Kaiju Kiribati

by J. E. Gurley

  To his surprise, Barbier rushed from across the street to join him. Smears of blood covered both chubby cheeks of his face, but Akuna saw no injuries. The severely obese bus driver was gasping for breath as he spoke.

  “Are they gone, Joe?”

  Akuna ignored his question. “Is anyone else from the squad alive?”

  Barbier shook his head, flapping his jowls. “I don’t think so. I watched Chin die. He didn’t get off a single damn shot.”

  Akuna shook his head. Eight men in his squad and only Barbier and he remained. “No, they’re not gone, Bob. They’re busy cleaning out the city.”

  “What do we do?”

  His city was gone, perhaps his whole island. He was no longer defending it; he was now simply one of the few lucky survivors. “If the Kaiju is headed to Australia, it might move on soon. If not, it might stay here until it eats every human on the island, unless the Americans decide to nuke it first.”

  Barbier’s red face blanched at the prospect of nuclear annihilation.

  “We head inland and hide in the jungle. We round up any survivors we run into and take them with us. That’s our job now. If we’re lucky, we’ll live to see another sunrise.”

  A woman, her bloody clothes tattered, walked from the ruins of what had once been a home, and stared toward the Kaiju. He called out to her. She turned and looked at him with vacant haunted eyes.

  “We start with her,” he told his companion, “and anyone else we find.”

  With a new sense of purpose, he left his cowering spot and strode toward the woman. Barbier followed him. They weren’t much of an army, but they still had a job to do. He could not say that he was no longer afraid; he was, but the fear was secondary, something he could deal with. What he was now was determined.

  15

  Sunday, Dec. 17, 0400 hours USS Mississippi –

  Walker had slept only three hours, but he awoke fully alert, as was his usual practice. Over the years, he had perfected the ability to drop into a deep sleep, quickly reaching REM stage and allowing his body to extract maximum recharge from every hour of sleep. It wasn’t an optimum solution, but in the field, it often had to suffice. Around him, the rest of the fire team still slept soundly in their portable cots strewn among the forest of missile tubes. Costas’ sonorous nasal rumblings matched the pulses of the pump-jet propulsor. He slept with one hairy leg thrown over the side of his cot, the rest of his body entangled in his blanket.

  Walker detected a crisp, briny freshness to the air and the gentle rise and fall of the sub and realized they were running on the surface. Murdock was pushing the sub for every rpm he could coax from the engines to reach the Kaiju as quickly as possible. Every hour put them farther behind the behemoth. Despite his deep sleep, the fringes of Walker’s mind still roiled with unresolved issues. He had not yet settled matters with his second-in-command, McGregor, nor had he decided how best to use Talent’s skills on the team, if the Commander allowed it. Introducing a civilian to the teams’ already delicate balance would be disruptive, but he sensed something in the young Arizonan that made him believe it would be worth the effort. To quiet the rumblings in his head, he decided to perform Fajr, his pre-dawn salat prayer.

  The showers were deserted at 4:00 a.m. In preparation for his prayers, he stripped, ran a quick pulse of water over his body; and then, turned it off to save water as he soaped up. He turned the water back on and rinsed as quickly as possible. He dried off and changed into a fresh uniform he had procured earlier from ship’s stores. He set his flashlight on dim, knelt on the deck, and quietly intoned the third prayer rak’at so that he wouldn’t disturb his companions. He cleared his mind, waiting for holy inspiration that would not come. Instead, he saw the faces of the dead and the dying on the cruise ship interspersed with the faces of the men who had accompanied him inside Kaiju Nusku. After ten minutes of unanswered prayer, he gave up. He knew Allah would not fail him. Clearly, he had failed Allah. Perhaps the Imam were correct, and he was not a true and faithful servant of Allah. Was he trying to serve two masters – Allah and the U.S. military – and failing at both?

  “I guess it’s difficult being a Muslim in the Army.”

  Startled, Walker shot from his knees and whirled quickly at the voice from the darkness, his hand automatically reaching for the weapon on his hip that wasn’t there. He had left them by his cot for his prayers.

  “Whoa, Major! I’m one of the good guys.”

  He recognized the outline of Talent’s absurd cowboy hat and relaxed. The lanky Arizonan moved closer, letting the dim red light from a missile tube service panel wash over his face, which bore a big grin.

  “What are you doing skulking about this time of the morning?” Walker demanded. He wasn’t angry at having his prayers disturbed. They had been in vain and a wasted effort. He was embarrassed that Walker had caught him off guard.

  Talent shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not skulking; I’m exploring. I slept in a chair in the library. I couldn’t cut those stacked shelves that pass for beds around here. A cute young yeoman came by and asked me if I wanted to go on deck for a while for some fresh air before we transfer to that Japanese freighter. At least the rain stopped. I was hoping to watch the sunrise.”

  He noted the sense of loss in Talent’s voice, as if being below the surface away from the sun and sky bothered him. “Did the fresh air help?”

  “It did until I climbed back down that hatch.”

  “It’s going to be tight inside a Kaiju. Sure you still want to go?”

  Talent arched an eyebrow at Walker. “I thought the commander put the kibosh on the idea.”

  “I’ll work on him. I convinced him that I need you, but he’s hesitant. He’s just covering his ass.”

  “Aren’t we all? Look, don’t get me wrong, Major. I don’t want to go. I’d rather find a quiet place somewhere and sit it out. That’s been my philosophy for years. This isn’t like a zombie apocalypse or a collapsing economy. A stockpile of canned goods and some ammo isn’t going to do the trick. This is Biblical, end-of-the-world shit. There are no bystanders in this war. I’d rather die striking a blow than cowering on my knees. These Kaiju have pissed me off and I need some payback.” He stared at Walker. “I’m just not sure why you want me to tag along.”

  What could he say? That he had a feeling about Talent, that an extra weapon could make the difference between success and failure? “Sometimes I get hunches. Very often, they’ve saved my life or the lives of the men around me.” Except on my last mission, he thought with bitterness. “I see something in you, Talent. I think you’re a natural-born soldier, a leader of men. It’s not something they can teach you in a military academy or in officer’s candidate school. It’s something here.” He tapped his chest. “Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.”

  Talent smiled. “Are you quoting Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night now? I thought you military types would be more into Julius Caesar or Henry V.”

  “It seemed a propos.”

  “How about ‘Lord, what fools these mortals be?’ from A Midsummer’s Night Dream? Are we all fools for believing we can make a difference?”

  “If I didn’t think what I do makes a difference, I couldn’t keep doing it.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. I just get maudlin early in the morning. Coffee will fix that.”

  “Bring me a cup and a doughnut when you go,” Costas said from his cot, and then yawned. “If I can’t sleep, drink, or have a woman, I might as well eat a friggin’ doughnut.” He sat on the edge of his cot, rubbed his eyes, and glanced up at Talent. “Morning, Cowboy. Is this a private meeting?”

  Talent shook his head. “No, we were discussing fools.”

  “I thought I heard someone call my name.”

  Walker spoke up. “I’ve asked Talent to join us on the mission.”

  “I figured it was something like that. Glad to have you along, Cowboy. It might get lonesome sitting inside the belly of a Kai
ju. Walker here knows all my stories. You’ll be virgin ears.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  Costas jerked his thumb over his shoulder at the sleeping fire team. “Should I wake them?”

  Before sacking out, he had introduced them all to the SDVs they would use to approach the Kaiju, and together they had familiarized themselves with their operation, each one taking a dry run at the controls in case he or McGregor, who would pilot the two craft, became incapacitated. That and a primer on the safe handling of the drums of K-2 had taken hours.

  Walker shook his head. “No, let them sleep while they can. What about you?”

  “Oh, I slept some yesterday. I’m good.” Costas shot Talent a broad grin. “Do you know how much fun we’re gonna have inside that thing?” He pursed his lips and shuddered dramatically for effect. “It’ll be our own little slice of heaven.”

  “You’ve got a severe death wish, Sergeant,” Talent replied, only half in jest.

  “Go big or go home, that’s my philosophy. They don’t come bigger than a Kaiju.”

  “I’d settle for getting out alive.”

  “You’ve got to be willing to die to appreciate living. Life tastes sweeter after a victory.”

  “Don’t let Costas kid you,” Walker warned. “He’s a survivor. Stick close to him and he’ll get you out alive.”

  “You may have a few dents and dings, but nothing that won’t buff out,” Costas added.

  Talent turned to Walker. “You said something about a BFG for me.”

  Costas grinned. “I’ve got just the thing for you, Cowboy.”

  He walked over to a stack of fiberglass cases, read the labels, and pulled a case from the stack. He opened the latches and stood back to allow Talent to look into the open case. Talent picked up Walker’s flashlight and shined it in the case.

  “This, gentlemen, is an M23 MGL, a 40 mm Multi Grenade Launcher. Its rotating magazine holds 14 grenades with an effective range of 400 yards. That’s farther than from the Kaiju’s mouth to its asshole.” He picked it up and handed it to Talent. “It weighs just over fourteen pounds loaded, heavy but worth every ounce for killing power.”

  Talent hefted the MGL and grinned. “Now, this is what I was talking about. What about close up work?”

  “For that, a nice HK MP5 will do the trick.”

  As Talent listened to Costas, now in teaching mode, explain the use and care of the M23 MGL, carefully noting the different types of grenades available, the men of the fire team roused and, one by one, gathered around them. Whatever differences the men had or whatever frictions remained among them, familiarity with their weapons was the key to survival and they took their jobs seriously.

  “Now, boys and girls,” Costas said, “remember that we will be in a tight space. Don’t lob grenades or,” glancing meaningfully at Talent, “go full Rambo with an MGL. Fragging your own men is frowned upon. I would reserve a special pissedness for anyone pricking my beautiful flesh with pieces of shrapnel.”

  Finally, the moment came that Walker had been expecting. Sergeant Rhoades pointed the knife he had been using to dig beneath his fingernails at Talent. “What’s he doing here? Isn’t he one of the passengers we rescued?”

  “This is Mark Talent. He can handle himself pretty well. I asked him to join us.”

  “I ain’t working with no amateur.”

  “Why not?” Costas retorted. “I will be.”

  Rhoades stood and glared at Costas. The big S.E.A.L. held the knife loosely in his hand, but like any member of a fire team, he could deliver a deadly blow with it from close up or from across the room with equal ease. Costas saw the knife but remained undaunted. Both were big men. Walker hated to take odds on who would come out on top in a fight, but he couldn’t let it go that far.

  “Both of you stand down!” he barked. After a few seconds, Rhoades backed away, but he did not resume his seat. “I’ve seen Talent in action. He’s good. We’re down two men. We need him.”

  “Yeah? Whose fault is that?” Rhoades asked. Several of the team muttered their approval of his question.

  Before Walker could answer, Talent strode to the middle of the room. He looked Rhoades in the eye. “I saw both men die. Watts stepped in front of a Squid to save civilians and died like a man. Stimson died when a Wasp dropped through the roof of the lifeboat. Nobody could have saved him, right Perez?”

  Perez winced, uncomfortable with her new position as a defender of Walker. Finally, she nodded. “Yeah, I was there. I couldn’t stop it. It happened too fast. Talent jumped in like a champ and gutted the thing.”

  McGregor strode into the fray. He stood beside Rhoades and said, “Neither of them should have been in that position. Our mission was the Kaiju, not rescuing civilians. We lost two men for thirty civilians. At that rate, we can save a couple of hundred if we waste all our lives.”

  “Your life that precious to you, Captain?” Costas said. “Maybe you’re in the wrong business.”

  McGregor ignored Costas and turned on Walker. “You could have refused the commander’s request. It wasn’t our mission.”

  Walker kept his growing irritation under control, as he replied, “I don’t know about you, but I’ve seen too many people die. I’ll save anyone I can.”

  “I for one thank you,” Talent said.

  McGregor whirled on Talent. “You’ve got no say in this.”

  Talent moved so quickly that no one had a chance to stop him. He spun McGregor around, pulled him against his chest, and jabbed the tip of a knife he seemed to pull from nowhere into the skin above the startled captain’s carotid artery. Nobody moved, as all eyes focused on the bizarre tableau unfolding before them.

  “Captain, I say what I think, and I think you’re a fool.” He pushed the knife a little harder. A drop of blood ran down McGregor’s neck. “This man went inside a living Kaiju, fought the creatures inside, and came out alive. You and your team cleaned up a bunch of mindless, dying creatures after the Kaiju were dead. Now, which man do you think I want to follow?” He shoved McGregor forward and replaced his knife in the scabbard hidden inside the waistband of his jeans. “If the job’s too big for you, step aside.”

  McGregor seethed, but held his tongue out of newfound respect for Talent’s capabilities. Talent looked at the men sitting on the floor and said, “Who’s up for some breakfast? I’m buying.” He winked at Perez, and then turned his back on them and strode away.

  Walker felt like shaking his hand. Talent had managed to put McGregor in his place, saving Walker from the unpleasant task of confronting him. “Well, gentleman,” he said. “Shall we take him up on his offer?”

  He brushed past McGregor and followed Talent down the darkened corridor. Behind him, he heard Costas say loudly enough for everyone to hear in his resonant bass voice, “I like that Cowboy. We’re gonna have great fun together.”

  As he caught up with Talent, the 1MC announced, “One hour ago the Kaiju appeared on Efate Island in the Republic of Vanuatu. All communications with the island are out, but a high altitude Albatross surveillance drone dispatched along the Kaiju’s likely route relayed photos of the capital city of Port Vila in flames.”

  * * * *

  Talent listened to the tragic news over the intercom and felt no grief, no empathy for the dead on Vanuatu. He did not even feel anger. He was suffering from disaster overload. His mind could not digest the information and translate it into normal emotional context without shutting down completely. In a way, it was a blessing, but as he observed the tears and raw emotions of the sailors around him, even members of Fire Team Bravo, he questioned whether something was fundamentally wrong with him. Was he such a loner that he was incapable of human emotions? No, he had been angry when Owens had died, and he had barely known the ex-Chicago detective.

  He picked at the scrambled eggs and bacon on his plate, but the food was tasteless and difficult to swallow. It lay like a cold lump in his stomach. He knew it was not the food. The sub’s cooks were excellent. He pushed
the plate away from him and took a sip of his coffee. The hot, black beverage drove away the chill enveloping him.

  The R-21 Albatross was a solar-powered, lightweight drone capable of remaining in the air for days by using its solar batteries at night and recharging them by day. It circled the island of Efate at an altitude of ten-thousand feet, but its powerful array of interchangeable lenses revealed details as small as a stray dog. He heard several sharply drawn breaths and glanced up to see the galley’s two television screens displaying a live feed from the Albatross.

  “My God,” Costas said, watching the Kaiju crush two single-masted yachts anchored in the bay with one of its legs. The once beautiful city of Port Vila was now nothing but piles of brick and mortar rubble licked by tongues of flame. Clouds of smoke partially blocked the view, but the drone’s operator engaged the ultraviolet lens operating in the 350-nanometer wavelength, which pierced the smoke, revealing details of the Kaiju.

  Talent cringed when he saw the line of Wasps bearing their grisly packages to the Kaiju’s open maw, feeding it like a mother bird feeding its chicks. The horrors of his ordeal on the cruise ship and the lifeboat came flooding back, threatening to overwhelm him. He gripped the edge of the table with both hands, squeezing until the pain in his wrist pushed away the terror.

  Walker noticed his discomfort. “The commander might be right. I shouldn’t have suggested you come with us.”

  Talent shook his head. If anything, witnessing the Kaiju’s rampage reinforced his need to accompany Walker’s team into the belly of the beast. He could not live with himself if he simply walked away, became another refugee, a passive victim of the alien invasion.

  “Too late. I have to go.”

  Walker nodded his head. “I thought you’d say that.”

  “How long will it take us to get to Efate?”