt at the top of the frame. It was the
opposite
of what was found in the judges’ suites. Drawing in a breath, Blake raised his hand to knock.

“Come in, Mr. President,” said Kang, the crotchety Chinese voice beckoning before Blake’s fist could even strike the door.

Blake straightened his posture. Turning the knob, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The first thing to hit Blake—and everyone who had the privilege of entering Kang’s office—was the assaulting smell of fresh pencil shavings and Chinese pine needles. Kang was addicted to the latter to the point where boxes of fresh pine needles were part of EDEN Command’s scheduled shipments, flown in every month by the handful of pilots who knew EDEN Command’s location. Crushed needles dangled from his desk in a way that almost seemed of religious significance. Everyone who visited Kang left smelling like a tree.

The décor of the room was in line with the rest of Intelligence. The walls were wood paneling, and filing cabinets were lined up at the back of the room. Wearing a brown sport coat that made him look more like a car salesman than an Intelligence director, was Kang himself. The older, Chinese man was writing furiously on a yellow tablet. “One moment, please,” he said without looking up.

Smiling with as much pleasantry as he could feign, Blake obliged.

As far as stature was concerned, Kang was not an intimidating figure. He was lanky and had the
look
of a man growing frail in his older years. His hair, which seemed on the verge of losing the last bit of artificial black the director had dyed it, was combed from one side of his head to the other. His face was wrinkled, his eyes beady. He looked neither mysterious nor villainous. He simply looked busy. As his maddened scribbling came to an end, Kang placed his half-used pencil down and looked across his desk at Blake. “Are you enjoying your first day as president?”

Blake stared back with a blank expression. “I’m not sure if that’s a joke or not.”

“There are many things we must attend to. As you know, our time is short.” Barely looking Blake in the eye, Kang reached across his desk, grabbed a sticky note, and held it out for Blake to take. As Blake took it, Kang said, “That was her instructor. He is expecting your call.”

“Whose instructor?” Blake asked, glancing down at the note. It read simply
Raphael Davis
.

“Tiffany Feathers,” said Kang, “the Vulture pilot who defeated your Superwolves.” Before Blake could respond, the director went on. “There are only so many female blond pilots from America flying Vultures.”

Eyeing the sticky note warily, Blake asked, “What led you to deduce it was this one?”