Enemy One (Epic Book 5) (11 page)

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.”

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.”