Project Maigo(77)

“Copy that,” I say. “Be safe.”

I hang up the phone and pocket it. My job here isn’t to coordinate the response, it’s to respond. Personally. As much as I hate it, that’s the only way this mess is going to be resolved.

With a high pitched squeal I can feel in my teeth, Drakon rolls over. Seeing an opportunity, the first of the M1 Abrams tanks to react to the Kaiju’s sudden appearance, launches a round at Drakon’s side. The tank fires a supersonic 120mm kinetic round with a depleted uranium tip. It’s capable of punching through just about anything on the planet. Including, it would seem, Kaiju flesh.

The round strikes Drakon’s right forelimb, exploding with tremendous force and spraying chunks of brown meat and black skin across the lawn.

Drakon roars in pain and bounces on its feet, turning back and forth. It’s almost comical, like the thing is saying, ‘What hit me? What hit me?’ It must figure out the answer because it leaps through the air and drops down on the tank, crushing it with the creature’s weight. Adding insult to injury, Drakon takes hold of the tank’s gun turret, lifts the crumpled tank off the ground and throws it across the lawn, toward a second tank still taking aim. The tanks collide in a tangle of very expensive metal, and the men buried somewhere within.

Drakon settles its one good eye back on the White House and charges. She’s limping heavily, but doesn’t seem to have been slowed, and certainly doesn’t mind the pain.

Gunfire and grenades pepper the monster as it closes the distance, but the missiles hold back. The target is too close. Just as I hear the chop of approaching helicopters, Drakon arrives. The monster rises above us like a tidal wave, bathing us in orange light from its glowing membranes, forcing the men on the roof to hold their fire—not that a few bullets would change anything. The monster’s jaws snap open, splitting both vertically and horizontally, revealing four sets of sharp teeth and giving the creature a bite radius that would make Mick Jagger jealous. But it doesn’t roar or even bite. From within the ring of sharp, arm-sized teeth, a black sphere launches up and over the White House roof.

At first it looks like a glob of tar, but then it opens up, revealing thick limbs, hooked fingers and claws. Gordon. While his entrance is impressively flamboyant, the man’s arrival—if he’s still a man at all—makes me ill.

Before anyone even thinks to react, Gordon lands on the tallest point of the roof, denting the metal surface. He scans the frozen groups of soldiers, looking for someone. Looking for me, I realize.

“Open fire!” I shout, counting on the men to remember avoiding those explosive orange membranes that make such tempting targets. Gordon spots me just as the men on the roof send a barrage of bullets in his direction. He leaps down to the far side of the roof. I’m no longer able to see him, but I don’t need to. The screams rising up are image enough.

Working in concert with Gordon, Drakon assaults the roof, slamming her giant hand down, crushing men and tearing through the top two floors of the White House. With a gleeful roar, the monster leans down and catches two men within her jaws, lifting them up and silencing their screams with a quick chomp, before tilting her head back and swallowing them whole.

Next, Drakon turns her attention to my side of the roof. She reaches out, but pauses, as though confused. With a shake of her head, the monster yanks her hand away like a child who touched a hot stove. Gordon wants me for himself.

“Down!” Endo shouts, returning the favor of tackling him, by shoving me down and jumping on top of me. A twisting mass of helicopter launched rockets scream overhead, striking Drakon with enough force to knock her sideways. As the monster falls from view and Endo pulls me to my feet, I say, “Didn’t realize you cared.”

“Our plan hinges on you not dying,” he says.

Yeah, no pressure.

“Hudson!” The voice is deep, booming and hits me like an emotional missile. Gordon charges across the roof, covered in other men’s blood. His eyes burn with fury. Froth slides from his clenched teeth with each step.

I lift my P90 and hold the trigger down, unleashing fifty rounds in seconds. His body shakes from the barrage, but he doesn’t slow. While I reload, Endo takes aim with his more powerful assault rifle, punching round after round into Gordon’s forehead. The engine-killing rounds just get stuck in the thick flesh. But it hurts. Gordon, unlike his Kaiju, still experiences pain like a human being. He reacts like one, too, raising his meaty hand, to defend his face.

With the P90 reloaded, I aim more carefully, but hold the trigger down again. I have to fight the recoil, but I manage to send most of the rounds into my target—Gordon’s knee. The leg buckles as Gordon shouts in pain, but he lunges forward with his good leg, arms outstretched.