Enemy One (Epic Book 5)

by Lee Stephen

  Despite the constant need to shout over the rushing of wind, the discussion was as thorough as any regular mission brief, with questions back and forth, references to the laws of gravity, and assurances from Tiffany that this plan would—not could—work. By the end of the conversation, Scott was believing it. This would go down in the Fourteenth’s annals of insanity, but it would work. It had to work. They were literally banking everything on it.

  The only order of business left was to inform the rest of the crew, if not of the entire plan, at least that some intense aerial maneuvers were about to be made and that there was no need to panic. As Scott told David through the comm, everything would be “under control.” That was the most Scott felt the need to elaborate. Becan, on the other hand, was given the full rundown. The Irishman’s response to the entire explanation was one word: “Bollocks.”

  As the conversation came to an end, Tiffany pulled up directly on the side of the Pariah, offering Scott a thumbs up. Staring at Tiffany in the cockpit of the Superwolf, it struck Scott for the first time how brave this young woman was. She was sitting pretty in a safe cockpit. Nobody told her she had to do this. She was risking her life by leaping out of an aircraft on her own. Scott was fairly confident that not even he had that level of courage.

  “You ready to do this?” Tiffany asked over the comm, the blonde’s voice already scratchy from the excessive amount of screaming required to hold a conversation.

  Looking across at her, Scott shook his head. “Not at all!”

  “We’re gonna do it!” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “Just do what I tell you to do and trust me that it’ll work! It’s like, the ultimate trust fall!”

  That about summed it up. Blowing out a hard breath in his helmet, Scott prepared himself. His hands were soaked with sweat inside their gloves. He felt like he was the one about to leap into the sky. Finally, he gave her the word. “Ready when you are!” It was a one-hundred-percent lie.

  Tiffany hesitated.

  Oh no…she’s freaking out.

  “Dive when I say to!” Her voice cracked. She was crying! “Dive, now!”

  Scott obeyed without even thinking, pushing the stick forward. As the nose of the Pariah downturned and the force of the wind against him and Becan shifted, Scott felt his stomach turn on its end. The sky gave way to ground, and the next thing Scott saw was the Earth coming straight toward them from twelve thousand feet in the air.

  And he panicked.

  Becan pressed back against his seat both from the force of the wind pressing him back and his own urge to back away. The Irishman was totally paralyzed.

  Scott, for all of his bravado, was on the verge of tears. There was nothing but ground taking up his view. This was not how planes were supposed to fly. His freak-out was interrupted by Tiffany’s voice yelling at him again. “Pull back on your throttle! Kill all your thrust! Deploy the parachutes!”

  Scott yanked back on the throttle; the Pariah’s thrusters died. Gravity took over. They were in a total freefall. Reaching out, he slammed his hand on the button to release the emergency drag parachutes. To his utter relief, they deployed. There was a noticeable jolt as the Pariah’s downward speed slowed ever so faintly.

  “Keep the nose pointed down!” Tiffany yelled. “If you don’t, we all die! Dropping now—see you in a bit!”

  See you in a bit. Like she was swinging by his place for a date. Scott’s voice was shaking almost uncontrollably. “Got it!” He didn’t have it—not at all. Fighting with the stick, he did his best to maintain a straight downward course.

  From her inverted and hovering Superwolf, Tiffany released from her harness. The next thing she felt was the rush of open air as gravity pulled her down. The blonde’s hair and flight suit were getting pummeled. Gaining control of her limbs, she rotated her body until the Pariah was in her sights. Tucking her arms in, she entered a dive position and made her rocketing descent.

  The reversal of Scott’s stomach felt imminent. Though they were still far above the ground—his altimeter read ten thousand feet—it was growing larger just the same. This was like a horrible dream.

  Scott had no idea if this was going to work. Though Tiffany could presumably communicate to him from her helmet, he dared not try to contact her during her dive. She needed to be solely focused on the drop. The drop. As the reality of what they were doing registered, Scott felt lightheaded. Turning his head to the side, he searched as much of the sky as he could see. He couldn’t find her anywhere. Come on, Tiff. Get over here.

  Tiffany’s eyes narrowed on the Pariah as she grew ever nearer, coming in at an angle that would take her right for the side of the transport. It didn’t matter if she nailed the cockpit with a bullseye. The most important thing was that she made physical contact with the transport at all. With every second, the Vulture grew closer. Repositioning her body, she prepared to make contact.

  Scott’s heart rate was through the roof. He felt like he was about to have a stroke. Where was she? Was she even close? Had she missed? On the verge of a prayer, the blonde caught his eyes. Sliding down the edge of the Pariah’s hull on his side, Tiffany’s arms desperately tried to snag part of the open canopy structure. But she was going too fast. To Scott’s horror, she slid right past the nose and toward the ground before he could even reach out to grab her.

  Oh no.

  This was not what they’d planned. This was not what needed to happen. This was…

  The inclination struck Scott immediately. Drop the parachutes! Slapping his hands on the parachute release, Scott sent them flying off into the sky as gravity pulled the cursed Vulture with all its might. The distance between Tiffany and the Pariah’s nose stopped growing. Thrust! Grabbing the throttle, Scott eased it forward. Slowly, the Pariah sped to catch up with her.

  It wasn’t what they’d planned…but it was working. Tiffany was “falling upward” toward the Pariah, drawing within meters. If he could keep the nose pointed straight down, and if she could keep herself moving in a straight line…

  …she was doing it!

  Scott looked at his altimeter, and all hope was turned on its end. Six thousand feet! They were halfway to the ground.

  Just stay straight. You can do it, Tiffany. Just stay straight!

  Tiffany turned her head to line up the Pariah’s cockpit. The next thing Scott knew, she was at the transport’s nose.

  I have to catch her.

  Lifting his harness, Scott let go of the joystick. At this point, with Tiffany already sliding up the nose, there was no need to keep the Pariah steady. The Valley Girl was already there.

  Just don’t turn around, Tiffany! Don’t start spinning out. I’ve got you. Reaching out with his arms as far as he felt comfortable reaching, he snagged the pilot’s ankle as she floated up to him. A second later, he wrapped his arms around her.

  It worked. Of all the crazy, irrational, harebrained ideas they could have come up with, this one actually worked. Tiffany Feathers had just skydived from one airplane into another.

  The moment Tiffany maneuvered herself onto his lap, her hands flew to the joystick and throttle. Reaching overhead, Scott pulled the harness down atop both of them. Against all odds, it fit over them both, latching into place with a click that Scott felt.

  The Pariah had a pilot.

  Tiffany pushed the throttle forward and slammed down the joystick. Scott looked at the altimeter again. Three thousand feet! Scott peered over her shoulder to get a look at the ground. When he saw it, his eyes widened.

  A new burst of thrust came from the Vulture’s engines as the downturn began, and again, the force of wind shifted. But Tiffany was doing exactly what she said she was going to do—she was rolling the Pariah upright, but inverted.

  Two thousand feet. They were a quarter of the way upright. Seventeen hundred feet. He could make out individual trees. Fourteen hundred.

  At that moment, Scott decided to close his eyes. Through the queasiness, he forced a breath of calm. There was
no benefit in watching the ground until they smacked into it. He didn’t need to see that. What he needed, more than anything, was to pray.

  Pull us up, God. Let her pull us up.

  Though he had no idea what their altitude was with his eyes closed, he could still feel the Pariah leveling off. He knew that every degree closer to level they came, their rate of descent would lessen.

  We’re in Your control.

  There was a noticeable shift in wind. Once more, he found himself pushed straight back by an oncoming gale. But it was a gale that felt familiar. With semi-reluctance, Scott opened his eyes.

  They were level! The sky was below them, the ground above them, but they were level. Easing the joystick to the side, Tiffany executed a barrel roll as smooth as anything Scott had felt in a Vulture—she made it seem effortless.

  They were flying normally.

  Leaning his head back—a feat made easy by the force of wind—Scott exhaled a long overdue breath of relief. Resituating himself in a way that allowed Tiffany to sit more comfortably, Scott wrapped his arms around her waist to hold her in place. The act might not have been necessary with a harness there, but it felt natural. If nothing else, it was assurance that he had her. Leaning close to her ear, he hollered, “Are you all right?”

  Tiffany didn’t answer out loud. She only nodded her head quickly, almost as if the question wasn’t even something she wanted to think about. She’s not all right, Scott thought, no matter how she responds right now. What she had just done was…indescribable. Had he not seen it, he wouldn’t have believed it—and he still wasn’t sure this was all real. This one would take time to sink in.

  At least time was now something they had.

  * * *

  HAMI STATION WAS a smoldering wreck. As Logan Marshall stood there, soot-faced and shell-shocked with the other members of Vector, his impassioned eyes took in the pillars of smoke and strewn bodies that constituted EDEN’s attempt to wrangle in the outlaws. Three lost V2s. At least twenty dead soldiers. A major satellite station destroyed.

  With every passing second, Logan’s breaths grew more brooding and intense. His jaw was clenched so tightly, he could have snapped an iron bar between them. It was taking everything inside him to prevent himself from going ballistic.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Snarling loudly, Logan raised his broken chaos rifle, spun around, and slammed it into the dusty ground.

  “Hey!” said Marty, several feet away. The Cajun marched toward him. “Watch ’dat thing, those things are expensive!”

  Pointing to the burning facility, Logan erupted. “Remington was here and we let him bloody disappear!”

  “We do not know that Remington was here,” said Chiumbo, nearing them from the direction of several injured soldiers from another Vulture. “We do not know that any of the soldiers on the ground here were Remington. No one verified it.”

  “That’s really going to help me sleep better tonight!” said the Australian.

  Running his hand through his tussled brown hair, Marty sighed in exhaustion. “Look, chief, they got us today—there ain’t no doubt about ’dat. But ’dere’s gonna be other days. We already know ’dis guy is good. He wouldn’t have been able to pull off what he did at Cairo if he wasn’t.”

  It did nothing to calm Logan down. “Meanwhile, your world-renown pilot flies into a bloody explosion—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said Marty, eyes narrowing as he raised a hand. “Watch y’self now, chief.”

  “It’s my fault, all right? The buck stops with me!” Logan snarled. “I wasn’t perfect, which means we weren’t perfect, which means Remington is high-tailing to wherever it is he’s hunkering down! I’m sorry, but I don’t plan on handling that well.”

  Stepping between them, Chiumbo focused on Marty. “We forget what Marshall has seen. Someone he respects was kidnapped by this man, Remington. Was Captain Faerber not emotional at the death of his son?” Marty’s glare remained, though he drew an intentionally calming breath. The Mwera lieutenant went on. “An angry outburst is to be expected, and we will not hold it against him.” Before anyone could interrupt him, he continued on. “This is war. Everything here,” he motioned all around them, “all that you see, is a trench. We are in it. The acknowledgment of failure is not to be run from, it is to be learned from—and learn, we must.”

  “Yeah, we’ll bloody learn,” the Australian answered flatly. When the other two men eyed him suspiciously, he went on. “I mean that, gentlemen. We’ll bloody learn. It starts with me.”

  “That is good to hear,” Chiumbo said, pausing for a moment. “Now, let us go and retrieve the rest of our team then wait for another transport to return us to Novosibirsk. We regroup, and we pursue again.” His expression grew stern. “This was not a victory on Remington’s part. This was a ‘lucky break.’ His luck will run out.”

  Leaning past Chiumbo, Marty held a fist out to Logan. “Hey. We gonna get ’dis guy. All right?”

  After a moment of reluctance, Logan bumped the fist with his own. “Right.” His positivity was forced, but it was there.

  Casting his eye skyward toward the radio tower, Chiumbo queued up Lisa. “Can you see anything up there, Tiffin?”

  “Smoke and dust,” the sniper replied.

  “Well, then,” Chiumbo said, looking at Logan and Marty once more. “One of us must go search for Minh on his own.”

  Logan raised a hand. “I’ll go.”

  The Mwera lieutenant raised an eyebrow.

  “No, I’ll be fine,” said Logan, sensing the wariness. “I’ll go track him down.”

  “Very well.” Chiumbo looked at Marty. “Go check on Sasha and Pablo.”

  The Cajun bellowed sardonically, “Check on ’dem? ’Dey oughta be checkin’ on us!”

  As if on cue, a voice from the other team—Sasha’s—cut through the conversation. “Comrades, are you all right?”

  “We’re fine,” answered Marty. “Get your butts back in front. Time to regroup and reload.”

  There was a pause. “I think regrouping and reloading might have just gotten easier,” Sasha said.

  The three men up front swapped glances. Chiumbo lifted his comm. “What do you mean?”

  Through the comm, Sasha inhaled a breath. “Pablo just found something the outlaws left behind—and it’s big.” Logan, Chiumbo, and Marty looked at one another. “I think we just found the break that we needed.”

  22

  Tuesday, March 20th, 0012 NE

  1749 hours

  Norilsk, Russia

  THE RIDE BACK to Northern Forge was uneventful, which was a very good thing. EDEN knew the Pariah’s last known whereabouts and the direction it was heading. Scott almost expected more Superwolves to cut the cursed transport off somewhere, though thankfully such a cut-off never came. For all practical purposes, they were home free, even if the process of actually landing at home was going to be a bit more complicated.

  Landing the Pariah without vertical thrusters wasn’t something Scott was concerned about. After all, Travis had done that once already. What concerned Scott was Tiffany’s mental state. The blonde was frazzled—he could see it and feel it in her rigidness. As chatty as her default status seemed to be, for the Valley Girl to not say a thing after doing what she’d just done spoke volumes. This one would take a while to recover from.

  And so Scott simply enjoyed the view in a way he’d never done before: without a glass canopy to protect him. It was strange how after the aerial feats they’d just pulled off, flying without a canopy almost felt serene, particularly as daylight gave way to dusk. It was like flying a convertible under an orange and purple sky. With every minute that passed, the fear that’d gripped him so terribly dwindled. They were going to get out of this. They’d all have their feet on the floor of Northern Forge again.

  Except for Travis and Donald.

  It wasn’t until well after they were underway with Tiffany at the helm that thoughts of the deceased entered Scott’s mind. Travis
was dead. Travis Navarro, their comic-book-reading pilot, was dead. The heaviness that hit his heart was a deep one. It went far beyond the loss of just the Pariah’s pilot, and in a sense, its advocate. This was the loss of a dear friend. A loved one for them all.

  How is this going to affect Boris?

  The Fourteenth had gotten used to surviving. The last death they’d faced that had impacted them to any degree was Captain Clarke. No unit was supposed to lose their pilot—not this way.

  As Scott leaned back in the pilot’s seat with the wind pressing against him, memories of Travis drifted through his mind. He’d always been an endorser of Scott in the unit, even when Scott was new and hadn’t rightfully earned the trust of everyone else. Travis was a dreamer—and oftentimes a day dreamer. He’d been accused by some of being lazy, and perhaps that was true to an extent, but no one could question whether or not he was dedicated. Travis was the reason the Pariah was still running, long before it’d been shipped off—supposedly—to Atlanta for repairs. The Pariah was Travis’s faithful companion. His feral dog. Who could claim ownership of the Pariah now?

  His arms tightened instinctively around Tiffany’s waist as they hit a spell of turbulence. Right then, he had his answer. Tiffany was alive because of the Pariah. That cursed transport had flown her to Novosibirsk and saved her and her comrades’ lives on its own. Perhaps no one else was supposed to claim ownership of the Pariah. Maybe choosing an owner was the Pariah’s decision. Could a torch choose who it got passed to? If so, the onus was on Tiffany to decide whether or not to accept it—whether or not to truly become a part of the Fourteenth, even if only by circumstance. He’d honor whatever decision she made.

  Donald…

  Of the Fourteenth, only Scott, David, Becan, and Jayden had known Donald from Richmond. The demolitionist’s death wouldn’t impact the other members of the Fourteenth as traumatically as Travis’s would, but Donald was a friend to Scott and his fellow transfers. He was Scott’s “offensive lineman.” He was a good person. Scott may have been closer to Travis due to proximity, but he refused to let that diminish the death of Donald Bell.