Project Maigo(53)

This is no patrol. They’re not here to watch or escort Nemesis back out to sea. They’re here to attack. This is ridiculous for three reasons. First, it won’t work. And there isn’t a single person in the chain of command that doesn’t know this. Second, to assemble a strike squadron this size means they’ve pulled jets from the north and south, leaving large portions of the country partially undefended. While ground defenses will still be in place, the jet patrols can see things coming first and react faster. Three, Nemesis might be in Boston, and an easy target at the moment, but we know that there are at least four more Kaiju roaming about, not to mention Gordon.

All of this is bad. Really bad. But none of it pisses me off more than being kept out of the loop. This was done behind my back. Again. And there is only one person who could have approved the assault, which explains why I wasn’t consulted. The President knows I would have opposed this plan. But by not having my objection on record, he won’t look like a complete fucking moron when this blows up in his face. And that’s the rub. He knows this is going to go sideways. At best, it won’t work and Nemesis will escape. At worst, he’s going to piss her off. Then we’re all screwed.

Despite Maigo being a very real part of Nemesis, I felt the creature’s tortured past. It’s not going to react well to being prodded.

With an aching hand, I lift my phone and switch Devine on so I can communicate with all emergency forces. “This is FC-P director, Hudson. Incoming Air Force personnel, please—”

“Target is acquired,” a pilot says, his voice cool. “We are green across the board.”

“No,” I say. “Do not—”

“You are go for stall action,” someone responds. “Fire when ready.”

They’re not hearing me. I’ve been cut out.

“Dammit!” I shout. I grip Collins’s arm, as I turn toward Betty. “We need to go. Now!”

I shout in pain as we run to the chopper. The pain is excruciating, but I know to linger is to die. Updates continue to flood my ears. A countdown. Ten seconds.

We pile into the chopper. I throw a headset on and shout to Woodstock. “Get us the hell out of here!”

The chopper lifts away from the apartment building roof just as I hear someone say, “Missiles away.”

“Down!” I shout.

We roll to the right and drop over the side of the apartment building’s eastern side. Looking up, through the chopper’s side window, I see missiles rip by, trailing streaks of white. We level out at two hundred feet, and I turn my gaze right in time to see the missiles—at least thirty of them—close in on their target.

Before the first missile strikes, I think, at least they’re not aiming for her chest. All those orange membranes would be impossible to miss. The problem with aiming for her back is that the thick, spike covered carapace is her most well defended side. The missiles are little more than paintballs fired at a bulletproof vest.

The first missile strikes with a burst of orange flame. If Nemesis feels it, she doesn’t show it. The rest of the missiles strike at roughly the same time, generating enough energy to shove her forward. She stumbles in the water, but stays upright. Then she cranes her head around, spotting the jets.

The roar that follows, angry and earth-shaking, confirms my fears. Despite our little bonding moment, the goddess of vengeance won’t let the attack go unpunished.

“Missiles away,” I hear, just seconds before another barrage streaks past. If she turns around...

“Moab ETA, two minutes,” someone says. “Continue stall action.”

Stall action?

“They’re pinning her down for some reason,” I say.

“MOAB,” Woodstock says. “Mother of all bombs.”

Holy shit. He’s right. The MOAB acronym actually stands for Massive Ordnance Air Blast. It’s a vacuum bomb equivalent to eleven tons of TNT. The largest non-nuclear weapon in the U.S. arsenal that basically melts everything inside a nearly one mile radius. Right now, that’s Boston harbor and maybe a smidge of the North End, which has already been destroyed. Oh yeah, and us.

Anticipating my order—get the fuck out of here—Woodstock tilts us forward and sends Betty to the North. We don’t make it far.

Alessi leans forward, poking her head into the cockpit. “Katsu is still down there!”

I think for just a moment, and I come to a conclusion. “There isn’t time for a pick up.”

“Jon!” Collins says. “You can’t just—”

“I’m not leaving him,” I say. “But you’re not coming.”