Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (20 page)

28

As we descend over the staging area, I’m glad to see an array of armed men. Some are dressed in all black—police and SWAT. Others in camouflage military fatigues—the National Guard. I count at least a hundred men and can see transport vehicles arriving from the north and south.

Watson determined that Route 95 would make the best place to stage our assault. Troops could reach the location quickly and it was a wide open area. This specific stretch of highway is optimal, because on one side is a thickly wooded golf course that abuts the forest we believe the creature is traveling through. On the other side, to our backs, is a row of warehouses that have been emptied.

It’s rush hour and the sun is heading for the horizon, so we’ve created the mother of all traffic jams, but if this thing shows up, it might decide to just follow 95 south and munch on every car it meets. If it doesn’t show up, I’m going to be working at McDonald’s by morning. Of course, that would actually be preferable to this thing laying waste to Portland. But I don’t think we’ll be that fortunate. I have no doubt that handing out Happy Meals is not in my future.

When I see Rod Cugliari, head of FC-Boston, storming toward my helicopter, I know my colleagues don’t share the same opinion. Technically, Cugliari and I have the same position and rank. We’re both directors of Fusion Centers and act as lead field investigators. We take orders from the same person, Deputy Director Stephens, or the people he takes orders from, but neither of us can give orders to the other. That doesn’t stop him from feeling superior. It’s no secret that FC-Boston views FC-P as a thorn in its side and as an embarrassment to the DHS as a whole. No one really knows that we exist, and Cugliari would like to keep it that way. So the fact that I have raised the threat level and mobilized a response has his face—what little of it can be see behind his Magnum
P.I.
mustache—turning beet red.

“He doesn’t look too happy,” Woodstock says
,
nodding at Cugliari, who is now waiting with his arms crossed.

“He rarely does,” I say.
“At least when I’m around.”

“You sleep with his sister or something?”

Cugliari is a company man through and through. He has no other major devotion in his life. So he might very well see me the way a husband does his wife’s ex-boyfriend.
“Or something.”
I turn to Collins. “Stick with me, okay?
Both of you.”

They both nod.

“Let’s go.” I open my door and hop down on the highway pavement. The air is cooler and dryer here, and smells slightly of salt. We’re not far from the ocean, which makes me feel a little more at home. Portland and Beverly, the home of FC-P, are both coastal cities with a lot of history, culture and arts. But Portland is twice the size and has a far denser population.

“You’ve got some nerve, Hudson,” Cugliari shouts over the sounds of the winding-down helicopter, the prepping troops and the freshly arriving transports.

“Nice to see you, too, Rod.” I say his name with the same sarcastic vitriol that one might use to address a schoolyard bully named Tad or
Chaz
. It’s not intentional. That’s just how I say his name.

“You looking to go out in a blaze of glory?” he asks.

“Not remotely,” I say, not really in the mood for antagonistic banter.

He lets out an angry laugh that sounds like a long drawn out, “
fffff
,” shakes his head quickly and says, “You do realize that this is the largest mobilization of U.S. military and emergency response forces since 9-11, right?”

I look around at all the men with guns.

Guns.

I see assault rifles, hand guns and a few SWAT guys with sniper rifles.

“Not big enough,” I say. “Where are my heavy hitters?”

“Your heavy hitters?”
Cugliari says. “I think you’ve misread the situation, Hudson. I am in charge here. Not you. And right now, my priority is saving the DHS some face. Best we can hope for is that the media will believe this was all an elaborate emergency-response training exercise for which the public could not be warned.”

“What do you mean, ‘could not be warned?’” Collins asks, beating me to the punch.

Cugliari regards Collins for the first time,
then
seems to notice Woodstock. “Who are they?”

I nod to each of them as I introduce them. “Sheriff Ashley Collins. Rich Woodall, Chief Warrant Officer Five, U.S. Marines.” I leave off the retired bit. “They’ve been assisting me—”

“And now they can be done assisting you,” Cugliari says. “We have all the personnel we need.”

“Rod, this is a—” I can barely bring myself to say it, but shove the words out, “—paranormal threat. My office and my office alone has jurisdiction, whether the event is in your territory or Hawaii.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” Cugliari says. “You don’t have a full team. Regulations say that each Fusion Center must have a minimum of three field team members and two office coordinators. You’ve been a three-man operation for years. Even if this was a paranormal threat, which it’s not, you don’t have the person—”

“That’s why I’ve hired Collins and Woodall,” I say, and am thrilled when neither of the two objects. They might later, but they no doubt understand that I’m up against a wall and that Cugliari is a dick.

He laughs in a way that makes me think he’s going to wave his hand at me and say, “The very idea,” but he just turns away and says, “Just stay out of my way and I’ll put in a good word. See if you can’t be the janitor for FC-Boston.”

“You want me to pop this guy?” Woodstock asks. He’s just met the man, but his fists are clenched and his eyes are shooting lasers through the back of
Cugliari’s
head.

Collins puts her hand on my arm. “You need to put jurisdiction aside. Focus on the big picture.”

Right.
The big picture is that all these people are going to die.

Collins’s unanswered question hits me like a kick in the nuts.
“Rod!”
I shout it loud and angry enough that a good number of people turn and look, putting Rod on the spot. He turns around slowly. “Did you cancel my evacuation order?”

“You mean
,
did I save the City of Portland from widespread chaos that would result in the loss of life and property? You bet to hell I did.” He gets in my face. “We’re in the business of protecting lives, not endangering them.”

I point to the city beyond the highway. “You need to get those people away from here.” My eyes wander and I start looking for other requests that might have been canceled. There’s no heavy ordinance. No tanks. No mortar. No anti-tank missile teams. The biggest guns I see are turret machine guns mounted to the top of five
Humvees
. They won’t be any more use than Woodstock’s helicopter-mounted weapon. I turn my right ear to the sky and ignore everything else. If there were jets circling the city, I would hear them.

“Everyone who dies here today,” I say, “it’s on you.”

He cocks his head to the side, steps closer and twitches his mustache. “That a threat?”

I’m a millisecond away from pummeling Cugliari when a National Guard soldier approaches with a large handheld tablet like an
iPad
, but twice the size. “Sir, the satellite link is up.”

Cugliari takes the tablet and looks at the image. It’s a view of Portland, centered on the staging area. What I immediately notice is the number of cars moving on the streets behind us. Beyond the warehouses are blocks of residential neighborhoods, then the city proper and finally the ocean. The forest opposite the highway looks undisturbed, but that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Cugliari, on the other hand, feels vindicated. “There’s nothing there.” Using the touch screen, he moves the image north.
“Nothing at all.”

“Can you point this thing somewhere else?” I ask the National Guardsman.

He nods.
“Most anywhere in Maine and Northern New Hampshire.”

“Bring up Ashton, Maine,” I tell him.

“Showing me an empty town that was evacuated on your order isn’t going to change any—”

“Evacuated?” I shout. “Have you even been paying attention?”

“You mean to your reports of an imaginary giant monster stomping its way through Maine? You’ve been marshaling forces based on your word alone. You lied about a biological threat, Hudson. You’re in serious—”

The Guardsman saves Cugliari from a beat down.
“Oh my God.”

Cugliari looks at the satellite image. The town of Ashton looks like a scar on the face of the planet. “What is that?”

“That is Ashton,” I tell him. “What’s left of
it.
”

I can see flashing lights of emergency vehicles on the fringes of downtown, but they probably have no idea what to do. “Zoom in,” I say.
“Center of town.”

When Cugliari doesn’t move, the Guardsman does it for him.

As the images of death and destruction come into focus, I watch all of
Cugliari’s
anger and resolve melt away. “What happened?”

“That would be the imaginary giant monster,” Woodstock answers.

“Ashton never got my evacuation order,” I say. “If they had, all those people might still be alive. Instead, the town is a graveyard.
Rod.”
When he doesn’t look at me, I raise my voice.
“Rod!”
His head snaps toward me. I point to the warehouses behind us. “There are sixty-two thousand more people on the other side of these buildings than there were in Ashton. Their lives are at risk, because of you. Order the evacuation. Get me my heavy hitters. And call back the God-damned jets.”

He’s about to nod when Collins speaks up. “Jon...”

The worry in her voice tenses my back into a steel plate. I look at her and she taps her nose. I take a sniff.

Vinegar.

“What is it?” Cugliari asks.

I ignore him and speak to the Guardsman. “Can we get infrared on that thing?”

He nods.

“Do it. And center on us,” I order.

Five seconds later, the screen becomes a rainbow of colors. We’re looking at a city, so there are a lot of hotspots, but I’m not looking for car, home or people sized hotspots. The Guardsman points to the center of the screen where a large number of small, bright pink dots can be seen. “That’s us, but, something is wrong with the image.”

“What?”

He turns the screen toward me and points to a large, solid hotspot.

“Where is that?” I ask.

He points across the highway, to the trees.
“Right there.”

“
Aww
shit,” Woodstock says.

“What?” Cugliari says. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s already here,” Collins says.

29

Cugliari looks at the woods lining the far side of the highway. The trees are mostly maples, standing fifty to seventy-five feet tall, mixed with new growth pines that are nearly as big. “I don’t see any—”

A loud crack cuts him off.
Then another.
The woods on the other side of the highway shake and sway. Trees fall, swooshing to the ground. And then rising above it all, standing on its hind legs and towering over the tree line, is the creature. It turns its head toward the sky and lets out a roar that shakes the pavement beneath our feet.

I take
Cugliari’s
arm in my hands and squeeze until the pain draws his eyes away from the monster and back to me. “Get me those Air Force jets. Get them now!”

He stumbles away, but fishes into his pocket for a phone. As he quickly speaks, he walks backward, toward the warehouses without taking his eyes off the creature.

I turn to Woodstock and motion to his chopper. “Get her ready!” Then to Collins, “Come with me or stay here, it’s up to you. I’m not sure either will do any good.”

Then I’m running toward the collection of
Humvees
, and though I don’t show it, I’m thrilled to find Collins keeping pace. As I pass by lines of soldiers, who have taken aim, but wisely held their fire, I shout, “Wait for it to clear the trees! Aim for the legs!” I have zero faith in this force’s ability to actually kill the creature, but if we can immobilize it long enough for an air strike, that might do the trick. At the very least, we might be able to wound its legs, giving it a limp or the equivalent of monster hangnail.

“Cougar!”
A man yells to me. I recognize him as one of the FC-Boston investigators under Cugliari. His name is David Price. He’s clearly mistaken me for his boss, probably because I’m shouting orders. When he sees my face, he stops short. “Hudson? Where’s
Coug
—Cugliari?”

I look back for the FC-Boston director and spot him far off, retreating toward the warehouses. “The cougar has become a cowardly lion.”

The man sees his boss running.
“The fuck!”

“You’re under my command now,” I say.

Price nods.

“Make sure these men aim for the legs and hold their fire until I give the order, understood?”

“Yes sir!”

I hear him barking orders as I sprint away and continue to shout my own, repeating the message to aim low and hold. When I reach the
Humvees
I’m fairly out of breath, but I repeat the orders to the five men manning the machine guns mounted to the top of the vehicles.

A second roar spins me around and the volume of it nearly drops me to my knees. Trees crack as the giant takes a single step forward.

“Hold your fire!” I scream.

“Hey!” A hand on my shoulder spins me around. I come face-to-face with a third FC-Boston agent whose name I either never learned or forgot outright. But he clearly knows who I am. An older National Guardsman with an arm patch that reveals he’s a Sergeant Major—likely in charge of this unit—and whose name tag reads
Humm
, stands behind him looking equal parts terrified by the monster and confused by the confrontation. “You’re not giving the orders here, Hudson!”

“We don’t have time for this,” Collins says, pushing me aside and driving her fist into the agent’s stomach. The man folds over her fist with an expulsion of air and falls to the ground.

Sergeant Major
Humm
looks a little shocked, but when I step over the fallen man and say, “I’m DHS Fusion Center-P, Director Hudson. I’ve taken command,” the man just nods.

“You have anything with more punch?” I ask.

More trees fall, many of them into the far side of the highway. Behind me, I hear Price shouting for the men to hold their fire.

“
Humm
!”
I shout, regaining the man’s attention.

“Uh,” he says, coming to his senses. “More punch than the .50
cals
?”

“A lot more,” I say.

He shakes his head slowly, but then his eyes widen. “We’ve got an M-32 grenade launcher!” He leads us to the back of the second
Humvee
and opens the hatch. Inside is what looks like an oversized black briefcase. He punches in a combination and lifts the lid to reveal a grenade launcher with six barrels, like an oversized revolver. He lifts it out and hands it to me. I have no idea how to fire the weapon, but he says, “She’s fully loaded and the safety is off.”

Just aim and shoot, I think.

Collins reaches into the back of the vehicle and takes out an MP5 assault rifle. She checks the magazine, stuffs it back in and slaps the cocking lever forward.

“Here it comes!” someone shouts.

I turn and see a tree-sized leg step out of the shaded woods. The
taloned
, four-toed foot drops down on the far side of the highway, pulverizing the blacktop. On its hind legs, the monster now stands a colossal eighty feet tall. It leans forward and looks down at the throng of men, bravely holding their ground. Its large, human eyes scan back and forth, perhaps a little confused by all the action, or just indecisive about who to eat first. The membranes on its neck flare bright orange, and I see a few men adjust their aim.

A flash of understanding strikes. The creature glowed hot white in the infrared. It’s not cold or warm blooded, it’s hot blooded. And when that orange blood hits the open air, it combusts! When Collins was shooting the creature from the helicopter, a single round struck and pierced that membrane. The resulting spray of blood must have ignited. That’s what caused the explosion. “Aim for the legs!” I shout as loud as I can.

The men adjust their aim down again. Thank God.

The monster brings its second leg out of the woods and takes a step forward.

Close enough, I think.

“Fire!”
I shout.

A hundred men with assault rifles open fire on the creature’s legs. The sound is like thunder. The bright orange tracer fire glows hot, like a fireworks finale. Then the five heavy machine guns open fire, their roar drowning out the hundred other firing weapons.

The creature roars with surprise, or pain, I’m not sure. But it stumbles back.

The trees behind the creature are shredded by missed rounds, but I think most are finding their mark. With a higher-pitched roar, the monster snaps at the air, biting nothing. Its arms flail, striking at invisible targets.

Collins steps up next to me and opens fire. That’s when I pull the trigger. With a dull
poonk
that’s quieter than any weapon currently being fired, the grenade launcher sends a single round sailing across the four lanes of highway. The grenade strikes the giant knee and explodes.

The monster shrieks and stumbles.

Men cheer.

I fire again.

And again.
Striking the same leg two more times.

The monster raises its head to the sky. Its chest expands. Then it leans down, landing on its forelimbs. It opens its mouth and lets out a blast of sound that drops me to my knees—me and everyone else. My eyes clench shut. My hands go to my ears. And my insides quiver from the intensity of the sonic blast.

When I open my eyes again, just a second later, the monster has recovered. It rears back up onto two legs, steps forward and twists. The knowledge of what it’s doing is the only thing that saves my life. I shout, “Get down!” and tackle Collins and
Humm
to the ground.

There’s a crash, and I look up to see a
Humvee
pass by overhead.
Then three more, pirouetting through the air like Ice
Capades
skaters.
The long black tail, tipped with what looks like a six-foot-long, three-pronged blade, flashes over the roof of the fifth
Humvee
, cutting the gunner in half at the waist. The tail continues its deadly swipe, passing over the spot where we had been standing and continuing through the ranks of soldiers.

Those who are struck by the tail’s tip are simply cut down, their top halves flipping away with a spray of blood. The rest of the men caught in the tail’s path, struck by the meat of the thing, are sent flying—rag dolls with pulverized insides. The number of men suddenly dead is impossible to count, but since there are only three of us on this side of the fire line and maybe twenty on the far end, I’d guess the monster killed upwards of eighty men with the single strike.

I look to Collins, making sure she’s okay.
“Collins.”

She groans and opens her eyes, which suddenly go wide.

Poonk
!

I turn to find
Humm
firing the grenade launcher.

Up.

At the creature’s glowing neck.

Poonk
!

Poonk
!

At that same moment, I hear the distinctive high pitched whine of an A-10 Thunderbolt, renowned for its ability to decimate tanks. It comes in low behind the creature and opens fire with its powerful chain gun. Hot tracer rounds ricochet off the monster’s carapace.

And then, everything happens at once.

The first grenade strikes the creature’s leg, pitching it forward. This action causes the A-10 gunfire to strike the back of the monster’s head, which would have been great if it hadn’t then twisted away, allowing the bullets to streak past and reduce
Humm
to sludge. The deadly barrage of bullets streaks past Collins and me, triggering our flight. We stand together and run for the side of the highway where a guard rail protects drivers from a fifteen foot gulley.

The second grenade strikes the creature’s gut, pitching it forward and dropping its head and neck into the trajectory of the final explosive round.

Collins leaps over the guard rail without slowing.

I follow, diving on the grassy slope and rolling onto my back as I slide down the hill.

There’s a
whump
, like the Earth itself has become a sub-woofer.

Then a shockwave that throws bodies, limbs, weapons and
Humvees
into the warehouses beyond the highway.

A ball of fire follows, roiling out, bright orange in all directions. It passes over our position, but its heat singes the hair on my arms.

A secondary explosion follows and a high pitched wail streaks past. It’s the A-10.
On fire.

Boom!

Its gas tank bursts and explodes, sending the plane down into some unsuspecting neighborhood.

All of that is followed by an agonizing, rage-filled roar.

As pain fills my head, I see the creature again, this time from below, as it steps over the gulley. Seeing it up close, from beneath, is beyond comprehension. As the tail sweeps past, I feel queasy.
Then light headed.
I put a hand to my head and it comes away warm and slick with blood.

Something...something...

I’m unable to complete the thought.

As my vision fades to black, I hear a repetitive booming, like fading thunder.
And then nothing.