by JE Gurley
“Do you fear our fellow man?” Johan asked. “These vehicles bear the Papal crest.”
“Not everyone is Catholic, Your Holiness, and they are desperate. To many, these limos offer a means of escape.”
“Perhaps I have more faith in my fellow man.”
“If there were no need for us, Your Holiness, the Swiss Guard would be in Switzerland, not Vatican City.”
Johan had no retort for that. The Oberstlieutenant took his job seriously. Colonel Bossard had accepted his role as papal bodyguard, agreeing to accompany the new pope to Malta, while the remainder of his men joined in the battle against the Kaiju and its deadly minions. He would not fault the Oberstlieutenant’s judgment.
The streets filled with people fleeing in all directions in their panic. No authority directed them from the city or to shelters. With O’Bannon leading the way, the two black vehicles weaved a dance in and around the throng, ignoring people pounding on the side of the vehicle. Many of them made the sign of the cross and burst into tears when they recognized the papal crest of two keys wrapped in red cord. They could not distinguish the vehicles’ occupants through the dark glass, but Johan had an excellent view of them. He tried to meet each pair of eyes, allowing their desperate gaze to sear his memory so that he would not forget their anguish.
They reached the SS1 without mishap, but crossing the horde of refugees along the A90 corridor proved difficult. If not for the ingenuity of Colonel Bossard and the Swiss Guard, it would have been impossible. They blocked traffic and moved stalled vehicles from the roadway. Against Bossard’s wishes, Johan stood beside the road blessing the travelers as they passed. The regalia of his office, his Triregnum, his red pallium, and mantle were locked away safely in the trunk, but in his long, flowing, white cassock, white zucchetto skullcap, and white pellegrina draped around his shoulders, newly elected Pope Clement XVI was easily discernible among the flow of people. They did not yet know his name, but they recognized his authority. He held his hands out to the knot of people gathered around him. The Ring of the Fisherman, so recently gracing the finger of Pope Francis, was clearly visible on his finger.
To those headed south, he said, “Go north. South lies only death and devastation. Seek the hills.” To those headed north, he said, “Help your brothers and sisters. We must face this trial together.”
Johan’s heart broke at the shared look of misery and hopelessness on the faces of the refugees – men and women so weary they stumbled with each step, children dull-eyed and weeping clinging to parents’ hands, and the elderly and infirm pausing often to rest. None looked back. Most did not look forward. They simply moved, a slow tide of humanity flowing around stalled automobiles and highway guardrails like rocks in a stream.
“The way is open, Your Holiness,” Bossard said a short time later. “We must leave.”
With great reluctance, Johan entered the limo. O’Bannon noted his disheartened expression. “You turned them north, Your Holiness. You probably saved lives here today.”
Johan took no solace from the priest’s words. He shook his head. “Not enough. They need more than my pitiful prayers and a few words of caution.”
“It looks as if your prayers have been answered, Your Holiness,” Bossard said.
Johan looked of the window. A flight of eight Eurofighter Typhoons from Grosseto flew overhead in formation, and then fired the afterburners on the jet’s twin Eurojet EJ200 engines and veered east toward Rome at Mach 1.5. Slung beneath each delta wing were three RBS-15 air-to-ground missiles, two KEPD-350 Taurus missiles, and a GBU-10 Paveway II bomb.
“Yes!” O’Bannon shouted. “That should do some damage to that big behemoth.”
“Sorry, Father,” Bossard replied. “Normal tactical weapons are useless against a Kaiju. They’re on their way to blast the hell out of the Fleas and Wasps.” His face reddened and he glanced at Johan. “Sorry for my language, Your Holiness.”
Johan flashed a quick grin. “It is not a problem, my son. I share your enthusiasm.”
The small caravan passed through the edge of Massimina and climbed into the hills surrounding Malagrotto where they encountered the first Fleas Johan had seen other than on television. Like airborne troops, Wasps cradled the smaller Fleas to their thoraxes and dropped them onto the ground, where they massed and attacked people and animals. Signs of their passage lined the roads, dead bodies and the carcasses of slaughtered animals in piles awaiting conveyance to the Kaiju. A line of the yellow-and-black creatures marked the path between Malagrotto and the Kaiju.
The stench was powerful even inside the air-conditioned vehicles. O’Bannon drove slowly, hoping to avoid the creature’s interest, but their luck did not hold long. The tan creatures surrounded the vehicles, blocking their way and stabbing at the armored metal with their sharp legs. None of the appendages pierced through the thick door.
“We can’t plow through them,” O’Bannon warned. “There are too many.”
“Stop the vehicle,” Bossard told him. He exited the limo firing his HK MP7 in short bursts. The Guard in the rear vehicle followed suit. Unlike armored Wasps, Fleas were vulnerable to small weapons fire. The 30mm armor-piercing bullets easily punctured their brittle exoskeleton, shattering limbs and organs. Soon, Flea bodies littered the ground around the two limos. When Wasps detected the carnage with their sensitive olfactory organs, two of the Guard produced an RPG launcher from the rear of the vehicle. With one loading and the other firing, they brought down half a dozen of the creatures.
O’Bannon noticed the new swarm of Wasps rising from the buildings of Malagrotto before anyone else, but they were upon the group before he could shout a warning. He honked the horn, getting Bossard’s attention. Bossard waved the others to their vehicle, but the two men firing the RPG, caught up in their killing frenzy, did not see him. Wasps descended on the second limo. The Guard with the RPG launcher fired it at point-blank range at a Wasp. The rocket bounced off its armored exoskeleton and exploded. Shrapnel killed both men. Two others died as Wasps riddled their bodies with stingers. Bossard covered two men as they ran for the first limo. They dove into the back seat just as Bossard slammed shut the door.
The driver of the rear vehicle, now alone, gunned the engine to ram the Wasps on the ground. The creatures surrounded the vehicle. Its armor, able to stop small arms fire and hand grenades, was no match for the hardened stingers that pierced the doors, roof, and windows. They clung to the limo, as the driver, unable to see, careened out of control. The vehicle struck a building and exploded. The Wasps continued their rampage against the engulfed vehicle heedless of the flames from the burning gasoline.
Bossard took one last look at his dead men and waved O’Bannon forward. Johan looked out the side-view mirror at the men sworn to protect him. They had lost over half the Swiss Guard and had only driven a few miles. He feared more would die before they reached Malta.
8
August 12, USS Javelin –
“It’s even more beautiful than I had imagined,” Walker said. He could not keep the awe from his voice, sounding like a pre-teen boy getting his first glimpse of a girl’s breasts. The Earth spun slowly below him with only a few wispy, cottony clouds shrouding his view of the Nevada desert and the West Coast. It was a breathtaking view; one everyone should have the opportunity to experience during his or her lifetime.
“It never gets old,” Sakiri replied. Walker noted the colonel seemed more at ease in his ship, now a pilot and not a commander.
“It looks so different from the NASA videos or the movies.”
“It’s too large for a television or movie screen to capture properly. That would be like seeing the Grand Canyon through a keyhole.”
Walker sat enfolded by the SR-80 Lance’s copilot seat behind Sakiri. The seat swiveled 360-degrees to provide access to the array of weapons panels, communications equipment, radar screens, and video screens surrounding the seat. Fifteen of the Lances had already ferried personnel to the Javelin, including Costas and Walker�
�s team. Four more of the craft had departed from Ellison with the team of NASA technicians. He and Sakiri were among the last to make the journey to the Javelin. Sakiri’s last-minute meeting with the base commander troubled him. They had not invited him, and he didn’t like secrets.
Walker looked down at the vivid scar across the land that had been San Francisco and the path of destruction leading southward along the coast, a dark line amid a sea of lights. The Golden Gate Bridge was still under construction, as were many of the city’s toppled skyscrapers. It would be years before many of the surviving population returned to their former homes. Tens of thousands had died in the attack. Unlike Chicago, San Francisco had no warning before the Kaiju struck. There had been no time to prepare for the tsunami it caused or to flee the creature’s rampage. Tent cities dotted the outskirts of the ruins and clustered in former parklands. It reminded him of photos of the aftermath of the great San Francisco earthquake of 1906. As then, the city would rebuild, unless the Kaiju struck the West Coast again.
“We’ll reach the Javelin in fifteen minutes. We’ll launch right after we dock.”
“They’re not wasting any time.”
“If we wait any longer, we’ll have to take a longer elliptical orbit around Mars to avoid the Kaiju.”
“What would that matter?” Walker asked. “We won’t burn fuel.”
“With a gravity drive, it’s not a matter of fuel; it’s a matter of consumables. Every extra liter of oxygen or water or pound of food takes up additional space. It’s going to be close quarters for the next few weeks as it is. An extra day or two of travel time would make it real cozy.”
“We wouldn’t want that. Costas doesn’t do crowds well.”
“Your sergeant seems a bit, uh …”
“Unorthodox?” Walker suggested. He had heard it all before. “He has his own way of doing things, but in a fight, you couldn’t have a better man at your side.”
Around them, stars blossomed in the darkness, a thousand colored pinpoints of light. The closest was farther than they were going, but they were on no short hike. They would be going farther than man or woman had ever ventured with all the inherent risks of such a long flight, and at the end, they would face an enemy they knew little about.
Walker’s first sight of the Javelin did not inspire confidence. Rather than a sleek, pointed weapon aimed at the enemy as the name implied, it resembled the open-girder skeleton of a skyscraper under construction. Two cylindrical modules graced the front of the craft, while a third containing the gravity drive nestled in a framework at the craft’s stern. A smaller module in the bow was the bridge. Between the habitat modules and the gravity drive compartment nestled three smaller spherical tanks containing the ship’s oxygen and water supply. An array of antennae and dishes protruding from the bottom of the craft provided communications links, radar, and gravity wave detectors.
Nineteen Lances attached to the framework like limpet mines. Walker gripped his seat tightly, as Sakiri maneuvered his Lance into an open slot between two craft. Only a slight bump rattled the craft as it settled into its niche; then, another jolt as two clamps extended to secure it in place. There was no walkway, safety cables, or nets. To reach the airlock, he would have to exit the Lance and float across open space. That was the part Walker had been dreading. Operating in zero gravity had not been a factor in his all too brief training with a space suit. He was glad they were on the night side of the planet. He was afraid vertigo might overwhelm him staring down at the Earth below him in full daylight.
Colonel Sakiri went first. His graceful movements showed he was no rookie in space. He pushed off evenly with both legs, did a somersault midway, and landed feet first on the narrow ledge in front of the airlock’s outer hatch. He grabbed the bar beside the door with one hand and waved Walker over with the other. Walker took a deep breath and pushed off, trying to emulate the colonel. He focused on the airlock, ignoring the splendor around him to avoid dizziness. He would have time to appreciate the view later. In spite of his efforts and his intense hour-long training course, he twisted and began to tumble, grabbing frantically for the holding bar beside the airlock door. As he sailed past it, Sakiri caught his outstretched hand and reeled him in like a garden hose.
“Not bad for your first spacewalk,” Sakiri said, as Walker grasped the bar with his other hand and planted his feet against the module.
He felt foolish, like a green recruit. “I’ll have to do better than that to fight the Nazir,” he replied, fighting to keep his excited breathing off the open com line.
“We’ll have time for spacesuit training along the way. By the time we reach Haumea, you’ll be an expert.”
In spite of Sakiri’s reassurance, he doubted it. “I’m a Ranger. Spacewalking is like parachuting – necessary to get us to the fight. Unlike you flyboys, a Ranger fights best with both feet planted firmly on the ground.”
Sakiri’s voice became serious. “That will be difficult on Haumea with its low gravity. We’re all going to have to learn a few new tricks for this war.”
“True enough.”
The airlock door was almost as wide as the module. When Sakiri punched in the code, the door popped outward two inches, and then soundlessly slid to one side. The airlock was large enough to accommodate a dozen people wearing excursion suits. For this, Walker was grateful. He did not wish to remain outside alone while Sakiri cycled through in case he couldn’t remember the cycle procedure from the briefing.
They exited into a ready room the size of two shipping containers positioned side-by-side, less than 650 square feet. Spacesuits stowed on racks lined the wall. Weapons racks hung suspended from the ceiling. Removable panels in the floor were marked Weapons, Ammunition, MREs, First Aid, and FSRs. The First Strike Rations were high-caloric paste or liquid rations that plugged into recesses in the space suits. A feeding tube inside the helmet allowed its occupant to eat on the go. Walker had witnessed the process demonstrated with limited success during their briefing and did not look forward to the necessity.
The habitats were cylindrical, but the rooms inside were rectangular, the intervening space filled with the wiring and ductwork necessary to keep them alive in the harsh environs of space. The space also contained the shielding material to help block deadly cosmic rays, although in theory, the operating gravity drive’s magnetic bubble would perform that task. The normal-looking rooms camouflaged the fact that they would live inside a rocket, more specifically, a section of NASA’s now-defunct Space Launch System. The SLS, larger than the Saturn V that propelled man to the moon, needed only a few paintings, a comfortable chair, and a window with curtains for a touch of home. To Walker, who had spent so many years in various military barracks buildings, the room looked reassuringly familiar.
He counted the spacesuits – eleven, with space for one more. “Where are the rest of the suits?”
“Pilots, copilots, and technicians will keep their suits near their stations in case of a leak. This module is for your assault team. You’ll sleep in hammocks slung from the ceiling. Your weapons and gear are stored here. The module detaches from the ship for a soft drop on Haumea. The enlarged airlock allows your entire team to cycle through together. There is a smaller emergency airlock forward near the bow of the ship. Four Zero-G toilets are located forward as well, not many for fifty-six people, as you will probably soon learn.”
He had noticed the size of the two habitat modules as they had approached the ship. The airlock and his team’s quarters took up fully a quarter of the habitat space. They would be packed in like clowns in a clown car.
“Clip your feet under one of the raised rails along the edge of the wall to brace yourself while you remove your suit.”
Walker glided across the room, pulled himself down to the floor, and slipped his boots under the bar. Sakiri was almost out of his suit before Walker could get more than his helmet off.
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I’ll get better at this too, I suppose, with practice.”
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br /> After stowing his suit in the space provided, Sakiri opened the double hatch into the adjoining compartment. The pungent smell of human bodies was already strong after only a few hours. With fifty-six men and women cooped up in a space the size of a large Manhattan apartment and only an occasional sponge bath available, he hoped he acclimated to the pervasive odor quickly. The perspiration odor overlay a more subtle tang of disinfectant and ozone.
“About time you showed up.”
He recognized Costas’ loud, gruff voice before the crowd parted like the Red Sea and he appeared. Men and a few women sat strapped to benches along the wall or floated in the air. A few sat at the two tables playing cards using magnetic cards and poker chips. The bunks reminded him of submarine crewmen berths, stacked four-high with no headroom. They were for lying down, not sitting in. Curtains provided only limited privacy. Everything in the module, including the bunks, folded away for more space. The accommodations were strictly military with no luxuries.
He watched Costas clumsily thread his way through the crowd using their bodies as handy handholds for pushing off, mumbling, “’Scuse me,” and “Outta the way.” It was not a good way to make friends for the long voyage. Like the others, he wore a one-piece Air Force flight suit. “Man, this place is as packed as an Al-Khaleej brothel on Saturday night after payday.”
His reference to the seedy entertainment district in Bagdad brought a smile to Walker’s lips. It had been one of Costas’ favorite downtime haunts during their Iraq missions. “Maybe you had better be a little more polite to the clientele.”
Costas turned and looked at several men glaring at him. He scowled back. “That’s okay. What this place needs is a good brawl to get everyone better acquainted.”