Kaiju World

by R. F. Blackstone

  "The point," she says slowly, her eyes boring into his. "The point is that these things are more powerful than Russia's entire nuclear armament. That is the point--" her phablet lights up as notifications take over the screen. Pryke looks amused until his own device follows suit.

  "There are guests inbound?!" Mako's voice cracks slightly from the added pressure.

  Pryke speaks soothingly, "Don't sound so surprised. You knew about this, remember? Three weeks ago..."

  "...I thought you were talking about the Gala Opening."

  His smile is full of cheek and he barely hides the amusement in his voice, "Well, yes. But...just make sure our boys are ready."

  There is something about his tone that gets her attention. Mako is definitely not buying what the older man is selling. Ever since she was a child her bullshit meter has gotten her out of more trouble and scraps than she can count and right now it is pinging on Gideon Pryke. "Spill, Gideon. What's really going on?"

  The showman in Pryke takes over as he grandly declares, "Fame! Fortune! The adventure of a lifetime!" His broad smile and overbearing nature isn't enough to distract her. Slowly the smile disappears as he says, "Have you always been this tough?"

  Mako nods and her eyes dart to the two devices; both are still flashing and doing the vibration shuffle. Lunch will have to wait, she thinks as the food approaches. Her stomach growls the moment the smells reach her nostrils. Even though it's cafeteria food, Pryke made sure to get gourmet chefs.

  "Gracias Juan, much obliged," Pryke says as the trays of food are placed on the plastic topped table. The waiter walks away muttering, "I was born in Chicago. Don't know Spanish from my asshole. But you're welcome." The hot dog is big, almost the same size as a foot long from Subway. Pryke takes a massive bite and savours the symphony of flavours as he chews.

  The woman looks at her sandwich, then to her boss and finally to the constantly dancing phone. Mako is torn between her work ethic and the screaming beast she calls her gut.

  Sensing this turmoil, Pryke speaks after washing the mouthful of food down with a gulp of soda, "Miss Ikari, when was the last time you ate? I mean properly ate." Mako blushes before sipping from her own soda. Waving a hand in the air, trying to get rid of a bad smell, Pryke remarks, "Well, whatever it is, your team can handle it."

  He does have a point, she thinks as the lure of food not from a vending machine wins. Gideon Pryke smiles as she devours the toasted gourmet sandwich. A small moan comes from her as the combination of bread, pepper jack, mozzarella and manchego cheese slides down her throat.

  "Good?" Pryke asks with a raised eyebrow.

  "Kami! Watashi wa honto no tabemono ga dono yo ni ajiwatta no ka wasurete shimatta," Mako exclaims with such joy it makes Pryke laugh.

  "English please. My Japanese isn't that good...yet," he says with a chuckle. "But I can guess what you said."

  Mako looks embarrassed as she places the remains of the sandwich back on the plate, "Forgive me Sir. I'll get back to work now."

  Pryke looks insulted as the woman stands; shoulders slumped and tears welling up in her eyes. He grabs her wrist, "Stuff and nonsense! Sit down Mako. Enjoy your lunch." His voice is soothing and authoritative as he speaks, "I insist."

  Slowly, Mako Ikari sits and begins to eat again. Pryke picks from his large basket of fries, popping the smallest ones into his mouth and leaving the larger for later. He feels Mako's eyes on him and meets them, "Go big or go home."

  She coughs and sips from the soda again ignoring his catchphrase, I'll bring it up later. Her phone has stopped vibrating from the barrage of notifications and messages but her boss' has not. "It's the guests isn't it?"

  The older man blinks, "Beg pardon?" It's rare but sometimes his original accent comes out. "Were we having a conversation I was unaware of?" Most of the staff aren't sure where he is from originally but Mako is positive that once upon a time, Gideon Pryke hailed from London.

  "Sorry, still thinking about the inbound guests."

  Pryke nods then starts on one of the long fries. Mako watches, then speaks, "They're the reason you're here. Whoever these people are, you're spooked...Did I say that right?" She hates having to ask about her English.

  "Perfect!" the man paying the bill beams at her. "And to your assumption, remember what happens." He pauses, waiting for her to ask the logical question. Mako looks expectantly at the man and soon Pryke realizes that she has no intentions of playing the game. "When you assume," he says slowly, "you make an ass out of you."

  "And me," Mako says finishing the saying. "Isn't it supposed to be 'and me'?"

  He shakes his head, "Not with me." His meaning is perfectly clear and there is something about his tone of voice that makes her feel uneasy.

  "Even monkeys fall from trees," Mako says after a moments silence as her eyes go to Pryke's phone. The screen is lit up with an unknown number. "You better get that."

  His eyes go to the screen and Pryke seems hesitant as he reaches for the device. He takes a second to answer. "Yes...Uh-huh...Really...? Oh...When did that happen...? Okay...Thank you." The phone disappears into his vest pocket and he smooths back his hair.

  "Everything okay?"

  "Of course!" he says, that moment of hesitancy long gone. "Excuse me please." He stands, "Our guests are arriving sooner than expected." As he starts to the exit, Gideon Pryke answers Mako's unasked question, "Make sure our boys are ready. The future of us all depends on it."

  #

  "Two weeks left and not even half the systems online," James McTiernan grumbles as his pale eyes glare at the tablet's screen. He knows it isn't the device's fault but the man's frustration needs an outlet.

  The magic number that everyone was working towards seems farther and farther away while also growing larger and deadlier. Originally it was another month before the opening, then for some reason that peacock Pryke brought it forward and nobody can figure out why. That annoys McTiernan more than anything else, not being able to know why something happened. He just will have to add it to the long list of things he doesn't know why. Sighing, he rubs the bridge of his nose and pushes the thoughts of abandoning ship away. Be a fucking professional, he admonishes himself. Letting the tablet slide to the steel table before him, McTiernan looks at the rest of the Security Team.

  Most, if not all, are ex-military or law enforcement. No mall cops here. That was his one condition for Pryke. Gideon Pryke, a man that McTiernan trusts as far as he can throw him. After their first meeting he called in all of the favours he had in the FBI, CIA and the other sections of the Alphabet. This was done with one single goal; learn everything he can about Pryke and how he amassed his fortune. Unfortunately it was the same way as any other rich man. But he seemed to be one of his word, so McTiernan put together his team and now regrets taking the job.

  The control room for all of the facility's operations is down the hall and originally Pryke wanted Security housed there too. There was no way McTiernan was going to let that happen and after almost coming to blows they reached an accord; as long as he does his job and keeps everyone safe and sound then the team can operate from wherever and however they like. This explains the state-of-the-art equipment surrounding him and his men. That was another fight between McTiernan and the walking billfold. For some reason Pryke wanted all of the controls, displays and user interfaces to be touch-screens and holograms. Like something out of a damn movie, he thought at the time. Luckily the cost was too much even for Pryke who in the end, as with everything to do with McTiernan, gave in and let the ex-Master Sargent win.

  McTiernan loves to win, always has and when the opponent is one of the wealthiest men in the world, winning is everything. The Head of Security scans the large control room and a small smile creeps across his face. They had to rebuild the entire floor to accommodate the consoles and multiple screens. By the end they had a smaller version of NASA control, but instead of scientists and experts running the system they have the best from private security. At least, that is what Pryke
was told. For McTiernan, he wanted the best of the best and--

  "--Sir, facial recog is malfunctioning again."

  "What a surprise," McTiernan mutters as he wanders over to Facial Recognition. It is just one of the many systems that isn't fully operational yet. "What seems to be the problem now?"

  Simpson begins to run diagnostics and ignores the imposing presence towering over him. Even though every man on the team would lay down their lives for him, it doesn't mean that they all are intimidated by him. That is the problem with being a Master Sargent in Special Forces.

  "Well?" he asks impatiently while placing a hand on the headrest of the ergonomically designed seat.

  "The diagnostics seem to take longer and longer each time we run them, Sir."

  McTiernan growls, if one system is failing still then that means others will too. He walks away saying, "Do your best." He doesn't want to deal with the dweebs in Programming, but if they want to be fully armed and operational by D-Day, then he'd have to speak with them at some point. He stands erect and clears his throat. Instantly the room goes quiet as the men and women turn, giving him their full attention. McTiernan doesn't bother with pleasantries, he never has cared for them and the team doesn't want them. "How many systems are not functioning correctly?"

  John McTiernan does not like to be kept waiting, "How many?" The growl in his voice demands an immediate response.

  "The cameras in each enclosure keep giving us misreadings about the assets’ locations."

  "Which ones?"

  "Umm...Infrared, thermal, night vision, standard security...I'm sorry Sir. It's pretty much all of them."

  "ID Scanners in the lower levels have problems reading the newest badges assigned."

  So far everything sounds like the normal problems. "What about the drones?" That was something he demanded. There are fifteen drones that are constantly in rotation and keeping an eye on all of the enclosures. They call this system of flying cameras God's Eye.

  "Fine. The Eye is blinking and doing its job perfectly."

  "Excellent," McTiernan is actually relieved.

  "We've been experiencing power surges in sectors 3, 8 and 10. It isn't anything major but the Category 3 has been testing the fences."

  That's just fucking perfect, McTiernan thinks as the sinking feeling in his stomach deepens. He definitely needs to speak with Programming. Shit. "Is that all?"

  "Well, the connection to the weather satellite is gone."

  McTiernan laughs; a harsh bark that is completely devoid of humour and emotion. He doesn't say a word as he walks to the door to his private office. As the automatic door silently slides open, he orders, "Somebody get S&P on the line. Get their asses in gear and fix my park!"

  Simpson speaks up, "Sir, what will you do?"

  The ex-Master Sargent sighs as he steps across the threshold, "Try to figure out how fucked we are."

  Inside the office and the moment the door slides shut, the electronic lock clicks and McTiernan slumps into the seat. Unlike most team leaders at the facility, he opted for the same ergonomically styled seat that his team uses. In actual fact his office is spartan; steel table, single screen monitor, mouse and keyboard and nothing else. He doesn't need anything else, for him pictures, posters, any decorations are useless and just become a distraction. Twenty years in the armed forces taught him that. Every single one of his COs had the bare minimum in their offices, whether on the field or at base camp. The lesson stuck with McTiernan.

  His phone vibrates and it's Simpson again. Newly recruited and still learning how life is outside of the military, but the thing that does annoy McTiernan the most about him is just how eager he is to make a good impression. "Yeah?"

  "S&P are already working on the problems. They believe everything will be up and running before the guests arrive in three hours."

  "Good work...wait," McTiernan isn't sure that he heard the man correctly. Even though they have their own communications tower in place, being on an island does make cell phone reception problematic. "What was that about the guests?"

  There is a brief pause on the other end and McTiernan can see that the young man is trying to find the right words. "Spit it out."

  "A memo was sent to all cells informing us that there is going to be a private tour of the facility starting this afternoon."

  Quickly, he checks the notifications on his phone and sure enough there it is, a message directly from the man himself. That's what you get for leaving it on silent, he scolds himself. It seems that the older he gets, the less inclined to use modern technology, like the company cell, he is. "Dad, you'd be proud," he whispers as his attention goes back to the young ex-soldier anxiously waiting for the next order. "Good work Simpson. Now have S&P get the facial scanners working yesterday. I want to make sure these 'guests' are the real deal and not Drummond's men."

  "Already on your desk," Simpson doesn't miss a beat. "Mister Pryke was kind enough to send us names so that we can put together full dossiers." After such outstanding initiative most TLs would give praise, at least that's what the young man is expecting.

  The reality is completely different.

  "Listen to me closely Homer," McTiernan uses the boy's nickname. "He may pay the bills, his name is on the stationery and he has more money than God herself."

  "Herself?"

  "But! That doesn't mean you do anything for him. I am your CO and he is nothing. You get me?!"

  The training kicks in and McTiernan watches the young man leap to his feet and shout, "I get you Sir!"

  McTiernan hangs up the phone and as the others in the control room begin the hazing, he slumps into the seat and stares at the manila folder. He misses that. The camaraderie that comes from being shot at. Being TL or the CO puts a distance between them and the closeness disappears. All that is left is respect.

  A sigh pushes the thoughts away and he focuses on the task at hand: discovering who is so important. The light cardboard silently falls open as he sees five pieces of paper. Each one has an ID photo and basic information. McTiernan doesn't even bother reading the entire dossier, his eyes look for one thing: job title.

  It doesn't take him long to find it on each page. "Damn bean counters," he says as he grabs the file and exits his office.

  "I want a full workup on these guys now," he barks, tossing the file at one of the men. "We've got VIPs coming and I expect this place to be fully operational...If it isn't? Your last tour of duty will look like a cake walk and I guarantee that cleaning out the Cat 4s will be punishment enough."

  "Excuse me Sir," one of the drone operators raises a hand. "A.R.T. are inbound. They have a new asset."

  "Oh alert the presses," McTiernan is beyond caring. "Another Cat 1 I suppose."

  "No Sir. Their itinerary says it is a Category 5."

  #

  Dutch stares at the gargantuan shipping container that swings back and forth as the heavy industrial strength cables groan from the weight inside the box. Part of him hopes that at least one of the cables snap, causing the steel encased rectangle to dip at one end and have its contents spill out and crash into the jagged sharp rocks far below the crashing waves of the island. The other part admires how humans will always find a way to solve even the most obtuse problems they could ever encounter.

  "How big is it?" Roxie's voice makes him flinch slightly. He didn't hear her approach, which is a rare thing to happen. Either he's getting old or too focused on the task at hand but both aren't good. He quickly looks at her and wishes she would let her hair grow out again; the pixie cut doesn't suit her round face. But he'll never mention that, the last time someone had the nerve to do that ended up with their arms broken in five places and a lengthy stay in the hospital.

  "Too big for any of our containment units," Dutch looks at the three trucks hooked up one after the other, ready to pull the heavy and oversized load. That's the thing for Dutch; he saw it up close while Roxie, Johann and Lawrence only got glimpses from the equipment and flashes in the spraying water.
He has seen some truly horrendous sights in his life; Nigeria, Rwanda, Mozambique, North Korea and Syria. Even the other categories they have captured are frightening and disgusting to look at, but this? The phrase 'abomination to nature' springs to his mind and Dutch shakes his head as he thinks, Nothing about this has anything to do with nature.

  "That won't be a problem, boss," Johann chuckles as he climbs out of the lead truck's cab. For an Austrian he doesn't look the way most people expect, the biggest thing is his heritage, though he rarely brings it up and expects nobody else to either. His dark skin glistens in the sun as he begins checking that each of the couplings connecting the trucks to each other is securely fastened. "The original briefing said that any Cat 5's are to be put out into the farthest paddock. That is after being checked, tagged and cleared for the performance that is."

  "Why the rush for this one, boss?" Roxie asks as her eyes catch glimpses of the cargo about to be transported. Leathery bumps and ridges that are slick with a mucous that oozes down the sides of the monster inside are visible.

  He scratches his chin and tries to ignore the uneasy feeling that is racing up his spine. "Why else? Pryke wants the star attraction for the grand opening. Let's move out."

  "Dutch," Lawrence's voice echoes over the dock's speakers. "McTiernan wants to speak with you ASAP. He’s saying something about security measures for the new recruit and the incoming guests."

  "What guests?" Johann asks as he clambers into the lead truck.

  "Fuck me," Dutch mutters as he stalks over to the crew quarters. That was one of the better things that Pryke had built onto the island. Whenever a ship docked, he made sure to have a small motel for the crew of those ships. Sure, they would also get free access to the facility but so far every single one of them have stayed close to the water. What Dutch cannot figure out is why Lawrence is always there, playing cards and exchanging dirty stories.

  The buildings are called by the crews and the islands staff a 'motel' but in reality it is a collection of military-style barracks that are surrounded by high electrified fences. At first the crews questioned the fences, but after Pryke tripled their pay they stopped asking questions and just accepted the fact they were making deliveries to an eccentric billionaire's island. Inside the perimeter of the motel is also a control tower, which also doubles as a lighthouse when the storms are raging and the real lighthouse needs help.