Project Nemesis (A Kaiju Thriller) (27 page)

The membranes on its neck flare to life, glowing orange. It steps forward, and I feel a light rumble. Then it turns its head, looking straight at me, and roars. The glass under my hands vibrates from the sound, which is hard to describe. It still sounds like a mix of different pitches, but it’s so loud and powerful, that I’m sure there is nothing on the planet that can match it. Which I think can be said about every aspect of the creature…alien…god, or whatever she is.

When Nemesis looks away and stops roaring, my mind is freed. Every citizen in Beverly and Salem is now wide awake. Panic is going to spread quickly.

I turn to Cooper.
“Coast Guard.
Navy.
Air Force.
Go!” I turn to Collins. “Get some clothes on!” As Collins, now fully awake, dashes out of the Crow’s Nest, I turn to Watson. “I don’t think Nemesis is stupid. She’s here for a reason. Find out what it is.”

Before he can reply, I run out of the room to give Woodstock the worst rude awakening of his life.

37

General Gordon felt like a man possessed as he was guided—compelled really—down a path to which he did not know the end. It would end. He felt sure of it. He just didn’t know when, or where, or how. Only that it was a road he had to travel alone—without delay or mercy.

His first stop had been his private locker at the
Zoomb
offices. He had a small cache of weapons and explosives hidden away. Endo had questioned him when he stuffed the backpack full of C4 explosives into the locker—not out of judgment, but out of curiosity. Gordon had explained that there might come a day when any evidence leading to them might need to be erased. If it became necessary, they would have everything they needed to destroy the fiftieth floor of the Prudential Tower. A drastic measure perhaps, but in addition to destroying physical evidence, it would send a message to anyone else who might have anything incriminating—don’t screw with General Lance Gordon.

Fully armed, Gordon stole a car and drove.

He didn’t know where he was going, he just worked his way through Boston’s winding streets, following the speed limit, stopping for lights and letting the occasional pedestrian cross in front of him without laying on the horn.

After nearly five hours of driving around the city, he’d almost drained the economy car’s gas tank, but he pulled over and parallel parked near the corner of Clarendon and Stuart streets.

He blinked as he got out of the car and looked up at the bright blue morning sky.

I drove through the night, he realized. What’s happening to me? But as soon as he had the thought, it was gone. He looked to his right and then up. The building he’d parked in front of was constructed of stylized concrete, gray for four stories, then all glass, then classic red Boston brick to the top, nearly thirty stories higher. He felt drawn to this building. He didn’t know what this building was, but he recognized the monstrous structure rising from the opposite corner of the intersection as the John Hancock Tower, a wall of reflective glass that seemed to disappear into the sky it reflected.

He turned back to the much smaller building he’d been drawn to. What’s here?
he
wondered, looking at the sign above the entryway that read: One Back Bay – Rentals – Floors 3, 14, 25 & 26 and then listed a phone number.

It’s an apartment building, he thought, which means the question was not what was there, but who?

It didn’t matter, of course. He had no choice but to go inside and find out. He opened the back door, took out his backpack of C4, hand grenades and smaller weapons, and headed for the door.

When he got to the door, he found it locked. A doorman appeared and opened it. The doorman, who was elderly yet
impeccably
maintained like beloved china, looked Gordon up and down and said, “No solicitations.”

Gordon got his foot in the door before it could close and said, “I’m here to see a friend.”

The doorman grimaced down at the foot, but remained composed. “And who might you be here to see, at such an early hour?”

Gordon opened his mind, hoping a name would come to him.

None did, so he drew his sound suppressed weapon and shot the old man in the head. He tore the door open, stepped inside and caught the falling body before it hit the polished marble floor. Before he could be seen, he rushed the man to the service desk, threw him on the floor and pushed him under the counter.

Just then, the elevator pinged and the doors opened. Three men dressed for work in Boston’s financial district strolled out, their shiny shoes clacking against the floor. They joked with each other, their words muffled, but their tone condescending. One of them looked to Gordon, saying, “Hey Mitch—” His forehead scrunched when he saw Gordon. “Where’s Mitch?”

“Out sick,” Gordon said. “I’m a temp.”

The man paused and turned to Gordon, looking him over. “Well, temp, you look like shit. Maybe if you put in a little more effort you’d be retiring instead of temping.”

Gordon raised an eyebrow at the man.

“You think this is funny?” the man said. “When you stand behind that counter, you represent this building and everyone in it. If you look like shit, we look like shit, and I don’t spend thirty-five grand a month for a twentieth floor apartment in a tower…of…shit!”

Gordon raised his handgun beneath the countertop, aiming it at the man’s gut. He wanted to shoot the man. Few things would bring him greater pleasure. But he couldn’t pull the trigger.

For starters, the man’s two buddies were close to the front door. He wasn’t sure if he could shoot all three before one of them escaped. He had a higher purpose here, one that could not involve outside interference. He didn’t know what the purpose was, but he committed to it. He removed his finger from the trigger and said, “I’ll try to do better next time.”

“There won’t be a next time,” the man said, thrusting a finger in Gordon’s face. “You can bet on that.”

You can kill him when you’re done, Gordon told himself, and remained silent as the man waggled his finger one more time and strode off to rejoin his cohorts, who burst out laughing. He watched them leave and then headed for the elevator. The doors slid open immediately and he stepped inside.

He turned around and faced the numbers. This is crazy, he thought, staring at an array of numbered white circles. When the doors shut, he closed and rubbed his eyes with his left hand. When he opened his eyes again, he found his right hand extended and his index finger pushing the button for the thirty-third floor.

“Penthouse it is,” he said.

As the elevator rose, his sense of a higher purpose increased with each floor. By the time he reached the thirty-third floor, he was jittery with nervous energy. The doors slid open and Gordon charged into the hallway, gun in hand,
backpack
over his shoulder.

He strode to the door at the end and kicked. The doorframe cracked like thunder and the deadbolt tore away. The apartment was a spacious den for Boston’s ultra-rich, with marble floors, sparse, but expensive looking décor and a view of the city that could make anyone feel important. He swung the weapon back and forth, looking for a target, but found none.

He lowered the weapon, looking for hints as to why he was here. The only thing that stuck out was the smell of fresh paint and harsh cleaning chemicals. The place had either been recently remodeled or some kind of mess cleaned up.

Stepping closer to the window, a new sound reached his ear. Three squeaks. Though Gordon had never been in the apartment before, he recognized the sound of a bathtub faucet being turned.

Someone’s in the bathroom.

Moving slowly, he headed toward the bathroom door, which was
open
a crack. As he got nearer, he could hear humming. It was a man’s voice. The song was Ave Maria.

As the humming reached a crescendo, Gordon kicked the door open. He pointed his gun at a fat, pasty white man wearing a pair of black knee-high socks and white boxers. As the man shouted in surprise and fell backwards, wedging himself between the tub and the toilet, Gordon finished the song, letting out a vibrato-filled, “
Aaaaave
Mariiiia
,” that would make Pavarotti proud.

When Gordon took a bow, the fat man said, “W—who are you?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Gordon said.

“What do you want?”

Gordon shrugged. “I have no idea.”

The man’s balding head went from white to pink as his confusion slowly transformed into righteous indignation. He gripped the side of the toilet bowl, which had the seat up, and pushed
himself
up onto his knees. “Do you have any idea who I am?”

It was a question, but Gordon heard the threat in the man’s tone. Whoever he was, he believed Gordon should be afraid of him, not the other way around. Gordon looked into the man’s eyes and saw the glare of a predator. He grinned and matched the stare, which unnerved the man.

Gordon pointed to the sink. “Wash your hands.”

“What?” the man said. “Why?”

“Because that wasn’t sanitary,” Gordon said, motioning to the toilet bowl. “And I want you to get used to obeying orders.”

When the man just stared at him, Gordon lowered the gun toward the man’s leg and started counting down from five.
“Five, four, three.”

The man turned on the sink’s faucet and quickly scrubbed his hands.

“Soap, too,” Gordon said.

The man obeyed, picking up a bar of soap and rubbing it between his hands. When the man finished, Gordon tossed a hand towel to him and said, “Let’s go.”

“Can I finish getting dressed?” the man asked.

Gordon twisted his lips. He didn’t like the man’s belligerent tone. In fact, he detested everything about him, though he didn’t understand why. “No. You can’t.”

The man grumbled, but followed Gordon out of the bathroom.

“Do you want money?” the man asked. When Gordon didn’t answer, he added, “Women? I can buy you one.
Or three.”

“Turn around,” Gordon said, and the man complied.

“Just tell me what you want and—
oof
!” The man crumbled to the floor as Gordon pistol-whipped the back of his head. Gordon rolled the man over and quickly bound his arms and legs with plastic zip-tie cuffs.

“Actually,” Gordon said to the unconscious man, “Just stay here. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” With that, he opened his backpack and took out several bricks of C4, detonators and
a half
dozen grenades. “I’ll be right back.”

38

We’re in the air five minutes later, but Collins is still tucking in her shirt as we lift off, and half of Woodstock’s gray hair resembles a pom-pom. At least no one can see us up in the helicopter. I don’t think anyone would feel at ease knowing we’re the frontline of defense against the colossal monster stomping its way through the harbor.

As we turn toward the ocean, I look out the cockpit and find that we’re at eye level with Nemesis.

“Higher,” I say, “Must get higher.”

But Woodstock is already ascending, taking us to a thousand feet—out of leaping reach—before bringing us closer horizontally.

“How come it’s not destroying anything?” Collins asks, looking out the side window as we circle high above.

Nemesis is still in the harbor, following the water’s path. If she wanted to eat people, she could. I can see the streets below filling with people on foot. I count at least three accidents on Cabot Street alone, bringing fleeing traffic to a standstill. But the giant is still in the water.

What do you want? I wonder.

“Maybe it’s never been just about eating people?” I say. “She’s been moving steadily south. I think all of her victims just happened to be in the way.”

“Not steadily south,” Collins says. “We’re only a few miles from West Beach, right?”

She’s right. “She shed her skin last night.
And ate at least six whales.
Maybe she slept?”

“And grew,” Woodstock said.

I nod.
“Yeah, that, too.
So does anyone know where we can find a giant robot or flying submarine?”

“I’ve got a normal submarine,” Cooper says. Before we left, Watson and Woodstock got the helicopter radios tuned into the Crow’s Nest via a satellite uplink that connects directly into FC-P’s computers. It’s like a fancy, encrypted, government version of Skype.
But without the video.

“How far out?” I ask.

“Twenty minutes,” Cooper says.

“Too long.”

“There’s a Coast Guard cutter five minutes out.
And a Navy Destroyer ten minutes out.”

“Turn the cutter back,” I say. The ship is big, but the mounted machine gun will be useless again Nemesis. “Bring the Destroyer into visual range, but instruct them to engage from a distance, and only if I give the order.” From sea level, the average person can see three miles to the horizon. But Nemesis is so tall that they should be able to see it from twice as far. I know the ship’s Tomahawk missiles could probably be deployed from the ship’s current position, but I don’t feel remotely comfortable shooting long range missiles, which sometimes miss, toward my city.
“Air Force?”

“Hold on.
Just hearing now.”
The line goes quiet for a few seconds,
then
she’s back.
“On the way.
Two F-22 Raptors.
ETA five minutes.”

“Thanks, Coop,” I say.

“Hudson,” she says, sounding more serious than usual. “Is that going to be enough?”

It’s a good question, but the answer is an easy one. “Not remotely.”

“We’ve got a fleet between you and Boston,” she says.
“Three Destroyers, two subs, two cruisers and an aircraft carrier.
I can have all of them sent your way.”

“Have them on standby,” I say, watching Nemesis through the window. The monster has stopped short of Essex Bridge. “What’s she looking at?”

“I can’t see from here,” Cooper says.

“Sorry,” I say.
“Wasn’t talking to you.
Just keep everyone ready. I’m not sure what’s happening here, and I’d like to avoid blowing up the neighborhood if possible. Best if we engage out at sea if we can.”

“Agreed,” she says. I hear a click and she’s gone, no doubt already relaying my requests. Can’t really call them orders, but at this point they might as well be.

“I think it’s interested in that building,” Collins says, pointing down. “What is that?”

I recognize the location. “It’s a luxury condo.”

“It’s just staring at it,” Collins says.

“Watson, you there?”
I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “I can see you out the window. You guys look like a fly.”

“That makes me feel so much more confident, Ted, thanks,” I say. “Listen, do you know the condo between Dane Street Beach and the yacht club?”

“By the bridge?”

“Yeah.”

I hear computer keys clacking. “Seaside Condos,” he says.
“Big bucks with full access to the docks.”

“See if there is anything interesting about them,” I say. “Nemesis can’t take her eyes off of them.”

“On it,” he says, and then he’s gone.

“What now?” Woodstock says. “We could distract it. Get it to chase us back out to sea?
Might remember us.”

It’s a horrible plan that could very well end in our deaths. I’m about to agree when the membranes over the creature’s ribcage flare to life.

“Something’s happening!” Collins says.

“Take us down,” I say to Woodstock, and then to Collins, “Get ready to remind it who we are.”

She nods and opens the side door, letting in a whoosh of morning air.
But before she’s done readying the weapon, Nemesis raises her long, black arm.
A sense of dread fills me as I realize she is about to level the condo. My eyes scan the streets behind the building. They’re empty. Anyone living in the building would have fled already.

I feel a little better knowing the damage will only be structural, but this feels like the opening shot of a battle. A lot of people are going to die.

Nemesis roars, and swings.

And then stops.

Her giant hand must be just feet from the side of the building, but hasn’t destroyed it.
The hell?

We watch in silence as Nemesis continues to just stare.

“What’s it doing?” Collins asks.

Nemesis takes a step back.

Then another.

“F-22s are two minutes out,” Cooper says, making me jump. “But they can fire now.”

“Tell them to hold their fire!” I shout, far louder than necessary. “I think she’s leaving.”

When Nemesis turns around, she looks slow because of her size, but I know she’s actually moving quite quickly. As the massive tail spins around behind her, it kicks up a thirty foot wave that rolls upstream, heading up the three rivers—Bass, Danvers and North—that converge in the harbor. It flows under the Essex Bridge, but will no doubt destroy a good number of homes and small bridges. Still, it’s a mercy compared to what could have happened.

“Stay with her,” I tell Woodstock. “I don’t want to lose sight of her.”

Nemesis is moving fast now, trudging through the harbor, back out toward the open ocean. As she pushes through the water, pressure waves rise up ahead of her. There are several islands on the outskirts of the harbor.
Some with homes.
I’m about to contact Cooper and request emergency services for the islands and the areas around the rivers, but she beats me to the punch.

“Hudson!” Cooper says quickly. Her raised voice and tone are very unusual, bordering on unheard of, and instantly get my attention. “Get away from Nemesis!”

“What? Why?”

“You have incoming!
Four Tomahawk missiles from the Destroyer and twelve
AMRAAMs
from the F-22.
ETA, thirty seconds!”

“Get us the fuck out of here,” I say to Woodstock.

The chopper banks hard toward land and we pick up speed.

“The harbor is surrounded by dense civilian population!” I shout. “What idiot superseded my orders? Get whoever it is on the line, now!”

“I can’t,” Cooper says, sounding defeated. “The President gave the order. This is no longer a DHS operation.”

“No longer a—then what the hell is it?”

“War,” she says.

“Meaning collateral damage is acceptable,” I say and look back at Nemesis. The orange glowing membranes catch my attention. “It’s going to be far worse than they know. Cooper, you need to tell—”

A loud roar rockets past the helicopter.

“Holy mother of
Cthulu
!”
Woodstock shouts.

The roar is repeated eleven more times. My head spins, watching the AIM-120D
AMRAAM
“fire and forget” missiles rocket past, closing the distance to Nemesis’s plated back.

It’s too late.

Streaks in the sky above Nemesis catch my attention. It’s the Tomahawks. Their trajectory shifts, heading downward toward the colossal target. Each Tomahawk packs the equivalent punch of twenty
AMRAAMs
and
are
designed to level buildings.

A plume of orange fire, which looks tiny in comparison to Nemesis, appears on the monster’s protected back. I don’t think any real damage was done, but the creature turns in the direction from which the attack came, spinning her back toward the Tomahawks, which strike next. The resulting explosion is massive and the fire ball it creates silhouettes Nemesis as she pitches forward from the force, raising her arms and roaring—not in pain, but in anger.

The shockwave strikes in time with the boom that rivals the volume of Nemesis’s roar earlier this morning. The chopper shakes for a moment, but Woodstock levels us out, and I see that we’re back over HQ, heading for the roof.

That’s when I see what’s going to happen. Nemesis’s midsection is exposed. The orange membranes flare brightly in response to the monster’s anger. Five of the remaining
AMRAAM
missiles strike a tall, spiked plate angling out from her back, doing no damage. Two more strike her arm with a similar lack of effect. Three strike between the patches of glowing skin. But the final missile hits one of the more fragile membranes over her ribs, and explodes.

I feel the helicopter skids hit the landing pad on the mansion’s roof.

But then there’s a flash of light so bright that I can still see it through my clenched eyes.
Before the light dissipates, a shockwave strikes.
It’s so powerful that I only register its existence for a fraction of a second. Then I’m unconscious along with everyone else within a three mile radius.