Project 731, page 15
part #3 of Kaiju Thriller Series
“By useful, you mean weapons,” Collins says.
“Sometimes yes. Sometimes...yes.” The man smiles, his teeth perfect, as though chiseled from marble. “The point is, while you talk to the media and make a spectacle every time you face a Kaiju threat, we have been hard at work creating solutions.”
I say nothing, not because I don’t have a handful of Hudsonisms to fling at him, but because I’m listening.
“I’m pleased to see you’re interested,” he says.
Collins snaps her gaze toward me. “Jon, you can’t make a deal with this guy.”
“Sometimes you have to make a deal with a demon to kill the Devil,” I say, and I turn back to Cole. “That’s pretty much what you’re proposing?”
“And when we are done, you can go back to your work and we will go back to ours, and your pretty little family of freaks can live without looking over your shoulders...as long as they behave. While you might have deemed those two girls harmless, we are already developing ways to...negate their potential.”
“So, let’s break this down,” I say. “You have Woodstock and Alessi as collateral. You’re willing to look the other way when it comes to Lilly and Maigo. And you’re going to let us go.”
“Yes.”
“In exchange for what?” Collins asks.
“Do your jobs. Destroy the Tsuchi. Kill Nemesis.”
“And leave the bodies,” I say.
“Yes. You may not like what we do,” Cole says. “You may not approve of our methods. But you are going to appreciate the results.”
Again, I keep my quips to myself, because I fear he’s right.
“Now, let’s go back to your original question. Where are the Tsuchi? While we have been unable to track them, scattered reports of sightings and attacks have been filtering in all night. The smaller of the two is heading south. It will reach Los Angeles valley, and the millions who live there, at daybreak. The second, larger specimen is headed our way, and can wait.”
“Our way?” I ask, turning back toward the window. “I thought it already left?”
“Looks can be deceiving, my friend.”
I’m about to tell him he’s not my friend and to screw off, among other surly things, but then the lights overhead blink off, plunging us into momentary darkness. Then the roof—the whole friggin’ roof flickers and disappears. What the... The walls go next, transporting us outside. I spin around, watching the hallway and empty rooms pixelate and blink out of reality. The floor beneath my feet transforms from linoleum to bare concrete. The whole thing, including Cole. “A hologram?” I ask myself.
“But we touched it.”
“Holodeck tech...” I say, in awe. “No offense, but if I ever get a chance to play with this, I’m going to have to program myself some Deanna Troi.”
“As long as I get Jean Luc,” she says, and we fist bump to seal the deal.
I turn in a circle. We’re not in Lompoc. Never were. The air is hot and dry. The hard-packed sand around us stretches for miles in every direction, ending at distant mountains, revealed by the sliver of a rising sun. Other than that, the only thing I can see is an airplane, the likes of which I have never seen.
“I know where we are,” I say, looking at Collins. “This is Groom Lake.”
“Where?”
“Area 51.”
A phone rings. It’s coming from the plane.
Collins and I walk cautiously toward the blaring ring, which is the only sound for miles. The phone’s glowing screen lights the way. I recognize the model. It’s a Devine phone, putting us back in touch with the emergency services we coordinate. I answer it.
“Like the plane?” Cole asks. “Get in. You’re racing the sun.”
“Hate to break it to you, but neither of us can pilot this thing.”
“No one can,” he says. “It’s a prototype VTOL X-35. Now, get in.”
VTOL stands for Vertical Take Off and Landing. Looking at the thing’s weird, almost diamond shape, I’m surprised the thing can even fly.
“In case the impending destruction of a major U.S. city isn’t impetus enough, I failed to mention that Hawkins, Endo, Lilly and Maigo are en route...to LAX. Their flight lands in an hour. In fact, they’re not far from you now, albeit thirty thousand feet up. Would be a shame if the Tsuchi was there to greet them instead of you.”
“You didn’t mention Joliet,” I say.
“Injured, I’m afraid. But alive and well. Her hospital stay will be short.”
Good to know, I think, and then I shift back to the topic at hand. “So, how do we stop it?”
“Everything you need is on board.”
I look at the strange vehicle’s lowered ramp, and then to Collins. She gives an almost imperceptible nod. We ascend the ramp together and stop when we see who’s waiting for us. “Aww, c’mon.”
24
I recognize the uniforms of the two men, but not their unmasked faces. But the size difference gives away their identities, or rather, their codenames. They stand in the large plane’s cargo area, side by side, arms crossed, faces set on intimidate.
The smaller man, and by smaller, I mean he’s my size—the other man is a giant—has the high and tight hair of a military man, but the skin and confident eyes of Denzel Washington. I reach my hand out to him. “Silhouette, right?”
“Agent Hudson. Nice to see you again.” The man’s smile and voice match Denzel’s, too. I really don’t like this guy. He takes my hand, a firm shake—not the crushing squeeze that alpha males deliver to prove their prowess, but which actually reveals their insecurity.
I turn to the bigger man, and point at him. He’s a good foot taller and wider than me. All of that extra bulk is muscle. He’s bald, but bearded. “Bruticus.” He frowns. “No, that’s not it. Grape Ape?”
The giant gives me all his attention, unfolding his arms and clenching his fists. “You think you can take me, little man?”
“Me? Hell no.” I hitch my thumb at Collins. “But she’d kick your ass.”
Collins just grins at the man with the same confident air as Silhouette.
“You about done?” Silhouette asks, climbing into the open cockpit and taking a seat.
I take the seat next to him without being invited. “Just trying to gauge how quickly Grape Ape over here switches to the dark side. If we have to work together, I need to know he’s not going to go ’roid rage on us.” I look back at the man. “You going to ’roid rage us, Obsidian?”
“My men are the best in the business,” Silhouette answers quickly, preventing Obsidian from answering.
“From where I’m sitting, you’re down two BlackGuard since the last time I saw you, and if I’m right, you got your ass kicked by a former park ranger, a biologist and two teenage girls.”
The man’s confidence falters as he looks at me. “Is that what you tell yourself? They’re not even human. You might be the United States’ golden Kaiju boy, but we’ve been dealing with Dark Matter threats since long before the FC-P existed. Those girls are going to grow up. And when they do, they’re going to turn on you, like any wild animal does.”
I’m about to say something pithy when he adds, “Your girl killed eleven men tonight.”
While I have no doubt that any action Maigo took was in self-defense and in the defense of the others, taking a life is never an easy thing. The psychological ramifications are intense. And if he’s telling the truth, Maigo killed eleven men. But...this is Maigo. She has memories of killing thousands, of eating hundreds. Another eleven might not have any effect on her at all, and if that’s the case... I shake my head, trying to ignore what someone like that would grow up to be like. For the past year, Maigo and I have become family. I trust her with my life, and she trusts me like a father. But she hadn’t been pushed until tonight, and the result was eleven dead men.
“That’s what I thought,” Silhouette says, and he starts the X-35, which is really just a gentle hum. He turns back to the cargo area, where eight seats line either side of the space. “Buckle up. This thing accelerates like you wouldn’t believe.”
Collins buckles herself in across from Obsidian.
The only indication that we’ve lifted off is the slight lurch in my gut. The engine just hums a little louder.
“Geez,” I say. “What’s under the hood?”
“Prototype,” Silhouette says. “I don’t know the technical details, but they call it a ‘repulse engine.’ Was designed by some robotics guy. I think his name is Mohr. Let’s us take off and land, just about anywhere, and without making any noise. Now, best put on the mask. Unless you want to be unconscious.”
Silhouette takes a mask down from a hook on the ceiling and straps it over his nose and mouth. Two tubes rise into the ceiling. I find my mask and put it on, while Obsidian and Collins do likewise in the back.
Without waiting to hear if everyone is all set, Silhouette guns the engines, and we go from a complete, airborne standstill to Godknowshowfast in sixty seconds. Even with the mask on, breathing is hard. I feel myself getting light-headed. And then, at speed, the G-forces wear off. There’s no engine roar. No turbulence. The only indication that we’re moving is the scenery below, just a thousand feet down, blurring past. When Silhouette takes his mask off, I do likewise.
“Shouldn’t we be—” I point up, “—like thirty thousand feet higher?”
“The X-35 makes no noise. It’s undetectable to radar. And we’re moving so fast that no one on the ground will really get a good look at us before we’re out of sight, and that’s if they happen to be looking up. And if something happens to get in our way, we’ll know about it in time to—” He flicks the controls to the left, spinning us in a rapid roll. I’m not sure how many times we spin, but my head keeps going even after he’s stopped. “It’s the fastest, quietest, most maneuverable plane on the planet. Even if someone managed to lock a missile on us, we’re only moving at half speed. There isn’t a missile in the world that can catch us.”
What he’s telling me isn’t exactly comforting. I’ve never really had a desire to ride inside a missile. Still, it means we’ll be in Los Angeles in—I do the mental math, estimating the distance at three hundred miles—eight minutes.
Holy shit.
Good news is, we’re going to beat the sun. I watch out the window as the landscape grows darker beneath us.
“So,” I say. “I have two questions.”
Silhouette just glances at me.
“First. We’re headed to Los Angeles to stop the Tsuchi. And I mean really stop it.”
“Stop it dead,” he says.
“How?”
He looks at me, more than a glance this time, then taps a few buttons on the very futuristic-looking console and lets go of the controls. He slides off the seat and steps into the back, where Collins and Obsidian sit in silence. He sets himself down beside Obsidian and waits for me to join Collins. Then he reaches up and pushes a button on the slanted wall above him. A panel in the floor opens, revealing three black devices that look like futuristic land mines.
“And these are?” I ask.
“Bacteria bombs.”
“Bacteria...bombs?” Collins says. “Are we going to make them sick?”
“Bacteria do much more than make people sick,” Silhouette says. “It also eats just about everything, including metal, arsenic, nuclear waste and any and every kind of flesh. Even Kaiju flesh. Once this stuff works its way into the target, it will eat its way from one side to the other, and then it’ll spread out through the whole system. It replicates fast. If placed near the brain, death could take just minutes. Maybe less.”
“Sounds like something that could kill a lot of people,” Collins says. “How do you contain it?”
“Salt water,” he says. “Or incineration.”
“Sounds too simple,” she says.
“Brice designed it that way. Simple solutions are the best. There are a fleet of C-130 airplanes fitted with Modular Airborne Firefighting Systems, loaded up with salt water, waiting for a green light. We just need to keep the Tsuchi out of the ocean after the device has been planted, and that shouldn’t be a problem for them, since they can’t swim.”
“You think,” I say. “They’re not just Tsuchi now. They’re Nemesis-Tsuchi, and in case you didn’t notice, Nemesis is as at home in the water as she is on land. Also, just a quick nitpick. You used the words ‘placed’ and ‘planted’ when talking about the bombs. Since these things don’t look like they can be launched, I’m assuming someone needs to get close enough to physically attach them.”
“Close enough to toss it,” he says. “Yeah. The launched system was less reliable, missing the target or dispersing the bacteria over too wide an area to be quickly effective. Once contact is made, the system will take over, drilling the device into place and exposing the surface to the bacteria.”
I already suspect the answer, but I need to ask, just to be sure. “And who is going to do that?”
He offers that winning smile of his. “The only two people on Earth with that kind of hands-on Kaiju experience.”
“Me...” I say, trying to think of who the second person would be, and already preparing to argue with Collins about it. But she doesn’t make sense. None of my people do. While she’s had some close calls, she’s never been that close to—oh no. “Seriously? Endo?”
“It’s why we recruited him. We were aware of his involvement with your efforts to combat Nemesis and her five siblings. What we didn’t know is that he worked for, and has continued to work for, Zoomb.”
“So you’re sending us both off to die, is that it? Take care of the threat and your competition at the same time.”
“Whether you die or not will be in your hands, Hudson. Always has been. But as much as we might like to see Endo suffer, Cole has ordered us to support your efforts. And we will.”
Until we’re done, I think. Then the gloves will come off. Cole promised to return Woodstock and Alessi, and to leave the FC-P alone. But even if Cole was being sincere, which I don’t believe, I’m pretty sure the BlackGuard are going to hold a grudge for the men they’ve lost.
But for now, the enemy of my city-destroying Kaiju is my frenemy. Or something.
Silhouette looks into the cockpit. “Three minutes until we decelerate, which is going to be as fun as the acceleration. So let’s wrap this up. What was your second question?”
I look down at myself and then at Collins, thinking it must be obvious. “Are we expected to fight the Tsuchi and Nemesis dressed like Grumio and Metella?”
Silhouette shows no reaction, but Obsidian chuckles.
“Grumio est coquus,” the big baritone says, correctly identifying Grumio’s profession.
“Really?” I say. “Someone finally gets the reference, and it’s the oaf?”
“The oaf took Latin for four years,” Obsidian says. “At Harvard.”
Silhouette pushes another button behind him, and a second panel opens. This contains two BlackGuard uniforms, folded in neat stacks. He then heads for the cockpit, joined by Obsidian. “You have two minutes. I hope you can change fast.”
Collins and I lose the togas, and start getting dressed. While I rarely miss the opportunity to steal a look at Collins dressing, I barely notice now. The three bacteria bombs sitting beside our clothes hold my attention, not because I fear one of them might go off and eat us all, but because they have the potential to kill Nemesis. While I can logically understand why that needs to happen, I’m not sure how Maigo is going to feel about it, and if she has a problem, what she’ll do about it.
Eleven men...
25
When people back home asked Pixie Brearley where she lived in Los Angeles, she always replied, “On Sunset,” and watched as people were either impressed or afraid. The reaction depended on what they knew about Hollywood’s infamous Sunset Strip. It was a haven for actors looking for cheap rent at the heart of tinsel town. It was also populated by a large number of seedy elements, from drug dealers to porn actors to general freaks of nature that would make her conservative parents pass out. But it was where a number of stars got their start.
It also was a good eighteen miles away; a thirty minute drive without traffic, and there was always traffic. Brearley silenced her alarm clock and stared at the ceiling. She had two auditions today, one for a grocery store commercial she would probably get, and one for a sitcom that she wouldn’t. She had a face that got her into auditions, but there was something—her voice, delivery, mannerisms, who knew?—that kept her from landing the big roles. This ever-present dichotomy depressed her. She was always on the cusp of having a career. A real career.
She knew she shouldn’t complain. She got enough work to pay the bills. But it really just felt like a tease. Like if the Church had asked Michelangelo to do a comic strip instead of the Sistine Chapel. Sure, she might not be on the same level as a Michelangelo, but she had the potential. Or, at least, she believed she did. “Just like every other asshole in this town,” she said to herself, sitting up in bed.
It was 6:00 am. The sun was rising, but her apartment building was still cast in the shadows of the San Gabriel Mountains rising up behind Montrose. The small town, technically a part of the much larger Glendale, was on the fringe of Los Angeles, but it had a small-town feel. It let her be close enough to work, without having to deal with the stifling inner-city life other wannabe actors seemed to enjoy.
Maybe that’s my problem, she thought, I need more angst.
She stood and stretched, thinking she needed to get back to taking Yoga, but it was such a cliché LA thing to do, it drove her nuts. She wanted all the glory Los Angeles had to offer, without losing her Maine sensibilities.
