by Greg Cox
The pavement began to rumble. Ford experienced a flare of alarm, afraid that one or more of the monsters was approaching, but then he realized that the vibration felt more mechanical than the tread of either Godzilla or a MUTO. He turned to see a wall of smoke approaching from the east. A loud mechanical groan escaped the haze. The noise sounded familiar to Ford, but, tired and disoriented, he couldn’t quite place it. The vibration beneath his feet grew steadily stronger.
All along Main Street, busy soldiers halted their efforts to watch. They crowded forward expectantly, while Humvees backed up to clear the way. Ford wondered what was up. The groaning drowned out every other sound and he finally recognized it as the chug of an old-fashioned diesel locomotive, heading into town on a railroad track crossing Main Street.
A train whistle blew. Smoke jetted from the exhaust ports and vents as the train slowed to a stop, its air brakes squealing. The vintage locomotive was impressive, but even more jaw-dropping was the freight behind it. Car after car was loaded with ICBM missiles, lying sideways on open flatbeds. Ford’s eyes bulged as he realized that he was looking at an entire nuclear arsenal on the move. There were enough warheads on the train to nuke most of the west coast.
Had it really come to this, that they were seriously considering deploying nuclear weapons on American soil? For a moment, he flashed back to that awful moment in his childhood when he’d watched the atomic power plant melt down before his eyes. The terrifying wail of the warning sirens echoed at the back of his mind.
They tried to nuke Godzilla back in 1954, he recalled. But he’s back, more unstoppable than ever.
Still, what other options did they have?
An Army Master Sergeant, whose name, “Waltz,” was printed in block letters on his fatigues, led a contingent of security troops past Ford toward the train. He assumed they’d been assigned to guard the missiles.
“Alright, guys,” Waltz said, addressing the men. “Can’t fly them out and the roads are jammed.” He nodded at the train before them. “Makes this our best bad option. All goes well—and why wouldn’t it?—we’ll be in San Francisco in six hours.”
San Francisco? Ford contemplated the train. Missiles or no missiles, this could be his ticket home. He had to get on that train.
* * *
“Negative,” Waltz said. “Can’t do it, sir. That train is a national asset, not Amtrak.” A corner storefront, that was still more or less intact, had been converted into an ad hoc operations center. Worried-looking officers studied GCSS-Army maps spread out on top of tables, while aides rushed about, issuing and receiving orders and reports. Radios chattered in the background. TV sets flickered sporadically, providing intermittent news coverage of the unprecedented crisis. Ford was reminded of the frenzied relief efforts back in Waikiki. He hoped that Akio and his family were safe wherever they were now.
“Yeah, copy that,” Ford replied. “From the casings on those Minuteman-3 ICBMs, I’d say the digital module has been bypassed and you’ve prepped them for a full analog retrofit.”
“Is my jaw supposed to drop, sir?” Waltz said, unimpressed. “I get it. You’re EOD. But I have my crew and we know what we’re doing.”
Tre came forward to hand Waltz some paperwork. Apparently, he’d been assigned to the security detail on the missile train, even if Ford was still struggling to claim a spot. Ford tried hard not to resent that.
“Aim the pointy end at the monsters, right, sarge?” Tre said. He grinned at Ford as he headed out of the store toward the train. Ford hoped he’d be seeing him again soon.
“When’s the last time one of your guys had their fingers in a live bomb, sergeant?” Ford wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I’m a damn good EOD… and my family is in that city.” He looked Waltz straight in the eyes. “I’m on that train.”
It wasn’t a question.
* * *
The overflow from Nevada was already flooding the triage unit at San Francisco General. Hospitals up and down the coast were getting hit. Doctors and nurses and EMTs hurried from patient to patient, dealing with burns, head wounds, concussions, broken limbs, and even more serious injuries. Severe cases, who nonetheless still had a chance of survival, were being prepped for surgery. Every bed, cot, seat, and examination room was occupied, while plasma and other vital supplies were beginning to run low. Gurneys full of casualties were lined up in the halls. Elle was busy clamping a leg wound on a scared college student when she heard Laura Watkins calling to her from across the ward.
“Elle!” The embattled head nurse held up a phone. “For you!”
“Tell ‘em I’ll be right down,” Elle said impatiently. Dark arterial blood spurted from the jagged gash on her patient’s leg, which was resisting her efforts to halt the bleeding. Answering the phone was the last thing on her mind right now. If I can just get this slippery artery clamped off…
“It’s your husband!” Laura shouted.
* * *
Ford had found a working phone at the rear of the store. As he waited for Elle to pick up the receiver, he kept one eye on the missile train waiting outside. Through the storefront window, he could see troops already boarding. Like the other soldiers, he was now geared up and in uniform. He knew he didn’t have much time before he had to join the mission.
He heard a rustle on the other end of the line. “Elle?”
“Ford!”
The relief in her voice hit him right in the gut. He turned his face toward the wall, willing himself to stay composed. He had to be strong for her. God only knew what she had been going through.
“Where are you?” she asked anxiously, her voice catching in her throat. It sounded like she was crying. “I’ve been calling everywhere, are you okay? I can’t believe this is happening—”
“Elle, listen to me.”
“Ford, I’m so scared.”
“Listen to me, I’m coming to get you guys. I’ll be there by dawn, hear me. The military has a plan to get these things, and I’m going to get you out of there.”
He hadn’t always been there for Elle and Sam, he knew that, but this time he would be. They were going to make this work, just like he promised.
“Okay,” she replied. “Please hurry.”
He stared out the window at the waiting train.
“I’ll be at the hospital by sunrise. I’ll get you out in a convoy. Okay?” He fought to keep his voice from cracking. “I’m coming to get you, Elle.”
A train whistle blew, signaling that he had to go. He clung to the phone as hard as he could. He could definitely hear her crying now. They both knew how much was at stake here—and how precarious their future had become. Nobody was safe as long as the monsters were abroad.
“I love you,” she said.
“I love you, too.”
She hung on the line, apparently unable to say goodbye, so he hung up for both them. He took a deep breath and wiped the tears from his eyes before heading back outside.
He had a train to catch.
Lugging his gear, he climbed aboard the missile train along with the last remaining troops. He joined Tre on a flatbed car carrying one of the huge ICBMS. Smoke poured from the locomotive’s vents as the train got underway, its wheels rattling upon the metal tracks. Sparks flared beneath the wheels as the soldiers left in the town watched the train depart, carrying its lethal load of nuclear warheads. Ford found himself missing the smoother ride of the transport plane.
Within minutes, they had left the nameless town in the dust.
EIGHTEEN
The missile train rolled past mile after mile of devastated scenery, heading west toward California. Trampled towns, farms, factories, and strip malls could be glimpsed from the train as it whipped past them at more than one hundred miles per hour. A drive-in movie theater screen hung in tatters. A used-car lot had been transformed into a junkyard.
Ford tried not to let the apocalyptic landscapes distract him. He had a job to do and it couldn’t wait until the train reached its eventual destination,
which he gathered was further west, toward the coast. Along with other EODs and a handful of nuclear tech specialists, they had to perform crucial modifications on the missiles and their warheads en route.
Easier said than done.
Working together, he and Tre unhinged the heavy nose cone of a massive ICBM and carefully laid it down on the vibrating bed of the flatbed freight car. Each missile was nearly sixty feet long and weighed close to eighty tons. The rattling of the train added to the challenge, especially when it took a curve, but they succeeded in gaining access to the trunk-sized warhead at the missile’s tip. The actual fusion device was packed into a targeted re-entry vehicle, which was connected to an intricate assemblage of sophisticated wires, dials, and electrodes. These electronics were located directly under the missile’s payload and above the first- and second-stage rockets.
“Easy there, cowboy,” Ford said to Tre.
Ford was already sweating beneath his helmet and fatigues. He had worked on plenty of bombs before and had been trained in manipulating nuclear devices, but he’d never actually handled a nuclear missile. He was acutely aware that the warhead had the explosive power of three hundred thousand tons of TNT. He had to be very careful.
Holding his breath, he uncoupled the electronics from the base of the payload before cautiously removing the entire mechanism. Tre passed Ford a mechanical replacement detonator.
“I thought these things all ran by remote control,” Tre said.
“The MUTOs fry out everything electronic,” Ford explained. “You can’t even get in range without stuff going haywire.” He patted the new detonator. “This, on the other hand, is old-school clockwork.”
The replacement mechanism was all gears and springs, with no electrical components. Ford was impressed by the simplicity of the design. Even the crude roadside bombs he’d disarmed in Afghanistan had been more high-tech. This detonator was bare-bones by comparison. Gears, dials, and a high-torsion mainspring controlled the timing mechanism.
“Takes a lickin’, keeps on tickin’,” Tre grinned at Ford. “See how the bastards like us now.”
He looked away from the missile long enough to spot something off to one side of the tracks. A stunned expression came over his face. “Jesus…”
Ford lifted his eyes from his work to see what the other man was looking at. A veil of trees cleared to reveal a rural highway crammed with bumper-to-bumper traffic for miles on end. Uncertain where safety lay, the confused and panicked refugees were stalled in both directions. Every lane had come to a standstill; unmoving vehicles were packed with displaced civilians fleeing the destruction behind them. Many of the people had gotten out of their cars, some standing on the vehicles’ hoods to try to get a better view of just how far ahead the gridlock extended. A desperate exodus was frozen in place.
Ford understood now, more than ever, why they weren’t transporting the ICBMs by road.
Heads turned as the missile train went by. Ford wondered what the stranded refugees thought, seeing car after car of heavy-duty ballistic missiles rumble past them. Borrowing a pair of binoculars from Tre, he checked out the bulging eyes and uneasy expressions of the displaced people watching the train go by. His attention was captured by one poor family stuck inside a station wagon, hastily packed with boxes of precious belongings. A young couple viewed the missiles with obvious worry while their little daughter, who looked about Sam’s age, clutched her teddy bear. The girl gaped at the train with wide eyes.
Ford wondered if she even knew what a nuclear missile was, or what it was capable of.
The train rolled on, leaving the family—and many, many other families—behind. Ford returned the binoculars to Tre and got back to work. He tried to put the little girl out of his mind.
Those warheads weren’t going to retrofit themselves.
* * *
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”
In the CDC aboard the Saratoga, Admiral Stenz had a phone to his ear. And not just any phone: the Red Phone. He nodded solemnly, his voice subdued and respectful. “I understand, sir.”
Serizawa observed the conversation tensely, twisting the stem of his heirloom pocket watch. He knew exactly what was being discussed, and the dreadful consequences of the choices being made. He looked on as Stenz gravely hung up the phone.
The worried scientist wasn’t the only one paying attention. A hush fell over the hectic war room as everyone present waited on the news. Graham was beside Serizawa, wringing her hands anxiously. Captain Hampton stood stiffly at attention. Martinez and the other junior officers looked away from their consoles to see what word would be given.
The admiral nodded his head.
The CDC erupted into flurry of activity. The pregnant stillness of only moments ago gave way to a renewed sense of urgency. Weapons analysts began plotting radial diagrams of concentric circles on the map. The ominous graphics depicted both radioactive fallout patterns and projected casualty figures. Although no one had yet spoken the ghastly words aloud, all involved understood what had just happened.
The order had been given to deploy nuclear arms.
“The president, sir?” Hampton asked finally, compelled to confirm the awful truth.
Stenz nodded. His taciturn face had gone pale. Visibly distressed, he seemed unable to speak for the moment.
Serizawa could not keep silent. “Please don’t do this, Admiral.”
Stenz regarded the troubled scientist thoughtfully. A pained expression hinted at the admiral’s inner conflict.
“Do you have children, doctor?” the admiral said quietly, in a reflective tone. “My father was an ensign on the USS Indianapolis, the cruiser that helped transport the Bomb in ’45.”
Serizawa stiffened, but said nothing.
“He was always very proud of his contribution,” the admiral continued, “but all my life he could never talk about the War.” Anguished eyes met Serizawa’s. “Doctor, I’m a father, too. And I’m sacrificing lives every minute just trying to steer one of these things clear of population centers. There are two more on the way—”
On the map table, dotted lines predicted the three monsters’ probable collision courses. As the lines redrew themselves yet again, Serizawa saw that they were still converging on the coast of North America.
San Francisco Bay, to be exact.
“That’s seven million lives,” Stenz said hoarsely. He pleaded with Serizawa. “So please, just tell me. Will it work? Can they be killed?”
Serizawa did not envy the admiral his dilemma or the awful responsibility that had fallen upon him. He weighed Stenz’s questions carefully and tried to answer as honestly as he could.
“A direct hit?”
“We’re talking dialable yield,” Hampton stressed, joining the discussion. “Megatons, not kilotons. Nothing can survive that blast. Makes the bomb from ’54 look like a firecracker.”
Ah, yes, Serizawa thought ruefully. Progress.
“Will it work, Doctor?” Stenz asked again.
“It could,” the scientist conceded. “But what then?” He indicated the monitors tracking Godzilla. “What if he’s been down there all this time? With no interest in our world, but a part of it, a part of the balance. If we kill him, there’s no telling what may come.”
Stenz listened intently. “Yes? Go on.”
“The MUTOs are stronger in a pair, but maybe not enough. He could defeat them.”
“You’re suggesting we let them meet and duke it out?” the admiral asked, sounding dubious. “Then what? Just hope the big one wins and swims back where he came from? And if he loses, are you willing to bet more lives on that?”
Serizawa wasn’t certain. He was fully aware of how reckless his proposal must sound, as well as the awesome gravity of the decision before them. He considered all the human lives hanging in the balance. At least seven million, as Stenz had observed, and perhaps billions more. Was he truly prepared to trust humanity’s future to a legendary monster?
And ask Stenz to do the same?
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He shook his head sadly. “I can only bet my own.”
Stenz nodded, appreciating the scientist’s candor.
“Me, too, Doctor,” he said regretfully. No doubt he had been hoping for a viable alternative to the hellish course of action before him. “That’s why I have no choice.” He turned away from Serizawa to address Martinez. “Execute our evacuation contingencies for San Francisco Bay. And find me a detonation site at least twenty miles from shore. If these things are attracted to our bombs, let’s draw them out and finish this.”
Serizawa wondered if that was truly possible.
* * *
Night had fallen on the rugged Sierra Nevada mountains as the train skirted along high wooded ridges. Darkness cloaked the wilderness through which the tracks ran, but evidence of the female MUTO’s destructive migration could still be seen around every curve. Ford and his fellow soldiers spied broken bridges, flattened trees, and suspiciously recent rockslides. The roar of the locomotive drowned out the usual nocturnal sounds you might expect to hear from the woods at this time of night, but Ford suspected that any local wildlife had long since fled from the monstrous invader. As he understood it, the train’s route took it straight through “the heart of darkness”— right past the new MUTO. This was a calculated risk, to say the least, but there had been no quicker overland route.
No wonder he hadn’t seen a single deer or owl yet.
Tre and the other heavily armed soldiers were on high alert. As the train rolled toward a lonely mountain pass, the nerve-jangling din of battle could be heard up ahead, just beyond the next ridge. Tracer fire lit up the night sky. Ford glimpsed brilliant laser dazzlers and felt the thrum of high-tech sonic weapons. Judging from the distant lights and racket, the train was approaching the “front line” of the conflict, which was still going strong. Even with everything the armed forces were dishing out, the MUTO was obviously not down for the count.
What was it going to take to stop these things?
A loud whoosh startled Ford as a fiery red explosion flared above the pass. Air brakes squealed and the train came to a halt right before the entrance to a narrow railway tunnel bored into the granite face of the mountain. The sudden stop threw Ford and other soldiers off-balance, and even the multi-ton missiles shifted unnervingly, if only for a moment.