by J. E. Gurley
Australia seemed the best place to start fresh. It had deserts, nine of them spread out over half a million square miles, covering most of the western two-thirds of the continent. That was twice as big as Texas, or as much area as the Four Corners states of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah combined, with Nevada thrown in for good measure. Except for the eastern edge, the entire continent was desert, mountains, or dry scrub. Ninety-seven percent of the population lived along the coasts. Australia was the Big Empty. They spoke English, of a sort, and as a Native American, he felt a special kinship with the Aborigines, especially the Noongar and the Anangu of the south and southwest. He couldn’t bring in his guns though. Australians were a bit stricter on guns than the US, but he could join a gun club once he got there.
Talent was used to deserts. He felt a special kinship with shifting sands and wind-carved rock. He loved the clean smell of the air after a summer monsoon rain, the fragrance of saguaro blossoms and desert sage in April. At night, the desert sky came alive with stars that no city-dweller ever saw; so vivid and so close, it looked as though he could reach up and run his fingers through them, leaving rainbow trails of color.
Talent sold everything – house, weapons, food, supplies, even his clothes – for what he could get and bought new clothes in Phoenix. He drove his beat up ’91Chevy pickup truck to Los Angeles, abandoned it in a Wal-Mart parking lot, and booked passage on the cruise ship Radiant Princess. Even though flying was faster, he would never fly to Australia. Planes crashed and he couldn’t fly. Cruise ships were safer, or at least if the ship sank, he could swim after a fashion. All he had to worry about were Listeria food poisoning and drinking too much booze on the twenty-two day cruise.
Now that he was rich, Talent splurged for an outside balcony suite, the only real luxury whim he had ever acceded to, other than the cruise. It wasn’t simply for the comfort, although his room was outstanding. He needed to see the sun in the day and the moon at night. Sun and moon – tash and mashath in his tongue – were important aspects of his life, his connection to the earth.
He was rich, but he didn’t feel rich. In fact, he was decidedly uncomfortable during dinner with all the attention the waiter focused on him, even though he showed the same consideration to everyone else in his section of Michelangelo’s restaurant. The close proximity of the other diners and the dull roar of conversation assaulted his senses, forcing him to flee before desert arrived. He leaned over the glass balcony railing of the ship’s Piazza, designed to convey an air of spaciousness to the interior of the vessel, but it seemed claustrophobic to him. He wandered through the shops lining the Piazza, paying little attention to the clothing, the jewelry, or the souvenirs. He played a few slot machines in the casino while nursing a beer, but after the throng from the theater arrived, it became too crowded, too talkative. He retreated to the upper decks.
He strolled along the Sun Deck two levels above his cabin on Deck 14, enjoying the cool night air. The tang of salt water in the air was alien, the opposite of the dry, flinty smell of the desert. However, the moon was familiar, even if seen from a different angle and half shrouded by rain clouds. He bathed in its light, as one would bask in the sun after a long winter’s night. As he walked, he overheard snippets of conversation between two passengers, an overweight American man in his mid-fifties and a lithe, attractive oriental woman about half his age, a mismatched couple if he had ever seen one. Normally, he would have ignored them, but the word Kaiju got his attention.
“They say it wiped out Kiribati,” the man said, almost in a whisper, “or at least Tarawa and the Gilbert Islands.”
“Oh, all those people. How sad,” his companion replied. Though her reply expressed sympathy, her tone was flat and unemotional, as if the deaths of thousands of people she didn’t know didn’t affect her little world. “Are we safe?”
The man checked his watch. “It happened about three o’clock last night, or tomorrow,” he added with a soft chuckle. “I’m not sure which side of the International Date Line we’re on right now. Kiribati is in the Western Time Zone, but it protrudes into the eastern side of the line like a little thumb.” He held out his thumb as a visual aid. “I wouldn’t worry,” he reassured her. “I’m sure the military is dealing with it. They took care of the first three creatures. Are you ready for that nightcap yet?”
“Sure, but just one.” She covered her mouth with a delicate hand as she giggled. “I think I’ve already drunk too much wine with dinner.”
They walked back into the ship arm-in-arm, leaving Talent wondering about their crassness over the deaths of thousands of people. He also wondered about the topic of their conversation. Another Kaiju. I guess maybe I waited too late to emigrate.
He kept a mental map of the ship’s position based on the information displayed every day on the television in his room. The ship was currently about two-hundred-fifty miles north of the Equator. At twenty-two knots, they should cross the Equator around noon. They were midway between Tarawa and Kiritimati, also known as Christmas Island, right in the middle of the Republic of Kiribati. The other Kaiju broke out of their pods twenty-four hours after landing. That would place the ship somewhere northeast of Enderbury and the Phoenix Islands at that time, less than twelve-hundred miles from Tarawa. Too close for comfort, he thought.
He hoped news about the Kaiju didn’t spread around the ship too quickly. The last thing he wanted was to be on a ship with three-thousand panic-stricken passengers. Cruise ship crews had a difficult enough time dealing with hundreds of sick passengers. They wouldn’t be able to handle a frenzied mob of frightened men, women, and children demanding evacuation to some imagined safe area.
The lobster ragu over pappardelle he had for dinner began to churn in his stomach. He wasn’t sure if it was due to the food’s richness or the dire news. “Maybe I need a drink, too,” he said to no one in particular and followed the mismatched couple into the bar.
* * * *
Saturday, Dec. 16, 0320 hours USS Colorado, SSN-788, South Pacific –
Captain Travis Dent had shadowed Russian subs, Chinese subs, and even Iranian subs during his twenty-one-year career, but he had he received an order to search for an underwater monster. He turned to his exec, Elizabeth Haynes.
“Time and position, Lieutenant.”
Her answer was immediate. “0320 hours, sir. We’re two-hundred-twenty-four-miles southeast of Tarawa.” She glanced up from her clipboard. “We crossed the International Date Line into Kiribati territory seven minutes ago.”
“I don’t think we need worry about the Kiribati Navy, Lieutenant, and the Aussies and Brits know we’re here. Any chatter on the radio?”
“A few rescue pleas from stranded boats or survivors on the islands.” She frowned, as if not responding to pleas for help bothered her. “No commercial or local traffic since 0130. We picked up a routine position check from the cruise ship Radiant Princess about 0110 hours, and a satellite transmission from the Essex to RFTG Salient near New Caledonia at 0116; then a second message to both RFTG Salient and Navy Command Headquarters at Whale Island, Portsmouth at 0215. Do you want transcripts?”
He was aware that a British Response Force Task Group had been patrolling the South Pacific in a joint effort with the Royal Australian Navy since the first Kaiju had appeared four on Earth months earlier. “Was there anything special in the message to British Navy Command?”
“It was a follow up on the first message, a routine report of the damage to the islands of Kiribati.”
Dent furrowed his brow. “That’s puzzling. If it was routine, why follow up with a second message and why cc Whale Island?” He thought for a minute. “What did it say?”
Haynes referred to her clipboard. “It reads: Damage to Gilbert Group total, Phoenix Group severe. Moving east top speed to assess damage to Line Group soonest.”
“That’s odd. Why didn’t they survey the Line Islands on their way in as we did, and why soonest? He’s a fool to push his boat top speed through all
that floating debris still sinking.”
“Do you think it’s a coded message?”
Dent smiled, pleased that his exec had arrived at the same conclusion he had. He had chosen Haynes because of her 1610/2 FITREP, her 1616/26 Eval reports, and the fact that she had graduated the Academy top of her class, but those only told him she was qualified. Her former superiors had reported that she was intuitive and thought fast on her feet. That was the quality he was after in an exec.
“I think the captain of the Essex is chasing something east.”
“A Kaiju? That wouldn’t be very smart.”
“No, Lieutenant, but it would be in line with how Captain Colfax thinks. He’s old school like me, but he hasn’t been bloodied yet. I have.” He winced as memories of California rose to the surface. “Plot an intercept course for the Essex. Let’s see what he’s up to.”
“Yes, sir.”
Haynes was right. If Colfax were chasing a Kaiju, he would need help whether he wanted it or not. This wasn’t a private war. If it was, the U.S. had first shot. America had been the aliens’ primary target. He liked to think it was for a reason. If they wiped out America, the aliens could take out the remaining world powers piecemeal. It looked like the aliens had decided to try it again. In order to win the war, the world powers would have to learn to cooperate better than they had during the first attack.
He carried the mental scars of his first action against the Kaiju. Assigned to Admiral Grayson’s task force, the USS Colorado had joined in the confrontation with Kaiju Ishom off the coast of San Luis Obispo, California. The Colorado’s BGM-109 Tomahawk cruise missiles had bounced off the creature’s impervious black armor like rocks thrown at a tank. Then the Wasps attacked the fleet. Their missiles depleted, he surfaced to assist a destroyer under attack by Ishom’s squadrons of flying creatures with the two movable .50 calibers and the forward mounted retractable 20 mm Vulcan 61 six-barrel, rotating cannon. During the battle, he had lost four crewmen, including his original exec, Lieutenant Kyle Pettis, a longtime friend. It was a humiliating defeat. As much as he wanted payback, he wouldn’t risk his crew for a personal vendetta. He hoped Captain Colfax wasn’t playing a fool’s hand.
Four hours later, the Colorado had closed to just within passive sonar range of the Essex eighty miles north of Enderbury Island. A blip at two o’clock on the sonar screen indicated its position. Captain Dent’s gaze fixed on a second blip at two-thirty rapidly closing on the Essex’s position. The blip faded, disappeared briefly, and reappeared, as if the sub’s AN/BQQ-5E sonar was having a difficult time locking onto the object’s surface.
“It’s not another sub,” Haynes noted.
“Not unless someone has built one almost a thousand feet long from bow to stern. I believe we’re looking at a Kaiju. Sonar, what’s its depth?”
“It’s resting on the surface, sir, but its keel is at a depth of fifty fathoms, three hundred feet,” Sonar operator Lee Bates replied with a touch of awe in his voice, tinged with fear. “The image keeps breaking up. Should I deploy the TB-16?”
Dent briefly considered the towable sonar, but dismissed it as impractical. He had read the specs on the Kaiju’s armor and doubted sonar would give him a dependable image.
“No. Try the acoustic pickups.” They were at the equipment’s extreme range to pick up anything useful, but he needed something to guide him.
Bates tapped his headset. “I’m not picking up any normal biological noise, just a weird, undulating echo, like a power-line hum.” A few moments later, he said, “She’s switched from passive to active sonar.”
Dent could hear the Essex’s active sonar pings over the sonar operator’s headphones.
“Is the Essex aware of the Kaiju’s position?” Haynes asked.
“Oh, he knows all right,” Dent replied grimly. “That’s why he switched to active pinging. The Essex’s making straight for it at full speed. He’s going to mark the Kaiju’s exact position to fire his torpedoes, but can the Kaiju hear him?”
“Two torpedoes in the water from the Essex,” Bates announced. “Running fast and true.”
Dent winced. Too soon. What was Colfax up to? “Distance to target?”
“24,000 yards.”
Dent thought the captain of the Essex displayed a healthy regard for safety of his boat by trying a long shot. The British Spearfish torpedo was nineteen-feet long, tipped with 750 pounds of Torpex explosive. Propelled by a hydrogen peroxide turbine engine, it could reach speeds of eighty knots, but firing at a distance of twelve miles from target allowed the Kaiju ample time to detect and counter her torpedoes.
“Time to target?” he asked Haynes to verify his quick mental calculations.
“Six minutes,” she replied.
Dent started counting down the time. At six-minutes-fifteen seconds, he glanced at Bates.
He nodded. “Both torpedoes struck. No apparent damage. It’s still moving.” Fifteen seconds later, Bates announced, “The Kaiju’s firing back. Ten tracks headed for the Essex, no make that eleven. Estimated time to impact,” he stopped and frowned, “one-minute-forty seconds.”
Dent whistled softly. The alien missiles were traveling at Mach .9, just under supersonic speed. He would have said it was impossible for any submerged object to travel that fast, except the proof was on display on the screen in front of him. The Essex wouldn’t even have time to turn or initiate her anti-torpedo defensive measures.
“Sir!” Bates yelled.
“What is it, son?”
Bates glanced up at him in shock. “Six objects headed our direction. Estimated time to impact is two-minutes-fifteen seconds.”
Dent turned to the control crew. “Helm, set rudder seventy degrees to starboard. Ahead flank speed. Crash dive! Crash dive! Take us to 1800 feet. Rig for collision. Battle stations.”
As the battle stations alarm and dive klaxon fought it out, Dent tried to think of a way out of dangerous the situation he had gotten them into.
One-minute-thirty-seconds later, Bates announced, “No explosions on the Essex, sir, but distinct sounds of metal tearing and air bubbles escaping. She’s dropping rapidly nose first toward the bottom. Whatever those things were, they ripped her open.”
Whatever they were. Given the alien propensity for organic weapons, he suspected a heretofore-unknown living or cyborg self-defense mechanism protecting the Kaiju, a marine version of the Wasps. He glanced at the depth gauge – 1200 feet. They weren’t going to make it. 1800 feet was below the suggested operating depth for a Virginia-Class submarine, but he had no choice but push the boat to its limits. The objects were moving too fast to outrun. If they had a depth limit, maybe he could out dive them.
“Engage Shade. Launch Subsut and Scutter.”
He didn’t think the Advanced Defense Suite would work. The devices employed acoustic and electronic countermeasures to trick enemy torpedoes into chasing false signals, and then detonating their warheads in the enemy torpedoes’ paths. The aliens preferred living weapons systems. Animals were smarter than most machinery. He wondered if they operated on a sense of smell or by using biological sonar, like whales and dolphins. He had to throw them off the scent.
“Reduce speed to 15 knots. Bring rudder twenty degrees to Port.”
Twenty seconds later, Bates confirmed his worst fear. “No good, sir. The objects ignored the countermeasures. Impact in twenty-three seconds.”
“Communications, send a Priority One message to USPACOM. Tell them … tell them the Kaiju has broken through into the Pacific.”
He reached out and lightly caressed the cold metal bulkhead of his ship, his last command. He hated going out with a score of Kaiju-1, Colorado-0. His ship deserved better than that. His crew deserved better. He looked at Haynes.
“I’m sorry I won’t be able to recommend you for a ship of your own, Lieutenant.”
“It’s been an honor, Captain,” she replied. A smile flickered on her lips, and then she saluted.
There was no explosion,
but whatever the Kaiju had launched at them struck the hull like buckshot fired at an aluminum can. The boat slewed sideways in the water under the brutal impact. Dent slammed into the bulkhead, breaking left his arm, barely retaining consciousness when his head bashed against a console. His head spun and pain throbbed up and down his arm. The sharp odor of hydraulic oil from a ruptured pipe mixed with the scent of AFFF from hand-held fire extinguishers, as crewmen raced around the stations putting out small blazes in control panels. The control room was dark except for the dim red glow of the emergency lights. Most of the instruments were dead and unresponsive.
Lieutenant Haynes hadn’t been as lucky as Dent. He looked down at her lifeless body lying on the deck, her eyes open but unseeing. A deep gash oozed blood from her forehead. What a waste, he thought.
He forced the image from his mind. “Damage report,” he called out.
“Missile room flooding. Engines offline. They’re working on battery power.”
He glanced up at the dull-gray rounded object that had ripped through the control room bulkhead wondering why it had not exploded. None of the objects had exploded. Were they merely projectiles whose purpose was to puncture the hull and disable the sub? Seawater under immense pressure sprayed around its edges. The jet of water had sliced the helmsman in half. The upper part of his body lay across his console, his hand still gripping the control stick. His lower extremities lay on the deck, partially submerged by the rising water. The object shifted position, opening gaps along the edge. More water sprayed into the control room. The cold seawater rose above Dent’s knees. He held on as the sub rolled to port, weighted down by the inrush of water.