Godzilla 2000

by Marc Cerasini

  During the meal, Lori Angelo was unusually quiet. She cou1dn't forget the haunted eyes of that mute little girl she saw on television, nor the troubling feeling that her dreams had been more than mere dreams.

  As the meal ended, General Taggart made an appearance. He ordered them all to report to the front door of Hangar 13 at 1200. Then he left the cafeteria without another word.

  * * *

  All of the members of the G-Force team, including Colonel Krupp and Dr. Birchwood, were assembled in front of Hangar 13 fifteen minutes ahead of schedule.

  None of them had ever been inside 13, the largest hangar at Nellis Air Force Base. It was so large that it could comfortably house a B52 bomber.

  Nellis AFB was close to an area of the Nevada desert commonly known as Dreamland, because so many strange aircraft were designed and tested there. Much of the base had been abandoned in the mid-nineties when the Pentagon realized that the activities at the top-secret base were no longer much of a secret.

  The place was so famous that it had even passed into modern myth and legend. According to UFOlogists, Nellis was one of the possible locations of the infamous "Hangar 18," where the Air Force stashed the dead aliens they recovered from the Roswell "UFO" crash of 1947.

  Indeed, when she first arrived, Lori was familiar with the stories, and she was disappointed to learn that there were only sixteen hangars at Dreamland!

  When G-Force was established by a joint decree of Congress and the president, the Air Force dumped the program - called Project Valkyrie to hide its true purpose - at Nellis. By the late 1990s, even the UFOlogists had stopped hanging around.

  As they stood in the hot Nevada sun, Kip noticed that Toby and Pierce both seemed to be bursting with excitement. Even the usually taciturn Colonel Krupp was smiling. Tia, Martin, and Kip all shared meaningful glances as the purpose of their visit became obvious.

  There was a rumble of heavy machinery, and the huge hangar doors began to grind open. A hush fell over the group as they faced the Raptor.

  Raptor-One had been designed on the same principles as the Bell/Boeing V-22 Osprey tilt-rotor aircraft. But the Raptor was twice as large, with a wingspan of 175 feet and length of over 100 feet.

  Like the Osprey, the Raptor's wings seemed short for the thickness of the fuselage, and the huge turboshaft engines were mounted at the very tips of the wings. The two engines were topped with four-bladed propellers that were fifty feet long.

  The Raptor lifted off the ground with the propellers in the horizontal position. Then computer-assisted controls tilted the engines forward until the propellers were vertical. The engines could be adjusted at various angles, allowing the aircraft to slow, speed forward, or hover like a conventional helicopter.

  From the side, the stubby fuselage of the Raptor was thick in the front, with a mass of windows making up the entire nose of the aircraft, but tapered in the back. Like the Osprey, the Raptor had twin vertical tail stabilizers, but they were mounted on the fuselage - not on the swept-back rear horizontal wings.

  The Raptor was a propeller-driven airplane, so it was not as fast as more conventional jet aircraft. But it didn't have to be. It was designed to battle Godzilla, not high-tech fighters. Its top cruising speed of 250 miles per hour was just right, because the real magic of the Raptor lay in its defensive and offensive capabilities.

  Behind the cockpit, which was filled with the most advanced avionics, targeting, communications, and radar equipment, the Raptor was not much more than a huge ammunition bay. Its heavy-lifting capabilities enabled it to carry a wide variety of anti-kaiju weapons - from dozens of cadmium missiles to thousands of rounds of 50mm armor-piercing uranium shells for the four Avenger cannons that ran along its fuselage.

  The wing pylons were designed to carry two standard cruise missiles - one per wing - and an array of smaller missiles. The cadmium missiles, Maverick air-to-surface missiles, and laser-guided smart bombs were all in armored bays in the wings themselves.

  As a defense against Godzilla's radioactive breath, Raptor-One was almost completely coated with a lightweight variation of the reinforced carbon-carbon (RCC) tiles that protected the space shuttle from the heat of reentry.

  The propeller blades were made completely of reinforced carbon-carbon, and RCC was even used to cover the missile bays and the cannons, which were exposed only when they were being utilized.

  The cockpit transparencies were made from double panes of a revolutionary new translucent Teflon, which repelled heat instantly. This allowed the Raptor to take a direct blast of Godzilla's breath, with temperatures in excess of 1,200 degrees F, without suffering damage.

  The overall color scheme of Raptor-One was called "cloud gray," and there were jagged lines of purple and mauve cutting across its back and sides. Scientists conjectured that Godzilla might have trouble spotting the aircraft in the sky with this jangled color scheme.

  Kip stared at the fighting machine with awe. Though he'd flown the simulator dozens of times - the mockpit was an exact duplicate of the Raptor-One's cockpit - and he knew the schematics, the performance capabilities, and the dimensions of the aircraft by heart, seeing the gigantic airplane in the flesh was still breathtaking.

  I'm supposed to fly that? Kip thought nervously.

  Toby whistled in admiration. Pierce was so awestruck that he couldn't stop staring, despite the fact that he'd flown this very aircraft before it was armed. Tia and Martin exchanged glances, clearly impressed.

  "She's beautiful," Lori whispered. General Taggart stepped up behind the astonished group.

  "There she is," he announced with pride. "Raring and ready to go. I'll give you a guided tour."

  "When do we take her up, General?" Kip asked hesitantly.

  "0600 tomorrow morning, son," he replied.

  * * *

  Saturday, May 29, 1999, 1:25 A.M.

  Minnow, Alaska

  The aged shaman came down from a tundra village near the Noatak River in a very remote area of Alaska far above the Seward Peninsula, where the Athabaskan people still lived by subsistence and followed the ancient traditions.

  He'd been moving south for many weeks, stopping in any native Alaskan village he passed - no matter which tribe the town belonged to. Shortly after he arrived in each town, the shaman called the elders together and requested that all the men build a qasgiq - sweat bath - and join him in a purification ceremony.

  He had much to tell them, the shaman claimed, and so they should be spiritually prepared to hear his Words.

  The men in Minnow, a tiny village on the shore of Norton Sound, heeded the shaman. They left their comfortable wooden houses and their color televisions and their satellite dishes and constructed a low structure out of sticks, walrus bone, and seal skins in the way of their forefathers. Then the men of the village stripped off their clothes and entered the qasgiq.

  As per tradition, the shaman presided over the ritual ceremony. He stoked the fire built in the central pit, then banked it and tossed in some green branches to create smoke.

  Soon the younger members of the tribe were coughing and complaining, but the elders hushed them.

  Craig Westerly, a young anthropologist from Columbia University in New York City, was also inside the qasgiq. He had been living among the native Alaskans - or what those in the "Lower Forty-eight" might call Eskimos - for six months. As soon as he heard about the ceremony, he approached the old shaman and pleaded with the ancient medicine man to be admitted to the qasgiq. To his surprise, he was granted permission immediately.

  "The inua - spirits - want everyone to know what is coming," the old man had said.

  Westerly endured the heat and the smoke without complaint, and his quiet determination impressed some of the other natives who before had only laughed at the white man who tried to understand their ways.

  As the smoke filled the tiny structure, one of the elders handed Westerly a bundle of tightly Woven reeds and showed him how to cover his mouth to filter out the worst of the smoke.
The intensity of the heat increased, and the smoke began to sting and burn his eyes. But Westerly was happy. He was able to observe firsthand this important ancient ritual of the native Alaskans.

  Soon the temperature inside the sweat house became so intense that the men's skin turned red and some of them began to roll about the floor in agony. Westerly was one of them.

  When the fire finally died down and the hut began to cool, some of the men helped Westerly to the shore of a nearby lake. He screamed in shock and agony when the men threw him into the icy waters. There was no shame in this. Many of the younger native Alaskans cried out as loud when they were thrown into the lake.

  When the shaman felt that the men were prepared, he led them back to the qasgiq. They sang songs and told stories until the sun set, at around eleven o'clock. It was May, and daylight lasted almost twenty hours.

  After the villagers swapped tales, the shaman rose and finally began to speak.

  "For six long months I have dreamed," the old man said in a halting voice. "The dream has bothered me."

  The other men listened with rapt attention as the shaman spoke. They knew that the dreams of a medicine man were portentous, and they listened to him without question.

  "Though my totem is the owl, I have dreamed only of the Thunderbird!"

  The native Alaskans gasped, and Craig Westerly noted their reaction. He knew he was hearing something important, and Westerly tried to memorize what the shaman said. He had to rely on memory, because no writing implements were permitted in the qasgiq.

  "Did the Thunderbird speak?" one of the villagers asked the shaman.

  The old man nodded. "The Thunderbird told me that it is awake. That it is coming on mighty wings to the places of man, for the Thunderbird may soon be needed."

  A ripple of fear swept the tiny hut as the men of the village digested this news.

  "What else did the Thunderbird say?" Westerly asked in the tongue of his hosts. Slowly, the shaman turned and gazed at the white man.

  "I have spoken with the Thunderbird in my dreams, lo these many nights," the shaman continued. "His spirit visits me when I sleep, and he spreads his red wings and spits fire and lightning..."

  Some of the villagers began to beat their drums and chant. One elder rose and danced naked around the sweat house, mumbling an ancient invocation.

  "And the Thunderbird has told me a great secret," the old man announced. "The Thunderbird has told me his name."

  The men all gasped in awe and amazement. Even the dancing man stopped in mid-step. Everyone gazed at the ancient shaman.

  There was great power in knowing a creature's true name, and this shaman possessed much power if he knew the true name of the Thunderbird.

  "Can you - can you speak this name?" the village elder stammered.

  The shaman nodded again, his eyes burning intently. "The Thunderbird's secret name is Rodan!"

  13

  THE HILLS ARE

  ALIVE WITH THE

  SOUND OF MONSTERS

  Sunday, May 30, 1999, 11:33 A.M.

  The Sierra Madre del Sur Mountains

  55 miles north of Jamiltepec, Mexico

  Robin Halliday had been chasing Varan more doggedly than the Mexican government. When the creature disappeared into the vast forests of the Yucatan Peninsula, the American public's interest in the monster disappeared as well.

  What Robin thought was going to be her big break - the live on-camera reports covering the monster's rampage south of the United States border - was all but forgotten by the network. Especially after the Kamacuras appeared in Kansas.

  Now Robin's old boss, Nick Gordon, along with his pal Brian Shimura, were covering the attack in Kansas. She snorted in disgust as she got ready for another day chasing the elusive Varan. It's the good ol' boy network, she thought. But at least that story is pretty much over.

  Robin brushed her long dark hair in front of a dirty, flyspecked mirror. She sighed as she gazed at her reflection.

  Look at me. I've only been out of the shower - or what passes for a shower - for fifteen minutes and I'm already sweating.

  She glanced hopefully up at the ceiling fan, but the machine was already going full blast. The blades turned in lazy circles, barely stirring the air in her sweltering hotel room.

  It's no better than every other town I've been in the last few days, she thought miserably. Nobody in rural Mexico seems to have heard of air conditioning.

  Actually, there was plenty of air conditioning, and soft beds, and sunny beaches, just 150 miles away.

  But Acapulco ain't where the action is, she reminded herself stubbornly. I'm here for a story... and I've already got a lead.

  When Robin was satisfied with her makeup, she donned her Banana Republic khaki shorts and hiking boots. Then she went to fetch her camera "man."

  Robin left her room and stepped into the narrow, uncarpeted hallway. There was an almost cool breeze flowing through the corridor from open windows on either end of the hallway.

  Robin went to the next room and banged on the door. She heard Linda mumble something from the other side of the room.

  "It's me, Robin," she said. "Open up."

  The door swung open and Robin saw her cameraperson, Linda Carlisle, still wrapped in a towel.

  "I got up late," Linda mumbled. "Be ready in a couple of minutes..."

  Robin rolled her eyes as she stepped into the other woman's hotel room. "Come on, Linda!" Robin whined. "We don't want to miss anything."

  Linda turned and faced the younger girl. "Listen, kid," she barked. "We've been chasing that monster for a week with no success. Trust me, this "lead" of yours is just another wild-goose chase. Varan's probably disappeared for another million years!"

  "No way, Lin!" Robin protested. "I got this story from official sources."

  "You mean Colonel Huerta?" said Linda dubiously. "He just wanted to get the gringa drunk and take advantage of her."

  "Which reminds me," Robin said. "When I'm interviewing a news source, don't drag me away. It's embarrassing!"

  "You're not even eighteen, Robin," Linda argued. "And you were in a bar, talking to a soldier..."

  "Jeez, Linda," Robin sighed. "You're only twenty-five yourself. And you are not my mother, so stop acting like her. Anyway, I only wanted to be social."

  Linda pulled some comfortable clothes out of the closet. No, I'm not your mother, Linda wanted to say. But somebody has to look after you. You're too young and headstrong to watch out for yourself...

  "Where's Mike?" Linda asked instead as she pulled on her shorts.

  "He's gone out to find some transportation," Robin answered as she checked herself in the mirror again. Linda had to elbow the girl aside to comb her own hair.

  Worst case of Diane Sawyer disease I ever saw! Linda thought sourly. There was another knock at the door.

  "Linda," a man's voice called from the other side. "Is Robin in there with you?"

  "Yeah, Mike," Linda replied. "We'll be right out."

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Robin, Linda, and their producer/director, Mike Timko, stood in front of the rickety hotel waiting for the rest of their team to show up.

  Five minutes later, Tony Batista skidded his battered Land Rover to a halt in front of them. Pete Hamilton, the sound man, was in the front seat next to him. From the way Pete looked, it was obvious he had been up partying all night with Tony.

  Linda had to admit that Batista, the young INN liaison officer for Mexico, knew his way around the country. And he knew all the hot spots, too. It gave Linda a good idea of the kind of journalists Tony Batista was used to escorting around.

  Once again, Linda wondered why she was even in this stupid business. I wanted to be a documentary filmmaker once, she remembered. Before I realized I would have to make a living.

  Now she was far from her Ohio home, traveling with two party animals, a workaholic director, and a teen princess. Worst of all, they were chasing a big lizard.

  Well, at least the cou
ntryside is nice...

  Everyone loaded up their stuff and climbed aboard the Land Rover. Then Tony raced through the narrow streets of Jamiltepec. To Linda's surprise, the usually jammed boulevards were practically empty - until they got near a splendid stone cathedral. The plaza around it was packed with townspeople.

  "What's going on here?" Robin asked. Linda almost moaned out loud, but Tony replied with the patience of a born diplomat.

  "It is Sunday, senorita," he answered from behind the wheel. "They are going to pray"

  "Oh," Robin replied.

  "There is food in the cooler, and drink as well," Tony offered. "There is juice, and there is coffee in the thermos."

  Linda was impressed with Tony's English. His accent was almost flawless.

  Bottles of orange juice were passed around. Only Pete Hamilton refused.

  "Come on, Pete," Linda teased. "Juice is good for a hangover." Pete's answer was to groan and slip on his sunglasses.

  They drove out of the town and into some rugged hills thick with trees. So far, the narrow dirt road remained clear and easily passable. Within a mile, they came upon a wide clearing.

  "Soon this area will be another resort hotel for tourists," Tony remarked. "Over there they are building a golf course..."

  They drove farther and higher along the dusty road. Soon the gentle, rolling hills gave way to the rugged Sierra Madre mountains. The verdant vegetation gradually changed to rocky cliffs and jagged outcroppings.

  "The village of Tehetepec is about five miles from here," Tony informed them. "It is an interesting place. The whole town is built around a manmade stone circle of pre-Columbian origin."

  "Do they know who built it?" Mike asked.

  "No," Tony replied, shaking his head. "No one knows who built it - or why. They do know it was built long before the coming of the Mayans and the Aztecs."