“We’re not going to let that happen,” Beck says. “All you’ve supplied us with are band-aids and medical bills. Speaking of which, I thought you two were supposed to be in the hospital?”
Endo chuckles. “Thoughts can be deceiving.”
“Ignore him, sir,” I say. “He’s an idiot, and you should have never assigned him to the FC-P.” I glance at Endo. This is going to hurt my soul. “That said...I believe the technology supplied by Zoomb is our best bet at containing—”
“I don’t want to contain this problem,” Beck says. His tomato face ripens before my eyes. “I want to eradicate it. I want to bury it.”
I look at the domed ceiling and sigh. “You going to nuke the Kaiju.”
“You’re damn right I’m going to nuke them.”
“Where?” I ask. “Because in case you haven’t noticed, they tend to only surface in populated areas.”
Beck’s anger slides away. He understands the reality of his position. “Sometimes sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.”
I smile like Steve Martin just entered the room holding a banjo. Still smiling, I take my red beanie cap, which now has a neural transmitter woven into the fabric, from my pocket and slide it onto my head. It’s a tight fit, but makes my head feel normal for the first time in a week of disguises.
“What?” the President asks. “You find all this amusing?”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I really shouldn’t be smiling. It’s just that I’m very glad to hear you say that. Because sacrifice is exactly what will be required.”
Beck nods slowly, unsure whether I’m agreeing with him.
I reach out to shake his hand. He looks down at my peace offering with skeptical eyes. “This is why you entered my office unannounced?” He waggles his finger at me. “I don’t think so. You’re many things, but agreeable is not one of them.”
I keep my hand extended. “Funny, that’s how I would describe you.”
“What are you really after?”
I lift my hand higher. “A hand shake.”
Beck winces like King Kong just farted. My very presence offends him, most likely because I’m a stark reminder that he’s a sucky president.
“Maybe you should look at what’s in my hand,” I say.
Beck squints at me and leans forward. “I don’t see—”
I snap my arm up, twist it around and smack the face of my watch, identical to Endo’s, against his temple.
The President reels back, aghast, blubbering, winding up to scream for help.
“Sit down and shut up,” I say.
The man obeys. My orders—my very thoughts—are sent to his mind as though God himself were commanding the man. The connection to a human mind is insignificant compared to that of Nemesis. I feel a slight headache coming on. Nothing a few painkillers couldn’t handle. I can feel his mind, like a pliable blob of clay, ready to be shaped. I’m not sure what it would feel like with a stronger minded person, but luckily, Beck is fairly weak-willed.
Endo yawns and leans back, placing his feet on the couch. “How does it feel?”
“Easy,” I says.
“That’s not what I meant,” Endo says. “How does it feel to be the most powerful person in the world?”
I don’t respond to the question. It reminds me of why I considered not going through with this. If I can control the President of the United States, what’s to stop Zoomb from doing the same?
“I need you to do two things for me,” I say to Beck. “Cancel your appointments and request to be undisturbed for...” I look at my watch. It’s nearly 5pm. The sun won’t be down for another few hours. Gordon will wait until dark like a good soldier. “...the rest of the night. And while you’re at it, request a large dinner.”
Beck slowly reaches for the phone, and I imagine his hand reaching for a big red button. Way too dangerous.
While Beck makes his calls, I close my eyes and focus. I’ve got a few hours to brainwash the President.
35
Michael Spielberger lifted the $9 bottle of wine and looked at the label. It was simple and artistic. At least it doesn’t look cheap, he thought. He had spent a year’s worth of savings on this date, which had taken three months to plan. Cheap wine wasn’t originally part of the deal, but the price of renting a yacht for the night, was far higher than he’d anticipated. He’d been boating since he was a kid. Knew how to navigate the 40-foot-long yacht—it wasn’t even a sailboat. But his experience didn’t change the price tag. So he made due by cutting corners elsewhere.
He left the small galley where he’d cooked supper and headed for the deck, and his date, Deb Burns. She was a long time friend. His best friend. They spoke nearly daily, e-mailed and texted all the time. They had fun. Went to movies. Traded secrets. But in their fifteen years of friendship, nothing more had developed, despite Michael’s desires. A year previous, his friends in the IT department where he worked, had mocked him. Declared that he’d been sent to the ‘friend-zone’ until Deb decided to get married to someone else and dropped him like a sack of cow patties. The thought sickened him enough to push him into action. Tonight was the result of his long-term plan to break free of the friend-zone.
He vaulted back to the main deck with a spring in his step and the wine bottle in his hand, declaring, “Vino for the voman,” like he was a vampire. It was a long running joke between them. His widow’s peak came to a point at his forehead, making him look like an adult Eddie Munster. Although Eddie was technically a werewolf, Michael argued that his mother was a vampire, so he was at least partly vampire, hence the accent.
Deb sat on the deck, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. When they’d left, she believed they were going to a movie. That the dinner would be Burger King. She’d teased him for his more formal attire, joked that he was looking for love. She had been right but didn’t fully understand at the time. She did now, that was for sure. She glanced in his direction as he returned, but shifted her gaze back to the setting sun, a slice of orange peeking up from the horizon behind the shoreline.
He stopped beside her to admire the view. He’d rarely seen the Chesapeake Bay waters so serene. The whole scene was perfect, straight out of a movie. The boat rental company might have ripped him off, but God had his back and was supplying the perfect backdrop.
When Deb didn’t look at him, he went to work on the cork, popping it loudly with a victorious whoop. While Deb remained fixed on the view, he filled the glasses, double in his to compensate for his growing nervousness. Deb was uneasy. He knew her better than anyone, and she was distant, hardly present.
“Did you have a good day?” he asked.
She shrugged. Such a question might normally generate a half hour’s worth of co-worker gossip.
Michael glanced down at the steak he’d cooked. Mushrooms and onions covered the meat. Potatoes and green beans on the side. Her favorite meal. She hadn’t touched it. Had let the food go cold. He saw it as a symbol, and he knew how this was going to end.
They were right, he thought. I’m in the friend-zone. Always have been.
The realization came like a sucker punch. Fifteen years of strong feelings and hope for the future were crushed without Deb even speaking a word. It was like a break up. A betrayal. How could she not know? How could she not feel similarly?
He sat down, a scowl on his face, and cut into his chilled steak. He stabbed a mushroom and ate it. The food was perfection. He looked at the view again. Stars twinkled in the now dark purple sky. Wasn’t this the stuff that women dreamed about?
The next piece of steak was juicy and full of resolve. “Fuck you, Deb.”
The three words got the first real reaction out of her since they stepped on board the yacht. She turned slowly in his direction. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, taking another angry mouthful. “Fuck. You.”
This time she whirled around on him. “No, fuck you! How dare you put me in this position? You knew, Michael. You knew the whole time. And now th
is? You wine and dine me, and what? You think we’re going to shack up? That we’re going to somehow fall in love? That I’m going to suddenly not be a lesbian?”
Michael choked, gagged and spit the wad of half-chewed steak onto his plate. “What? You’re...” Michael’s mind spun in circles. A lesbian? Holy shit, he thought, the ‘girlfriends’ she told me about weren’t just friends that were girls!
His anger deflated. His shoulders sagged. “Dammit. I’ve wasted fifteen years of my life on you.”
“Wasted?” She got angry again. “Wasted!” She raised a fist and punched the table. The loud bang rose through Michael’s body like a wave of energy. When it continued well past the impact, he realized the feeling was physical, not emotional. The coastline tilted at an odd angle. His stomach lurched, reminding him of a roller-coaster ride.
The table slid into Deb, covering her in two plates of food and two glasses of wine. Her chair tipped back and spilled her to the deck. Michael fell forward, landing atop the table. He could see the ocean below him—far below—as he looked over the yacht’s side. We’re tipping, he thought, picturing a tidal wave beneath them. His scream was drowned out by the sound of rushing water, like a waterfall.
Before he could understand the source of the roaring water, the yacht reached the bay, slamming back down. Water rushed up over the side, knocking Michael back, filling his mouth. He coughed and crawled aimlessly across the deck, as the buoyant craft bobbed upright once again, throwing him down.
As water fell over him like a hard rain, Michael rolled over, expecting to see a wave crashing down toward him. The water was there, white and frothing, falling all around, but where he expected a wall of water was something else. The rough, black surface rose from the bay, shedding water like a second skin.
Skin...
His eyes moved higher, drawn by a luminous orange beacon high above. The color swirled, fluid, like a brilliant lava lamp. Recognition took root in his chest, just as Deb let out a scream.
At first, the news had simply called the giant ‘one of several Kaiju,’ but had recently referred to it by a name designated by the FC-P: Typhon. The monster’s human-like physique was what bothered most people, but it was the malicious, glowing eyes that caused Michael to vomit into the foot of sea water sloshing around him. It wasn’t just that they were pure evil, it was that they were staring down. Straight at him.
“Oh shit,” Deb yelled, and he caught a glimpse of her jumping overboard.
Michael’s numb mind had trouble coming up with a reason why she would jump from the boat in the middle of the bay. Unluckily, the answer was supplied for him. The ship lurched upward, the deck shoving into his backside. Giant fingers reached around both sides of the ship, claws digging into the deck below him.
He screamed louder than Deb had and ran for the stern, hoping to leap into the water. Instead, he fell into the rail and peered over the edge. He was already a hundred feet up and rising quickly. Before he could second-guess and jump, he was two hundred feet up. Three hundred. Even higher! The boat tilted back, but he clung to the rail, locking his arms around the metal.
Looking around, he could no longer see Typhon staring down at him. I’m above it, he realized, and then he looked to the side and down. The nausea he felt from the extreme height was dwarfed by the fright generated by two more Kaiju: Karkinos and Scylla, who had last been seen devastating Rio. They were rising out of the bay. The monsters were roaring and angry. Their glowing membranes lit up the darkness like the orange sun had returned for an encore.
Before Michael could scream again, the yacht accelerated. His arms screamed in pain as he held on tightly. The claws clinging to the deck tore away.
He was free!
Released from doom and sent...
Michael pulled himself up and found the wind in his face. At first, the view made no sense, but understanding arrived quickly. The yacht had been picked up and thrown, like it was nothing more than a kid’s toy in a tub. The dark waters of the bay were invisible below, but he could see the lights of civilization growing closer.
As Michael finally screamed again, he saw a window ahead. There was a shape in the window. A man. He was looking out, to see. Then he turned his eyes up, saw the yacht and met Michael’s eyes. Both men screamed right up until the end, when the 40-foot yacht plowed through the brick face of an apartment building, and in the distance, sirens began to wail.
36
“Betty, this is Bob,” I say, for the benefit of anyone who might be monitoring cell phone usage in and around the White House. It would be easier to use Devine, but activating the system in D.C. would put up a red flag that would let everyone know exactly where I was. “How’s that pie cooking?”
“About to put it in the oven,” Woodstock replies, his deep voice now thoroughly confusing any listeners, which makes me cringe, but he turns things around by adding, “S’pose you called to talk to the missus.”
“If you don’t mind,” I say.
“Hey, hun,” Collins says, as she comes on the line. “You get in touch with your friends?”
I glance at President Beck. He’s seated across from me at the dining room table, just two rooms away from the Oval Office. I just had some of the best lobster of my life, courtesy of my presidential host. So far, everyone, including the Secret Service, has given Beck the distance he requested, but I’m not sure how long that will last.
“We just finished a nice sit-down meal,” I say.
Collins must be wondering if a ‘sit down meal’ is code for something, because she says, “For real?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say. “Lobster and all the fixings.” As soon as the words come out of my mouth, I realize that if anyone is listening and knows the President’s menu choice for the evening, there could be problems. I force a laugh and add, “I’m just messing with you. We had dogs and hot wings. Waiting for the game to start.”
“How’re you holding up?” she asks.
Something about the way her voice sounds makes me wish that it were me waiting in the chopper. They’re parked somewhere, just outside the no-fly zone, waiting for things to go sour. I haven’t seen Collins much in the last few weeks. I’ve spent most of my time with Endo, which sucks more balls than the last hole at a mini-golf course. “Impatient. Looking forward to the game’s end for a change.”
“I hear you, babe. You have any idea when it might start?”
A distant siren tickles my ear. I look at Endo, who is wiping melted butter from his mouth. Apparently, the lobster was good for him, too. He couldn’t hear the siren, which means the sound is coming through the phone. “What’s that sound?”
No answer.
“Betty,” I say. “What’s that sound?”
Collins’s voice comes back as a whisper. “Kickoff.”
It takes a moment to settle in. Kickoff. The game is starting!
“You better hurry on that pie,” I say.
“I’m on it,” she says. “See you soon.”
I hang up the phone and turn to Endo, who is already watching me, napkin frozen over his lips. “It’s time.”
I dial the phone again. It’s answered quickly. As per our protocol, I speak first, using our code names. “Ranger, its Bob.”
“I’m here, Bob.” Ranger, who was a hard sell on my quasi-crazy idea, doesn’t sound enthused.
“The game is about to start.”
“We’re settled in and waiting for the whistle to blow.”
A distant siren blares, its whine piercing the night. It’s accompanied by another, and another until it’s impossible to not hear them. Everyone in Washington, D.C. will be wide awake and terrified in the next five seconds.
“See you in the end zone,” I say.
“We’re on our way.”
The line goes dead.
I place the phone back in my pocket. I can hear the rumble of approaching feet. “Here they come.”
Endo stands and takes up position to the President’s side. I stand on the other side
, framing him in. Dunne stands half way around the table, closer to the door, looking as vacant as Beck.
The door slams open violently. No warning. No knock. Just action. At a moment like this, with the whole of Washington, D.C. under imminent attack, the President is treated like a helpless, frightened baby and whisked away to safety. Normally, I have no doubt that Beck would rush away with them. That’s probably what they’re expecting. But the President isn’t feeling like himself.
“Sir!” one of the agents yells, stopping short of tackling the President and throwing him over his shoulder. “Three Kaiju have emerged from Chesapeake Bay! We have to leave, now!”
When Beck doesn’t reply, but remains seated in front of his uneaten lobster, the man steps closer.
I get in his way.
“Step aside,” the man says. His hand goes toward his gun.
Other agents crowd in, looking ready for action. Those on my side of the table get close. Those on the other side are stopped by Dunne, whom they either fear or trust. He is the agent in charge. “The President is staying here,” Dunne says.
“Agent Dunne,” the man in front of me says, “Protocol is that we—”
“Protocol is whatever the President of the United States says it’s going to be,” Dunne says, and I suspect the words are being fed to him by Endo.
I’m still connected to Beck, but I haven’t tried to make him speak, I’ve just been...reconditioning…certain aspects of his personality.
All the agents turn toward Beck. He doesn’t blink.
Shit, did I lobotomize the man?
“Sir,” the closest agent says. “We need to leave. Now. It’s not safe—”
“Not safe?” Beck says. He shakes his head. “Not safe. Who am I to be saved while the rest of the people are in harm’s way?”
“You’re the Pres—”
“I’m just a man,” Beck says. “Same as the rest of you. And I’m not leaving. It’s of critical importance that I stay. That the people of this nation don’t see their leader as a coward. We must remain unshakable in the face of this threat, and we cannot lead effectively if our first action is the full retreat of this nation’s Commander in Chief!” He punctuates this by punching the table, crushing the lobster with a spray of fishy smelling juice.
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