by J. E. Gurley
Lands pointed a shaky finger to an open garage door. “Like that?”
McKenzie eyed the Suzuki RMZ-450 dirt bike sitting inside the garage with trepidation. It was several years old and looked as though its owner hadn’t always managed to land the bike upright on the tires after a jump. One handlebar dipped slightly, and the rear extension of the seat was cracked. He had never liked motorcycles, and he knew nothing about them.
“Can you drive it?” he asked Lands.
Lands smirked. “Dude! Yeah! I can drive anything.”
“Okay then, find the keys and let’s get out of here.”
While Lands checked through the contents of the drawers in a workbench, McKenzie took a moment to glance back at their pursuer. The Kaiju was less than a mile away, wading across Hays Inlet. The water was the equivalent to ankle deep on the creature. The Wasps were even closer, angling across the water toward them. He was sure they weren’t zeroing in on them in particular, but their direct approach was enough to shake his confidence.
“You’d better hurry,” he yelled at his companion.
He turned at the sound of the dirt bike cranking. It sounded like a cheap chainsaw, but Lands was smiling as if it were the 449 cc Suzuki were a 1000 cc Harley Davidson Sportster. “Get on,” he said.
McKenzie crawled on behind Lands, careful of the cracked seat, and looked for something to hold on to. Out of desperation he propped his feet atop the rear of the chassis supporting the rear wheel and grabbed the sides of the seat with both hands. Lands’ Mauser strapped across his back kept slapping him in the face. Too late, McKenzie realized he had left his shotgun in the Land Rover, but he wasn’t about to go back after it. He glanced outside. His eyes traveled upwards to the Kaiju’s belly almost overhead. Its long tentacles lashed out at buildings, writhing inside in search of people, and then ripping the buildings apart like kindling. It smashed a house two blocks away.
“Hang on!” Lands yelled, as he gunned the bike, almost laying it on its side as it spun in a half-circle on the garage floor. The sharp tang of burning rubber from the rear tire hit McKenzie’s nostrils. He snorted and shook his head to expel the assaulting stench just as Lands straightened the bike and shot through the open garage door. He grabbed the seat tighter to keep the bike’s momentum from flinging him off.
Lands didn’t bother with the street. He cut through back yards, dodging trampolines, swing sets, and barbecue grills. He sped down alleyways amid a clutter of dumpsters and garbage cans reeking of rotting fruit and vegetables. McKenzie spotted the empty, dilapidated cardboard shelter of a homeless person. Even the indigent had abandoned the city. As Lands gunned the bike across a parking lot, McKenzie hung on and prayed Lands was as good as he claimed.
He glanced over his shoulder. Behind them, the monstrous Kaiju continued its war of destruction on the city, trampling buildings and roadways. The swarms of Wasps accompanying it were expert at ferreting out any hiding humans and ferrying them to the creature’s enormous maw. They were close enough to see their orange and black banding and see their four tattered leathery wings. McKenzie tensed his back waiting for one of the creatures’ enormous stingers to pierce him back to front, but they continued to stay just ahead of the creatures.
Lands pushed the bike to its limits as they sped through the Boondall Wetlands into Nudgee. To the east lay the runways of the Brisbane Airport. It was the first time McKenzie had ever seen the busy airport so deserted. The last evacuation flight had left hours earlier. An AADF squadron of F-35A Lightning II aircraft was using the airport as an advance staging area. As he watched, eight of the jets, ignoring all air-traffic control standards, roared down the runway almost nose-to-tail and launched skyward toward the approaching Kaiju.
“Yeah!” he yelled, pumping his fist in the air at the sight of the sleek stealth aircraft. The whine of the jet turbines drowned out the buzzing of the dirt bike’s tiny engine. The bike wobbled as Lands dodged a road hazard. McKenzie lurched forward and grabbed Lands’ shoulder, almost spilling the bike. His right foot slipped and brushed the rear tire, showering him with flakes of burned rubber from the tire and from the sole of his boot. He spat out the foul-tasting rubber and watched the jets.
The F-35’s stood on their tails as the Pratt and Whitney F135 engines’ 43,000 pounds of thrust pushed them skyward at a heart-pounding 10 g rate of climb, over three times that experienced by space shuttle pilots. The high g-forces slowed circulation to the pilots’ eyes, creating a tunnel-vision effect, but they were experienced aviators. They would pull out of their steep climbs before G-LOC occurred, loss of consciousness due to excessive g-forces. The eight F-35As split into two groups, attacking the Kaiju from the east and the west. The lead Lightning of both groups swooped in low to the ground, cruising barely above rooftop level, firing their GAU-22A 25 mm cannons and Sidewinder missiles to clear a path for the jets and to draw off as many Wasps as they could.
The west group attacked first. Their external wing pylons carried M299 missile pods, each loaded with four Hellfire missiles. The internal weapons bays carried four more pods for a total of thirty-two missiles. They came within a ten-mile range of the Kaiju and fired their full salvo of missiles. Ninety-six, five-foot-long, one-hundred-pound missiles, propelled by their powerful solid fuel engines, arced gracefully toward the creature. The dense concentration of missiles exploded along the creature’s right flank, creating brief bursts of orange flame. McKenzie held his breath, praying the missiles had damaged the Kaiju.
Almost simultaneous with the explosion, a mosaic pattern of iridescent lines of light pulsed along the sides of the Kaiju as the ebony armor absorbed the energy of the blasts and channeled it into the creature’s internal power storage organ. A few Wasps caught in the fringes of the blasts died, but the Kaiju, unharmed, continued its forward trek. McKenzie exhaled and muttered a soft curse at the missiles’ ineffectiveness. He hadn’t expected the attack to kill the creature, but he had hoped for some indication it was stoppable. He knew the Kaiju’s were more than simple killing machines or living monsters. They were a bastardized melding of alien technology and living flesh, gigantic cyborgs created from specially grown organs shoved into an impervious ebony armor shell.
The squadron from the east flew a few miles out to sea before looping back toward the Kaiju. The pilots of the second squadron armed with BGU-53B Small Diameter Bombs, a self-guided, fire-and-forget munition, witnessing the failure of the Hellfire missiles, waited until they were less than six miles distant before releasing their volley of bombs. The SDBs weaved a sinuous path through the squadron of Wasps determined to protect the Kaiju. One Wasp threw its body in front of one of the bombs, exploding it in midair. The resulting fireball evaporated five of its fellow creatures pursuing the remaining bombs. The remainder of the SDBs safely reached their targets, the Kaiju’s first two appendages on its forward left side. Unable to destroy the Kaiju outright, the pilots sought to cripple it.
Sadly, as in the first attempt, the bombs failed, creating a spectacular light show but inflicting little if any damage to the impervious armor. This time, the Wasps were better prepared. They surged forward, as the eastern squadron of Lightnings banked away from the Kaiju. Swarming each plane like Africanized bees from a disturbed hive, they brought down all four Lightnings within minutes. The first squadron, now armed with only their 25 mm cannons, tried to help, but they were too late. Two of their number promptly joined the other four aircraft in their watery graves.
The two remaining F-135s climbed to 10,000 feet; then dived straight at the Kaiju, releasing wingtip tanks of napalm before pulling out of their dives at 1500 feet. The jellied gasoline landed just in front of the creature, creating a wall of flame that billowed three hundred feet into the night sky. The explosion caught scores of Wasps in the blazing conflagration, cremating them instantly. However, the Kaiju ignored the flames as it had those it had created in its destructive passage. It waded through the wall of fire without blinking the enormous ochre strips it used for
eyes.
McKenzie pounded on Lands’ back. “Go faster,” he urged. If more jets appeared, he didn’t want to around when they dropped more bombs or napalm.
At the point where the M1 divided into the Gateway Motorway and the Southern Cross Way, Lands slowed the bike and yelled over his shoulder, “Which way?”
Both roads reunited just north of the winding Brisbane River that cut through the heart of Brisbane. The Gateway Motorway was the more direct route south away from Brisbane and was the logical choice for escape, but Brisbane was his town, or at least he lived in the metro area surrounding it. He knew the Kaiju would storm through the towns of Bald Hills, Bracken Ridge, Aspley, and Chermside without breaking stride, as it had Deception Bay and Redcliff, but Brisbane was one of the Big Smokes, one of Australia’s biggest cities. Its destruction would take time. Every minute the creature spent in Brisbane, every minute the military could harry its progress, was precious time for the people farther south. Thousands if not tens of thousands of lives could be saved. He couldn’t just run away.
“Take the Southern Cross Way to the M7 into Brisbane. The army has a forward base in Woolloongabba.”
Lands was incredulous. He squeezed the hand brake and slid the bike to a halt in the middle of the road, almost tipping them over. He stared at McKenzie. His voice had an edge of panic in it as he asked uncertainly, “Brisbane? You want to go to Brisbane with that thing on our ass?”
McKenzie understood the young mechanic’s fear. He was quaking in his boots, but he knew running blindly was no solution. They might save themselves for the inevitable end of mankind, but the prospect of being one of the last men on Earth didn’t hold much appeal for him.
“Look. Like it or not, we’re assigned to the military. They could shoot us for desertion, you know.”
This quieted Lands for the moment. The imminent threat of execution gave him something to ponder beyond his urge to run. “Great, just great,” he moaned. “That’s some choice: Get shot for desertion or wind up Kaiju chow.”
“Sometimes you’ve got to step up and be a man,” McKenzie told him.
Lands cocked his head at McKenzie. “Don’t go all John Wayne on me. I know you’re scared. I can see it in your eyes.”
McKenzie snorted, “Damned right I’m scared. I’m about to take a dump in my pants. I’ll admit it: We might not be able to do anything. We may all be doomed. If we’re lucky, we’ll slow this bastard down long enough for people to get away. If we’re really lucky, we might survive and have the chance to try again farther south to stop this monster. Brisbane is bad enough. Do you want to see this Kaiju wading through downtown Sydney or Melbourne like in some cheap Japanese Godzilla movie?”
“And if we’re not lucky?” Lands asked.
McKenzie swallowed the lump in his throat. It was a fair question, one he had rather not ponder. “Then we die sooner rather than later,” he answered truthfully. He paused to let his answer sink in, staring at Lands to judge his mettle. Finally, he said, “You’re driving. I’ll leave it up to you. What’s your decision?”
Lands shook his head. “You’re a real bloody bastard, McKenzie. You know that?”
McKenzie smiled. “I’ve been told that.”
Lands turned around and gripped the handlebars. He cursed under his breath, kicked the bike into first gear, and gunned the engine. McKenzie held on, smiling to himself as Lands aimed the bike into the left lane toward Brisbane.
* * * *
Wednesday, Dec. 20, 3:45 p.m. Brisbane, Australia –
Lieutenant Colonel Edwin J. Kinder had faith in his men, in God, and in the steadfast belief hammered into him by his Protestant parents that good eventually triumphed over evil, in that order. His suspected his faith was about to be tested. His command, the Fifth and Eighth Brigades of the Second Division, were mostly local reservists based out of Gallipoli Barracks in Brisbane. Morale was high; they were defending their homes. Most had not seen combat in years, since Afghanistan or Iraq. Many had never faced enemy fire. It would not matter. Their training or experience could never have prepared them for the gargantuan creature striding across the countryside toward them. The Kaiju had just entered Eagle Farm, a sleepy industrial suburb on the northwestern outskirts of the city near the Southern Cross Motorway.
Kinder’s twenty-five hundred men had assumed a defensive position along a thinly stretched line from Stafford Road and Airport Link north of Brisbane to Kingsford Smith Drive paralleling the north bank of the Brisbane River. Armed with 5.56 mm F88 Austeyr rifles, 5.56 mm EF89 Para light machineguns, and 7.62 mm FN Hersal MAG 58 heavy machineguns, they had little hope of stopping the Kaiju, but the flying Wasps and the hopping Fleas accompanying it were another matter. As difficult as the Wasps were to kill, they could still die. His orders were to bring down as many as possible before falling back across the river to regroup.
Kinder was no fool. He knew most of his men would die in the coming battle. Depending on the Kaiju’s line of march, most of them would probably never reach the city or the bridges across the river. They knew as well, but their line held steady. It was a touch of irony that their barracks was named after the infamous WWII battle of Gallipoli where so many Australians had died needlessly due to poor intelligence, inhospitable terrain, and poor command decisions. He hoped the operation about to commence did not repeat that historic blunder.
Backing them were the First Brigade Mechanized, Third Brigade Light Infantry, and the Seventh Brigade Motorized of the First Division. Twenty M1A1 Abrams tanks, fifty L119 Hamel 105 mm cannon, twenty-five M198 155 mm howitzers, and three hundred M113 armored personnel carriers armed with 50 caliber machineguns waited for the Kaiju along the southern bank of the river from Bulimba barracks to Gateway Motorway. The Americans had faced Kaiju Girra outside Chicago with ten times the firepower had not slowed it. Their pathetically small ring of steel stood little chance.
The men on the ground were not alone. The air force had promised squadrons of F-35 Lightning, F/A 18F Super Hornets, S-70A Blackhawks, and ARH Tiger helicopters. Twenty large Seahawk and MRH 90 transport helicopters stood by, assigned to evacuate his men when it became necessary, but due to their limited capacity, it would take ten trips to ferry them all to safety. He was glad he would not have to look into his men’s faces as they waited for their turn to fly out.
A roar of thunder erupted behind him from across the river as artillery and tanks began their barrage. The air sang with the whistle of hundreds of shells arcing toward the Kaiju. Before the first shells struck, the cannon were firing again. From his position atop Bartley’s Hill in Albion, a few miles west of Eagle Farm, he had a bird’s-eye view of the action. The Kaiju’s ebony armor pulsed with traces of ultraviolet light as the shells exploded along its sides and wide back. Flame and smoke billowed from around its legs. The light of the explosions barely reflected from the creature’s solid shadow shell. The ground shook from the impact of the cannonade, but the creature did not slow. It continued its slow march through the town.
Kinder had watched videos of the Kaiju attack on Chicago; almost everyone had. The image conveyed on the small screen did not do justice to the sheer terror seeing the nine-hundred-foot black monster did in person. He felt a trickle of warm urine flow uncontrollably from his penis and wet his pants, but he didn’t think anyone would notice. All eyes were glued to the behemoth moving toward them as inexorably as an approaching typhoon.
“Sir, do you think we should pull back?”
He glanced at his aide, Captain Miles Horath, a short, overweight man whose fear poured from the pores of his face and ran down his cheeks.
“Captain, the Kaiju will be where we need to go before we could get there. We’re as safe here as any place in the city.”
Horath licked his lips and glanced toward the darkened cityscape of Brisbane to the south, and then at the approaching Kaiju. From his expression, Kinder did not think his aide believed him. It was just as well. He did not believe it himself. They were fully exposed to any
Wasps in the area, and if the Kaiju ventured a little farther north in its approach to Brisbane, they would become ground zero for any future artillery barrages.
As he watched, the Kaiju left the ruins of Eagle Farm behind and entered Albion. Against the backdrop of the burning town, he saw the hundreds of specks of flying Wasps.
He turned to Captain Horath. “Captain, order the men to open fire.”
The frightened aide spoke into the radio. A few moments later, small arms fire and the sound of heavier machineguns opened up a short distance away. The Wasps took notice of the sounds of gunfire and zeroed in on their locations. He was glad he could not hear the screams of his dying men. After fifteen minutes, it was all over. The guns stopped firing.
He lowered his binoculars. “Order the men to regroup at LZ Green, Orange, and Blue.”
They had already lost three of the six secured landing zones. He hoped they could hold them long enough to evacuate as many men as possible.
“Advise the troops too remote from a secured site either to make for the river or head north.”
The jets arrived and began unloading their cargo of missiles and bombs on the Kaiju, but it shrugged the explosions off as it had everything else. The pilots were brave; he granted them that. They swooped in at treetop level to avoid the wasps and climbed at the last moment to unleash their salvoes. More than a few of the aircraft received damage from shrapnel. Wasps dove among them in a kamikaze orgy of destruction. More than twenty aircraft crashed in the first five minutes of the attack.
The helicopters fared no better. The Blackhawks and Tigers carried missiles and machineguns, targeting the Wasps in an attempt to clear the way for the F-35s and F/A 18-F jets. Like a five-square mile game of Whack-a-Mole, the helicopters popped up from behind buildings and groves of trees to fire at the Wasps, and then scoot away to repeat their procedure somewhere else. It was a heroic effort, but doomed to failure like all other attacks on the Kaiju.