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

As we descend over the staging area, I’m glad to see an array of armed men. Some are dressed in all black—police and SWAT. Others in camouflage military fatigues—the National Guard. I count at least a hundred men and can see transport vehicles arriving from the north and south.

Watson determined that Route 95 would make the best place to stage our assault. Troops could reach the location quickly and it was a wide open area. This specific stretch of highway is optimal, because on one side is a thickly wooded golf course that abuts the forest we believe the creature is traveling through. On the other side, to our backs, is a row of warehouses that have been emptied.

It’s rush hour and the sun is heading for the horizon, so we’ve created the mother of all traffic jams, but if this thing shows up, it might decide to just follow 95 south and munch on every car it meets. If it doesn’t show up, I’m going to be working at McDonald’s by morning. Of course, that would actually be preferable to this thing laying waste to Portland. But I don’t think we’ll be that fortunate. I have no doubt that handing out Happy Meals is not in my future.

When I see Rod Cugliari, head of FC-Boston, storming toward my helicopter, I know my colleagues don’t share the same opinion. Technically, Cugliari and I have the same position and rank. We’re both directors of Fusion Centers and act as lead field investigators. We take orders from the same person, Deputy Director Stephens, or the people he takes orders from, but neither of us can give orders to the other. That doesn’t stop him from feeling superior. It’s no secret that FC-Boston views FC-P as a thorn in its side and as an embarrassment to the DHS as a whole. No one really knows that we exist, and Cugliari would like to keep it that way. So the fact that I have raised the threat level and mobilized a response has his face—what little of it can be see behind his Magnum P.I. mustache—turning beet red.

“He doesn’t look too happy,” Woodstock says, nodding at Cugliari, who is now waiting with his arms crossed.

“He rarely does,” I say. “At least when I’m around.”

“You sleep with his sister or something?”

Cugliari is a company man through and through. He has no other major devotion in his life. So he might very well see me the way a husband does his wife’s ex-boyfriend. “Or something.” I turn to Collins. “Stick with me, okay? Both of you.”

They both nod.

“Let’s go.” I open my door and hop down on the highway pavement. The air is cooler and dryer here, and smells slightly of salt. We’re not far from the ocean, which makes me feel a little more at home. Portland and Beverly, the home of FC-P, are both coastal cities with a lot of history, culture and arts. But Portland is twice the size and has a far denser population.

“You’ve got some nerve, Hudson,” Cugliari shouts over the sounds of the winding-down helicopter, the prepping troops and the freshly arriving transports.

“Nice to see you, too, Rod.” I say his name with the same sarcastic vitriol that one might use to address a schoolyard bully named Tad or Chaz. It’s not intentional. That’s just how I say his name.

“You looking to go out in a blaze of glory?” he asks.

“Not remotely,” I say, not really in the mood for antagonistic banter.

He lets out an angry laugh that sounds like a long drawn out, “fffff,” shakes his head quickly and says, “You do realize that this is the largest mobilization of U.S. military and emergency response forces since 9-11, right?”

I look around at all the men with guns.

Guns.

I see assault rifles, hand guns and a few SWAT guys with sniper rifles.

“Not big enough,” I say. “Where are my heavy hitters?”

“Your heavy hitters?” Cugliari says. “I think you’ve misread the situation, Hudson. I am in charge here. Not you. And right now, my priority is saving the DHS some face. Best we can hope for is that the media will believe this was all an elaborate emergency-response training exercise for which the public could not be warned.”

“What do you mean, ‘could not be warned?’” Collins asks, beating me to the punch.

Cugliari regards Collins for the first time, then seems to notice Woodstock. “Who are they?”

I nod to each of them as I introduce them. “Sheriff Ashley Collins. Rich Woodall, Chief Warrant Officer Five, U.S. Marines.” I leave off the retired bit. “They’ve been assisting me—”

“And now they can be done assisting you,” Cugliari says. “We have all the personnel we need.”