Kaiju deadfall, p.14
Kaiju: Deadfall, page 14
“It’s a hatchery,” he exclaimed. “The creature grows them inside itself.”
“Are they baby behemoths?” Costas asked. “Do they lose their wings and grow enormous?”
Gate paused, examining the nearest creature. He wasn’t sure of the answer, but as a scientist, the others looked to him for an explanation. That he was an astronomer and catastrophist didn’t matter to them. “I don’t think so,” he ventured. “I think they’re another species altogether, and Nusku is the host creature, like symbiosis. The larger creature nurtures them, and in turn, they feed it.”
“What kind of screwed up alien planet creates shit like this?” Costas said, spitting at the nearest cocoon.
“I think it’s no accident.”
“Huh?” Costas said.
“Together, the two creatures make a formidable weapons system. I think the aliens designed them for that purpose.”
“There must be hundreds here,” Evans said. “There could be dozens of these nurseries.”
A quick estimate of the number of blisters left a feeling of dread in Gate’s stomach. “There are almost five hundred blisters. Even if there is a hatchery for every four or five blisters, the number is more like a hundred nurseries. For all we know there are more nurseries deeper within the creature.”
“The important question,” Walker said, “is do we place the bomb here?”
Gate shrugged. “I don’t know anything about nuclear yields, but considering the propensity for this dark material to transfer energy throughout its body, I would say no. The deeper we go the better. Remember,” he added, “I’m no xenobiologist. I’m just guessing.”
“Hell, I don’t even know what that is. You’re the closest thing to an expert we’ve got.” He looked at the others. “We go deeper.”
Evans shook his head. “I knew I was going to die today.”
Walker whirled on him. “No one dies on my watch, got it?”
“Hell, Evans,” Costas said with a big grin. “Maybe they got alien dancing girls with two coochies.”
Howard took out his knife and jabbed it in a groove along the edge of one of the cocoons. He slid the blade back and forth until a seam widened. Yellow ichor like the stuff oozing from the Wasp wounds spilled onto the floor of the cavern. He sniffed the tip of his blade, frowned, and wiped it off on his pants leg. The larvae in the cocoon wriggled for a moment as the seam began to reseal. Howard growled, ripped open the cocoon with his hands, and plunged his knife into the larvae’s head. The larvae squealed and died. The ichor drained from the cocoon and formed a puddle on the floor.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Gate said.
Howard sneered at him, wiped the blade on his pants leg, and shoved it back into its scabbard. “One less of the bastards to deal with.”
“No, I meant that if the Wasps are a defensive system, the creature must have other defenses. We don’t know how it might react to our presence.”
Jackson knelt on the floor of the cavern, placed his hand palm down on the surface, and closed his eyes. After a few seconds, he said, “The blood is flowing from that direction.” He pointed toward the creature’s head. No one questioned Jackson’s assessment.
“We go forward,” Walker said, dismissing Gate’s concerns.
“We might have company soon,” Evans said. “I killed a Wasp in the blister that got too nosey.”
Walker rolled his eyes at Evans’ tardy report. “Lock and load.”
Gate checked his M16 and was shocked to see that the safety had been off the entire trip. He made sure he pointed the barrel toward the ground, as he followed Walker. He didn’t want to shoot someone accidentally. They ignored two more similar cavern openings they passed, but a third opening dropped sharply downward, promising access deeper into the creature. Walker checked his watch.
“We’ve been here almost half an hour already. We’ve got to hustle.”
“You got a date, Captain?” Evans joked.
“In another hour, the creature will be at the outskirts of Groom Lake. If we can’t stop it, they’re going to attack it with everything they’ve got. I don’t want to be here when that happens.”
“How do we get down that?” Gate asked, pointing to the hole.
In answer, Evans removed the coil of rope Gate had been carrying wrapped around his pack. He pulled a short metal rod from his own pack, extended it, and secured the rope to it. Then he placed the rod across the opening.
“The same way we got here,” he said.
Gate eyed the deep, dark hole with mounting trepidation. His adventure was beginning to look more like folly.
“What’s the matter, Doc?” Evans asked. “Afraid of the dark.”
He tried to smile, in spite of his fear. “No, I’m just afraid that this is its asshole, and that we’ll wind up dropping like turds a couple of hundred feet to the ground.”
Evans roared with laughter, but the tunnel absorbed the sound.
As Evans prepared the climbing gear, Gate looked at Walker. He didn’t know much about the Special Ops captain, but one thing Costas had said intrigued him. He hesitated to ask a personal question, but needed to know.
“Costas said you are Muslim.”
Walker narrowed his eyes. “Costas has a big mouth. It’s true. I grew up in Dearborn, Michigan. I was raised Catholic but lost interest early. I knew about or at least thought I knew about Muslims, being around them growing up, but when I was stationed in Iraq, I found out that all I knew was wrong. Islam is an old religion, very peaceful, except for radical fundamentalists. The rituals reminded me of Catholicism.”
“Do Muslims believe in aliens?”
“Do Catholics?” Walker replied with a grin. “The Koran says Allah created animals and placed them on Earth and in the heavens. I’ve never really given it much thought, but I suppose that allows for the possibility of aliens.”
Gate nodded. “I don’t know much about Islam except what I’ve read or seen on television.”
“Islam presents a bad face to the world sometimes, but that’s because of extremists. The religion is a personal one. I don’t believe in all the ridiculous tenets, like subjugating women, killing infidels, or two virgins each with thirty handmaidens in paradise, but I feel how prayer affects me here.” He made a fist and tapped his chest. “I guess it’s the trappings of any religion that come between the worshipper and God, or Allah.”
“But you kill Muslims. How do you reconcile that with your beliefs?”
“I’m a soldier defending my country. Hopefully, I only kill bad Muslims, dangerous ones. Men that use religion, any religion, to further their ambitions or to enslave another people are evil and deserve to die. I’m black, but if I was sent to Africa, I wouldn’t have a problem killing people the same color as me if they were evil or a threat to my country.”
“So you believe in evil?”
“Don’t you?”
Gate considered the question before answering. “I didn’t until these creatures landed.”
Walker nodded. “Welcome to my world.”
Ishom
17
Saturday, August 11, 9:40 a.m. (PDT) San Luis, Obispo, California –
After the destruction of San Francisco and Oakland, Ishom turned south, a dreadnaught on legs. The Sierra Madre Mountains to the east directed its course southward toward Los Angeles. If its intention was to join its brother in Las Vegas, as some believed, it would have to wait until Bakersfield to turn east through Death Valley. Admiral Lloyd Trent Grayson believed the creature’s destination was Los Angeles. If anything, Nusku would join it in Los Angeles after demolishing Las Vegas. He had seen videos of what the creatures were capable of, and he doubted Nusku would require any help in dismantling Vegas.
Los Angeles made a tempting target for an alien invader. Through its docks flowed the goods that fed a nation and facilitated the export of manufactured goods abroad. It was one of the economic hubs of the country. The Greater Los Angeles area had a population of almost eighteen million, a tempting target for a creature that consumed its enemies. Unless he could stop Ishom, LA would be destroyed.
Aboard the aircraft carrier CVN 81, U.S.S. Monitor, two miles off the coast of San Luis Obispo, Grayson commanded a fleet consisting of five cruisers, two destroyers, and six missile frigates. For three hours, they had been launching Tomahawk Cruise missiles and sorties by FA-18 Hornets and AV-8B Harriers at the creature in an attempt to slow it down. Their attacks had proven as futile as those against Nusku and Girra. Now, radar detected a swarm of Wasps headed in their direction.
He turned to the young lieutenant standing beside him. “Contact the Air Boss. Tell him to launch all available aircraft. I don’t want anything with wings caught on the ship where it does no good. Inform the fleet to prepare for an attack.”
As the officer relayed his order, Grayson leaned against the rail on Vulture’s Row, the balcony outside the flight bridge. He had abandoned the flag bridge three decks below for a better view of the coming battle. As the battle klaxon rang, he raised his binoculars and focused them on the mainland. Ishom was almost fifteen miles away and hidden by a range of low hills, but he saw the plume of dust and smoke raised by its passage. The creature was almost as long as his eleven-hundred-foot, 7.5 billion dollar aircraft carrier.
He trained his glasses higher and spotted the incoming swarm of Wasps, thousands of them, each a nine-foot-long lethal weapon with wings. The infrared-guided missiles were ineffective against a living creature with no heat signature. The Hornets and Harriers picked off the wasps along the outer edges of the formation, but too few dropped compared to the loss of aircraft. Soon, he would see if the ship’s defensive armament was up to the task.
Between his carrier and the escort ships, he was responsible for the lives of over 7,500 men. Command and responsibility was nothing new to him, or he would never have risen to the rank of admiral. However, this was a different kind of battle, one in which human had so far come out on the short end of the stick.
The FA-18 Hornets and Harriers began dropping lower to provide a shield for the Monitor. The frigates and cruisers launched their Seahawk helicopters to join in the fray. More Wasps fell to the sea, but their numbers were startling. The giant creatures seemed to produce the Wasps within their bodies. How could one fight and defeat an enemy that reproduced so quickly?
When the Wasps were within the effective two-mile range of the Vulcan Phalanx 20 mm Gatling guns, the six close in weapons system cannons began firing at 4,500 rounds per minute, ripping into the massed Wasps. The other ships’ Phalanxes cut loose as well, joining the booming of the MK4 five-inch guns on the cruisers and the 76 mm guns on the frigates.
Grayson smiled as the Wasps began to fall in greater numbers. Hundreds were killed by the withering gunfire, but these were not an intelligent enemy that would retreat at such an overwhelming display of firepower. They were more like the dreaded Kamikaze pilots of WWII, who instilled fear in the hearts of the American commanders facing their acts of human sacrifice. Too many of the creatures got through the cordon of steel. They descended on the ships, a deadly living cloud, attacking gun positions and individual sailors standing on the decks firing rifles, machineguns, and pistols at the creatures. They ripped into the stunned men with scythe-like mandibles that rent human flesh as easily as scissors through silk. Three-foot-long stingers delivered paralyzing toxins to human bodies. Screams rattled throughout the bowels of the ship, mixing with the metallic wail of the klaxon, as the creatures tore through steel bulkheads and dogged hatches with superhuman strength, seeking their prey and dragging their victims back onto the deck to fly away with their prizes.
One of the Wasps dropped from above and lunged at him over the railing. The mandibles slashed air just inches from his chest. He stared for a moment at the alien creature hovering on its twin pairs of wings. The single elongated eye stared back at him, as if studying him. Then, anger surged in him. He drew his .45 from its holster and emptied the clip into its head, but it took a burst from a Marine’s M16 to kill it. Yellow blood splashed his camouflaged uniform.
“Go inside please, Admiral,” the Marine said.
Grayson complied, taking cover inside the flight bridge, as the young Marine braced himself against the bulkhead, firing into the Wasps now attacking the carrier’s superstructure. The Marine fought valiantly but soon went down, cut in half by a sweep of one creature’s mandibles. The upper half of his torso, still screaming, plunged over the railing to land on the flight deck over a hundred feet below. More Marines and sailors swarmed past Grayson and onto the balcony to meet the winged assault with automatic weapons.
With hands shaking more from rage than from fear, he reloaded his .45. The helmsman stood at the wheel unperturbed by events unfolding around him, his eyes trained on the compass before him, steering the ship along its intended course. Only when a Wasp crashed through the window amid a hail of gunfire die he move away from the wheel. Even then, as soon as the dead creature stopped moving on the deck, he returned to his post.
The carrier was moving at close to its top speed of thirty-five knots. The slower frigates and Cruisers began falling behind the ship they were supposed to protect. He turned to the ship’s captain, Drew McAnders.
“Reduce speed to twenty-eight knots.”
McAnders stared at him, his face as pale as the white dress uniform he wore. “If we reduce speed, we’ll be a sitting duck.”
“We can’t outrun these things, Captain. We’ll have to reduce speed to recover our aircraft soon anyway. We’re straying too far from our escorts. Our fields of fire need to overlap. These aren’t aircraft trying to bomb us. They’re paratroopers landing on the deck.”
The captain swallowed hard and nodded. “Helmsman, reduce speed by two-thirds.”
Grayson turned his binoculars to the nearest Ticonderoga-Class cruiser. Smoke billowed from the forward hatch, and the ship was dead in the water. The central radar mast was broken and lying across the electronic warfare suite just aft of the bridge. Wasps clung to the superstructure. Men jumped from the decks into the water, as they abandoned the sinking ship. He watched in horror, as one sailor was snatched mid-leap by a Wasp. Two other ships were on fire as well and slowing down. The fleet had suffered damage, but the number of Wasps circling the ships was much smaller. They were making headway against their alien enemy.
McAnders answered an intercom hail, turned even paler, and confronted Grayson.
“Radar picked up a second wave of these creatures headed in our direction. We can’t withstand another such attack.” He paused. “What are your orders, Admiral?”
Grayson wanted to keep fighting. Retreat was not an option, but as he stared into the faces of the men around him, he could sense their fear. It radiated from them, a stink that filled the air, along with the smell of blood. They were up against an enemy that defied their imaginations. Three ships were badly damaged and perhaps lost. He couldn’t jeopardize his remaining ships in a useless attempt to save San Luis Obispo. The city was doomed no matter what they did. His ships would be needed to defend or to help evacuate Los Angeles, whichever option the Commander-in-Chief ordered. Thank God, he didn’t have to make that decision. He only had to make the obvious one.
“Order the fleet to make to sea at top speed. We’ll regroup fifteen miles from the coast and steam south. Advise all aircraft of our position and order our birds home.”
The captain visibly relaxed, as he turned to the intercom. Grayson remained at the window staring into the sky. Around him, the battle still raged, as men fought Wasps in corridors, gangways, in the hangar, and on the flight deck. Teams of armed sailors surrounded one of the creatures and fired until it stopped moving. Then they went on to another enemy. Their tenacity and bravery under fire heartened him. He would not throw away their lives uselessly. He didn’t know how far the second wave of Wasps would pursue them, but he hoped they would eventually give up and return to their host creature. For now, hope seemed to be their only weapon.
Girra
18
Saturday, August 11, 10:15 a.m. (CDT) Des Moines, Iowa –
Amanda Gilbert checked her close-cropped auburn hair in her mirror, wiped a smudge of mustard from the sandwich she had just from eaten the corner of her mouth, and took a deep breath. Wally Nelms, her cameraman, counted down with his fingers. By his expression, she knew he wasn’t thrilled with her idea, but he had stayed nevertheless. For that, she was grateful. At Nelms’ last finger, she erased all traces of emotion from her mien and faced the camera.
“Good evening from atop the Marriot Hotel in downtown Des Moines, Iowa. It is a wet, dreary day with rain clouds hanging low on the horizon. A steady downpour most of the day has made the air sticky and humid. The air is also filled with electricity, the electricity of fear of the unknown. We do not know or understand these strange creatures that have invaded our planet, our country, our city, and we fear them. That is understandable. Faced with the unknown, fear is the obvious reaction. Perhaps by better understanding them, we might face them as we would any other enemy, with strength and character. We here at KCCL Channel 8 are ignoring the curfew and the mandatory evacuation order to provide a live visual and personal account of the creature Girra’s approach to our beloved city in hope of bringing a better understanding of just what we face.
“Already, Chicago, San Francisco, Oakland, Santa Barbara, and numerous other smaller communities have fallen beneath the terrible onslaught of these enormous creatures from another world. Davenport is no more. Is our city destined to be next? Of the half million residents of the five county area, estimates run into the tens of thousands of people who have refused to leave in spite of the danger. Their reasons range from belief that the creature will not destroy our city to the fear that looters will steal their possessions, as if anything will be left after the creature passes. The National Guard just made its final sweep through the city a few minutes ago. Now, they too are gone.”
