Project Maigo(22)
He glanced through the glass and caught sight of the battle outside. Hudson was still on the run. Still hopelessly outmatched. But then five Apache attack helicopters roared past overhead. They would only aggravate his child. The fools hadn’t learned anything.
Gordon’s eyes returned to the glass. Like all good soldiers, he thought several steps ahead. He knew he was going to break through the window and fall four stories. But he also knew he’d survive the fall, recover quickly and have no problem cutting off the three fleeing FC-P agents. The first thing he’d do was rip the fat man’s spine out. That would take the fight out of the other two.
His face struck the glass first.
It didn’t break.
Instead, his flesh folded inwards, compressing the thick bones of his face. As momentum carried the rest of his body forward, the pressure on his face grew. Something popped and then crunched, and for the first time in a year, Gordon felt pain.
He put his hand up to his nose. The flesh felt looser. Warm fluid covered his fingertips. He couldn’t make out the color against his charcoal flesh. But he knew what it was. Blood. The bitch had actually hurt him.
He thrashed out an arm, obliterating a workstation with one strike. He turned toward the woman, who he expected to find on the floor, clutching her side in pain. She was gone. As were the other two. His plan was falling apart.
“No!” he screamed and charged toward the stairwell. When he reached the top, he leapt out over the stairs, compressed his body into a ball and struck the wall. Unlike the windows, this part of the house had not been reinforced. He broke through wood and plaster like a wrecking ball.
His fall was broken by the crunch of a car roof folding in. His body struck hard, face down. The car compressed loudly, and then all at once, it exploded into flames. The searing heat surprised Gordon, but it didn’t harm him. When he stood in the flames and stepped through the curtain of smoke, he was very glad to see three sets of stunned eyes staring at him.
Ignoring the flames flickering over his chest, Gordon grinned and said. “Let’s try that again.”
12
I hold my finger down, launching all thirty-eight rockets. It might be a little excessive, but the rockets aren’t smart. They can’t lock on to targets. They just fly straight until they hit something and explode. And sometimes they don’t even fly straight. Considering the amount of firepower I’ve just launched, the rockets don’t make much noise. They just kind of whoosh away, swirling trails of smoke. There’s so many of them twisting through the air, the sight reminds me of those Robotech cartoons I used to watch when I was a kid...and a few years ago. The twisting streaks of white are almost beautiful.
“Holy shit,” the whispered curse comes through my headset. One of the helicopter pilots commenting on what I’ve just done, which serves to remind me about what I’ve just done.
“Where is the car?” I ask, shouting into my headset.
“They’re away!” someone replies.
“Up!” I shout to Woodstock, even as he pulls us higher into the air and to the side. It’s like a backwards rollercoaster ride, but I hardly notice. All of my attention is on the now-small streaks of white, headed for Scrion’s underside.
The Kaiju has just leapt up, exposing the three orange membranes.
The first rocket strikes with an orange explosion that sounds like a distant firework. But nothing happens. The rocket struck high, between Scrion’s neck and armor planting. I don’t think it even noticed the impact.
But it’s sure as hell going to. It’s easy to see now, as Scrion rises and the rockets continue to strike—
It happens.
A rocket punches through the top membrane and detonates. But even as that explosion begins, at least eight more rockets pierce the other two slices of orange flesh. I don’t even have time to cringe at what I’ve done.
The way people experience explosions is basically a race. The light, traveling at 186,282 miles per second, comes first. The bright white forces my eyes shut for a moment before it fades to luminous shades of yellow and orange. Next, comes the shockwave, which contrary to popular belief, travels faster than sound. The science of it is gobbledygook to me. Something about the compression of wave fronts or some such thing. What’s important to know is that you’re going to get punched first and then yelled at.
And the punch is hard. Kaiju Mike Tyson hard. The helicopter is slammed back, and for a moment I’m looking through the windshield at nothing but blue sky. Warning lights flash. Woodstock utters a string of unintelligible curses like it’s the Pentecost. Before all the shaking is done, the sound hits. If not for the sound-canceling headphones on our ears, I’m positive Woodstock and I would be deaf. The pulse of sound knocks the air from my lungs and pitches me forward as my insides quiver. Woodstock somehow manages to fight this effect and not only keeps his hands on the controls, but regains control of Betty. He brings us level again, about a mile from the explosion—over the harbor—but just a couple hundred feet up.