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

I don’t see the missile, or where it hits, I just catch a glimpse of the blooming light, but that’s it, we’re behind the building a moment later, hovering ten feet off the ground. We touch down a moment later and I think to complain, but then remember what happened to us last time. Losing consciousness while piloting a helicopter even ten feet from the ground could be a very bad thing. My mind flashes to all the helicopter pilots facing down Nemesis.

They’re all dead, I think, and then the earsplitting boom and shockwave arrive. I have my ears blocked, but the sound still makes me shout in pain. The chopper shakes, but it’s not too bad, we’re more than a mile from the blast and most of the impact has been absorbed by the brick building. The city is still standing, for now, but it’s taken its first real hit.

Collins looks up and says, “Glass,” like it’s a common, everyday thing to say. I peer out of the side window, craning my head up. I see a shimmering in the air, like clear snow falling from the cloudless sky. I look forward and see all of the skyscrapers on the northeastern side of town shedding shards of glass like a leprous man with a bad case of dandruff.

We pull up fast and then back out over the Charles River where we ascend. But we’re not moving forward, through the city. “What are you doing?”

“Can’t fly through this shit,” Woodstock says. “Need to go over it.”

I don’t like it. Feels like a waste of time, but I know he’s right. When we hit an elevation of one thousand feet, we’re higher than anything in the city, and we start forward again. “Give us a quick look back,” I say.

We spin around. Nemesis looks like she’s right behind us, but she’s a mile off, stomping her way across Logan Airport, crushing 747s beneath her massive feet like they’re balsa wood airplanes. Behind her, Revere Beach and a giant swatch of land are a smoldering ruin. When a glint of sunlight sparkles off the beach, I realize it’s been melted into a sheet of glass. I don’t see a single helicopter, though a large number of jets are circling high above, probably trying to figure out what happened.

“Good?” Woodstock asks.

“Not at all,” I say, realizing that the train-wreck of destruction is about a minute away from reaching the city. We spin forward again, cruising over Boston’s North End, then Beacon Hill and then to Back Bay, where the Clarendon building is located.

“There it is,” Collins says, pointing to a tall brick tower with three distinct levels, each wider than the other.

Woodstock begins to descend, but I stop him. “Don’t. Fly past.”

He nods and maintains our altitude, flying high above the building. Using a pair of binoculars, I look out the side window. It’s hard to get a clear image, but I see two people on the roof of the building, one with a hood over his head. “They’re still there.” I scan the other buildings, expecting to see police and snipers. But there’s nobody. They’ve all left. I look down to the streets and see gridlock. People are running between the cars, trampling each other, but no one really seems to know where to go. They can hear the battle, I realize, but they can’t yet see it.

“This is good,” I say. “Level out here.”

Collins looks back. “What do you mean, this is good?”

I take the side door handle and pull, yanking the door open. The cabin fills with churning air and the sound of rotor blades booming.

Collins shakes her head and gives me a stern look. “You said we were partners! What am I supposed to do from up here?”

“Woodstock,” I shout over the wind and chop, “Drop Collins off at the front door.” I look at Collins. Her eyes look as bright orange as Nemesis’s glowing membranes, and for a second, I think she’s going to burst into flames. I reach out and squeeze her hand. “You can take the normal elevator.” I offer her an apologetic smile and add. “I’m taking the express elevator.”

Then I let go of her hand, and jump.





43



The helicopter wash throws me down, propelling me to terminal velocity and launching me farther—straight down. In seconds, I’ll be a smear on the pavement below, adding even more panic to the throngs of fleeing civilians. But I came prepared for this moment.

Years ago, I had a girlfriend, Jenn, who wasn’t a pick-up truck. She was a fiery little thing with a wicked sense of humor and a junkie-like habit for adrenaline. She was also a designer for an extreme-sports equipment company and was always testing her new products. Somehow, she managed to get me to bungee jump, white-water kayak and sky dive, all using gear she designed. I really had no interest in all these things, but her extreme lifestyle balanced my calm and we had a lot of fun. Things went south when I found her going south on the tall, blond Swedish man instructing us how to use our new retractable wingsuits. The plan was to jump off a mountain, glide like a bird for several miles and then deploy parachutes.