Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (30 page)

Nemesis stumbles and roars.

This might actually work, I think.

That’s when the giant’s tail explodes from the water and thrashes through the air like a monstrous whip, catching two of the choppers off guard and reducing them to metal confetti. As Nemesis spins toward the fast approaching F-22s, I see one of her giant eyes rotate and land right on us.

Crap.

42

The tail finishes its arc through the air and slams into the water, sending a massive wave toward the shore. I shift to the right side of the chopper and look out the side window, watching the water rise up the beach and engulf entire neighborhoods.

An explosion draws me back to the left window. Nemesis has reached down and caught one of the F-22s. The collision must have been like slamming into a wall of steel. She crushes the burning heap in her hand.

Then, she looks back up.

At us.

I look down, out the side window, as we pass a few hundred feet above her. Something looks off. “Are we ascending?”

“Nope,” Woodstock says.
“Straight and steady.
We’ll be through this mess in thirty more seconds.”

Collins looks out her window, craning her head to get a view of Nemesis below. “Is it sinking?”

It looks like it, but I don’t think so. Then I see it. Her knees are bending.

She’s crouching.

Getting ready to jump!

“Holy shit!”
I shout. “Woodstock, look o—”

He figures out what I’m in the middle of saying, and with a twitch of his hand, the helicopter pitches to the side, fast and hard. I’m thrown around the back like a Mexican jumping bean. We level out for just a moment, but
it’s
long enough for me to see Nemesis’s open jaws snap shut just twenty feet away.

“Look out!” Collins shouts, looking up.

I’m tossed in the other direction as the chopper banks hard to the left, circling around Nemesis’s head. As I land on the side door, I look up through the opposite window and see a giant black, clawed hand dropping toward us.

“Faster!” I shout. “And down!”

The helicopter dives forward, and I manage to catch myself on the big mounted gun. Below, the ocean waves grow larger. And still, we pick up speed. Then I’m thrown back, into a seat as the chopped strains to level out, just ten feet above the waves.

We quickly ascend back to a hundred feet, and while still moving forward, Woodstock spins us around so we can see Nemesis. All three of us shout with surprise when the giant winds up and tosses the crushed F-22 at us like Roger Clemens, after the ‘
roids
. I’m crushed into the seat as Woodstock pulls us up and the hundred-and-forty-three million dollar ball of scrap metal spins past beneath us.

Nemesis follows the throw with an angry roar.

“I think it remembers us,” Collins says.

I point past her. “You think?”

The giant monster has taken what appears to be a sprinter’s stance. Her muscles coil. I thought she was moving fast already, but I’m starting to get the feeling Nemesis was just pacing herself.

“Higher,” I say. “Higher!”

We’re shaken by twin roars as F-22s heading toward Nemesis open fire with their cannons, once again aiming for the monster’s knees. The distraction breaks the giant’s focus on us, turning it back on the attacking planes.

One of the F-22 pilots makes a bold decision, firing an
AMRAAM
missile from close range—so close that it can’t hit anywhere above the waist. The missile strike homes in on Nemesis’s thigh, blowing off chunks of flesh and gore. The plane rolls beneath the debris and hooks away for another run. The three remaining choppers return as well, keeping a healthier distance and firing their collective mini-guns.

When more chunks fly away, I say, “Something isn’t right. Those guns are pebbles compared to the Tomahawk missiles, but they seem to be doing more damage. That missile looked like it did serious damage, where the twelve that hit her before did nothing.”

“Maybe it’s the continuous fire?” Collins says.
“Or a chink in its armor.
Maybe the knees are a weak spot.”

I don’t think so, but I don’t mention it. For now, we can put Nemesis in the rear view and focus on reaching Gordon. I see the monster shrug off the gunfire and continue her charge toward the city. We’re only going to have a few minutes to deal with Gordon before Nemesis makes landfall.

“Turn us around,” I say. “Get me to that building.”

The next few minutes are smooth flying. I can hear the thunder of battle behind us coupled with Nemesis’s angry roar, but we’re on course, and for now, we’re safe. We pass over Nahant Bay and Broad Sound, finally reaching land, turning over Logan Airport—where flights have been grounded or diverted—so that we’re headed downtown. I’m pretty sure it’s the same path Nemesis will take, so I’m not exactly pleased to see all the traffic below.

“What’s that?” Collins says, pointing out the front window.

I look at the sky above downtown and see what
looks like a cloud of locusts—very large, heavily armed locusts
. The array of gray military jets and helicopters flying directly toward us is astounding—enough to invade a small country. Maybe even a large one. My mind races to identify the jets. Off to the left, closer to the ocean are F/A-18 Hornets and Super Hornets mixed in with some F-35
Lightnings
. Those are the Navy fighters, probably from the nearby aircraft carrier. To the right I see several F-22s Raptors, F-16 Fighting Falcons, F-15 Eagles, A-10 Thunderbolts and even a few jet-black F-117 Nighthawks, which is strange because they were retired in 2008.

They scrambled every nearby fighter they could find, I realize.

The helicopters fly lower and are closer.
A mix of Apache, Little Bird, Viper and
SuperCobra
attack helicopters.
The combined might of this air force could level a mountain. For a moment, I feel a surge of hope. That much firepower might be able to blow Nemesis’s legs right out from under her.

Then, a Thunderbolt fires a missile.

Someone didn’t get the memo.

“Woodstock! Military channel n—”

Twenty more missiles follow it. And they’re headed right for us.

I sit back and buckle my seatbelt, which it turns out was a wise idea because we’re suddenly pitching to the side and rolling. For a split second my view of the city flips, and I feel a distinct sense of plummeting to the ground, but then we’re righted again and the jets are roaring past us. Finally, somehow in one piece, we reach the northern edge of Boston.

“Did—did we just fly upside down?” Collins asks.
“In a helicopter?”

I’d like the answer to that, too, but I haven’t forgotten those missiles, and I’m pretty sure I know what’s going to happen next. “Get behind the nearest building!”

We drop down as we pass over the Charles River and loop around one of the many squat, solid-looking brick buildings that line the fringe between water and skyscraper. As we turn perpendicular with the water, I see Nemesis in the distance, but closer than expected. Somewhere in the middle of Broad Sound, I see a series of explosions slamming Nemesis’s body. Arms, legs, head, and then, as the monster takes in a breath and lets out an aggravated roar that vibrates all the windows in the city, it happens.

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.

Jenn
made the leap with her new, far more extreme, ten years younger, boy toy, but I kept my suit. I had no intention of using
it,
I just didn’t want Sven or whatever the hell his name was, to have it.

I never heard how well the suit worked, or if it did at all, but
Jenn’s
designs always seemed to get the job done. Not all of them went into production, but they never resulted in my death. So, I’m kind of putting my life in my ex-girlfriend’s hands when I reach up and slap the button on my chest.

My arms and legs suddenly snap open as the suit pressurizes and the wings stretching from my wrists to my hips, and between my legs, unfurl and catch the air.

I’m still falling, but I’ve been slowed to a much more manageable 50 mph and am no longer dropping straight down. Instead, I’m like a human-sized flying squirrel, capable of maneuvering and controlling my speed to a point.

The Clarendon building is eight hundred feet below and about a quarter mile away. I spin to face it head on, and dip my head toward the roof. Descending at a 45 degree angle, I pick up speed.

When I cut the distance in half, I spot Gordon on the roof. The hooded man is on his knees, pitched forward in a posture of defeat. Gordon stands stock-still, looking toward the skyscrapers of Boston’s South End district, otherwise known as downtown.

He’s waiting for her, I think.
For Nemesis.
But is he controlling her?

Doesn’t matter, I decide, my course is set. I angle toward his back, descending like a missile.

I heard about a guy in England who landed in a
wingsuit
without deploying a parachute, but I’m pretty sure he finished the flight by crashing into a runway full of boxes. As much as I would like to careen into Gordon’s back at 50 mph and break his spine, the collision would kill us both.

When I’m 200 feet from the top of the building, it’s time to deploy
Jenn’s
second design—a parachute that deploys fast enough for short
jumps,
or in my case, low opens. I fight against the air pulling my arm out and push the button on my chest one more time.

150 feet.

The pressure around my body snaps away, the wings retract, and for a fraction of a second, I’m free falling.

100 feet.

But then, with a burst of compressed air, the chute deploys and snaps open.

50 feet.

I’m jolted as the parachute slows my decent from 50mph to 18mph, which is still pretty quick.

10 feet.

Gordon turns around, alerted to my presence by the loud crack of the parachute unfurling and filling with air. But his shocked expression reveals he had no idea how close the sound was, or even what made it. I can’t help but let out a small smile when I pull my legs up and drive them forward like pistons, striking the confused General
square
in the chest and sending him flying.

As Gordon falls to his back with a loud, “
oof
!”
I land and slap the button on my chest one last time, freeing the chute and resetting the system. The bright red and white parachute is caught by the wind and carried off the side of the building. As it flutters away, I see Woodstock’s bright red chopper drop past the top of the building. Collins is in the window, looking relieved, but is motioning for me to turn around.

I spin and find Gordon on his feet, facing me with a big smile on his face. His eyes are predatory.
Hungry.

I note that the gun he was holding is no longer in his hand and see it some twenty feet behind him. My gun is buried beneath the Velcro and zippers of the
wingsuit
. I don’t tell him, but I think Gordon could get to his weapon before I could retrieve mine.

But he doesn’t seem interested in his weapon. His clenched fists reveal he intends to pummel me. When I remember what it felt like to punch his chest, and the way he kicked in that door, I think I’d prefer a gun fight.

“I’m impressed,” he says. His voice is deeper than I remember, rougher, too. “But you’re wasting your time. You can’t stop her.”

“I’m aware,” I say.

“Then why come for him?” His eyes flare with understanding. “You want to lead her away from the city.”

“And I’m not exactly keen on sacrificing innocent people to appease an ancient goddess of revenge.”

“Is that what she is?” he asks, and I don’t hear a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

I answer truthfully, biding time for Collins’s arrival. She won’t have any trouble getting to her gun. “Her name is Nemesis.
Greek goddess of vengeance.”

“And here I thought she was an alien,” he says.

“That, too, maybe,” I confess. It’s the one explanation that makes any kind of sense to me.

“But that’s not her name,” he says.

My big internal, “Huh?
”,
must reveal itself on my face, because he laughs and points at the hooded man on his knees. “You don’t even know who this is, do you?”

“Help,” the hooded man says, his rolls of pale-white, flabby skin jiggling. “He’s crazy!”

Gordon backhands the man’s head, knocking him to the roof.

“You’re in way over your head, DHS-man,” Gordon says. “She’ll be here in a minute. If you leave now, you might actually survive the day.”

That he wants me to leave, and is willing to let me go without a fight means that there is a chance I could undo things, maybe even stop it. “I’m not going anywhere.”

If life came with a redo moment, this would be mine. I would have found something less definite and confrontational to say, because the moment I reveal that I’m here to the end, his tack changes.

He leaps—leaps—across the fifteen feet between us, slamming his fists down. If I hadn’t dove to the side, I would be dead. The indented roof is proof of that.

Back on my feet, I do the only thing I can think to do.

I run.

The roof is covered with large air conditioning units, electrical utility boxes, satellite dishes and three mobile home sized units with doors that probably lead to stairwells or elevator service access. I weave my way through the maze, trying to put distance between Gordon and me, but he keeps pace, a smile on his face.

Then I’m out in the open again, my back to an air conditioning unit the size of truck-Betty. Gordon steps out, slows to a stroll and then, in a blink, charges. He lowers his shoulder and covers the distance in a flash. I barely have time to dodge, and I’m struck a glancing blow that spins me around and throws me to the roof.

A sound like a car accident fills the air, and I spin around to find Gordon pulling himself from the ruins of the air-conditioning unit. This guy is like a
frikken
tank now, I think before scrambling to my feet and running once more.

Gordon’s laugh pursues me before he does, but as I round a
stairwell,
I can hear and feel his feet thundering over the roof.

After leaping out of the hovering helicopter onto the roof of a stationary UPS truck and climbing down into a panicked mob, Ashley Collins found the abandoned lobby of the Clarendon building a welcome relief. The thick glass blocked out the screaming and the air was cool and—

—rank. Collins drew her weapon and scanned the lobby.
Nothing.
She worked her way to the reception desk and saw no one, but when she moved around it, she discovered the scent’s source—a dead doorman, shot in the head.

Gordon’s work, she thought, and then she headed for the elevators.

The ride up was the longest forty seconds of her life. She was in a rush, and despite the elevator ascending far faster than she could climb stairs, standing still just felt wrong. But the ride was also nerve-wracking because the power had begun to flicker, and she thought she might get trapped inside while the giant she-beast moved in, to flatten the building.

But then the doors opened with a ding and she stepped into the hallway of the thirty-third floor. She saw a sign for the stairwell at the end of the hall, not far from a door that had been kicked in. She drew her weapon and moved toward both doors. Inside the open door was a nice, but bland apartment for someone who clearly had money to burn.
But nothing else.
When she turned toward the stairwell door, it was already open.

She froze, frowning deeply.

A gun was leveled at her face.

“What are you doing here?” a man said from the dark stairwell. She recognized the Japanese accent.

“Kind of a stupid question, don’t you think?” she said. “I’m here to stop you. How about you put the gun down and we finish the fight you ran away from?”

Endo stepped into the hallway light, forcing Collins back. Then he did something unexpected—he lowered his gun. Collins instantly brought her weapon up. Despite the sudden role reversal, she felt unnerved. Something weird was going on. She looked around the hall as much as she dared, searching for signs of hidden danger.

“We are no longer enemies,” Endo said.

“How’s that?” she asked.
“You would have killed us before.”

He nods his affirmation. “But the General is no longer my employer.”

“
Zoomb
?” she asks.

He ignores the question, but says, “Our goals are currently aligned. I am here to stop General Gordon.”

Collins read between the lines. Endo wasn’t here to stop
Gordon,
he was here to kill Gordon. She was sure there was some kind of corporate endgame being played out, with Endo a willing pawn, but she wasn’t sure what it was. And she didn’t actually care. “Why should I believe you?”

Endo looked down at his gun. “If it were not the truth, I would have killed you...but the General is different now.
Altered.
I know how you fight. I have seen your spirit. And strength.”

“Now you’re trying to get me into bed,” Collins said.

“Actually, I could use your help.”

Collins squinted at him. He sounded sincere and he had lowered his weapon. But could she trust him? She didn’t think so. But then he said, “And I’m certain agent Hudson could use help—from both of us.”

As though to punctuate the point, the roof shook from an impact.

Collins lowered her weapon. “Fine, but when this is done, I’m taking you in for murder.”