Enemy One (Epic Book 5) (16 page)

In the aftermath of the dogfight, Catalina had explained to everyone how Tiffany was able to outwit a pair of Superwolves. She recanted, with heartbreaking recollection, the story of how she’d vaulted up to the pole position in EDEN’s class of fighter pilots, only to have her world come crashing down in the wake of her father’s death. It was a vivid retelling, and it put into context for everyone the girl who was Tiffany Feathers—the pilot who
was
a pilot because of her father. That she lost him before earning her wings with EDEN was a tragedy.

On that same note, they were alive
because
she lost him. Had she not been flying the Vulture that EDEN intercepted over the Great Dismal Swamp, none of her comrades would likely have survived the crash landing. Her father’s death might have been the ultimate blessing in disguise. But it didn’t make the story any easier to hear. It was yet another reminder that not all books could be judged by their covers.

With a fighter ace leading the way, the Fourteenth now had a fighting chance, even if they were intercepted in the air. There was much for Tiffany to learn, to be sure, about the handling of a Superwolf. But if there was anyone who could pass the test, it was her. Her trial by fire had already come. Everything now was just part of the job.

The cityscape of Norilsk was like a scene straight out of a post-apocalyptic movie. Scott had never seen anything like it. It was an expanse of snow-covered geometry. L-shaped apartments and flats were sprawled out from one side of Norilsk to the next, giving the entire city the look of a dark gray labyrinth. Outside of the constant snow flurries that scraped across the rooftops—none of which looked higher than a few stories—there was no movement anywhere. No traffic, no people. The city didn’t even have
roads
leading into it at all, as if the city itself was some sort of island.

The coordinates to
Northern Forge
pointed the Fourteenth in the direction of snow-covered mountain valleys off to the northeast, just as Antipov had indicated. The skies were as empty as the ground. There wasn’t an aircraft in sight. Scott took a moment during their descent into the valleys to look at the outside temperature. Minus twenty-six degrees Celsius, with a windchill Scott didn’t even want to acknowledge was possible.

It was cold.

Rising from the copilot’s chair and turning to the troop bay, Scott winced, gripped the ceiling handrail, and addressed his operatives. “We’re coming up to
Northern Forge
. I want everyone ready for anything. If you have armor, if you can fit into some of the armor lying around, you might want to do so. It’s chilly out there.” The crew acknowledged and began to gear up.

Both the
Pariah
and Tiffany’s Superwolf lowered their velocities as they weaved through the mountain valleys. Scott’s focus was a constant swivel between the radar screen and the cockpit window, watching to see when the mountainside entrance of
Northern Forge
would make itself visible.

He didn’t have to wait long.

There was no mistaking the Old Era emergency facility when the two aircraft arrived at the blip on the
Pariah
’s coordinate map. The door was built directly into the mountain in a way that, though not visible by onlookers from the direction of Norilsk, was anything but hidden. Slightly smaller than
Novosibirsk
’s hangar doors, this door looked easily capable of fitting several different types of aircraft into whatever space was on the other side. The door’s metal surface would have blended in perfectly with the dark gray rock of the mountainside had it not been for the rust that covered it from top to bottom, providing the only red-orange hues on the mountain’s backside. On both sides of the hangar door stood two turret towers, each looking out over the mountain valley. They, too, were akin to the turret towers of
Novosibirsk
, each with a set of twin-barreled cannons that seemed capable of rotation. The towers themselves were built into the rock. There was something menacing about the way the structures appeared.

Behind Scott, everyone in the troop bay had clustered behind the cockpit door to get a look at the facility. It was a sight to behold.

“All right,” Scott said, placing his hand on the back of Travis’s seat. “Ring the doorbell.”

The pilot didn’t have to. Before he had a chance to get on a comm frequency, motion on the mountain face captured everyone’s attention. Tiny pebbles and stones slid down the hangar door as its rusty gears came to life and the door started to rise. The forms of several uniformed Nightmen came into view, the most forward Nightman making signals for the aircraft to approach. “All right, we’re looking good,” Scott said to Travis. “Bring us in.”

The hangar was downright dingy. An array of cables hung from the relatively low ceiling, and the lone vehicle that was there—a forklift sitting in a far corner—looked abandoned. There was one set of closed metal double doors in the center of the back wall.

Travis brought the
Pariah
to a hover and moved it into landing position.

“What’s the status of the landing gear?” Scott asked. “Is that going to stop us from landing?”

Reaching across the cockpit control board, Travis pulled a short lever. Beneath the
Pariah
’s nose, something released, its weight felt beneath the floorboard. “What was that?” Scott asked.

“That was the front wheel.”

“I thought you said it didn’t work.”

The pilot looked at Scott flatly. “I just deactivated the gear locks. Wheels are heavy—when there’s nothing holding them up, they’ll fall down on their own weight. Now getting them back
up
? That’s gonna be a bit of a problem.”

As long as they could land safely, Scott was happy. “Just put us down.”

“Aye-aye.” Engaging the cabin speaker, Travis said, “Hold on, folks. We’ve got no vertical thrusters, so things are gonna get a little bumpy.”

“Slow and steady,” Scott said. “You got this.”

Easing down the power on the
Pariah
’s main thrusters, Travis slowly dipped the nose of the aircraft—the opposite of how the transport typically landed. Grabbing hold of the cockpit doorframe tighter, Scott held himself in place as he watched the
Pariah
lower.

Come on, Travis. Bring her down gently.

Scott’s thoughts were cut off as the
Pariah
dropped. The whole of the troop bay was rocked in the impact, as the ship’s main thrusters abruptly cut off. As the whine of the engines began to fade away, Scott closed his eyes and exhaled.

“Before you say
anything
,” Travis said, “that was pretty darn good!”

“I wasn’t going to say anything. Sixty seconds ago, I thought we’d be landing on the nose.”

Travis smirked. “Well, you know…”

Patting his pilot on the shoulder, Scott said, “Nice work,” as he watched Tiffany land the Superwolf.

The hangar wasn’t nearly as large as an EDEN hangar, looking only capable of housing three, maybe four aircraft at maximum. The best Scott could guess was that its original intent was to house a few helicopters, likely for Russian officials or perhaps even the president. For Scott and the Fourteenth, it was ideal—large enough to house them comfortably, but small enough to be hidden. He’d take it.

Ducking away from the cockpit and weaving through the troop bay, Scott made his way to the rear bay door, a visible limp in his step now that his adrenaline was gone. During the short trek, he allowed himself a moment to place a hand on Centurion, as if the physical gesture would in some way say,
hang on, big guy, you’re almost good to go.
The same could have been said concerning Auric and Catalina, whose legs were badly injured. As much as this was a regrouping, it was also a chance at recovery.

The outside air whipped through the open hangar door and inside the
Pariah
, causing Scott and the rest of the troop bay to shrink back from the bitter cold. Snow flurries flew past in what felt like gale-force bursts. This was the kind of cold that hurt—that could kill. Thankfully, it didn’t take long before the rusty gears of
Northern Forge
’s hangar doors turned again, lowering the massive metal jaws that protected the forge from the outside.

Scott wasted no time once the icy cold was staved off. He stepped out of the
Pariah
and searched for
Northern Forge
’s dedicated greeter. Approaching Scott from the small collection of gathered Nightmen was a man in a Nightman uniform and of comparative build to Scott. Shaved dark brown hair and a five o’clock shadow framed a face that scrutinized Scott with all the compassion of a crocodile. Against his better judgment, Scott extended a hand. It wasn’t met.

“I am Valentin Lukin,” the man said, “keeper of
Northern Forge
.” Valentin looked to be in his thirties, perhaps mid to upper. His face was scarred with pits that made him seem either a mild burn victim or someone whose teenage years had been plagued with terrible acne. For the sake of feeling at ease, Scott chose to believe the latter.

“Hi,” Scott said, retracting his hand awkwardly. “I’m Scott—” Valentin stepped past Scott mid-introduction. The abruptness was jarring.

Barking out orders in Russian, Valentin inspected the
Pariah
’s troop bay and the soldiers inside it. Valentin must not have known that Scott could understand it all. “Get the Ceratopian to Shubin,” he had said, “then refuel this ship—it will not be staying.”

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Scott said, limping Valentin’s way as the keeper’s Nightmen took to their assigned tasks. “What do you mean this ship won’t be staying?”

Valentin turned Scott’s way, but only to look him eye-to-eye for a moment. Once again, he walked past him without another word, and once again, he addressed his Nightmen in Russian. “Find out who in there is from Falcon Platoon. Isolate them at once.”

“Hey, you’re not isolating anyone!” said Scott. Valentin continued walking away, as if Scott wasn’t even there. Now Scott was mad. Trotting painfully to catch up with the keeper, Scott reached out and grabbed Valentin’s shoulder to stop him.

The keeper whipped around, sticking his face directly in Scott’s. “I will do what I will do, and you will obey,” Valentin said. “There will be a time for you to talk. That time is not now—it will be at my request. Your operatives in the Fourteenth have rooms reserved in the living quarters. I suggest you go to them.” Taking a single step backward, Valentin then turned to walk away.

Every impulse inside Scott screamed,
waste this man.
Biting it all back, he simply said, “Our injured need medical attention.” Valentin didn’t so much as slow down.
He doesn’t even care.
Scott’s thoughts went to Auric, Catalina, and Rashid. They all
needed
help. Not receiving it wasn’t an option. Scott could feel it taking over. “I said our injured need medical attention.” Removing his pistol from its holster, he aimed it at Valentin’s head from behind. He clicked off the safety.

Valentin stopped. Angling his head down and away, just enough to offer him the slightest look at what was in his peripherals, he simply said, “You and I both know that would be a poor decision.” Hesitating for one moment longer, the keeper looked ahead again, then resumed his march away.

His jaw statuesque, Scott slid his finger over the trigger.
Do it.
He could take those Nightmen behind him—he could shoot Valentin, about-face, and engage. He’d have one or two seconds of lead time.
Do it.
Trembling, his hand guided the crosshairs to the dead center of the keeper’s head. One pull. That’s all it would take. One pull, and Valentin’s brain matter would decorate the wall.
End this man’s life.

His finger left the trigger. He reengaged the safety.
That’s not who you are.
At least, it wasn’t supposed to be.
You’re exhausted. You’re not thinking straight. You need to sleep.
Lowering his pistol, he once again secured it in its holster. Looking around, his hazel eyes surveyed the people in the hangar. None of them were looking at him—with the exception of one: Tiffany Feathers. The blonde, having climbed out of her Superwolf, was staring directly at Scott. For a moment, the pair’s eyes locked.

You don’t know who I am, do you?

To Tiffany’s credit, the look she was giving him wasn’t exactly one of disapproval. More accurately, she simply seemed uncertain. Offering her the faintest of apologetic smiles, he turned to make his way back to the
Pariah
.

Just as Scott returned to the transport, the operatives from the troop bay began trickling out, making room for Valentin’s Nightmen to approach and tackle the moving of Centurion. Running his hand through his hair and sighing, Scott addressed his crew. “All right, guys and gals, listen up.” This was going to be a fun one. “So it looks like this isn’t going to be quite as warm a reception as we hoped.” Behind him, Tiffany approached and dropped to a knee, as had some of the others. Scott glanced at her briefly, then resumed. “The Nightman in charge—the
keeper
, as he calls himself—is Valentin Lukin. He is…not welcoming.” He inwardly gave himself credit for not saying much worse. “We’re in his domain, so for the time being, we have to play by his rules. One of those rules, unfortunately, is that the Falcon survivors stay in isolation, whatever that means.”

“Isolation, like a cell?” asked Lilan.

“It could be, for all I know. Lukin made it clear that he wasn’t obligated to entertain questions—or help in any way, really.”

The colonel briefly looked at Catalina, then back to Scott. “Well, what about Shivers? Isolation’s not gonna help a busted leg.”

“I agree,” said Scott. “I heard him mention to his men that Centurion was to be taken to a man named ‘Shubin.’ I can only imagine that’s for medical treatment. We’re going to find Shubin, on our own if we have to, and bring her to him.” He looked at Auric. “You too, buddy.” The German nodded quietly. Now came the tough part. “As for the
rest
of us, in the Fourteenth…they’ve apparently reserved for us rooms.”