Enemy One (Epic Book 5)

by Lee Stephen

  * * *

  “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 r
est 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?”

  The director leaned back in his chair, folding his hands together placidly on his lap. “Because she was also the pilot for Falcon Platoon.”

  Blake’s face fell.

  “As you already know, the Vulture that survived the Great Dismal Swamp is the same Vulture the Fourteenth is using now. She must have been aboard it when it lifted.”

  Shaking his head, Blake said, “That’s a very bold claim—that anyone from the swamp could have escaped.”

  Kang’s beady gaze remained locked on Blake. “You know as well as I do that a number of bodies were never found. Hers was among them. The body of the colonel, Lilan, was also never found. He and others may have escaped on that Vulture, too.” He pointed to the note in Blake’s hand. “Call her instructor. He will tell you everything you need to know.” Leaning forward again, Kang returned to his scribbling.

  For several seconds, Blake said nothing—he simply stared at the old Chinese man across from him. At long last, almost incredulously, he asked, “That’s it?” When Kang ignored the question, Blake went on. “You called me all the way over here to hand me a sticky note and tell me to research it myself?” Once again, Blake was given nothing. The Briton’s composure fell, and his voice rose. “I’m talking to you.”

  Placing the pencil down, Kang propped his elbows on the table and placed his palms together as if in prayer. The Chinese director’s beady eyes stayed on Blake. “You have your role, and I have mine. You are where you are because Benjamin saw fit to place you there, but do not confuse that with being essential. I have done my part in identifying Tiffany Feathers and her instructor at Philadelphia. You must now do your part by contacting him, listening to what he has to say, then using it to your advantage.” He angled his head. “Is any part of that not appropriate?”

  His jaw set, but with his breathing controlled, Blake glared across the desk at Kang. At long last, he answered, “No.”

  “Very well,” Kang said, returning to his tablet.

  Blake stood in silence as the director returned to his own world, the Chinese man humming to himself as his pencil struck paper. Finally, after it became apparent that Kang was going to say nothing else, Blake turned without a word to make his departure. The moment he stepped out of the door, he collided with Douglas, a full cup of tea splashing out against the president’s wardrobe. Both men froze.

  “I am so sorry, Mr. President,” Douglas said.

  Wiping tea off his hands, Blake said, his tone less than cordial, “It’s quite all right.” Stepping past Douglas, Blake strode out of Intelligence without speaking to anyone else.

  * * *

  FLICKING ON THE light to his suite, Leonid Torokin stepped inside, gesturing for those behind him to enter. “Have a seat anywhere, gentlemen,” he said, exhausted. He slipped out of his blue coat—the hallmark indicator of an EDEN judge—and hung it on the coatrack by his front door.

  Torokin and his two counterparts on the High Command, Dmitri Grinkov and Richard Lena, had all been present in the War Room when the Fourteenth was intercepted by the pair of Superwolves. They’d all seen the green dots turn into red X’s when the Superwolves were presumed to have been shot down. Behind Grinkov and Lena were the three Vectors other than Klaus Faerber who were at EDEN Command: Vincent Hill, a British combat medic and Vector’s second in command; Minh Dang, pilot of the Relentless, one of the unit’s Vultures; and Torokin’s nephew, Alexander Kireev, or Sasha, as he was known. The young Vector scout had been visiting his uncle at EDEN Command when the events at Novosibirsk and Cairo had taken place. All the money in the world couldn’t convince him to leave now—not that anybody visiting EDEN Command had the option of choosing when they came or went.

  The Vectors had not been present in the War Room when the Superwolves were downed, but they’d heard the report as soon as the judges were dismissed from Blake’s presence. Only Klaus went back to find Blake himself—the rest followed Torokin back to his room to discuss the goings-on. The discussion was anything but lively. It was more like discussing a death.

  Closing the door behind him, Torokin approached his living area, where the others had lowered themselves into chairs and sofas. Retrieving a small stack of drinking glasses from his bar at the far end of the room, the Russian judge set them on the coffee table as he went back to grab vodka. One of the perks of being a judge was that their suites could have whatever the judges wanted in them. These suites were their homes. Everyone had their own style. Lena was a horse racing enthusiast, so his suite housed a collection of various articles about horses he’d bet on that had won, among other artifacts related to the sport: autographed photos, horseshoes, and the like. Grinkov, as his rotund body type indicated, was a fan of the culinary arts. Archer, whose room Torokin had only been inside once, was a collector of nautical décor. Every judge had his or her own style.

  Torokin’s style was alcohol. Pure, simple alcohol. He’d had a custom wood bar counter flown in from Moscow specifically to house his extensive collection of tonics, which ranged from the most expensive of bottles of burgundy to flasks of moonshine he’d purchased in the United States. But his favorite drink, as was the case for any true Soviet, was vodka.

  Arranging the glasses on the coffee table, he filled each halfway with drink. “Help yourselves,” he said, setting the open bottle down and claiming a glass for himself. The others, with the exception of Sasha, did the same. “A toast, to first times for everything,” Torokin said, lifting his glass haphazardly then downing a swig.

  “You sound drunk already,” said Grinkov.

  Vincent smirked sadly, then took a drink himself. “He sounds more like he’s just seen a Vulture shoot down two Superwolves.”

  “What we just saw,” Torokin said, lowering himself into a chair, “was impossible.” He leaned forward, looking at Grinkov and Lena. “Do you have any idea what kind of pilot it would take to do what was just done?”

  “Yeah, well,” said Lena, “we saw their pilot: Travis Navarro. There was nothing to indicate he possesses that kind of skill.” He gestured with his glass for emphasis. “Those guys had help.”

  The American judge was referring to Travis Navarro’s dossier, which was a thorough career and psychological profile detailing everything from Academy scores to spending habits. The Council had received such a dossier
for every member of the Fourteenth. Travis’s stuck out for being the only one in the bunch to reference “financially irresponsible purchasing of Stellar Man comic books.” The amount of specific info the dossiers had for each of the Fourteenth’s members—those with official EDEN records, at any rate—was downright frightening.

  Looking at Minh, Lena asked, “What do you think, Dang? Can a Vulture take out a pair of Superwolves without any help?”

  “Anything is possible with the right circumstances,” the American-accented Vietnamese pilot answered. “But those would take some pretty special circumstances.”

  “Do you gentlemen have any idea what the Fourteenth might have been doing in Krasnoyarsk?” Vincent asked.

  Torokin shook his head. “I suppose more info will be forthcoming, but as I sit here and think about it, nothing comes to mind. In fact, there are more reasons for them to have avoided Krasnoyarsk than to go to it.” He faced the Vector medic and XO. “We had dropped numerous agents in Novosibirsk to learn some of Thoor’s secrets—one of the things we discovered was that Krasnoyarsk was a recruitment city for them. It has a large Nightman presence. One would think that, with Thoor dead and Novosibirsk taken back by EDEN, the Fourteenth would go somewhere where they could lay low, hide.” He took another drink and shook his head. “It makes no sense to fly into one of the most prominent Nightman cities in Russia.”

  “They must have had a reason, don’t you think?” Vincent asked.

  “One would think so.”

  Silence came over them for a moment as each man stared forward, some at their glasses, some ahead. It was Vincent who broke the silence with a sigh. “The captain isn’t going to stop until Remington is dead. He’s determined to be a part of the process, whether the Council want him or not.”