by JE Gurley
“How long do we have?”
The DRS detectors had given them only hours advance warning for the first Kaiju. The Laser Interferometer Space Antenna hurriedly launched and placed in Earth-Sol L1 orbit after Kaiju Kiribati arrived, had increased the detection of gravity waves tenfold, improving the warning time to eight days for the ten creatures now rampaging in Europe.
“The first ten will arrive in four days; the others, a week later.”
Walker’s chest tightened. It was barely enough time to determine landing sites and move teams into position, even if he had enough trained teams to do the job. “Why such a short a lead time for the first swarm?”
The Secretary waved his hands in the air to display his agitation. “They mentioned something about planetary alignment and the grouping of the pods. I don’t know, Major. It doesn’t matter. Bottom line is we’re about to be hit hard.”
Walker shifted in his seat. “Up until now, the Nazir tactics stymied me. They are obviously superior technologically, but seemed haphazard in their attacks. Three Kaiju, and then only one – it didn’t make sense.” He sighed. “Ten Kaiju in Europe and thirty more inbound. I guess they got some new generals.”
“Maybe they underestimated us before. We sure as hell underestimated them. They mean business this time.”
“I’ll retrieve Costas from London, and we’ll start building more Kaiju Killer teams.”
“By all means bring Sergeant Costas here, but we have a different task in mind for you.”
Walker’s senses tingled with dread premonition. He wasn’t going to like what the Secretary had to say. “Different?” he asked.
“What do you know about Project Javelin?”
Walker squirmed in his seat. He was certain that he was supposed to know nothing about it, but his friend Gate Rutherford had let slip the name during a conversation a few weeks earlier. “I’ve heard the name mentioned,” he replied.
Robinson raised his eyebrows. “I imagine you know quite a bit more, but we’ll let that slide for now. Are you familiar with the SR-80 Lance?”
“A little,” he hedged. He didn’t know how much of his previous missions the Secretary was aware. “The Kaiju in Nevada, Nusku, intended to destroy the base at Groom Lake where the new orbital aircraft were being tested.”
Robinson smiled. “And you stopped it. Equipped with a smaller version of the Kaiju gravity drive, the Lance is now capable of interplanetary flight.” He paused and gazed at Walker as if offering a challenge. “We are equipping twenty of the Lances with nuclear missiles, attaching them and a couple of habitat modules to a framework with a much larger gravity drive engine, and sending it to confront the aliens. Project Javelin, a weapon aimed at the heart of the aliens.”
Walker didn’t know what to say. He was delighted they were going to at long last take the fight to the Nazir, but it seemed a pitiful response and much too late to save the planet in view of the impending invasion. “An apt name, I guess.”
“You will lead the assault team.”
The Secretary’s words caught him by surprise. “Me, sir? I’m no pilot.”
“You won’t have to fly. In addition to the Lance pilots, we’re sending a select strike team of ten specialists. You’ll be in command of an assault team consisting of members of your Kaiju Killer teams. The Lance group will be at your disposal, but commanded by an Air Force colonel. Your task is to assess the situation as you find it and decide on an effective plan of attack. It requires on-the-spot analysis and quick thinking. You’ve proven yourself capable of both.”
The idea of hurtling through over 5 billion miles of space did not appeal to him, but striking a decisive blow against the aliens did. “I’m honored, sir, but what about the inbound Kaiju? Wouldn’t current K-Team members be better utilized training new recruits?”
Robinson frowned. “Not your problem, I’m afraid. The U.N. Security Council is considering more drastic measure for the newly arriving Kaiju.”
Walker was incredulous. The Secretary was talking about nukes, and the aliens purposefully aimed the Kaiju at heavily populated cities. “That could kill millions.”
Robinson clenched his jaw so tightly it quivered. His quick response indicated he had faced the same accusation before and did not like repeating himself. “We’re trying to save a world here, Major. Tens of thousands or even millions against billions – what would you do?”
Walker sank back into the seat. The Secretary was right. They could never train and field enough teams to handle so many Kaiju is such a short time. It had taken six months to train a dozen teams, and two of those were now gone.
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
“Believe me, I fought the decision. The President threatened to fire me if I opposed him. He’s in a difficult position. People are running scared and rightly so. The environmental groups raised holy hell over the release of toxic K-2 nanites into the ecosystem.” He chuckled, but it was not a humorous laugh. “As if the Kaiju aren’t doing enough damage, they’re worried about Mother Nature getting her panties in a wad. The U.N. speaks of evacuation as if it were an easy task. Millions are already on the move. Where do the city populations go? How do we get them there? How do we house and feed them?” He waved his hands again. “Ah, enough bitching. It’s going to happen no matter what you and I do or think. God help us if any of these new Kaiju hit here. We’re still reeling from the last attack.”
“When, sir?”
“You will leave in three days.”
“What about Costas? He’s capable of taking over my job training Kaiju Killer Teams.”
“Yes, he is, but Costas will accompany you.”
Walker smiled. “He’ll love that.”
A faint trace of a grin curved the Secretary’s lips. “Better you deliver the news than me. Go get some rest. The next few days will be hectic.”
In spite of the fact the general was not in uniform, Walker stood at attention and saluted. He left the Secretary’s office wondering if he could find a quiet corner to perform his Dhuhr midday prayers. His need for solace had just grown exponentially.
* * * *
“Haumea,” Costas asked, wrinkling his brow. “Is that in Jersey, ‘cause you know I don’t like Jersey?”
Sergeant William Costas filled the tiny wrought iron ice cream parlor chair with his huge frame, which contained not an ounce of fat. In his bright red tee shirt and Bermuda shorts, he looked more like a tourist than a master sergeant in the United States Army. The flowing Fu Manchu moustache he now sported wafted in the breeze. His face and arms bore faint scars from previous Kaiju encounters. Walker had chosen the outdoor café both for privacy and because he needed the fresh night air to clear his head. After leaving the Secretary of Homeland Security’s office, he had spent the intervening nine hours since summoning Costas in meetings with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the President’s chief of staff, and a video conference with the commandant at Groom Lake.
“It’s a chunk of rock in the Kuiper Belt, you big doofus,” he said, knowing that Costas knew where Haumea was. He just liked to play dense sometimes. “We’re attacking the Nazir on their home ground.”
Costas tried his best to look offended. “Moi, in a spaceship? You’ve got to be kidding. All that distance with no broads and no booze. Why, it ain’t human.”
Walker made a show of searching for someone. “Who called you human? Point them out to me. They should be ostracized.”
“Hey now. I’m potty trained and everything.” Though they were the only customers at the café, he leaned in closer to Walker. “You really mean we’re going out to meet the aliens, maybe kick some Nazir ass.” Costas smiled and rubbed his hands together with unashamed glee. “I could handle that.”
Walker smiled at Costas’s comment. Mark Talent, a Tohono O’odham Native American from Arizona whom they had rescued from a stricken cruise ship, had joined his team inside Kaiju Kiribati in the South Pacific. The aptly named Talent had discovered a talent for killing the monstrous
creatures attacking the cruise ship and inhabiting the innards of the Kaiju. He had also uncovered a series of markings unlike the indecipherable cursive alien script. The lines resembled the Latin alphabet letters N, A, Z, I, and R. Their true pronunciation and meaning were anyone’s guess, but Nazir had stuck as the name of the aliens.
He wished Talent was going with them to Haumea, but Talent was a civilian content to remain in Arizona and train people to combat the Kaiju.
Costas reached for his beer and finished it off in one gulp. Walker, as a devout Muslim, drank only coffee and tea. That lapse might offend the mullahs, but he was American. Not drinking coffee was un-American. He had skipped dinner. His lunch still sat heavy on his stomach, roiling in the digestive acid ensuing from his troubling meeting with the Secretary. At sunset, he had dutifully performed salat for his Maghrib prayers, but neither they nor his noonday Dhuhr prayers had helped settle his queasy stomach. He suspected he could not pray away his problems. Sometimes, direct action was required.
“It won’t be fun or easy. We have no intel as to what we’ll face once we get there, but we have no choice.”
Costas stared at Walker’s face and frowned. He jabbed a finger at Walker. “I know that expression. You’re holding something back. Spit it out.”
“Thirty Kaiju are on their way here.”
Costas paled; then swore. “Holy shit! Ain’t we got grief enough?”
Walker agreed with Costas’ sentiments. “We can’t beat them. The U.N. has decided to nuke the landing sites.”
Costas slammed his beefy fist onto the table. Walker grabbed his glass before it bounced off the table. “They’re fools! Hell, they’ll do as much damage as those ebony bastards.”
A waiter standing by the door started toward them. Walker waved him back. “They’re running scared. We’ve managed to stop only two Kaiju. Eight more are still loose in Europe. The European Union is breaking down as countries hoard vital resources. Thirty more?” He shook his head. “We can’t win.”
“Still seems like we ought to stay here and fight.”
“We could never defeat them conventionally. If we destroy the alien manufacturing facility on Haumea, it might give them pause to reconsider invading our planet.”
“How long will this little jaunt take?” Costas leaned back in his seat. “I only ask because I’ve got a date lined up with the Demarcos twins. I promised them a visit to the Lincoln bedroom in the White House.”
“According to the commandant at Groom Lake, the ship they’ve constructed can make the outbound leg in ten days. The return trip … who knows?”
Costas’ face turned grim. “We might not have to worry about that.”
Costas, as always, was direct and to the point. Walker liked that about Costas. Consider yourself dead already and you didn’t have to worry about dying. “There’s always that possibility.
“Just you and me and some fly boys, huh?”
“We’ll have a ground assault team of ten drawn from the ranks of the K Teams, all volunteers. If the aliens are dug into that rock, and I’m assuming they are, we’ll have to go in and root them out.”
Costas performed an exaggerated shudder that made his jowls flap. He rubbed the shoulder injured by a Wasp inside Nusku, the scar a vivid reminder of the dangers they faced. “I suppose they’ll have Fleas, Ticks, Wasps, and Squid for defense.”
Walker shared his sergeant’s disgust. Each creature born inside the Kaiju crèches was designed for a specific purpose and deadly. He had a special hatred for the Squid introduced by Kaiju Kiribati, as dangerous aboard a ship as they were in the water.
“All the classic critters you’ve come to love, Sergeant. Maybe a few more surprises as well.”
“Not too many I hope. I’m a fragile individual. My doctor told me to avoid excess excitement.”
Walker smiled. “What about the Demarcos twins?”
“Them? That falls under relaxation.” Costas’ face clouded. “What if one of the new batches of Kaiju is headed for Groom Lake? They tried to take it out once before.”
Walker had considered that possibility. “In that case, my friend, we’re royally screwed.”
As he sat there, allowing Costas time to digest all he had revealed to him, a young man walked by carrying a sign reading ‘End Days are here. Kaiju are God’s angels.’ Costas growled and rose from his seat. Walker nudged him in the knee with his foot.
“Sit down, Sergeant. I don’t need you in a jail cell for roughing up a Judgment Day acolyte.”
Costas sat back down, but he did not appear happy with Walker’s admonition. “Ignorant bastard needs his ass kicked. You know where I’d like to shove that sign he’s carrying.”
“Maybe,” Walker agreed, frowning as he watched the young man trudging down the sidewalk as if the weight of the world pressed him into the concrete, “but let someone else do it. He has the right to protest, even if he is an ignorant bastard.”
“It’s un-American.”
Walker sighed. “People are afraid. It looks like we’re losing the war, and people turn to God. Some just go overboard. There have always been End-of-the-World cults.”
“But these guys start fires and try to hamper evacuations. They want people to die.”
“I’ve heard that too. I don’t know if it’s true, but no one on their side is denying it.”
“Well, if one gets in my face, it’ll be the end of his fucked up world.” He shook his head. “The wrong people get eaten.”
Walker let Costas have the last word. The Judgment Day cult disgusted him as well. It was giving up, and he wasn’t about to give up, not while he still breathed.
3
August 11, Paris, France –
The stench inside the sewer was not as bad as LaBonner had expected. The cesspool odor was strong enough to singe the hair in his nostrils, but he had grown up in the Louisiana bayous with an outhouse instead of an inside bathroom. A similar pong permeated the Paris sewers, the familiar ammonia smell on a hot summer day. He rushed along the narrow, raised walkway beside the flowing stream of effluent, trying not to notice the water’s red taint from blood seeping into the sewers. Dozens of water pipes, pneumatic tubes, and electrical conduits ran along the ceiling and walls, servicing the city through the 1300 miles of sewer tunnels. The Paris sewers channeled 1.2 million cubic meters of waste to the treatment plants each day, a veritable river of sludge produced by the city’s two million inhabitants and eight million people living in the suburbs.
He paused for a moment at a junction to get his bearings. Plaques on the walls bore the names of the streets above them, eliminating wandering aimlessly through the maze of tunnels. He was glad his Cajun parents had drummed French into his head as a child. The northern branch of the junction led to the Sewer Museum situated along the banks of the Seine. He pointed down a tunnel running southeast.
“This way. The Rue de Grenelle runs to the Rue de Sulpice.”
“Where are the rats?”
LaBonner threw Spence a questioning look. “Why?”
“I heard the Paris sewers swarmed with rats big as a West Virginia coon dog. Where are they?”
“They’re smart,” Chalmers answered. “They hauled ass out of here.”
LaBonner hoped Chalmers was right, but the answer seemed too simple. He didn’t have time to dwell the reason for the lack of rats, but he kept it in the back of his mind, one more nagging thought to vex him. The tunnel was narrower than the previous tunnel and the ceiling lower. They ran in single file. 18-inch diameter cast iron pipes crossed the tunnel, forcing them to duck beneath them, slowing their progress. The section of sewer was old. Chips in the plaster revealed areas of the original stone casing from the 1800s. The walls bore the names of past sewer workers and intrepid visitors scratched into the plaster with pocketknives and tools, forever frozen in time. LaBonner wondered if the names would remain long after the city had fallen.
When they reached Rue de Sulpice, lack of sleep and fatigue during the days o
f keeping just ahead of the Kaiju began to catch up with him. LaBonner leaned against the sewer wall and closed his eyes. The ghosts of his dead men’s faces haunted him, pleading him to make their sacrifices worthwhile.
“Take five,” he said, fighting to catch his breath.
He repositioned the heavy bag of extra ammo magazines on his shoulder. The strap had rubbed a raw groove into his flesh. He suspected Spence and Mayer, lugging the heavy rocket launchers, and Chalmers with his heavy minigun, were in worse shape than he was. They all badly needed sleep and a hot meal, but it seemed unlikely they would have the opportunity in the foreseeable future. The air was thick and damp, difficult to pull into his lungs, and smelled like the aftermath of a battle, a sickly stench with which he was intimately familiar.
“That ain’t merde,” Chalmers noted aloud. He had recognized the fetid odor as well – rotting flesh.
Sniffing the air, LaBonner traced the foul odor to a small oval opening in the wall, a cobblestoned side tunnel. A trickle of water ran from the tunnel into the main sewer at their feet. Blood stained the water red. The warm air pouring from the tunnel smelled of an abattoir.
No rest for the weary. “Lock and load,” he said. He had delivered the same short homily so many times it had almost become a prayer or an incantation to guard against death.
He froze at a faint scratching sound from inside the tunnel. It could have been the missing rats, but he doubted it. They couldn’t be that lucky. He shined his flashlight into the tunnel and quickly drew back, as his light fell upon the angular outlines of dozens of Fleas placing dead rats onto a pile of carcasses reaching almost to the ceiling. From beneath the rats, two pairs of human legs protruded, two unlucky innocents who had sought shelter in the underground sewers as had his team. It was a grisly sight, a vivid reminder of events continually taking place above them. The creatures assimilated anything, living or dead, into the Kaiju food chain.