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

I make them wait fifteen minutes, but when I finally do emerge, clean, shaven, dressed and freshly bandaged, I’m far more awake and useful than I would have been if I’d just stumbled back out to work. The headache is starting to subside thanks to the four ibuprofen I took, but I wouldn’t be surprised if I had a concussion. I probably shouldn’t be up at all, but Jack Bauer wouldn’t stay in bed, so I won’t either. Of course, Jack Bauer wouldn’t have showered, peed or eaten, either.

FC-P is located in what was once the solitary home at the pinnacle of Beverly’s tallest hill. It’s a four-story brick mansion with about an acre of landscaped yard surrounded by a solid, four-foot stone wall that the neighborhood kids like to walk on top of. In the time since the mansion’s construction, the rest of the hill was sold off and turned into residential neighborhoods. We occasionally get kids playing ding-dong-ditch, but we’re mostly left alone except on Halloween, when the kids come in droves to see the house. We don’t give out candy or anything, but I put on a wig, backlight myself in red and I rock in the third story window. I’m supposed to be a hunter of all things paranormal. If I don’t make somebody believe in it, I’ll be out of a job someday.

Course, job security for FC-P will likely never be a concern again, that is, if the creature doesn’t end up wiping out mankind.

The main work area, what Cooper calls “the Crow’s Nest”, is on the fourth floor, which we’ve gutted so that it’s a wide open space. It’s actually quite striking, with its large windows, ocean view and shiny wood floors. But we’ve kind of dulled the beauty of the space by filling it with computer stations, work desks, wall maps and cork boards covered with reported sightings of the world’s weird, none of which have amounted to anything—until now.

I take the grand staircase one step at a time, clutching the hardwood banister. The old rug—a maroon and blue oriental affair—is still soft, which speaks to its quality. The same family owned the house for more than a hundred and fifty years before the final living member—a one-hundred-and-four year old woman whose grandfather built the place—died, and the government seized the property because of unpaid taxes. FC-P inherited the home a year later.

When I reach the top of the stairs, I see everyone standing around the flat-screen TV mounted on the far left wall of the Crow’s Nest. Cooper, Watson, Collins and Woodstock. My team, new and old. I can hear the melodic voice of a news anchor, but can’t make out the words. Either the news is engrossing or I’m a ninja, because no one seems to hear me coming. When I catch sight of what’s on the screen, I know it’s the former.

The scene on the TV is an aerial view of what I assume is Portland, recorded before the sun went down, perhaps just minutes after the highway confrontation. It looks like an asteroid struck, or a laser from outer space carved a path through the city. A path of destruction, miles long, stretches through residential neighborhoods, a business district and then through the downtown itself. Fires burn everywhere. Buildings are leveled. People swarm through the streets, fleeing the city. The shot pans up toward the bay just in time to see the creature slip into the ocean and disappear.

“Has it been seen since?” I ask, making everyone but Cooper jump.

Cooper turns around on her heels. Her jet black hair is still straight and perfect, hanging just above her shoulders. Her power suit, which I’ve told her she doesn’t need to wear, is unwrinkled and as smooth as her face. She’s an attractive woman, but I’ve never been interested. She is far too serious and doesn’t find me funny. At all. Her piercing blue eyes lock onto mine and she says, “No one has seen it since. Not on land. Not at sea. And everyone is looking for it.”

“Coast guard?” I ask.

“Everyone,” she says. “Coast Guard. Air Force. Navy. Police. Fishermen. The whole world is watching the ocean off Maine, looking for signs of the...what are we calling it?”

“Nothing yet,” I say.

“I have an idea on that,” Watson says, but Cooper continues.

“Canada is also helping with the search, and many coastal European nations have put their militaries on alert in case it decides to cross the ocean.”

“It won’t,” I say. “It will head south.”

“How do you know?” she asks.

I think back to how General Gordon sensed the thing to the south. Called it Maigo. None of that will go over well with Cooper’s logical mind, so I say, “A hunch,” which isn’t much better.

“South to where?” she asks.

I shrug. “But wherever it ends up, we need to be ready for it. Coop, I need you to get IDs for Collins—” I point to her and then to Woodstock, “and for Woodstock.” I look at the man. “If you’re on board, I mean.”

“Hells yes,” Woodstock says. “Me and my bird are all yours.”

I give him a nod of thanks and say, “Then coordinate with the Navy and Air Force. The second I start making requests, they better respond like I’m the damn President.”