Jeremy Robinson - Kronos

“Look,” said Vilk, shouting over the helicopter’s chopping blades. “We were able to access Manfred’s sonar-buoy array. We’ve been tracking the creature. It’s making a beeline for Hampton Beach in New Hampshire. Here’s the deal; the Seahawk can hit 155 miles per hour and will get you there quick, but we’re under orders to take this thing down, and the Air Force has birds in the air. I can slow the cogs, but I can’t stop the machine. Get your girl and get out of there.”

Atticus shook Vilk’s hand. “Thanks, Greg.”

“That’s Captain Vilk to you. I didn’t shine your boots at hell week for nothing!”

Atticus hobbled for the waiting chopper. “I’m a civvie,” he shouted back. “I can call you anything I want.” Atticus saluted his former subordinate and entered the chopper, taking the seat next to the pilot. As the door slammed shut and the engines whined faster, Atticus grew nervous. His only hope lay in O’Shea’s theory. While O’Shea and Vilk might buy into some kind of modern-day religious mythology, Atticus still resisted it. Kronos was more likely to be O’Shea’s genetically mutated one-of-a-kind freak of nature than a unique creation of God.

But, Atticus would believe anything if it meant getting his little girl back.

Gulf of Maine

“Holy…that’s big!” Jack shouted as he maneuvered his vintage 1968, thirteen-foot Boston Whaler toward a tall wave left in the wake of a passing fishing boat. The whaler’s uniquely shaped hull made it incredibly agile in the water and allowed it to handle well in inclement weather, but it also excelled at one other very important task…catching air.

Jack normally spent Friday afternoons in August picking up bikini-clad girls at Hampton Beach and giving them the ride of their lives with the hopes that they’d return the favor before being dropped back off on the sandy beach. But on this particular Friday he was stuck watching his ten-year-old brother, Jerry, and their two cousins, Stan and Aaron. They’d crashed his party, and he was determined to scare them to the point of never asking for another ride on his boat-or any boat for that matter.

They’d been petrified after he hit the first big wave, but the little buggers hadn’t broken yet. While he stood with one hand on the wheel and the other on the throttle, the three little turds sat on the wooden slat that served as a bench at the center of the boat. All three had vise grips on the bench, as it was the only thing that kept them from soaring into the air and away from the whaler, which was Jack’s end goal.

They all had life preservers on, so there was no fear of any of them drowning, but he’d filled their heads with so many stories about sharks on their way to the boat launch he knew they’d be scared to death after a quick dip.

As he approached the biggest wave he’d hit all afternoon, he looked back and saw a priceless vision-three sets of wide eyes and three gaping mouths. Only, something was off. They were too afraid…and looking beyond the wave.

Jack snapped his head toward the bow of the boat, which rode high because of their speed, but on his feet he could see clearly what lay ahead. And it made no sense at all. A sleek, dark form rose and fell into the ocean like a whale. But the hump repeated over and over in either direction. Jack followed the humps to the left, toward shore, and saw the head, with its bright yellow eyes, gleaming like lighthouse beacons through fog.

“Oh man, oh man, oh-”

The whaler hit the wave and shot up. Distracted and unprepared for the sudden movement, the steering wheel caught Jack on the chin as his knees buckled beneath him. The hull of the whaler took to the air, thumped off the massive creature, and came crashing back down. Jack fell back into his chair, unconscious. The boat pounded forward and didn’t stop until Jerry reached past his older brother and pulled the throttle back.

The boat coasted to a stop and bobbed in the waves. The three boys clambered to the back of the boat and watched the giant sea creature gracefully undulate toward shore.

“Did you see that?” Stan shouted.

“That was awesome!” Aaron added, hopping up and down with excitement.

Jerry joined them at the back of the boat and watched as boats peeled away from the charging monster as it made its way toward shore.

A loud roar sounded from overhead as a massive gray helicopter bearing a Navy insignia followed in pursuit, not thirty feet above the ocean.

Jerry threw his hands in the air. “Whoohoo!”

Atticus couldn’t help but smile when he saw the three kids in the Boston whaler cheering Kronos on. To most adults Kronos was the embodiment of sheer terror. To those boys, he signified that all their fantasies about dragons and aliens were more than just figments of the imagination. Atticus pictured himself as a child seeing Kronos. Would his feelings have been any different then? Would they have been if Giona hadn’t been taken?

In fact, as it became clear that Kronos, who had taken to the surface in the shallower waters, was truly headed for shore, his feelings for the creature changed further. If Giona still lived; if she was deposited safely on the beach; if the creature had fought for and very nearly died protecting his daughter, then, in a very real way, it had become Giona’s protector, willing to risk its life for hers. But for what? Some symbiotic relationship? The natural response of most animals would be to spit and run. But Kronos’s response seemed much more…human. Atticus didn’t bother asking himself why Kronos had taken her in the first place. He knew the answer was beyond him for now, but Kronos’s actions since then had been in protection of his sole passenger.

Of course, Kronos’s redemption in Atticus’s esteem wouldn’t be complete until he saw his daughter again, living and breathing. Though, if Giona hadn’t survived, his quest for vengeance would still be over. It was an odd feeling, but no matter the outcome, his desire to see a creature like Kronos dead had waned. This was a creature to be respected and treasured, not hunted, regardless of its crimes against humanity. After all, humanity had done far worse to the oceans. Any man that would hunt and kill a creature such as Kronos ran the risk of becoming as cold as Trevor Manfred.

The pilot’s voice, booming through his headset, snapped him back to the task at hand. “Seahawk Alpha to Rough Rider, come in. Over.”

“Copy that, Seahawk Alpha. This is Rough Rider. Over.”

“ Rough Rider, I’ve got a dead fix on our…monster. Permission to fire? Over.”

Atticus’s eyes grew wide. He shouted, “No!” but his microphone wasn’t on, and the pilot couldn’t hear him.

A new voice came on the line, deep and commanding. “Negative, Seahawk. This is Captain Vilk. You get my man on the beach and you head home. Do not engage. I repeat, do not engage. Over.”

The pilot looked at Atticus, his eyes wide. “Uhh, copy that, Captain. Will do. Over and out.”

Through the windshield, Atticus could clearly see Kronos moving toward the beach. Onshore, the approaching giant had just been spotted by the sea of humanity filling every bit of real estate on the massive beach. As though a single living entity, the crowd of beachgoers dropped what they were doing and ran for the seawall. He couldn’t hear them, but he imagined hundreds of voices rising with absolute and abject horror.

Kronos slowed as he approached the beach, which was lucky for the stragglers who still fled the sea, and allowed the Seahawk to overtake it. The pilot expertly twisted the chopper around and came down for a landing. Only, he didn’t land. The pilot’s eyes were glued out the windshield where he could see Kronos-face-to-face-bearing down on their position. The pilot turned to Atticus and shouted, “Jump!”