Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (29 page)

41

When we rise from the mansion’s roof once again, and turn south, we’re greeted by a wall of white steam rising from the heated harbor. Our view of Boston is blocked, but I have no doubt that’s where the creature is headed. Gordon is somehow connected to her, and is drawing the creature to him. I have no real proof of this, but the timing is hard to ignore and really, what good is the P in FC-P if we need concrete proof for things? The paranormal, by definition, defies explanation.

We tilt forward and hit 150mph in just a few seconds.

When my phone rings, I look around for it and realize it’s in my pants pocket, buried inside the suit I recovered from my closet and put on before leaving. Working fast, I peel up the Velcro straps across the front of the vest, then yank down the zipper underneath, careful to avoid the button on my chest that will activate the suit’s primary function, which would really suck, even though I’m currently seated in the back of the chopper and Collins is riding shotgun.

I’m sure the caller is going to hang up, but ten rings
in,
I reach the phone in my pocket, pull it out and answer. “Hudson.”

“What the hell happened out there?” Deputy Director Stephens shouts in my ears.

“The U.S. Military blew up a good portion of my city, that’s what,” I reply, voice oozing vitriol. “Why the fuck did they fire missiles over a civilian population?”

Silence for a beat, then, “It wasn’t my call,” Stephens says. All of his own anger has faded away. “What’s the damage?”

I want to keep yelling, tell him he’s an idiot and cuss him out until I’m out of breath, but I know it wasn’t his call. When the Military comes in guns-a-blazing, there isn’t much the DHS or any other federal law enforcement agency can do about, especially when the orders come from the Commander-in-Dickhead. After a deep breath, I answer.
“High millions in structural damage.
The harbor coastlines of two cities got incinerated. I don’t know how many dead. People were evacuating, but it’s the coast and heavily populated. Best guess, one to ten thousand dead in the immediate blast, but FC-P is a mile from the blast and the windows were blown out. Agent Cooper took some glass to the chest and is en route to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, is she—
”

“Cooper is an illustration, sir,” I say. “The point is that the number of injured and dead will be much higher because of shrapnel, accidents and panic. Ten thousand might be on the low end.”

“God...” I hear him sigh, long and deep. I almost think he’s exaggerating so I’ll know just how sympathetic he is. We’ve never really got along. He’s part of the mustache brigade after all, but I never really thought he was a bad person.
Just a douche bag.
There’s a difference. But he does a lot to change my opinion when he adds, “Look, the President is all in with this action. I’m not going to be able to change his mind. But they might give me a minute to speak my mind. I can’t guarantee they’ll listen, but is there anything I can tell the President that will help them not kill any more civilians?”

“Actually, yeah,” I say. “Tell them to stop using fire-and-forget missiles. They need to avoid striking the glowing orange membranes on the sides of the creature’s neck and ribcage. That is what caused the explosion.”

“How the hell does that work?” he says.

“We think the fluid inside those membranes reacts to the gases in the air and combusts.
The bigger the wound, the bigger the explosion.
But the flames seal the wound and Nemesis remains unharmed.”

“Nemesis?”

I have no idea how to explain the name to this man over the phone, and I don’t have time either, so I settle for, “That’s what we’re calling it, but that’s not important. Tell them to aim for the legs. If they can immobilize it, they might be able to hit it in the head with something powerful enough to kill it. If they shoot more of those orange spots, there will be many more civilian casualties.”

“What about the military?” he asks. “Think they have a chance?”

“Short of dropping a nuke on a U.S. city, they don’t stand a chance. They hit this thing with twelve
AMRAAMs
and four Tomahawks, which is enough to take out an aircraft carrier, and it barely flinched. Our best bet is to lead it out to sea and hit it with something heavy.”

“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.”

“Actually, I am.” I have no idea if these guys are going to take me seriously, but they’ve been listening so far, probably because they’ve seen several Navy ships get torn apart and just lost a chopper. “This thing took four Tomahawks and walked away. You won’t be able to stop it.” Every one of the men listening knows what a Tomahawk can do. I have their attention. “There is something in Boston. Something it wants, bad. And I think I can lead it away. I just need to get there first.”

Several seconds pass before the cool jet pilot says, “Copy that. Will do what we can.”

“I’m coming in from the north.
Red civilian helicopter.
Try not to shoot me.”

“Will do,” says one pilot.

“Copy that,” says the jet pilot, and a few more join the affirmative chorus.

“Godspeed,” I say.
“Out.”

Woodstock flips the switch again and we’re back to internal communications.

Collins looks back at me. “Do you really think it’s heading for Gordon?”

I shake my head, “Not Gordon.
The hostage.”

“The hostage?”

“Gordon has been out and about from the beginning. She wouldn’t have headed for the ocean if she was following him. She wouldn’t have made the pit stop in Beverly, either. She wasn’t interested in Gordon until he showed up on the roof with a hostage.”

“But it’s still a guess,” Collins says.

“I thought you cops called it a hunch?”

“Not a cop anymore,” she says. “But it’s a good guess.”

Actually, I think, it’s my only guess. And if I’m wrong, the Boston skyline looming ahead might not be there a few hours from now.

We’re just two miles out and Nemesis fills a lot of the windshield. In a minute, we’re going to be flying right through the action. For a moment, I think we’re going to look like a bright red treat to Nemesis as we fly past, especially if she recognizes the chopper from our previous engagements.

The Apache helicopters take up stationary positions around Nemesis, each facing her. Nemesis swings out with her hands, but comes up short. The choppers maintain a safe distance, two hundred feet above sea level. That’s when they open fire, all five of them, aiming for the creature’s knees. A roar draws my eyes to the left and I see three F-22s cruising in, side-by-side, just a hundred feet above the water. Once they’re in range, all three planes open fire with their 20-millimeter cannons. The combined firepower shreds the monster’s thick hide.

My eyes widen when I see chunks of flesh go flying.

Fluid sprays.