Enemy One (Epic Book 5) (12 page)

Minh chuckled under his breath. “A cadet being interrogated by an EDEN judge. That’s got to be a first.”

“Apparently, the Remingtons are full of firsts,” said Torokin, facing the screen again, where he found himself staring at the image of Remington at the conclusion of the press conference. Such a seemingly well-intentioned young man. Such a horrible turn to darkness. Something about this just seemed off.

But, Lena’s words were true. In the end, all that mattered was that Remington was captured, dead or alive—though Blake had made it abundantly clear in the initial meetings that
alive
was preferable. Whatever goodwill or benefit of the doubt that Remington might have saved up, he’d sacrificed it at the altar of Ignatius van Thoor. Well-intentioned young man or not,
Cairo
would have its consequences.

And Klaus Faerber, one way or another, would have his revenge.

*
      
*
      
*

SITTING DOWN IN his leather desk chair, Malcolm Blake set down his mug of tea and situated himself in front of his desk monitor. Though the screen was splashed with the EDEN logo, a red blinking light beneath the screen indicated that a visual communication prompt was on hold: Raphael Davis, the instructor from
Philadelphia
who had taught Tiffany Feathers. Taking a sip of tea, then clearing his throat, the president sat upright and patched through to the call. The EDEN logo disappeared, replaced by a black man who looked roughly Blake’s age. The moment Raphael saw Blake, he offered a salute. “Mister President.”

Returning it half-heartedly, Blake said simply, “I was informed by Intelligence Director Kang that you had information regarding one of your former students. Please, let’s get right to it.”

“Yes, sir,” Raphael said, lowering his hand as he regarded the president. “I spent a lot of time with then-Cadet Feathers.”

“Very good,” said Blake in a voice that sounded anything but enthused. “Then perhaps you can tell me how your Vulture pilot defeated two Superwolves in aerial combat.”

Raphael’s expression fell somber. “I can tell you quite easily, sir. It’s because Feathers never joined the Academy as a Vulture pilot.” Blake’s eyes narrowed. “She entered under our fighter program. Are you
sure
, sir, that she was the one involved in this incident?”

“Fairly sure,” Blake answered, “as in we’re positive. Why does your voice suddenly sound so troubled, instructor?”

A span of silence passed, as if Raphael was measuring his words. At long last, he offered his reply. “Because if Tiffany Feathers is an enemy combatant, you guys have one hell of an adversary.”

Blake squinted as he listened.

“Feathers was, hands down, the best fighter pilot I’ve ever seen. What she did behind the stick, it wasn’t flying.” Raphael shook his head with the words. “It was art. She can fly like Rembrandt could paint. You can’t teach that kind of thing. Hell, she taught
me
a thing or two.”

“Why is she a Vulture pilot?” asked Blake.

Pressing his lips together and inhaling, Raphael answered, “Her father died at the tail end of her first year. She walked. Couldn’t deal with it. He was the reason she flew.” The instructor looked away briefly. “It was one of the worst things I ever saw, losing a pilot like that. She could have been the next Mariner. I mean, this girl could’ve taught
me
.”

As the instructor talked, Blake listened intently, his mug of tea momentarily abandoned by his cupped hands.

“We thought we lost her for good, until a full semester later when she showed up again. Wanted to finish, make it as a pilot. I guess time healed things for her.” Raphael leaned forward. “Problem was, she’d missed too much. The only way she was going to finish the program was if she started over and did the full two years. It doesn’t matter how good you are, if you want to fly a fighter, you’ve got to complete the curriculum.” He arched an eyebrow. “But
Vulture
training isn’t that restrictive. Enough of fighter training is considered core to make Vulture training compatible. So we gave her the choice: start over to fly a fighter, or fast-track to a Vulture. She chose the Vulture.”

Leaning back in his chair, Blake said, “We have reason to believe that Miss Feathers has acquired a Superwolf. How concerned should we be?”

Staring straight back at the judge, Raphael released a low, dangerous laugh. Silence hung, until he shook his head and spoke. “Mister President, I’d put money on Feathers if she was flying a
blimp
. Don’t underestimate this girl,” Raphael warned. “If it’s in the air, she’s mastered it. Hell, the girl’s even a professional skydiver. Couldn’t be a better name for her than
Feathers
.”

Blake’s shoulders sank, the Briton’s dark skin paling a shade. He looked away in disgust. Almost under his breath entirely, he muttered the word, “Terrific.” No other words of significance were exchanged between the two of them. Thanking Raphael for his time, he bid the instructor farewell. The line closed with Raphael’s wish for good luck.

The game had changed. No longer were Archer and company decidedly the aggressor in the pursuit of Scott Remington and his band of outlaws. The renegade had found a wild card.

Reaching out, Blake patched through to his personal secretary. Upon answering, he told her simply, “Send a message to Mariner. His skill set might soon be needed.” The message was acknowledged, and the connection was closed.

At a loss for his next move, Blake finished his now lukewarm tea.

*
      
*
      
*

Saturday, March 17
^th
, 0012 NE

0735 hours

Cairo, Egypt

“YOU’VE GOT TO be kidding me,” said Logan Marshall from across Vice-General Tarraf’s desk.

Unfolding his arms, the Canadian Judge Jason Rath leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk as he bore into Logan’s eyes. The vice-general was present, too, seated in his chair right next to the judge. Judge Rath repeated the question he’d asked moments before. “I will ask you again, lieutenant. Was there ever a time when you were directly involved with the Nightmen?”

Logan Marshall’s face reddened, the veins in his forehead on the verge of bursting through his skin. The aftermath of Natalie’s kidnapping was almost more infuriating than the kidnapping itself.

Immediately following Scott’s escape, Logan had commandeered a transport to pursue him. He and several other squads chased Scott’s Vulture over the Suez Canal, all the way past Saudi Arabia and into Iran. Communication efforts were futile; not one transmission came from Scott’s stolen Caracal transport. By the time their pursuit reached India, they discovered why: the ship had been flying on autopilot. There hadn’t been a soul aboard. Somewhere over the Suez, its crew had abandoned ship.

Forty-eight people in
Cairo
had been killed by Scott and his crew.
Forty-eight
. Security guards doing their jobs. Scientists in the labs. They’d even lost civilian contractors. And that didn’t even count the wounded, which last he’d heard, were nearing one hundred. This was carnage.

The interior of
Cairo
had been ruined. Even beyond the actual areas affected by combat, the activation of the base-wide sprinkler systems had destroyed everything from computer consoles to couches. Every hall, every wing of the living quarters, every closet was affected.

But it was nothing compared to the disaster that had been
Cairo
’s response. The base’s entire command staff was acting dazed, clueless, as if they had no concept as to what needed to be done now. Logan knew what needed to be done—a full-on pursuit. Spare no Vultures, no soldiers. Go after Scott with everything
Cairo
had to offer, like EDEN Command was doing. But
Cairo
wasn’t doing anything. They’d been punched between the eyes and were down for the count. It was disgraceful. Now a judge had been called in to clean up the mess, which was another way to say, “find someone to blame.” At present, Logan seemed to be that someone. The Australian was sick.

“Please don’t make me repeat myself a third time,” the Canadian warned.

Logan stared Rath down. “Why would you even ask me that?”

“Come on now, lieutenant. You didn’t join EDEN after leaving the Church. You were a mercenary.”

The lieutenant inhaled through his nostrils, shifting uncomfortably.

“Do you think we don’t know these things?” Rath asked. “Do you think we
wouldn’t
find out everything there is to know about everyone who was involved in this?”

“I wasn’t involved in this.”

Rath folded his hands together. “I beg to differ. Remington was in your unit. Your captain is with him. You’re the most involved person on Earth who
isn’t
one of them.”

Shaking his head, Logan said, “I wasn’t a part of this. Why would I be?”

“Because mercenaries want money, and the Nightmen have a lot of it.”

That was all Logan could take—he rose angrily from his chair. The motion was so sudden than Rath and Tarraf flinched.
“If I wanted money, I wouldn’t have signed on with EDEN!”

Rath stood upright. “Have you ever operated in the Soviet Union?”

The question brought immediate silence. Logan stared at the judge straight on. After a moment of reluctance, he answered, “Yes.”

“There we go,” said Rath. Vice-General Tarraf jotted something down on a notepad. The judge continued. “And what was your business in the Soviet Union?”

“It was either a pick-up or a drop-off.”

Raising an eyebrow, Rath asked, “Either?”

“I don’t remember.”

“I find that very difficult to believe.”

Logan sighed. “It was a little bit of both.”

No level of painted-on charm could hide Rath’s annoyance. “Lieutenant Marshall, this discussion will go much quicker and smoother if you cooperate.”

“This isn’t a discussion,” said Logan, cutting Rath off. “You’re looking for a scapegoat. I’m not it.” Before Rath could interject, he continued. “I just watched my captain get kidnapped by operatives from
Novosibirsk
. From Nightmen. I want to get her back, and I can. That’s the kind of work I did for a decade before I signed on here.” Rath raised his chin somewhat as Logan approached the desk. “Don’t ask me questions. Just let me contact my people, and we’ll get Natalie back.” At the use of Natalie’s first name, Rath raised an eyebrow. Logan quickly corrected himself. “Captain Rockwell.”

“Hmm,” said Rath. The room fell silent.

Propping his hands on his hips, Logan looked down. He’d just blown it. Gone was any outside semblance of a man who was passionate about justice. Lieutenants didn’t call captains by their first name, especially in front of judges and vice-generals. He’d just played the hand that held his ulterior motive.

Rath’s eyes met the Australian’s again. “Describe your relationship with Captain Rockwell, please.”

Exhaling as he averted his eyes, Logan simply answered, “We had one. Briefly. In
Atlanta
.”

“I see.”

Logan’s tone fell, defeated. “I know that’s not supposed—”

“And what are your feelings toward her now?” asked Rath before Logan could finish.

The Australian’s jaw set. He shook his head, as if he couldn’t find an answer that he liked. After almost ten full seconds of stillness, his expression hardened, and he answered, “I’m a highly-motivated ex-mercenary.”

Rath’s face, on the contrary, seemed to relax. He exhaled satisfactorily.

Logan opened his mouth to say something else, but Vice-General Tarraf, quiet up until that point, spoke up. “Lieutenant, that is entirely unacceptable—”

“Shut up,” said Rath without looking. Tarraf blinked and looked at him. The judge’s gaze returned to Logan. “
How
highly motivated?”

Saturday, March 17
^th
, 0012 NE

1135 hours

Omsk Oblast, Russia

THE M51 WAS sparsely populated. This was a good thing. Leaning back in the leather driver’s seat of his Dovecraft, Yuri Dostoevsky released a calming breath and engaged the cruise control.

Better known as the Baikal Highway, Highway M51 was a twenty-four-hundred kilometer federal road that stretched from Novosibirsk to Chelyabinsk in what was essentially a straight shot. The Omsk Oblast was the next oblast west of Novosibirsk and the first stage of the forty-plus-hour drive to Chernobyl. There’d been a time when making that journey was a much easier affair, when airborne transports from
Novosibirsk
could fly freely throughout Russia and the rest of the world. But EDEN had taken care of that. A trip that used to be little more than an inconvenience was now a multi-day drive through the array of plains and wilderness that dominated southern Russia.

Due to their sudden loss of air transportation, the Nightman exodus to Chernobyl would have to be a drive for everyone, high-profile Nightmen like Antipov included. Dostoevsky was a rare exception in that he was a Nightman with a luxury automobile. For most of the Nightmen making the journey, the drive would consist of piling into the backs of moving vehicles. But a Dovecraft was the epitome of privilege. He had purchased it several years earlier at an extreme discount, which meant the dealership knew they were dealing with a Nightman. A profit loss and a happy Nightman customer was still a net gain. Black and sleek, the Dovecraft was what was known as a
hoverquad
, a fairly new line of vehicles that combined wheels on the ground with hover travel, courtesy of a driftdrive that could be engaged when certain speeds were reached, at which point the wheels were retracted and propulsion took over. It was the best of both worlds: nimble in the city and a highway ride that was as smooth as the air itself.

Nestled into the passenger seat slept Varvara Yudina. The young blond medic had fallen asleep several hours earlier, the fatigue of the morning’s events overtaking the adrenaline rush of the escape from
Novosibirsk
. She hadn’t spoken much since the drive had begun, and sleep had come relatively quickly. That was all well and good with Dostoevsky, save one minor detail: he could barely keep his eyes open himself. There was nothing exhilarating about the endless rows of trees that lined the highway. There was only the subtle, lulling hum of the driftdrive motor. After a particularly alarming head nod that gave Dostoevsky visions of his Dovecraft wrapped around a tree trunk, he finally looked at Varvara and spoke.