Enemy One (Epic Book 5) (60 page)

The scout’s questions went unanswered as Scott moved to Becan’s side, freeing the Irishman from his own harness then pulling off his helmet. The smell that resulted made him convulse. Vomit. The Irishman had spewed it out in his helmet—his entire face was covered. Tiffany opened the cockpit door that led to the troop bay. The stench of throw-up intensified tenfold. Covering her mouth with her fist, Tiffany stepped back, knelt down, then threw up the contents of her own stomach in reaction to it. For a second consecutive time, the occupants of the Fourteenth’s Vulture had thrown up in-flight.

“I’m sorry,” Tiffany said to Scott, wiping her mouth with the sleeve of her flight suit before lurching forward again and releasing a second wave. Tears formed in the pilot’s eyes as she lowered her head down, attempting futilely to keep the tips of her hair from floating in the freshly-reeking pool.

Though Scott heard her, his focus was on Becan. Shaking his friend, he asked, “You all right?” The Irishman looked dazed—but he was conscious. Silently, Becan nodded his head once. That was all Scott needed to see. Stepping back from Becan, he made a beeline toward the cockpit door.

“What happened?” asked Esther again with more urgency. “Where’s Travis?”

“Travis is dead,” Scott answered, not bothering to look back as he slid past Tiffany and into the carnage of the troop bay.

On the ground below, Esther went motionless. With her mouth hanging open, the scout stared gut-punched at the
Pariah
’s canopy-less cockpit.

The troop bay was a disaster. Blood was everywhere. Vomit was everywhere. The only sounds Scott heard were groans of pain coming from every direction, but with helmets on half the heads present, it was impossible to tell where the groans were coming from. The face of every single operative without a helmet was dripping with vomit—Scott could only imagine that when all the helmets came off, it would only get worse. With squishing wetness under every step, Scott danced through the mire to reach David. “Hey, man, you all right?”

Head rolling back, David’s eyes fixated on Scott. Weakly, his older friend answered, “Yeah.” Scott unlatched David, who staggered in place. “We home?”

“We’re home, man,” Scott answered quickly, touching David’s face to upright the man’s head.

Seeming to snap out of it, David looked at him and said, “I’m all right, man.” Taking a single step forward, David suddenly screamed in agony the moment his left leg touched the floor. He collapsed and Scott quickly caught him.

It was right then, for the first time, that Scott saw David’s leg. David’s slayer armor was ripped open with a savageness Scott had never seen before—like he’d been shot by a running chainsaw. Eyes widening, Scott pulled David up on his shoulder. “Medic, in here, now!” Only when Scott looked up to see if a medic was anywhere nearby did he realize the extent of the unit’s injuries. They were widespread like the Fourteenth had never experienced.

Travis’s body was slung up against the back corner of the troop bay, his limbs gruesomely twisted in ways they weren’t supposed to go. Donald’s body was leaning in similar fashion against the opposite wall. Released from his harness by Tiffany, William fell limply to the floor. Only when Tiffany knelt beside him and pulled off the his puke-filled helmet did Scott know that William was even still alive. Lilan was clutching his arm and moaning. Boris, his shoulder socket grotesquely bloodied and out of place, looked a total physical and emotional mess. Everywhere Scott looked, he saw blood and despondence.

Then, secured inside a cargo harness on the far side of the troop bay, Scott saw it: the hacking kit. As one of the base’s nurses rushed into the troop bay and in Scott’s general direction, he passed David onto her then set his sights on the kit. Weaving through the traffic, he removed the kit from the cargo mesh and held it in his hands. In the midst of the death and devastation that surrounded him, two words came to Scott’s mind.

Mission accomplished.

It wasn’t the proudest thought he’d ever had, but that didn’t make it untrue. They had gotten out of
Hami Station
with everything they’d wanted—crippled EDEN satellites and a download of their data. They had something they could use.

After what it’d cost them, Scott had every intention of holding onto it.

Running up the lowered troop bay ramp, Esther searched frantically for Jayden, calling his name as she drifted past the bodies of Travis and Donald. When she reached the top of the ramp, the Texan answered her. The pair moved in on each other quickly, meeting in the middle of the troop bay and colliding into an embrace.

“Are you okay?” Esther asked, pulling away to stare at him.

Jayden nodded, head tilting to the floor. “I think I’m the only one in here that didn’t hurl.” When the Texan lifted his head again, his good eye looked past her into the corner.

Esther followed the stare, where Travis’s body came into view again. “What happened to him?” The scout lifted her fist to her mouth, biting down as if to stop herself from either breaking down or throwing up.

“He got shot through the cockpit,” the Texan answered solemnly. “He was killed by a sniper.”

The scout said nothing. Her eyes simply stayed on the body of the fallen pilot. Slowly, her countenance succumbed to the pain, and she could look no further. Though no tears fell, Esther buried her head into Jayden’s chest, grabbing hold of his sleeves with clenched fists. Hair dangling in front of her face, she said, “Had I been there…”

“Then we mighta’ lost you, too.” Esther looked up at him. Before she could say anything in response—not that she even appeared on the verge—Jayden eased her off of his chest and backed away. “C’mon,” he said, motioning with a turn of the head to the rest of the troop bay. “Let’s help these guys out.” Affirming in silence, Esther followed behind Jayden as they set out to assist the wounded.

While operatives were being assisted out of the
Pariah
, Tiffany stayed behind in the Vulture’s cockpit. Slumped back in the pilot’s seat, she stared despondently at the hangar wall, though she truly was staring at nothing. The stench of vomit no longer affected her. Between the amount of expelled fluid on the floor, on her sleeves, and soaked into the tips of her hair, immunity to the foul odor came quickly. Now nothing affected her at all.

Closing her eyes, Tiffany pressed her palm to her face, her fingers sliding lethargically into her hairline, where they met her matted and sweat-soaked tendrils. She felt a mess. She looked worse. But she didn’t have it in her to care.

She could hear every sound behind her. Every groan of agony from one of the wounded. Every offering of help by those who’d made it out unscathed—at least physically. Every cough, every wet squeak of boots on the floor. Every utterance of disgust. She wanted to help. To rise up out of the pilot’s seat and walk into the troop bay. Even if there was no one she could physically aid, she would at least
be
there. For them, who right now, needed anything good to cling to. She wanted to help so badly.

But nothing happened. No muscle moved, no neck turned back to see. There was no motion on her face at all—just the blank stare of a disheveled mannequin beauty queen. She looked dead.

“Tiff!”

The voice cried out to her from the hangar, its raspy distinctness—its familiarity—finally garnering something physical from the pilot. Flinching slightly, Tiffany leaned forward, staring through the gaping void where a canopy had been. Just through the hangar entrance and staring up at Tiffany was Catalina. The raven-haired rocker—her best friend—was staring from her wheelchair, her leg sticking straight out in its plaster cast.

“Are you all right?”

For several seconds, Tiffany didn’t respond. She couldn’t. Then, at long last, she just shook her head.

That was all Catalina needed to see. “I’m coming up there!” Hands gripping the rubber tires on her wheelchair, the Canadian propelled herself forward. She barely made it three feet before Tiffany stood and yelled back.

“No!” Below, Catalina stopped, looking up at her friend in the cockpit again. Shoulders hanging, Tiffany said, “I’ll come down.”

“I can go up there myself—”

The Valley Girl gently cut her off. “No…you can’t.” There was no offense in Tiffany’s tone—only the understanding that Catalina was offering more than she should have been expected to supply in her recovering state. Brushing her hands through her hair, Tiffany slipped out of the chair and turned for the cockpit door.

Then something caught her eye.

It was a small, silver object, crammed into a space in the back corner of the cockpit. That it seemed stuck in place must have been the only reason it’d stayed there during the open-air flight. Pausing for almost ten seconds, Tiffany finally approached it, her body language akin to fear. As if she didn’t want to know what the shiny object was. But she knew.

Handcuffs.

Only one cuff was visible, the other cuff and its attached chain jarred beneath a crack in the
Pariah
’s rear cabin wall. Sinking to her knees, she reached out with trembling hands to pull it free. After a small amount of jostling, the handcuffs broke loose. The key was still in them from when Tiffany had last unlocked it.

For the first time, Tiffany’s eyes shimmered. As she cradled the handcuffs like a delicate piece of jewelry, the pilot’s face twisted. Emotion finally poured out. Lowering her head against one hand, she broke down.

“Tiffany?”

Once again startled by the sound of her name, Tiffany lifted her head quickly and looked to the troop bay. It was Becan. The Irishman, removed from his Nightman armor, was standing in the mob, head canted in her direction.

“Yeh all righ’, girlie?”

Sucking in hard and without taking a moment to think about it, she answered him, “I’m fine.”

His viridian eyes surveying her, he drew in a breath and nodded a single time. “Tha’s good. I’m not.” As Tiffany’s head lowered, Becan looked at the handcuffs in her hands. Silence fell between them. At long last, Becan broke it with a somber voice. “I am too numb to cry, but I will. I loved tha’ man, as did we all.”

Again, tears fell from Tiffany’s eyes, visible despite the pilot’s attempts to hide them. So she covered them while Becan spoke.

“I know he would’a—” Becan caught himself. “I know he
is
…so thankful to yeh for savin’ his crew. An’ for savin’ his ship. I may never wrap me head around wha’ I saw yeh do, but I’m alive. I’m busted in me brain, but I’m alive. Every person who made it back to this place has you to thank for tha’.” Forcibly, he smiled. “So thank yeh, Tiffany Feathers.”

“Tiff?”

Again, Catalina’s voice echoed from the hangar floor, where she was waiting for Tiffany out of view. Tiffany angled her head only slightly upon hearing it.

Taking a step back, Becan said to her, “Now get up off tha’ floor, pilot. I got a funny feelin’ we’re not done yet.” With that final word, the Irishman turned around and shuffled away.

Sucking in hard through her nostrils, Tiffany shouted out with a trembling voice, “I’m coming, Cat!” By the time she looked back in Becan’s direction, the Irishman was gone, having disappeared through the crowd of those sorting through the troop bay. Slowly, she looked at the handcuffs again.

Travis’s crew. Travis’s ship. Travis’s life, given in his best efforts to save both. Tiffany had stepped in in Travis’s place, doing what he would have begged her to do had he had a voice in which to plead: become the pilot of the
Pariah
.

Tiffany knew exactly what she needed to do.

Giving the handcuffs a final gaze as she ran her fingers over their shiny surface, she lifted them with her right hand and pressed one cuff gently against her left wrist until it latched onto her skin, not so tightly. Taking hold of the other cuff—the one that once belonged to Travis—she wrapped its chain around her wrist, too, then latched it in place right beside the other one. The two cuffs hung like bracelets. Exhaling a slow, steady breath, Tiffany rose from the cockpit floor. Taking a moment to collect herself, she turned to make her way through the troop bay to meet her friend.

*
      
*
      
*

Shortly after

The medical bay was chaos. Natalie watched wide-eyed from her quarantine cell, her face and hands pressed against the glass as if that would somehow improve her view, as bleeding operative after bleeding operative was brought into the room.

In the middle of them all was Gavriil Shubin. The
Northern Forge
doctor looked overwhelmed, barking orders in Russian to Marina and another nurse present. In the cell next to Natalie’s, Ju`bajai watched with keen interest, the Ithini’s opaque, oval lenses focused on the action.

Motioning for several onlookers to step out of the way, Gavriil cleared a path for two fold-up cots to be carried in. While the injured operatives—Lilan, David, Boris, and William—waited painfully on the far side of the room, the two cots were set up. Combined with the three beds that were there previously, the cots gave the medical bay room for five patients. Had Auric and Catalina not been given wheelchairs, thus freeing their beds for occupancy, not even the cots would have been enough to house everyone.

As one of the nurses assisted William onto a bed near Natalie’s quarantine cell, Natalie asked, “What happened?”

After putting William on the bed with assistance from another staffer, the nurse answered Natalie quickly. “They just came back from a mission.”

“What kind of mission?”

“The painful kind,” William answered with a wince.

The nurse looked at Natalie and frowned. “I do not know. I only know that they came in hurt. I am afraid you must ask someone else if you wish to know what happened.”

As it happened, that someone else came. Across the room, capturing Natalie’s attention the moment he walked through the door, was Scott. Focusing on Scott’s words as best she could through the noise, Natalie tried her utmost to eavesdrop.

“Do you guys need help?” Scott asked the nurse as she hobbled with David toward one of the cots. When it became apparent that his words went unheard, he looked elsewhere. Seeing Gavriil furiously washing his hands at the sink, Scott trotted to him, dodging his injured comrades all the way there. “Hey, is there something I can do?”