Enemy One (Epic Book 5)

by Lee Stephen

  In Torokin’s mind, that wasn’t even a question. He knew Klaus—and the relationship that Klaus had had with his son, Strom. They weren’t close. Strom had been born under a shadow from which no child could have escaped. There was a lot of pent-up emotion between the two, despite being father and son. Klaus had always kept himself distant from Strom in an effort to protect him. Strom always resented it. Despite Klaus’s best efforts, his worst fear had come to pass: that his son was killed in the line of duty. There was no question in Torokin’s mind that Klaus would go after the people—or the man—responsible. Setting down his empty glass on the coffee table, Torokin said, “It is inevitable that Klaus contacts Todd.”

  “What makes you think he hasn’t already?” asked Vincent, the Briton eyeing Torokin indicatively. “Todd’s not a part of EDEN anymore. The captain doesn’t need EDEN’s permission to ask a friend to do a favor.”

  Todd Kenner: the black sheep of Vector. A man whose ability demanded a new scout classification: Type 3, both tactical combat and observations. A man whose deviant behavior, culminating with the accusation that he’d forced himself upon a woman while on a mission, had forced EDEN’s hand in removing him. It didn’t matter that the charges had been dropped—the thought of having someone accused of such a thing among EDEN’s elite was just too much for the organization to handle. It was telling that no one in Vector, with the exception of Klaus himself, stood up for Kenner during the trial and after his release. Despite whatever feelings Todd must have harbored against his former brethren in Vector Squad, there was no question that he must have appreciated Klaus’s loyalty. Todd would help him in a heartbeat.

  Todd was bad news. But was he worse than Scott Remington? The acts Scott had done couldn’t be denied. He wasn’t an accused traitor. He was a public one. Could Remington’s wickedness justify enlisting the aid of a man like Todd Kenner? Part of Torokin felt it just might.

  “What do you guys think made Remington turn like this?” Sasha asked.

  It was the million-dollar question. How could a Golden Lion turn into a vile instrument of Ignatius van Thoor? Torokin remembered Remington’s press conference after the Battle of Chicago. At the time, the soldier seemed more than the hero of a particular battle—he seemed an ideal, an image of selfless service and courage for young soldiers to emulate. Then, he disappeared to Novosibirsk. What had happened between Chicago and now?

  “The promise of power can affect anyone,” Lena said in response to Sasha’s question. “I’d imagine that promises by Thoor led Remington to do what he did, to become what he became.”

  As the others spoke on, the press conference continued to drift through Torokin’s mind. The more the Russian judge thought upon it, the more something seemed off. Though he did remember the gist of the press conference, as well as the favorable impression it made for EDEN, some of the finer details were lost in his memory. He wanted to see it again. Rising from his chair, he stepped past his counterparts toward the monitor on his wall.

  Eyeing him curiously, Grinkov asked, “What are you doing, Leonid?”

  “I want to see…” answered Torokin, allowing the latter half of the statement to trail off. As the others watched, he accessed EDEN’s databanks, backtracking to the Battle of Chicago then sifting through its media files. After a short search, he found Remington’s press conference. Pressing play, he slipped his hands in his pockets and took a step back.

  “Good morning everyone,” Scott said in the video clip. “For record purposes, my name is Scott James Remington, and I am a gamma private in Charlie Squad of Falcon Platoon. I was asked to answer a few questions, so we can go ahead and begin that whenever you’d like.”

  Lena sighed. “Kid sounds like a good old-fashioned American hero.”

  Listening on, Torokin heard Remington talk about his teammates and his faith, and about never hesitating when something needed to be done. He heard him decline, on multiple occasions, comparisons to Klaus. He heard everything he would have wanted to hear from one of his own soldiers, or even sons. He heard everything but the words of a treasonous killer.

  “I realize,” said Scott in response to another question, “that as good as our efforts may have been, nothing can replace the loss of civilian life. Or military life. It’s unfortunate that lives were lost, and I wish we could fight under different circumstances.”

  “Damn,” said Lena quietly.

  Damn, indeed. The words from the press conference were difficult to hear. This was a young man who valued life, not who trivialized it. Either Remington had been lying throughout the press conference, or something drastic had happened between then and now. Torokin had a hard time believing the former. “I want to know everything about Remington.”

  Pouring himself another glass of vodka, Grinkov asked, “To what end, Leonid? To have sympathy for a killer?”

  “To find out how he became a killer in the first place.”

  “Knowing how he came to be will not change what he has done. He must be brought to justice.”

  Clearing his throat cordially, Vincent said, “I’m actually going to agree with Judge Torokin on this one—despite how I know the captain would react to hearing me say it. This is too drastic a change in too short a time to simply dismiss.”

  “You guys know Carol’s gonna be working on that, right?” Lena asked, referencing Carol June, the EDEN judge in charge of personnel and the media. “Hell, she’s probably talking to Remington’s mama on the phone as we speak. Leave that to her—learning about Remington doesn’t change the fact that we need to bring him in.”

  Torokin looked back at him. “I doubt she is speaking to Remington’s mother, considering his mother and father have been dead since he was a teenager.” He allowed his gaze to survey the others. “That is one of the few things I do know.” Ironically, he knew it from June herself. “Carol has been tracking down Remington’s family. Apparently, his only immediate next of kin is a brother in Philadelphia Academy. I believe she may be speaking to him herself.”

  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 17th, 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 a
pproached 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?”

  4

  Saturday, March 17th, 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.