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

I move to the desk, expecting to find some kind of report or folder full of information. Instead, I find a maroon beanie cap. With a smile, I brush off the broken glass and place the cap on my head. I know Cooper didn’t have time to go out and buy me a new cap, so she must have already had this one on hand, just in case.

Take care of her, I think in my head, and I realize I’ve just said a prayer for the first time since I was a kid. If there can be three-hundred-foot tall giant alien monsters, why not God? And if there is a God, we’re going to need him, or her, or whatever, on our side.

I head for the stairs leading to the third floor and my bedroom. “I need to get something. Anything you need to do to get that chopper ready, do it.”

“Boston?” Woodstock asks.

“Boston.”





41



When we rise from the mansion’s roof once again, and turn south, we’re greeted by a wall of white steam rising from the heated harbor. Our view of Boston is blocked, but I have no doubt that’s where the creature is headed. Gordon is somehow connected to her, and is drawing the creature to him. I have no real proof of this, but the timing is hard to ignore and really, what good is the P in FC-P if we need concrete proof for things? The paranormal, by definition, defies explanation.

We tilt forward and hit 150mph in just a few seconds.

When my phone rings, I look around for it and realize it’s in my pants pocket, buried inside the suit I recovered from my closet and put on before leaving. Working fast, I peel up the Velcro straps across the front of the vest, then yank down the zipper underneath, careful to avoid the button on my chest that will activate the suit’s primary function, which would really suck, even though I’m currently seated in the back of the chopper and Collins is riding shotgun.

I’m sure the caller is going to hang up, but ten rings in, I reach the phone in my pocket, pull it out and answer. “Hudson.”

“What the hell happened out there?” Deputy Director Stephens shouts in my ears.

“The U.S. Military blew up a good portion of my city, that’s what,” I reply, voice oozing vitriol. “Why the fuck did they fire missiles over a civilian population?”

Silence for a beat, then, “It wasn’t my call,” Stephens says. All of his own anger has faded away. “What’s the damage?”

I want to keep yelling, tell him he’s an idiot and cuss him out until I’m out of breath, but I know it wasn’t his call. When the Military comes in guns-a-blazing, there isn’t much the DHS or any other federal law enforcement agency can do about, especially when the orders come from the Commander-in-Dickhead. After a deep breath, I answer. “High millions in structural damage. The harbor coastlines of two cities got incinerated. I don’t know how many dead. People were evacuating, but it’s the coast and heavily populated. Best guess, one to ten thousand dead in the immediate blast, but FC-P is a mile from the blast and the windows were blown out. Agent Cooper took some glass to the chest and is en route to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, is she—”

“Cooper is an illustration, sir,” I say. “The point is that the number of injured and dead will be much higher because of shrapnel, accidents and panic. Ten thousand might be on the low end.”

“God...” I hear him sigh, long and deep. I almost think he’s exaggerating so I’ll know just how sympathetic he is. We’ve never really got along. He’s part of the mustache brigade after all, but I never really thought he was a bad person. Just a douche bag. There’s a difference. But he does a lot to change my opinion when he adds, “Look, the President is all in with this action. I’m not going to be able to change his mind. But they might give me a minute to speak my mind. I can’t guarantee they’ll listen, but is there anything I can tell the President that will help them not kill any more civilians?”

“Actually, yeah,” I say. “Tell them to stop using fire-and-forget missiles. They need to avoid striking the glowing orange membranes on the sides of the creature’s neck and ribcage. That is what caused the explosion.”

“How the hell does that work?” he says.

“We think the fluid inside those membranes reacts to the gases in the air and combusts. The bigger the wound, the bigger the explosion. But the flames seal the wound and Nemesis remains unharmed.”

“Nemesis?”

I have no idea how to explain the name to this man over the phone, and I don’t have time either, so I settle for, “That’s what we’re calling it, but that’s not important. Tell them to aim for the legs. If they can immobilize it, they might be able to hit it in the head with something powerful enough to kill it. If they shoot more of those orange spots, there will be many more civilian casualties.”

“What about the military?” he asks. “Think they have a chance?”

“Short of dropping a nuke on a U.S. city, they don’t stand a chance. They hit this thing with twelve AMRAAMs and four Tomahawks, which is enough to take out an aircraft carrier, and it barely flinched. Our best bet is to lead it out to sea and hit it with something heavy.”