by J. E. Gurley
He shook his head and laughed. “A freakin’ orca. What next?”
* * * *
Talent didn’t much care for his confinement in the submarine. It was larger than he had expected when he first saw its sleek black form breaking the surface like a breaching whale, but the air felt stuffy and recycled, as if it had passed through too many lungs before reaching his. The air tasted of an odd combination of sea salt, sweat, lubricating oil, and a strange odor one of the crew told him was amine used in the carbon dioxide scrubbers. He had felt his first moments of trepidation climbing down the ladder through the narrow hatch into the sub’s belly, glancing up at tash, the sun; as if it might be the last time he felt its warmth. He went reluctantly but with little choice in the matter. A few inches of steel offered a better defense against the Squid than did a thin layer of fiberglass. Of course, that was before he had learned of the demise of the British and American submarines.
The only place that felt remotely comfortable was the galley. The familiar smells of fresh bread baking and coffee brewing kept his mind from wandering the narrow, dim corridors and the miserable faces and accusatory glances of his fellow rescued passengers. None of them blamed him personally, but like most survivors of any dramatic upheaval, manmade or natural; they felt betrayed by those whose job it was to keep them safe. That entity varied from person to person – the government, the Navy, God – but idea that such destruction, such misery could be the result of a random uncontrollable event was as alien a concept as the aliens themselves.
Talent had little in common with the other passengers other than the circumstances of their rescue. The only people he had any contact with aboard ship – the prickish security officer, the third officer, the Filipino cook, and Owens – were all dead. He wanted off the sub, but did he want off badly enough to accept Major Walker’s offer?
He wanted payback. He wouldn’t kid himself by claiming it was in retaliation for the deaths of the Radiant Princess passengers. As gruesome and as senseless as their slaughter had been, he hadn’t known them well enough to owe them vengeance. Nor was it to avenge any personal affront the creatures had caused him. He had survived. That was reward enough. No, perhaps for the first time in his life he understood allegiance to something larger than his small personal world. His people the Tohono O’odham understood. It was how they had remained a vibrant people throughout the chaotic years of the Indian Wars of the late 1800s. Now, he was beginning to comprehend the significance of their unity.
His status as El Lobo had blinded him to the essence of what had made the Native American tribes unique. Unlike the white-skinned Toha who pushed westward from the cities of the east, White Men with their strange White Man concepts, his people felt a close kinship with the land. They had no desire to conquer it or to own it, only to coexist with it. If the aliens wanted the Earth, the land, it was his duty to deny it to them.
Trading one confining environment for another, the interior of the Kaiju, seemed a foolish choice, but it was time he stepped up and rejoined the human race. For too long he had drifted along in a life parallel to but apart from the rest of humanity calling it independence. He was beginning to realize it had just been a different kind of fear.
He eyed the barely touched sandwich on his plate. The coffee had loosened the knot of fear in his stomach, but he didn’t think it could handle food yet. He considered another cup; then, decided he was simply procrastinating. He had made his decision and rehashing his reasons wasn’t going to change anything. He was going inside the Kaiju, and if his luck remained with him, he would come out again with a tale to tell. If not, no one would shed a tear for his demise.
He was glad Walker’s team was not leaving immediately. His ribs ached where the Squid had slammed him around, and his shoulder itched from the three stitches the doctor had insisted on when he treated the puncture wound. The doctor had wrapped his sprained left wrist in gauze to relieve the strain. He hoped he had a couple of days to recover.
The galley was beginning to fill up as sailors filed in for dinner or to load up on caffeine for their night-duty watches. He felt uncomfortable in their midst. Their furtive glances reminded him that he was different, an Indian, as if any indigenous people ever needed reminding of their status. Then, one sailor smiled at him and raised his hand in a half-wave. He suddenly realized they were staring not because he was Indian or different, but because he was a new face among faces that had become too all too familiar. After three months at sea, any new face was a change of pace, an event worth noting. He returned the sailor’s wave, kicking himself mentally for being too judgmental, a trait he detested in others.
He tried not to eavesdrop, but could not keep from overhearing snatches of conversation. They spoke of kicking Kaiju ass, but he detected an underlying current of fear in their bold boasts. Their voices were just a little too loud in an attempt to bolster their courage and mask their apprehension. Their fear didn’t dismay him. They were the U.S. Navy. He knew when push came to shove they would be at their posts ready to fight.
He ambled through the ship seeking some place quiet away from the presence of others. He needed to think, to make a mental list of reasons to go with the major and reasons not to. He needed to compare the two columns, pro and con, to see if recent events had compromised his capacity to made sound judgment calls. The list itself did not matter. He had already made his decision, but a breakdown of his reasons would show him how far from sanity he was straying.
Peering into submarine’s compartments like a Peeping Tom, he soon gave up on his search for a quiet retreat. By luck, he found the ship’s library, a tiny room with two shelves of books, a few chairs, and a CD player with headphones. An officer sat in one of the chairs listening to music with his eyes closed, oblivious to his surroundings. His foot tapped out a fast rhythm on the carpeted deck. Talent picked up an old issue of National Geographic, trying to lose himself in the photos and an article about the chaotic life in Baghdad with ISIS controlling most of the country and terrorists killing scores of people each week in random bombings and suicide attacks. The tone of the writer suggested hope for the future, but the people interviewed seemed resigned to years of endless bloodshed. He wondered if a Kaiju landing in the desert would bring them together, or if it would just become a third-party participant in the slaughter.
A copy of Neptune’s Trident, the ship’s daily newsletter, lay on one of the desks. He wasn’t interested in daily life aboard a submarine, but one large-print headline caught his eye: WHAT DO THE ALIENS WANT? Good question, he thought, but in the end, it doesn’t really matter. The Red Man had asked the same question about the White Man as he encroached on traditional tribal lands, as if understanding them would solve the problem. They didn’t fight back until it was too late or bother to unite as one people except for a few scattered battles, lessons from which mankind could learn. Whatever the aliens’ intent, it didn’t bode well for humans.
Finally, delayed exhaustion crept up on him. He had been running on adrenaline for so long he could taste it in his mouth. He had examined his assigned berth earlier; a narrow cot in the torpedo room slung between a berth below him and a row of pipes a few inches above his head, and decided it looked too much like a coffin. He laid down the newsletter, closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair. In spite of the myriad of thoughts running through his mind, within minutes he was snoring softly.
14
Sunday, Dec. 17, 4:45 a.m. Takara Landing, Efate, Republic of Vanuatu –
John Lini sat in his VPF patrol car off the side of the Ring Road near Takara Landing working on his second cup of coffee. He didn’t mind the early shift. The island was usually quiet before five a.m. Except for the fishermen, most of the tourists weren’t up yet, and the locals were preparing for work. The drunks had already gone to bed or were sleeping it off in a Port-Vila jail cell. In all his fifteen years on the Vanuatu Police Force, he had drawn his weapon one time and then had fired only a warning shot into the air.
Wo
rking the early morning shift left time for his favorite pastime, playing guitar twice a week with a local band on the island’s hotel and resort circuit. A few island tunes, some country favorites, and a lot of old time rock and roll satisfied the tourists, the locals, and his need for recognition. Being a cop was a thankless job, but musicians got respect, even a mediocre picker like him. He knew he could never land a job with any decent mainland band, but on an island with a population of less than sixty-thousand people, he was one of the best pickers around.
At thirty-five, Lini still had all his teeth, his wavy blond hair, his tight abs, and his boyish grin, enough to land him in some lonely foreign female tourist’s bed or a night with one of the locals. It was a good life, one that suited him.
As he raised his travel mug to his lips, the car shook, spilling a little coffee on his shirt. “Damn,” he muttered, as he wiped the coffee off with a napkin stuffed down between the seats. “That’s going to stain.”
He glanced out the window but saw nothing, no traffic, no low-flying jet from Bauerfield Airport, no practical jokers shaking his car. A few seconds later, the car shuddered again, this time violently enough to scatter his paperwork across the seat and into the floorboard. Earthquake. Tremors were common in Vanuatu. Twenty-four volcanoes dotted the island chain. Some islands were nothing more than volcanic cones thrusting upward from the sea floor. Two volcanoes hadn’t yet breached the surface, bubbling just beneath the waves. The last major eruption had been a decade earlier, but in 2015, Port Vila had rocked to a magnitude 6.5 tremor. He remembered waking up to his bed bouncing across the floor.
He searched the skyline south toward Yasur Volcano on Tanna Island, and then towards Ambrym and Lopevi to the north, the only active volcanoes in Vanuatu, but saw only the usual nightglow of molten lava in the cones, no plumes of smoke or ribbons of lava flowing down their flanks.
The car bounced violently again, throwing him into the steering wheel. If they had been working, he would have had a face full of airbag. It had to be an earthquake caused by one of the submarine volcanoes. He got out of the car and looked around but still saw nothing. He clicked on his radio.
“Car Six to base. This in Lini. Gracie, did you feel that quake?”
Grace Quai had radio night duty, a job he tried to avoid whenever possible. At least in a patrol car he could drive around the island. Sitting by the radio all night would drive him crazy. She answered.
“John, this is Gracie. Yeah, I felt the building shake. I think I’ll …”
Her voice cut off. “What, Gracie?”
Her contralto voice had picked up an edge of concern. “John, I just tried the land lines but they’re out. I’m not getting anything over the fiber optic cable to Fiji either.”
Lini checked his cell phone. It, too, was dead. “I’ve got no cell phone signal. Have you heard anything from TVL?” The local internet and phone provider was notorious for dropped signals and outages.
“Nothing, John. Do you . . .” Her voice dropped away as another tremor struck. Lini bounced along the side of the car, which danced from one wheel to the other think. The tremors were coming less than a minute apart, like pre-natal contractions. Lini wondered what was being born. Grace’s voice came back on, “Do we have to worry about a tsunami?”
The tsunami after the earthquake of 1999 had caused severe damage to the island of Pentecost and inundated a few coastal businesses on Efate. He did not want to see that happen again, especially not on Efate. Without his cell phone, he could not get an update from Vanuatu Meteorological Service. VMS was responsible for tsunami and typhoon alerts. He cupped his ear toward the beach but heard only normal surf sounds, no pounding waves, or the roar of an incoming tidal wave.
For a brief moment, he linked the earthquakes with the Kaiju landing in Kiribati, but dismissed it as unlikely. Kiribati was two-thousand miles away, and the Kaiju had attacked a cruise ship near there yesterday morning. It couldn’t be anywhere near Vanuatu in such a short time.
“I’ll drive down to the beach and check the surf. Anything on the ship-to-shore?”
“It’s dead too.” After a few seconds, she said, “I’m frightened, John.”
He rode out another tremor, and then answered, “You’re Ni-Vanuatu, Gracie, a tenth-generation native islander. You’re great-grandmother was a queen. You can’t be scared.”
“Well I am,” she insisted.
He was too, but he was not going to admit it to her. “Okay. I’ll drive back along the Ring Road and stop to check the surf in a few places. I’ll be there in less than an hour.”
“Don’t stop for a swim.”
He smiled. She knew him too well. An early morning swim was a great way to start the day. He always carried swimming trunks and a towel in the trunk of his patrol car. “I won’t. Call if you hear anything. Lini out.”
He replaced the radio microphone and leaned against the car. This time, the ground shook so violently it threw him to the ground as if someone had slammed in the back. He picked himself up off the sand and climbed into the driver’s seat. He cranked the car, threw it into gear, and headed to the beach at Takara Landing. Twice, he fought the steering wheel as the road undulated beneath the wheels.
The beach was deserted in the predawn hours. The white sand gleamed in the early morning half-light like a ribbon of sugar. When the sun came up, the water would be deep azure and as clear as the bottom of a beer mug, inviting swimmers and snorkelers beneath its surface, or kite surfers taking advantage of the prevailing southwesterly winds. Now, the water was dark and mysterious. He took a deep whiff of blooming bougainvillea and frangipani, enjoying their sweet fragrances. Looking out toward the outlying islands, Emao, Pele, and Nguna, he at first saw nothing out of the ordinary; then, jerked his gaze back to a fourth island that shouldn’t be there. To the right of Emao, a smaller black dot sat atop the surface of the ocean, too large for a ship and too narrow for the leading edge of a tsunami. The sand beneath his feet bounced with another tremor. He lost his balance and stumbled across the beach before righting himself. It felt as if the island was going to shake itself apart.
The mysterious dot got closer as he watched. It must be a ship, he thought. Suddenly, it rose from the surface, revealing a dozen long legs. Kaiju! His heart went numb and his throat became too dry to swallow. He stood transfixed by the sight of the behemoth striding from the sea toward the island. His island. The thought of his island, his people in danger, melted the icy fear that gripped him. He raced back to his car as one of the massive legs struck the ground, creating another tremor that sent him reeling. A coconut palm, leaning away from the wind, lost its grip on the dirt and toppled across his path. He leaped over it and slammed into the side of the car. He ignored the pain in his right knee, yanked open the door, and slid into the driver’s seat.
“Gracie,” he yelled into the microphone, “Alert the VMF. Wake the Prime Minister.”
The Vanuatu Mobile Force was the closest thing they had to a military, but he knew it would be no match for the alien monster.
“Is it a tsunami?” Gracie asked.
Better if it were, he thought. “No, worse,” he answered. “It’s a Kaiju.”
* * * *
Jess Akuna’s hands shook so badly he couldn’t fasten the chinstrap of his helmet. He had worn the helmet a few times during full uniform drills, but he had never been scared to death before a drill. He wished he had a cup of kava to calm his jittery nerves, but it was too early for any of the stores to open. He glanced around the locker room and saw the other members of his Vanuatu Mobile Force squad staring at him, looking as frightened as he was. He shoved the helmet under his arm and faced them. They all spoke Bislama, the native Melanesian language, or French, or English, some all three. Bislama was his second language. He had spoken it since a teen when he moved to the island with his parents, but he addressed his men in English because his mind was too befuddled to think in Bislama.
“This isn’t a war game. Our island, our homes
are under attack. We have to go out there and do our duty.”
One of the men held out his M1 carbine. “With this? What good is this against a Kaiju? I might as well piss on it.”
Akuna knew how the man, Joe Chin, felt. Chin was a good barber but a lousy militiaman. In spite of the twice-yearly drills and hours at the shooting range, Chin could barely hit the target, much less the bull’s-eye. “We can’t stop a Kaiju, but maybe we can save some people from Wasps, or whatever else that creature throws at us. You can go home and hide if you want, but I don’t think that’s going to do much good. You’ve all heard about Kiribati?” A few heads nodded. “We don’t have a choice. It’s the VPF and us. No one’s going to come to our rescue.”
“Have we called anyone?” Tiami Regevanu asked. “What about Espiritu Santo?” Regevanu operated the restaurant at the Port-Vila Country Club on Vila Bay where Akuna played golf every Saturday. Efate was the capital of the Republic of Vanuatu, but Espiritu Santo was the largest island of the seventy islands of the island nation, and everyone looked to them for assistance in an emergency.
“We have no cell phone or internet connections, and the cable to Fiji is out.”
“Jesus Christ!” Robert Barbier called out. “Did that thing do that?”
Akuna had no answer for the short, overweight bus driver. “I don’t know, Bob. It doesn’t matter. No one’s coming.”
“There’s a cruise ship in the bay,” Seimata Kaltack pointed out. “Why don’t we load up on it and leave?”
“All sixty thousand of us?” Akuna pointed out. “Besides, it pulled up anchor and sailed two hours ago.”
“What about the airport, Jess?” someone asked. “I think …”
Akuna raised his voice. “Look, all this is pointless. There’s no discussion involved here. We have our orders. The Kaiju will be here in less than an hour. We’re evacuating the city, but they have nowhere to run except toward the Kaiju. Fourth Squad has set up its mortars at the edge of town. Second Squad deployed its two .50 calibers on the roof airport terminal. First Squad is on the roof of Parliament. We will deploy along Teoma Street to keep people moving.”