"No, Colonel Krupp," Taggart replied softly. "If his papers are all squared away, then Kip Daniels is in. But only if he wants to be."
A look of relief crossed the younger man's chiseled face. Then Colonel Krupp smiled for the first time that day. "I'll go notify the Intelligence team," he announced.
The colonel turned to leave but paused. "When do you want to meet him?" Krupp asked.
Taggart sighed. "Give me ten minutes or so to look over his evaluation."
Krupp nodded, then saluted.
Taggart returned the salute, then sat down into his chair as the other officer departed, leaving the general alone in his tiny office, with his troubled thoughts. As he slumped in his chair, he gathered the scattered pages on his desk. The Project was everything right now. He'd given the past year to it - a year that should have been spent in quiet retirement.
But my country called, and I answered, one last time, he thought bitterly.
Taggart sighed. The problem wasn't in serving his country, the problem was the mission itself.
I spent my life training to defend America from foreign enemies, he reasoned. I trained to fight men, not monsters.
The Soviet threat was gone. In its place was a new menace and a new mission. Now the combined might of the armed services of these United States was retooling - to go into the pest-control business.
General Taggart snorted with contempt as he thought back to the events surrounding the reappearance of Godzilla months before, and how an obscure article he wrote in the 1980s for a strategic studies journal had returned to haunt him.
Taggart had boldly written how certain weapon systems could be modified to defend against the unlikely reappearance of Godzilla, or another monster like him.
Of course, Taggart reminded himself, nobody really expected Godzilla to show up again.
But Godzilla did show up again, just ten years later. And just when Taggart was ready to retire to his house in California, some pencil-necked adviser to the President of the United States remembered his obscure little article.
"Well," Taggart reminded himself, repeating the familiar words - his personal mantra - "you knew the job was dangerous when you took it." And Taggart had taken it. Truth to tell, he had jumped at it.
He was bored after the first six months of retirement, and the call from the Pentagon sounded awfully good.
Taggart recalled the uphill battle he had fought through the corridors of power in the nation's capital. It had been tough convincing his superiors that his crazy plan was sound and sensible. His reputation convinced the military men of his ability to find and lead the perfect team to accomplish the difficult - some said impossible - assignment.
After three months of working on the project, General Taggart was beginning to envy Colonel Krupp. Nobody would blame the colonel if things went wrong. And right now, it seemed, everything was going wrong.
Their weapons weren't ready. Their aircraft weren't ready. Their budget wasn't approved. Hell, they didn't even have office space. Well, Taggart reminded himself, what did you expect? Catered meals and a cheery fireplace?
The President of the United States and the boys up on Capitol Hill wanted Taggart to get the job done, but nobody wanted to spend more of the taxpayers' money doing it, even though the public was clamoring for protection against monsters - or kaiju, the Japanese term for "giant monsters," which the scientists were calling the creatures.
So, after they took the trouble to hire him for the job, General Taggart was forced to go to the Oval Office personally to negotiate a budget with a president he didn't like, and hadn't even voted for.
"And why should the nation invest even a tiny percentage of defense spending to fight monsters?" the president asked.
Taggart supplied all the stock answers. We're the only superpower left. If we don't do it, who will? ... It's our duty to be prepared for any threat against the people of this nation. Who knows what type of creature might yet emerge?
They were all sound arguments, and Taggart almost believed them. In the end, though, the president needed a photo op, and the guys building Raptor-One and Raptor-Two were good, card-carrying union men and supporters of the president's party. So Project Valkyrie was born.
All it took was the president's signature, a special dispensation by the House Intelligence Committee, and a billion-dollar black budget from the CIA, the National Security Agency, and the Air Force combined.
And that was only the beginning.
Maybe my idea is crazy, he thought. Many people expected him to fail - maybe even wanted him to fail.
If that was the case, then Project Valkyrie was the rope, and Taggart was about to hang himself. And only a bunch of teenagers can save me, the Project, and maybe even this country, if it should ever come to that. Taggart shook his head. I pray that it never will... but just in case...
The general refocused his eyes on Kip Daniels's personality file. As he skimmed the psychological profile, school records, family history, IQ tests, and medical records, the general wondered if he was wrong - if maybe Project Valkyrie wasn't exactly what some of his enemies in the Pentagon called it.
Taggart's Folly.
Of course, General Taggart couldn't take all the credit for this crazy scheme. It was Colonel Krupp and Dr. Markham who developed the video game called BATTLEGROUND 2000. "The perfect way to find the brightest and the best candidates for the Project," Dr. Markham stated.
Taggart had to admit that the psychiatrist had been right, too, because try as they might, Taggart could never train even the best pilots the Air Force had to offer to operate the complicated weapons systems of Raptor-One effectively.
"You can't teach an old dog new tricks," Dr. Markham had insisted. "They're too old. Running the simulator is like learning a martial art. And to learn a skill like that, the younger an individual starts, the better he or she will perform."
That, in a nutshell, was the reasoning behind BATTLEGROUND 2000. Taggart had to admit that it worked. The video game had found seventeen possible candidates - all in their mid-teens - who scored above 800,000 on the game. Each machine was designed with a chip that notified the command station here in Nevada when someone scored above the programmed mark.
These candidates were unknowingly photographed and fingerprinted by the game machine itself, and this information was transmitted by satellite to the Project's massive computers. Each potential candidate was then targeted by Air Force Intelligence for observation and evaluation. Those who displayed past criminal, behavioral, or psychological problems were eliminated.
None of those rejected were even aware that they had been tested, or that the government had completed an extensive background check on them, their parents, teachers, friends, and associates. Only those with a high probability of success were finally selected as candidates for Project Valkyrie.
Which left them with only six potential candidates so far. Six candidates who were summarily drafted.
Oh, the Air Force and the Pentagon liked to call it "voluntary conscription," but that polite phrase covered a multitude of sins. The truth of it was that the best and brightest were conscripted - if need be, against their will. The problem was that pressing, the situation that serious.
So far, conscription wasn't necessary. All of those who'd been offered the chance to join took it - with their parents' or guardians' consent. Indeed, the candidates welcomed their selection for a variety of reasons.
For some, it was an opportunity to get out of a bad situation. For others, Project Valkyrie was a call to adventure, or to duty. Most of the recruits were high achievers in other areas. They were highly motivated and smart enough to recognize a golden opportunity when they were offered one.
Unfortunately for Kip Daniels, his situation fell in the first category. If he took the job, it would be to escape his disturbing and chaotic life.
Kip was what social workers called a "troubled" teenager who came from a "stressed environment." A child of a broken home, Kip never knew his
father, who was doing fifteen years in a Michigan correctional facility for forgery and grand larceny.
His mother was no better: A drug addict who dragged her son from the Midwest and then summarily dumped him into a rough city school system with the worst sort of punks and malcontents - despite the boy's phenomenal IQ and his amazing hand-to-eye coordination.
"If we draft this kid, we'd be doing him a favor," the general muttered aloud. But the kid froze, Taggart reminded himself. And, anyway, the decision is Kip Daniels's to make, not mine.
The officer glanced at the BATTLEGROUND 2000 readout again. Nearly a million and a half points in a single game. The general whistled in amazement. The kid's performance was phenomenal. The best so far.
Taggart knew that time was running out. If the scientists were right, Godzilla was still alive, and the monster could rise out of the sea and return at any moment.
Time was running out.
3
THE BOX
Monday, May 3, 1999, 1:15 P.M.
In the cockpit of Raptor-One
"Okay, you're clear to move in a little closer, Raptor-One," Air Combat Controller Lori Angelo radioed from the cockpit of Raptor-One's sister ship, Raptor-Two.
Kip Daniels monitored the air combat controller's - or "Air Cap's" - commands through the headphones in his flight helmet. His gloved hands gripped the stick of the weapons control system. His eyes were fixed on the view outside the cockpit windows, searching for the elusive target still ahead of them.
"Moving in," Pierce Dillard, the pilot of Raptor-One, announced. As he spoke, Pierce's eyes squinted with determination and he struggled with the joystick. The Raptor's controls seemed stiff, and he fought to maintain aircraft stability. The erratic and unpredictable updrafts from the huge buildings below were causing the problem.
No matter what he did, Pierce could not seem to tame the Raptor's violent shaking.
"The controls are sluggish," Pierce announced.
At the co-pilot's station, to the left and slightly below the pilot seat, Martin Wong scanned his HUD - head's-up display. The huge color monitor offered countless readouts, informing the copilot/flight engineer of the Raptors condition, inside and out.
"We have primary computer failure on the starboard tilt-engine motor," Martin announced calmly. Then he quickly punched up a program from the computer files.
"Backups coming on-line... now," he said.
The vibrations slowed, then all but ceased. The Raptor was moving smoothly once again.
"Raptor-One, watch out for those towers at your three o'clock," Tobias Nelson, the pilot of Raptor-Two, warned Pierce. Toby's deep, booming voice surprised Kip. Lori should have been the one to warn us, he thought. She's the combat controller.
Pierce eased back on his stick, and Raptor-One's advance through the steel, glass, and concrete canyons of downtown Chicago slowed. As the Raptor hovered at a virtual standstill over the city, gusts of wind continuously buffeted the aircraft.
Well, Kip reasoned, that is why they call it the Windy City.
The Raptor began to drift toward a round glass tower, and Pierce had to move the control stick to compensate.
* * *
Tobias Nelson, at the controls of Raptor-Two, also hovered in a stationary position, but he was far, far above the city, and Raptor-One. Raptor-Two's job was air combat control, and for that they needed a bird's-eye view of the battlefield.
"Raptor-One, move into attack position," Lori Angelo commanded from her combat control station in Two. "I want you to circle the Sears Tower..." Lori paused for effect. "That's the tall building on your left, Dillard."
Pierce's face remained stony as he listened to Lori's instructions. But the crews of both ships could hear Toby chuckling.
"After you pass the building, make a sharp right," Lori concluded. Pierce nodded, then clicked his mike to acknowledge her command. Cautiously, he moved the joystick forward, and to the left. The panoramic vista outside the cockpit Windshields tilted and changed as Raptor-One gracefully swept around the towering, glass-walled skyscraper. Chicago sprawled below them.
"Your target should be in sight," Lori cautioned.
"Roger, Air Cap, got it on screen," replied Tia Shimura from her station behind Martin. Tia was Raptor-One's navigation and communications officer, and the youngest member of the team.
Raising her eyes from the monitors, Tia gazed through the huge, cathedral-like windows of the cockpit. Like the rest of the Raptor-One crew, she wanted to be the first to lay eyes on the enemy.
As One sped past the Sears Tower, the aircraft dipped and then leveled off. Suddenly, their target appeared ahead of them - a black silhouette that stood out starkly against the cluttered, smog-bound city.
"I see him!" Pierce cried. He pushed the stick, and the Raptor surged ahead. The monster loomed larger in the windshield. So far, Godzilla seemed oblivious to their approach.
Even over the drone of the Raptor's engine, the crew could hear the echoing roar as Godzilla bellowed his rage at humanity. Kip watched in fascination as the creature moved slowly, ponderously through the city. As he walked, Godzilla waded through the structures at his feet, callously cutting a swath of destruction through the heart of Chicago's business district.
Thick clouds of black smoke and red fire billowed into the afternoon sky in the creature's wake. As they watched, an immense skyscraper tumbled to earth in a cloud of dust and smoke.
Despite himself, Kip gasped. He immediately regretted the outburst, and hoped that none of the others heard him.
"Quiet, Wizzo," Pierce rebuked him, using Air Force shorthand for "weapon systems officer." Kip's mouth snapped shut and his face burned with embarrassment. He was glad his station was far ahead of the others, at the very front of the Raptor's huge cockpit. And that his back was turned to his teammates.
"Prepare for final approach." The radio didn't mask the tension in Lori's voice.
"Moving in," Pierce replied coolly. The Raptor moved closer to the rampaging monster. Then Lori, from Two, cleared them for action.
"You may attack Godzilla at will, Raptor-One," she declared.
Kip's sweaty hands gripped the weapon's control stick. At his station in the very front of the cockpit, he felt totally alone and far removed from the rest of Raptor's crew.
But their lives depended on him, nonetheless. He looked up from his heads-up display, and through the windshield. Almost simultaneously, Godzilla's neck twisted, his feral head turned toward the aircraft.
The creature seemed to stare right at Kip, who immediately felt a surge of panic. Sweat trickled down his back under the olive-drab flight suit. "Prepare to relinquish control," Kip finally said, with much more confidence than he felt. His heart raced and he prepared to take over control of Raptor-One.
As the weapon systems officer, it was Kip's job to take complete command of the aircraft while they were in attack mode. He not only selected and fired a multitude of exotic weapons at Godzilla, but he also piloted the aircraft.
Being the "wizzo" was the hardest job in the cockpit... and a job everybody had fought for. Kip still didn't understand why he had been chosen. He was probably the only team member who didn't want the task.
Kip swallowed hard and focused on the mission.
"Weapons officer to take command of the aircraft at the count of three," he announced, his voice tight.
"Three. Two. One... mark!"
Pierce felt his control stick go slack. He loosened his grip and sat back in the pilot's chair. His job was done. He was just a passenger now. Dead weight. I hate this part, he thought. Pierce felt frustrated and helpless as the rookie moved the Raptor into attack position.
"Watch out for the buildings at three o'clock," Lori warned from Two. Kip slowed his lateral movement and moved forward again - still dangerously close to the skyscrapers on their right.
Martin and Pierce exchanged worried glances.
"You're too close to the buildings, Kip," Tia warned him. "And you're too low. Wa
tch out for Godzilla's tail."
Kip eased the stick back, concentrating on his targeting computer, which was in the process of locking on to the monster.
Kip chose to lead the attack with cadmium missiles. He touched the appropriate keys on his pad. They opened the shielded missile bays on the Raptor's wings.
But Godzilla wasn't waiting for the Raptor to make the first move. The creature's eyes never left the oncoming aircraft. As the Raptor neared Godzilla, he became more agitated. The creature's lips curled and a low rumble erupted from his throat. Instinctively, the kaiju recognized One as a threat.
Suddenly, Godzilla's head reared back and his eyes narrowed. Blue electricity danced along his three rows of dorsal spines.
"He's going to fire his radioactive rays!" Lori cried from Raptor-Two. Godzilla was about to utilize his most terrible weapon - the powerful radioactive fire that originated in pockets of radioactivity in his chest and burst from his mouth.
Kip heard the warning, but he reacted a split second too late. Godzilla's maw yawned, and superheated blue rays spewed forth. The radioactive fire enveloped the Raptor's cockpit windshields, fuselage, and wing surfaces.
"Wing damage!" Martin announced, scanning the readouts. As he watched, two sets of warning lights flashed. Then the alarm klaxon announced that there was a fire on board the Raptor.
"The cadmium missiles are exploding in the missile bays!" Martin cried, his fingers flying across his keypad.
Damn! Kip thought, instantly closing the missile bay blast shields, though he knew full well it was too late for that. Kip cursed himself. I opened the missile bays too early, he realized.
While Martin activated the emergency fire system, Tia handled damage control. Pierce reached out and gripped his control stick again, ready to wrest control of the aircraft away from Kip as soon as he could.
Meanwhile, Kip tried to move out of Godzilla's line of fire. But the torrent of radioactive breath kept on coming at them. Not even the Raptor, which was coated with the same material that protected the space shuttle from the heat of re-entry, could withstand this kind of punishment for long.
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