Project Maigo (27 page)

His anger deflated. His shoulders sagged. “Dammit. I’ve wasted fifteen years of my life on you.”

“Wasted?” She got angry again. “Wasted!” She raised a fist and punched the table. The loud bang rose through Michael’s body like a wave of energy. When it continued well past the impact, he realized the feeling was physical, not emotional. The coastline tilted at an odd angle. His stomach lurched, reminding him of a roller-coaster ride.

The table slid into Deb, covering her in two plates of food and two glasses of wine. Her chair tipped back and spilled her to the deck. Michael fell forward, landing atop the table. He could see the ocean below him—far below—as he looked over the yacht’s side.
We’re tipping
, he thought, picturing a tidal wave beneath them. His scream was drowned out by the sound of rushing water, like a waterfall.

Before he could understand the source of the roaring water, the yacht reached the bay, slamming back down. Water rushed up over the side, knocking Michael back, filling his mouth. He coughed and crawled aimlessly across the deck, as the buoyant craft bobbed upright once again, throwing him down.

As water fell over him like a hard rain, Michael rolled over, expecting to see a wave crashing down toward him. The water was there, white and frothing, falling all around, but where he expected a wall of water was something else. The rough, black surface rose from the bay, shedding water like a second skin.

Skin...

His eyes moved higher, drawn by a luminous orange beacon high above. The color swirled, fluid, like a brilliant lava lamp. Recognition took root in his chest, just as Deb let out a scream.

At first, the news had simply called the giant ‘one of several Kaiju,’ but had recently referred to it by a name designated by the FC-P: Typhon. The monster’s human-like physique was what bothered most people, but it was the malicious, glowing eyes that caused Michael to vomit into the foot of sea water sloshing around him. It wasn’t just that they were pure evil, it was that they were staring down. Straight at him.

“Oh shit,” Deb yelled, and he caught a glimpse of her jumping overboard.

Michael’s numb mind had trouble coming up with a reason why she would jump from the boat in the middle of the bay. Unluckily, the answer was supplied for him. The ship lurched upward, the deck shoving into his backside. Giant fingers reached around both sides of the ship, claws digging into the deck below him.

He screamed louder than Deb had and ran for the stern, hoping to leap into the water. Instead, he fell into the rail and peered over the edge. He was already a hundred feet up and rising quickly. Before he could second-guess and jump, he was two hundred feet up. Three hundred. Even higher! The boat tilted back, but he clung to the rail, locking his arms around the metal.

Looking around, he could no longer see Typhon staring down at him.
I’m above it,
he realized, and then he looked to the side and down. The nausea he felt from the extreme height was dwarfed by the fright generated by two more Kaiju: Karkinos and Scylla, who had last been seen devastating Rio. They were rising out of the bay. The monsters were roaring and angry. Their glowing membranes lit up the darkness like the orange sun had returned for an encore.

Before Michael could scream again, the yacht accelerated. His arms screamed in pain as he held on tightly. The claws clinging to the deck tore away.

He was free!

Released from doom and sent...

Michael pulled himself up and found the wind in his face. At first, the view made no sense, but understanding arrived quickly. The yacht had been picked up and thrown, like it was nothing more than a kid’s toy in a tub. The dark waters of the bay were invisible below, but he could see the lights of civilization growing closer.

As Michael finally screamed again, he saw a window ahead. There was a shape in the window. A man. He was looking out, to see. Then he turned his eyes up, saw the yacht and met Michael’s eyes. Both men screamed right up until the end, when the 40-foot yacht plowed through the brick face of an apartment building, and in the distance, sirens began to wail.

36

“Betty, this is Bob,” I say, for the benefit of anyone who might be monitoring cell phone usage in and around the White House. It would be easier to use Devine, but activating the system in D.C. would put up a red flag that would let everyone know exactly where I was. “How’s that pie cooking?”

“About to put it in the oven,” Woodstock replies, his deep voice now thoroughly confusing any listeners, which makes me cringe, but he turns things around by adding, “S’pose you called to talk to the missus.”

“If you don’t mind,” I say.

“Hey, hun,” Collins says, as she comes on the line. “You get in touch with your friends?”

I glance at President Beck. He’s seated across from me at the dining room table, just two rooms away from the Oval Office. I just had some of the best lobster of my life, courtesy of my presidential host. So far, everyone, including the Secret Service, has given Beck the distance he requested, but I’m not sure how long that will last.

“We just finished a nice sit-down meal,” I say.

Collins must be wondering if a ‘sit down meal’ is code for something, because she says, “For real?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Lobster and all the fixings.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize that if anyone is listening and knows the President’s menu choice for the evening, there could be problems. I force a laugh and add, “I’m just messing with you. We had dogs and hot wings. Waiting for the game to start.”

“How’re you holding up?” she asks.

Something about the way her voice sounds makes me wish that it were me waiting in the chopper. They’re parked somewhere, just outside the no-fly zone, waiting for things to go sour. I haven’t seen Collins much in the last few weeks. I’ve spent most of my time with Endo, which sucks more balls than the last hole at a mini-golf course. “Impatient. Looking forward to the game’s end for a change.”

“I hear you, babe. You have any idea when it might start?”

A distant siren tickles my ear. I look at Endo, who is wiping melted butter from his mouth. Apparently, the lobster was good for him, too. He couldn’t hear the siren, which means the sound is coming through the phone. “What’s that sound?”

No answer.

“Betty,” I say. “What’s that sound?”

Collins’s voice comes back as a whisper. “Kickoff.”

It takes a moment to settle in. Kickoff. The game is starting!

“You better hurry on that pie,” I say.

“I’m on it,” she says. “See you soon.”

I hang up the phone and turn to Endo, who is already watching me, napkin frozen over his lips. “It’s time.”

I dial the phone again. It’s answered quickly. As per our protocol, I speak first, using our code names. “Ranger, its Bob.”

“I’m here, Bob.” Ranger, who was a hard sell on my quasi-crazy idea, doesn’t sound enthused.

“The game is about to start.”

“We’re settled in and waiting for the whistle to blow.”

A distant siren blares, its whine piercing the night. It’s accompanied by another, and another until it’s impossible to not hear them. Everyone in Washington, D.C. will be wide awake and terrified in the next five seconds.

“See you in the end zone,” I say.

“We’re on our way.”

The line goes dead.

I place the phone back in my pocket. I can hear the rumble of approaching feet. “Here they come.”

Endo stands and takes up position to the President’s side. I stand on the other side, framing him in. Dunne stands half way around the table, closer to the door, looking as vacant as Beck.

The door slams open violently. No warning. No knock. Just action. At a moment like this, with the whole of Washington, D.C. under imminent attack, the President is treated like a helpless, frightened baby and whisked away to safety. Normally, I have no doubt that Beck would rush away with them. That’s probably what they’re expecting. But the President isn’t feeling like himself.

“Sir!” one of the agents yells, stopping short of tackling the President and throwing him over his shoulder. “Three Kaiju have emerged from Chesapeake Bay! We have to leave, now!”

When Beck doesn’t reply, but remains seated in front of his uneaten lobster, the man steps closer.

I get in his way.

“Step aside,” the man says. His hand goes toward his gun.

Other agents crowd in, looking ready for action. Those on my side of the table get close. Those on the other side are stopped by Dunne, whom they either fear or trust. He is the agent in charge. “The President is staying here,” Dunne says.

“Agent Dunne,” the man in front of me says, “Protocol is that we—”

“Protocol is whatever the President of the United States says it’s going to be,” Dunne says, and I suspect the words are being fed to him by Endo.

I’m still connected to Beck, but I haven’t tried to make him speak, I’ve just been...reconditioning…certain aspects of his personality.

All the agents turn toward Beck. He doesn’t blink.

Shit, did I lobotomize the man?

“Sir,” the closest agent says. “We need to leave. Now. It’s not safe—”

“Not safe?” Beck says. He shakes his head. “Not safe. Who am I to be saved while the rest of the people are in harm’s way?”

“You’re the Pres—”

“I’m just a man,” Beck says. “Same as the rest of you. And I’m not leaving. It’s of critical importance that I stay. That the people of this nation don’t see their leader as a coward. We must remain unshakable in the face of this threat, and we cannot lead effectively if our first action is the full retreat of this nation’s Commander in Chief!” He punctuates this by punching the table, crushing the lobster with a spray of fishy smelling juice.

The men back down, whispering ‘Yes sirs,’ and nodding.

“Now go and get everyone else out! The Vice President, Chief of Staff,
my wife
. Everyone. But I’m staying until the crisis is averted. And these men—” He looks to me and then Endo. “—will be aiding in our response to this attack. You are not to hinder them in any way, and if they give you an order, I expect you to follow it.”

The gaggle of agents stands still, bewildered by a President they’ve all known to be a man of weak character.

“Go!” Beck shouts.

The men backtrack out of the office, closing the door behind them. For a moment, there is silence, then one of them snaps out of it and starts shouting orders. Then the rumble of rushing feet moves off in a variety of directions.

“I’m impressed,” Endo says, motioning to Beck. “What have you been putting in his head?”

“I kept it simple,” I say. “‘Be brave and do the right thing.’”

And while that sounds simple, Beck didn’t act on those character traits until I really wanted him to. So he’s not just going to go all George Washington on us without a little more mental prodding. That Endo and I can talk about the man, right in front of him, is proof enough. At some point, I’m going to have to free him from this neural implant and hope the reprogramming sticks. Then, maybe in a few weeks, I’ll consider the moral implications of what I’ve done to the man. Professor X would not approve. Of course, the man
did
drop a MOAB on my position in Boston. He’s lucky I don’t mentally suggest he get tattoos of ‘Dick’ and ‘Face’ across his knuckles.

The sound of a distant explosion rattles the windows. I look for the orange glow, but see nothing. “Won’t be long now.”

Endo nods. “We should go.”

I dig a piece of paper from my pocket and hand it to Agent Dunne. “Time to go shopping.” He takes the list without a word and heads for the door, under Endo’s control. If only everyone listened to me like that, my job would be so much easier. Dunne leaves and closes the door behind him.

“Well, Mr. President.” I slap his shoulder like we’re chums. “How would you like to go for a stroll in the Rose Garden? Maybe get attacked by a madman that wants us both dead?”

Beck looks momentarily confused, but I push my will on him. He slaps the table with both hands, rattling silverware, and stands up. “We’ll do what needs to be done. No matter the sacrifice.”

I’d feel better about it if the words were his own. But they’re not. While I haven’t exactly put the words in his mouth, I know they’re what I need to hear, because we’ve just created a big-ass neon target with an arrow that says, ‘Kill these guys,’ and I want to run the frig away. But I can’t. And won’t.

The end might be nigh, but I basically invited it, so it’s time to see if my plan, which feels more ridiculous now that I’m not in a hospital bed hopped up on morphine, will get the job done. I feel like I should say something inspiring too, but I’m just not feeling it. I stand and head for the side door that leads to the small office and then the Oval Office, which has an exit to the outside. I pause, hand on the knob. “In case I die tonight,” I say to Endo. “Go fuck yourself.”

Endo grins. He’s grown accustomed to my potty mouth and my sense of humor.