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

“Which is going to make identifying them a little harder.” I say.

“With all due respect to the dead, that’s not our problem,” she says. “Local police and FBI can handle those details. We need to focus on the big picture.”

The emphasis she puts on, “big,” makes me think she’s being funny again, but her face is like solid stone.

“Which is?” I ask.

Watson stops typing, sits back from his computer and picks up a couple of manila folders. He rolls across the hardwood floor and stops next to me. He hands the folders to me and says, “Open the top folder.”

All of Watson’s normal joviality is gone. “You sound like her,” I say, motioning to Cooper.

“Not all of us got to sleep last night,” he says, sounding genuinely irritated, but then he softens. “Sorry. That was stupid. I was sitting at a desk while you were getting shot at and almost eaten.” He looks at me, waiting.

“Don’t sweat it,” I say, freeing his mind to get back on task.

I open the top folder to an 8x10 print of a satellite photo. It’s a big brown patch of land lacking any trees or any other kind of growth. There’s a large tunnel at the center of the picture, reinforced with a concrete archway. The rest is scoured earth, either dug out by heavy machinery or blown to bits with precision explosives. Scattered around the image are tractors, dump trucks and people in hardhats. “This is the land in Alaska? Looks like a mining operation.”

“Yes, and it’s very similar to a mining operation,” he says. “They definitely took something out of the ground, but the site is no longer active. No machinery. No people.”

“I see plenty of people in this image,” I say.

“That’s an archived image from eleven months ago,” Watson says. “It was taken by a mapping satellite on a routine flyby. Turn to the next image.”

I flip the photo over. The next 8x10 doesn’t look anything like the first. It’s just a mass of brown earth. I compare the two, noting the color of the soil. “It’s the same place. When was the second image taken?”

“Three months ago. I don’t have a live image yet because it’s still dark in Alaska, but I expect it to look just like that.” He points to the second image. “Whatever they were doing up there, they’re done, and I doubt they left anything behind.”

“Still,” I say. “Someone up there should take a look.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Cooper says.

“What’s in the second folder?” I ask.

When the question brings a frown to both Cooper and Watson’s faces, I know it’s not good.

“It just came in ten minutes ago,” Watson said. “It’s why we woke you up.”

“Is it Nemesis?” I ask. “Did it come back?”

“It’s General Gordon,” Cooper says.

I flip open the second folder. I’m greeted by an image no one should see just a few minutes after waking up. Four dead men, piled in the back of a black SUV. The vehicle and suits scream “agency”. The mental leap to their identities isn’t hard to make. “FBI?”

“These are the men we had watching Zoomb headquarters at the Prudential Tower in Boston. Their bodies were discovered two hours ago after a cleaning crew discovered the bodies of four security guards and a receptionist on the fiftieth floor.”

I turn the page and see the bloody carnage.

Nemesis wasn’t the only monster on the loose last night.

I turn to the next image. It’s of one of the FBI agents. He’s been laid out on the pavement, half concealed by a body bag, but his shirt has been opened to reveal his chest, which has been caved in.

“The coroner hasn’t examined the bodies yet,” Cooper says. “But based on the size and depth of the impact wound, he thinks a steel beam fell on the man’s chest.”

I shake my head, no, remembering Gordon’s strength. “He was punched.”

“Punched?” Cooper actually sounds surprised.

“I don’t think Gordon is fully human anymore,” I say. “What was he after.”

“Looks like he was there for Paul Stanton, Zoomb’s CEO. There were signs of a struggle in the office, and a broken window, along with a second ten floors below. Witnesses recall a helicopter taking off from the building late last night. We thought that Gordon had kidnapped Stanton, but he turned up in Martha’s Vineyard and claimed to have been there all night.”

“Any sign of Gordon since?” I ask.

“None,” she replies.

The sound of approaching footsteps turns us all around. Collins pads into the Crow’s Nest wearing one of my T-shirts...and that’s it, as far as I can see, anyway. Her wavy, orange hair is in a tussle. Her eyes are half closed. Totally unaware of her powers, she pauses to stretch, lifting her arms, and the shirt, arching her back and pushing out her chest.

“Whoa,” Watson says.

“This will just not do,” Cooper says.