Tense voices, closer by, rise up next. The remaining Secret Service are taking up positions. Activating defenses. While we call the building a house, it is actually something closer to a fortress, with reinforced walls and windows, hidden chain guns, missile defense systems and now, a nearby battalion of tanks, which I know are there, because I recommended them. In fact, all of the protocols being activated right now are, in part, my creation, put in place when I still had the President’s ear.
Despite all this, it’s not enough. The weaponry might slow down a single Kaiju, but we’ve got three stomping toward the city. And a fourth somewhere else. And it’s that fourth, which we know carries Gordon around in its mouth, that is my true concern.
In the distance, missiles explode, filling the night with the sound of distant thunder. A roar follows, even louder. And it’s not a wounded cry, it’s just pissed. And closer than I would like.
A rumbling shakes my legs. The grinding squeal of tank treads scoring pavement. M1 Abrams tanks take up positions around the White House, on the far side of the South Lawn and along Executive Avenue, defending an empty building. Well, almost empty. They must know that Beck has decided to stay.
Proving this assumption correct, a ten-man squad of fully armored and armed Secret Service agents burst from the White House and take up defensive positions around Beck, and us. Endo and I share a grin. Now this is more like it.
Amid the chaos, I become aware of a pulse moving through the colonnade floor, slowly growing more intense. With the White House empty of people and the Secret Service on board, it’s time to move. I focus on the sentence I want the President to say.
“Let’s move to the roof,” Beck says. “So we can see what we’re up against.”
Before any of the agents can complain about this tactic, Dunne says, “Right this way, sir,” and charges back into the Oval Office. When Endo and I, dressed as agents now, quickly follow, leading Beck inside, the rest fall in line. It’s like high school again, leading innocent Freshman behind the gym to smoke their first doobie, except that those freshman had a good time and weren’t in danger of a violent death.
We hurry through the White House in a blur. After being here day after day with halls full of tourists and employees, seeing the place empty feels surreal. We charge up a flight of stairs, and while Beck is encircled by agents, he’s holding his handgun at the ready, looking fearless. The most awkward part of a roofward charge is the elevator. We hurry inside, cram in tightly and then stand still while the elevator rises. I want to ask if the elevator exits at the roof. I want to make a Muzak joke. Both would invite suspicion, though, so I keep my mouth shut. The elevator doors open and all fourteen of us are vomited into the hallway beyond. The hall is black. Red emergency lights glow from the ceiling, allowing us to see while acclimating our eyes to the night. We hurry down the long stretch to a short staircase, at the top of which is a solid-looking door with a numeric keypad and a hand print security system. I step aside and let Dunne do the deed. Cool night air washes over us, along with the sounds of a panicked populace, the din of distant battle and the sound of something approaching.
Something large.
The roof has been transformed. Chain guns line the roof walls, two to the north, two to the south. What normally look like air conditioning units have been revealed for what they really are—missile launchers—controlled from inside the security room buried several levels below us. In addition to Secret Service, there are soldiers on the roof, armed with an array of weapons, including anti-tank missiles and grenade launchers.
“The men look afraid,” Beck says.
Endo shoots me a questioning glance. I shrug. I didn’t put the words in his mouth. I’m barely looking at the soldiers hurrying about. My eyes are turned southward, past the South Lawn and the Ellipse, all the way to the Washington Monument.
“Men!” Beck shouts, raising his hands in the air.
Someone says, “Oh my God, is that the President?”
“Our darkest hour is upon us, but we must stand together, as brothers, as equals! I will fight with you, and if I must, I will die with you!”
The number of cheers equals the number of confused faces.
“Now let’s send these Kaiju sons-a-bi—”
A roar interrupts Beck’s speech. It comes from the south. All heads turn.
Drakon, now 200 feet long from snout to tail comes flailing out of the reflecting pool at a dead run. The monster still has a low to the ground body, like a lizard, but like all the other Kaiju, it’s wearing a Nemesis skin, with coils of dark flesh, a jagged spike-covered back and glowing membranes, which are thankfully on its underside, illuminating its approach like a punk-ass teenager’s undercar lighting.