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

“You mean nuke it,” he says.

The idea of dropping a nuke anywhere in the world repulses me, but I don’t see how conventional weapons are going to help. “That would be one option.”

“Understood. I’m going to get on with the President now, let him know what you recommend.”

His words, “let him know what you recommend,” resonate quickly and I open my mouth to clarify that dropping a nuke is not my recommendation, but he’s hung up. I could call back, but I know he won’t answer. If things go south based on “my recommendations”, his scapegoat is in place. He started the conversation with promise, but landed himself right back on my douche bag list.

A gentle hiss pulls my eyes forward and I find the chopper is enshrouded in white. A moment later, it clears and we get our first view of Boston, and the water between.

The three of us stare in silence, too stunned to offer a surprised curse. The ocean is a path of destruction. We’re only five hundred feet up, so I can see the bodies littering the water, which shimmers with a rainbow oil slick. Beyond the bodies is the remains of a Navy vessel. I can’t tell what it was—a Destroyer maybe—because it’s torn in half, on fire and sinking fast. A second Navy ship, once again unidentifiable, looks like a giant torch. Every inch of the vessel is ablaze.

Someone must have shot the orange membrane, I think. The luminous orange flesh is like a brightly colored snake, advertising its deadly poison so that predators will keep their distance. It’s a lesson I hope the military will soon learn.

Beyond the destroyed ships is Nemesis, standing tall in hip-deep ocean, plowing ahead toward Boston. A squadron of Apache helicopters circles the monster like angry bees.

“We need to get to Boston before Nemesis does,” I say.

Woodstock gives a nod and says, “She’s moving pretty fast. Only way to beat her to the punch is to go straight through. Circling too far around might get us there at the same time.”

“Do it,” I say.

A streak of tracer rounds create a glowing line, like a laser beam, from the nose of an attack helicopter’s mini-gun. Nemesis twists with the attack and lifts an arm, allowing the bullets to strike the orange flesh. This is the first time I’ve seen it from a distance, but I see what I expect to. A column of orange flame that’s nearly white hot at its core, jets out of Nemesis’s body, covering two hundred feet. The helicopter is momentarily blanketed in fire.

Then it’s gone, extinguished as the wound seals. Nemesis roars, perhaps in pain, perhaps in celebration. The helicopter, now a fireball, plummets into the ocean. The five remaining helicopters back off and circle at a distance.

It’s clear that my advice has not made it down the chain of command, if it even made it up to begin with.

“Woodstock,” I say. “Get me in touch with those choppers!”

I see him quickly work the radio switches. “All right, we’re on all VHF frequencies...now.” He flips a switch.

“All military aircraft currently engaging the creature, this is Jon Hudson of the DHS—”

“Someone get this asshole off the air!” someone shouts. I think it’s one of the pilots because whoever it is, he sounds rattled.

Ignoring radio protocols, I shout, “Shut-up and listen! Up until ten minutes ago when you idiots blew up two cities and killed a shit-ton of civilians, I was organizing the response to the crisis, and I have intel that might save your damn lives.”

I take their silence as my cue to deliver said intel. “Do not engage with any armaments that you cannot manually control. That means no fire-and-forget missiles.”

“That means most of what I’ve got,” says a much cooler voice, probably one of the fighter jet pilots who are high above the action.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “You need to avoid hitting the orange membranes at all costs.”

“That’s what took down Cougar Three,” someone agrees.

“If you strike one of the membranes with a missile, you’ll destroy everything in a quarter mile radius. That’s pretty much all of you.”

“Copy that,” someone says.

“Yeah, copy,” says the cooler voice. “Switching to the 20 mil.”

A few more pilots join in, confirming they’ve heard the news.

“Anything else?” someone says.

“Yeah,” I say, “aim for the legs. See if you can’t slow it down.”

“Slow it down?” comes an aghast voice. “We need to kill this thing. We’re not in a race.”