Free Project Maigo by Jeremy Robinson Page A

trees and power lines. I hit the second button on my joystick, switching from the chain gun to one of our two rocket pods, which carry a payload of thirty-eight Hydra 70 unguided rockets, meaning you have to be up close and personal to make them effective. Which isn’t going to be a problem.
    Scrion lets out a bellow. It’s a deep resounding warble that shakes my insides and the helicopter. I definitely hurt the monster, but I’m pretty sure I mostly just made it angry. In fact, I think it’s thundering after us even faster than before.
    I toggle my phone to transmit via Devine. “All forces, ETA? We have civilians in the danger zone.”
    “Hawk-One. ETA, thirty seconds,” the chopper team leader replies. “We can see you now.”
    I came up with the code names. They’re not very creative, but they’re easy to remember, and each mobile combat unit has its own animal kingdom designation. Me? I’m still just Hudson, but if they’re directing their comment to the chopper, it’s Betty. For real. They hate it, but it makes me and Woodstock smile.
    “Eagle-eye One. We’re forty-five seconds out,” says the lead fighter pilot, his voice distorted by the roar of his plane.
    “Hawk-One, once the car is clear, hit Scrion with everything you have. Eagle-eye, follow up with everything you got. Let’s see if we can turn this thing around.” I’d like to say, ‘Let’s see if we can kill this bastard,’ but I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up.
    “Understood, sir.”
    “Copy that.”
    It’s nice to be listened to. Our first time around responding to the Nemesis crisis, there were a lot of toes being stepped on and even more wrong calls made. Granted, until you see it with your own eyes, a giant monster is hard to take seriously. And no one really understood it. I’m not sure anyone really does now. But we’re organized, at least. Whether that matters has yet to be seen.
    I change modes on Devine so my conversation with Woodstock won’t be filling up the network. “Can you take us lower?”
    “And you think I’m the crazy one.” Woodstock shakes his head. “Hold on.”
    We slowly descend. The car is somewhere below us. Since we don’t land atop its roof and I can’t see it, I’m assuming they’re ahead of us.
    “Betty, stop!” It’s Hawk-One’s voice, and if he didn’t sound so worried, I would laugh at the ridiculousness of his statement. Even though I’m not currently transmitting, I can still receive transmissions directed to me. “You’re tail is just a few feet above the civvies. Looks like you’re going to reach a turn in about fifteen seconds.”
    “Copy that,” I say. Woodstock has heard them, too. Our descent stops short of the street and the fleeing car, which turns a sharp left and peels away, quickly accelerating like a miniature Millennium Falcon.
    “You got something spiffy in mind?” Woodstock asks. “Cause now’s the time.”
    “Ever set off a cherry bomb under a bucket?”
    “A cherry bomb under a—wait, what in all shit are you…?”
    I don’t hear the rest of his protest. I’m focused on Scrion. Every loping leap forward not only brings the Kaiju closer to us, but it also exposes the giant’s underside and the three volatile orange membranes. I normally wouldn’t consider such a move, but seeing as how the membranes are much smaller than Nemesis’s, the surrounding area has already been obliterated and all the force will be transmitted straight down into the ground, I don’t see the harm.
    Scrion hits the ground on the downside of a leap forward, bringing its bulky mass to within fifty feet. Two more of those strides, and it will have us.
    It’s only going to get one more.
    Scrion’s muscles bulge beneath its mat of rubber-like flesh, and the body comes up again. At the first sign of orange light, I pull the trigger.
     

 
     
    11
     
    Pitiful , he thought, observing how predictable his enemy was. Since the events in Boston, Fusion Center-P had become