Project Maigo(56)
We hobble together, toward the Harborwalk, along the shore. Through columns of rising smoke, I see the harbor. Steam rolls over the ocean’s surface. The remnants of a mushroom cloud billows upward. In the distance, jets circle in groups of three, wary.
Nemesis remains.
She’s still in the same spot, curled in on herself, a colossal armadillo. Smoke rises from her protective carapace, but I see no real damage.
She’s motionless, but not dead. While MOAB is an impressive weapon, wonderful for killing people and destroying buildings, Nemesis is designed, or has evolved, to withstand such an explosive force. Hell, she contains an even more powerful explosive force.
A grinding sound turns my eyes to the right. We’re standing in the shadow of a long, five-story, brick building. The Marriot, if I’m not mistaken. The red bricks, now scorched black, are crumbling.
Dread grips me. I’m not sure where it comes from, but its intense. And real. There’s a mountain of shit currently heading toward a very large fan, and we are still squarely downwind. The chop of a helicopter gives me a small amount of hope. I lift my aching arms and wave.
Betty comes in from the North, flying low and fast. A cloud of ash swirls into the air, whipped up by the rotors. Endo and I run for it while the Marriot caves in on itself behind us. We’re met halfway by Collins and Alessi, who silently help us into the chopper. Rather than bring me to the passenger’s seat—my usual station, Collins rather forcefully guides me to the back. Once I’m in, she slams the door and takes my seat in the front.
I lean forward, fighting the pain in my ribs, and pick up a headset. Once it’s on, I say, “We need to leave. Now.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Woodstock says, lifting Betty off the ground. “We’ll be headed north in just—”
“Not north!” I shout, the fear taking hold again. “Southeast. Through the North End. Go!”
I’m glad he doesn’t ask why. I have no answer. It’s just a feeling. We need a barrier between us and what comes next, and the ruins of downtown is the closest thing to a wall around here.
As we swing around and speed through the still standing skyscrapers of Boston’s North End, I look out the window and up. The line of jets is incoming again.
They fire.
Useless missiles trace lines across the sky above us.
The jets follow, not peeling away. They’re trying to buy time again. But for another MOAB? Or something worse? Seeing our flight-path through the North End is a perfectly straight line, I nearly ask Woodstock to fly us backwards again, but then I notice a tall building, beyond the North End, at the end of the street, still has most of its reflective windows. Looking at the reflection, I can see behind us into the harbor, all the way to Nemesis. The jets close in.
They’re too close…
And then it happens. Nemesis stands tall and spins around. Her chest heaves a few times, expanding. Her neck flexes like a dog about to puke.
I have no expletives to express how I feel at this moment.
So I just watch as Nemesis performs the super-sized equivalent of hocking a loogie. But the wad that comes out isn’t mucus. It’s a bright orange globule—her explosive fluid contained in some kind of clear viscous film. It arcs through the air, heading for the jets. For a moment I think it’s actually going to strike one of the jets, but the pilots are accustomed to thinking fast, and their planes are even faster. The problem is that the glowing projectile, if left unhindered, will sail clear over the North End and land smack dab in Boston’s heart, erasing all of what’s left of the city.
Of the thirty-plus pilots in the sky, one of them must realize this, too, because a missile launches from an F-22 before it turns away and kicks on its afterburners.
The missile strikes home as we clear the North End and emerge over the lower buildings in Boston’s downtown. “Stay low!”
The light from the resulting explosion turns my eyes away from the reflective windows. To the left, I see the green swath of grass that is the Boston Common, just beyond the Beacon Hill neighborhood. If we have to land rough, that’s the place to do it.
As the initial blast of light fades, I turn back toward the reflection of the North End, already a mile away. An orange glow chases us. Gaining. It slips through the North End like the buildings were made of air. The already stressed ruins just shatter. The metal glows yellow and melts away. What was left of the North End, is reduced to dust. It’s the last thing I see before the reflective windows providing my view shatter and fall to the ground, tiny twinkling lights.
The pressure wave strikes us hard, pitching us forward, while the concussive sound of the explosion pounds against our ears and cracks Betty’s windshield. Then we’re out of it, cruising low over the Commons and a string of swan boats.