“Right,” Woodstock says with a nod. “The aircraft carrier.”
The ninth and final missile detonation fills the sky with an orange plume of light. Man-made thunder rolls past. Scrion descends. I find it in the sky, now just fifteen hundred feet up. I have trouble tracking the beast at first, until I bring the lenses into focus. It’s like a giant flying turtle-dog, which is just ridiculous. When I see its flailing limbs splayed wide, Scrion looks borderline silly. But it’s not really funny, because it’s still alive, even after a severe beating. But is it hurt? I shift my view to the side, finding its head.
The still crazed eyes are staring straight back at me like some obsessed ex-girlfriend who doesn’t know when to stop wearing a guy’s jersey, or whatever it is women do these days. “Shit!” I pull the binoculars from my eyes.
“Aircraft carrier?” Woodstock asks.
“Hell ye—”
A mash of voices fills my ears. Shouting. I can’t make out a word of it, but the tone is unmistakable. Shock. Panic. Urgency. Somewhere in the mix, I hear the words “Behind Betty.”
As the words register, a dark shadow falls over us, like a cloud has just blocked the sun. Some days just start out shitty. Like today. No coffee. Then Scrion. And now... I don’t even need to look. The blocked sun and the fear in the voices of military professionals tells me everything I need to know.
It’s like the cliché moment in a TV show or movie, when Jack (or whoever) is bitching about Steve, who just happens to be standing behind him. He stops and say, “He’s behind me, isn’t he?”
That’s where my mind is as I come to grips with what I suspect will be my last few seconds on the planet.
She’s behind me, isn’t she?
But it’s not a grumpy boss or an over-emotional wife.
It’s Nemesis.
And this time, it’s for real.
Woodstock must be having the same realization I am, because he acts without being told what to do. Our slow spin becomes rapid as we snap around.
Fifty feet from Betty’s windshield are Nemesis’s brown eyes. Like with Scrion, her massive brown eyes seem to be locked on me. It’s the helicopter, I think. She must remember the helicopter. We should have painted Betty blue instead of matching her truck’s namesake.
But I see no anger in those eyes. Instead, I see...
“Maigo.”
The name comes from my lips as a whisper, though Woodstock can hear me.
Water pours from her head as she rises from the ocean. Her jaws open wide, revealing sharp white teeth bigger than me. Her skin, gleaming white the last time I saw her, is thick and gray once more. She’s whole again.
She rises in time with the chopper, her head—her jaws—remaining level with us as we ascend. She’s taller, I think, glancing at our altimeter as we pass three hundred feet. While we haven’t flown above her yet, we are moving back. As the distance increases, more of her massive body comes into view. The orange membranes lining the sides of her neck glow bright orange, reminding us of her deadly potential. The thick folds of skin on her neck shift and stretch, as she lifts her gaze away from the helicopter.
“What the hell is she doin’?” Woodstock asks.
I’m pretty sure he wasn’t expecting an answer, but I have one. “Playing fetch.” I toggle Devine. “All units, hold your fire. I repeat, hold your fire!” I ignore the litany of doubt-filled complaints that enter my ears, but when no missiles streak past, I know my orders have been followed. They’ll understand it in 3...
Nemesis’s height tops out at three-hundred-fifty feet. Her giant arms rise up, trailing waterfalls. A shredded fishing net clings to the sharp spikes on her left elbow. Clumps of seaweed slip from her chest and fall away. The pulse of her orange membranes is bright. The explosive liquid within swirls, as though eager to get out.
2...
Her long tail snaps up, twisting back and forth like an agitated cat—if cat’s tails had a trident of spikes the size of 747 wings. I note that the color of her claws and spikes has changed from black to beige. The armor plating on her shoulders looks thicker. She’s ready for battle, radiating power. I catch just a glimpse of her back as we twist away. The massive spikes have moved back to the middle, the thick armored carapace once again protecting delicate reflective wings capable of great destruction.
And then it happens.
1...
13
Former small-town sheriff turned FC-P special agent, Ashley Collins struggled against her fight-or-flight instinct, which was cheering wholeheartedly for her to make like a freshly baked gingerbread man and run. But she couldn’t. Not while Cooper and Watson were still in harm’s way.