Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

“The search engine?”


“Yeah, but they’re a lot more than a search engine company. Five years ago, they were valued at ten million, today they’re competitors with Google, snatching up high-tech companies in all fields, not just Web tech. They’ve got their fingers in space research, deep-sea exploration, weapons development, robotics and loads of bio-tech.”

“Tell me about the bio-tech,” I say.

“Not much to tell. It’s all pretty hush-hush. They own five bio-tech companies. Nearest to your location is—” Paper rustles in my ear. “—BioLance. Their main office is in Boston. The Prudential building.”

“But if they were pushing ethical boundaries, it’s possible they had some unlisted locations, right?”

“Exactly what I thought,” Watson says. “I looked up the land records for the phony Nike site. Looks like it was bought from the town four years ago by a company named Pruitt Resources, which turned out to be a shell company of a shell company owned by—”

“—Zoomb,” I say. “So somehow Gordon is involved with BioLance.”

“Or running the show,” Watson says. “Guys like him know well enough not to have their name directly associated with anything questionable.”

“Right,” I say. “Anything on Endo?”

“Nothing yet and I’ve checked the Army and Zoomb personnel records, but it would be a simple thing to hide someone. The only reason Gordon is listed is because hiding someone so high profile would be nearly impossible. Oh, Maigo. It’s a name for sure. Japanese. Means, lost child.”

“Okay,” I say. “Do a search for the name. Army. Zoomb. Current news and archived news. Keep it to a U.S. search for now, but if that doesn’t get any pings, check Japan and then everywhere else.”

“Will do,” Watson says and then reads my mind. “Still fifteen minutes on real-time sat coverage. They’re repositioning one just for us, which Coop says is burning Stephens’s ass.”

“Anything else?” I ask, feeling just as confused as before, but also annoyed that none of it helps us locate the creature.

“Umm.” More rustling papers. Watson is a techie, but organizes his thoughts on paper. He’s got three large flat screens side by side, but his desk is stacked high with pages, and that’s when we’re looking into phony basilisk sightings or swamp gas specters, never mind an honest-to-goodness threat to U.S. citizens. “Oh! Yeah, one more thing. Most of the text on the fridge wall is impossible to make out, but the larger word at the top, Némesis—” He pronounces it Nemesees, “—translates to exactly what it sounds like: Nemesis.”

“Which tells me...what exactly?”

“No idea,” he says, “but I’m about to run a search on the word, see if there is any connection to bio-research.”

“Let me know what you find. And have someone from the FBI keep a watch on the BioLance offices in Boston.”

“Might step on a few toes,” he says.

“I don’t give a damn if we stomp the shit out of some toes, Ted,” I say, probably a little angrier than necessary. “This is a paranormal event, Ted. It’s our jurisdiction. Don’t pussyfoot.”

“Sorry,” he says, and I can tell I’ve hurt his feelings.

Watson is a gentle soul. Easy to take advantage of and makes an easy target. But that’s not me, and that’s not our relationship.

“Ted, sorry, I’m not upset with you,” I say. It’s a shitty apology, but I don’t have time for more. “We good?”

“Nothing a little Ben and Jerry’s can’t fix,” he says with a little of his normal jovial self coming through.

“Chunky Monkey heals all wounds,” I say, and I get a laugh out of him. “Later, Ted.”

When I hang up, Woodstock looks like he’s tasted something sour. He turns to me and says, “So, you two supposed to be like Mulder and Scully or something? Heard what you said. Paranormal.”

I just stare back, unsure whether I feel like explaining or if I want to lay some sarcasm on him. He doesn’t deserve it, but my monster-fueled vitriol needs a release. Collins interrupts before I can decide.

“Over there,” she says, pointing through the open side door. I look past her and see a road, barely visible through the pine canopy, snaking through the forest.

Woodstock circles the chopper around so I can get a look out of my window.

“Some of the trees are knocked over,” Collins says. “Thought I saw a pick-up.”

“I see it,” I say. A portion of the forest on one side of the road is wider. As we pass over, I see several smaller trees lying across the road and a pick-up. And then, just before the trees block my view again, I see a person. “I saw someone! We need to get down there!”

“Ain’t no way I can put her down there,” Woodstock says. He brings the chopper into a hover and we head up.

I see a break in the trees and point to it. “How ’bout over there?”

We cruise over the forest and find a marsh beside the road, free of trees. It’s about a half mile from the truck.