The seas around Hokkaido were an ashen grey this year, but that did nothing to detract from their beauty, Kenichi felt. Of all the various natural wonders he'd seen during his year stationed on this strange planet, he felt that the oceans were the most beautiful.
He could still remember the first time he saw them, after a discreet orbital dive into the countryside by Tokyo. It'd been nighttime, and he could remember the pang of terror he'd felt upon realizing that he was effectively stranded on an alien planet, completely different from the one he'd known. He'd been given no weapons; only a set of native clothes with assorted currency, his medication, and his communicator.
By the time he'd finished disposing of his pressure suit, panic was beginning to set in. He'd been drilled on the wildlife in the region, as well as what kind of weapons the locals might have, but there was still a little fear in the back of his mind, whispering doubts and imaginings into his ear. The shadows seemed full of predators, or hostile locals waiting to butcher him.
Then he'd found the road, and started walking, making sure to hide when any cars passed by. The punishing gravity made the slough even worse; he had to take frequent breaks just to catch his breath and work the knots out of his muscles. There was only so much centrifuge training could do in that regard.
Eventually, he crested over a small hill, and realized he could see a dark expanse before him, where the city lights came to an abrupt stop. Then, before his eyes, he saw the sun begin to rise over the horizon, and its light began to dance across the expanse, glittering like jewels wherever it made contact. It was then that he realized he was staring at the ocean, far bigger than anything he'd seen before...
A sudden jostle pulled him out of his musings, and he turned away from the window to see the 'fasten seatbelts' light on. Sighing, he did as told, briefly glancing over to see that Steve had already buckled himself.
"I hate flying," the large American grumbled. "What about you?"
Kenichi simply shrugged. "I do not really have an opinion."
"Well, I definitely do." Steve straightened himself, grunting as he did. "Daisuke used to joke that I was an old man in a young man's body, constantly complaining about my back or the weather. Well, back when I was still young, anyway."
"Daisuke," Kenichi repeated. "Do you mean Dr. Serizawa?"
"One and only. Brilliant man, and a good friend." A long sigh. "Were you around for Gojira's attack on Tokyo?"
"No. I was, er, studying abroad."
"Daisuke was the hero of that time. If it weren't for him... we probably wouldn't be having this conversation."
So there is more to it than rumor, Kenichi thought. He cleared his throat. "Is is true? What people said about the Oxygen-"
"I'll stop you there," Steve said, abruptly. "I got questioned enough by the Feds about the whole thing. There's probably still some spooks in the CIA who think I have a copy of his notes stashed away."
"S-sorry."
"Eh, I wouldn't sweat it, kid. As a reporter, I can't criticize for being curious."
The plane jolted again, and Kenichi realized that they were finally landing. The jostling made his stomach churn, and he closed his eyes until they came to a stop. When it did, he slowly began to relax, and decided to check out his surroundings. As he turned his gaze out the window, however, his breath caught.
A pair of jeeps were rolling their way down the field, kicking up snow and slush as they approached the plane. Peering closer, Kenichi realized that at least a few of the soldiers were armed.
"That's strange," Steve murmured, leaning over a little. "I know it shares the runway with an Air Force base, but I don't see why they're coming over."
Kenichi stiffened. Part of him wondered if they had somehow uncovered his identity, but he dismissed the thought; they wouldn't choose now to take apprehend him. There had to be another reason why...
Suddenly, his eyes widened. They hadn't chosen now of all times to begin operations, did they?
There was movement to his side, and he realized Steve was already making his way to the exit, squeezing his bulky frame through the narrow aisle. When the reporter worked the door open, Kenichi decided to follow after him.
The sky was an ashy white as he stepped out of the plane and onto the wet tarmac. He watched as the two jeeps skidded to a halt nearby, and a pair of soldiers hopped out, weapons slung over their shoulders.
"I'm sorry, sirs," one of them said. "We couldn't tell you to turn away since our radio's gone wonky, but this base is on lockdown."
"Lockdown?" Steve asked. "We aren't under attack, are we?"
"The base is on lockdown," the soldier repeated. "We can't say any more, especially to reporters."
"Especially spineless traitors like you," the other said, gruffly.
"Johnson, that's enough," the first soldier curtly retorted, then turned back to Steve. "You are to return to the plane, and remain there until further notice."
That was when the first explosion sounded out in the distance, followed shortly after by another. They all turned at once, and Kenichi felt a tingle run down his spine when he saw smoke rising beyond the hills.
"Shit!" the lead soldier barked. He turned back to Steve, and pointed with a finger. "Stay here!"
With that, he hopped back into the jeep, and made a motion to the driver. Wheels skidding, the jeep turned around and made a beeline back to the base. The other stayed put, but the occupants kept their attention focused on the smoke in the distance.
There was little time before a low groaning noise made itself known, and Kenichi realized that he could see a familiar shape cresting the hill, its tread-feet tearing into the earth as it stood tall. The bulky upper body of the machine slowly turned, as if surveying the base before it with glowing yellow 'eyes'.
"What... the fuck... is that?" he heard a soldier mutter. "That ain't no Russkie thing, innit?"
No, Kenichi thought, sadly. Much further away.
The Mōgèrá's eyes flashed as it fired a flurry of plasma shots at the base, and the invasion begun.
==/*\==
Ground Attack Aircraft One
Flight-Commander Síyòu watched through the camera feeds as the Mōgèrá began its assault on the primitive military base, and waited with bated breath. The war machine half-walked, half-drove forward as it descended the hill, the ten-meter trees coming up to its waist as it smashed them aside with its bulk. Already it was opening fire with its plasma cannons, its pointed head making jerky movements as it focused on each target.
The first thing to be attacked was the command center. It only took a few moments of fire to collapse half the building, and the war machine swept its gaze towards the hangars. For that, it extended one of its 'arms', and retracted the protective covering to fire a flurry of armor-piercing missiles. When a series of explosions blossomed across the hangars, engulfing them in flame, the Mōgèrá turned its attention elsewhere.
"Flight-Commander, be warned," came Ground-Commander Xōyō's voice over the radio. "Some of the native aircraft are attempting to get airborne."
"Understood," Síyòu said, coldly.
He directed the hovercraft forward, and began to rapidly approach the base. Sure enough, he saw a quartet of primitive aircraft on the runway, hurriedly trying to get enough lift to take off.
He directed the maser towards them to ensure they wouldn't mount a defense. One by one, they all burst open as their fuel tanks were ignited by the directed microwave radiation; the last one barely left the ground before catching flame.
Glancing back at the camera feeds, he saw that the Mōgèrá was now beginning to destroy any remaining aircraft on the ground, sweeping its plasma cannons across the field and setting everything alight. He saw a group of figures running from the burning wreckage of one of the larger aircraft, but opted not to fire; it was hard to make an impression when all witnesses were dead, after all.
"Ground-Command, this is Flight-Commander Síyòu," he said. "Chitose Air Base has been effectively neutralized."
"Good," said Ground-Commander Tīshò. "You are now to fly towards the base they call Crawford, and assist in neutralizing the ground forces; they managed to provide more resistance than initially anticipated."
"Understood."
Síyòu turned the hovercraft around, and left the burning airbase behind.
==/*\==
Kenichi's world was pain.
Vaguely, he realized he was sprawled belly-down on the cold tarmac, a loud ringing in his ears and a searing pain on his right shoulder. He blinked a few times, trying to recall what had happened. He remembered the Mōgèrá beginning its attack, followed by running...
Strong hands grabbed him by the biceps, and he found himself suddenly pulled to his feet. He stumbled for a moment, vision blurring, then began to steady himself, leaning into the grip.
"-you okay?" he heard a voice say.
"S-Steve?" he slurred, trying to ignore the ringing in his ears.
"You fell when they blew up the plane." Steve's face came into focus, dirty but unscathed. "Can you stand?"
He nodded, closing his eyes for a moment. "I'm good."
"We need to get going. C'mon."
Steve pulled away, and began running away from the wreckage of the plane. Kenichi followed after him, muscles screaming at him as he ran. Something hot and went ran down his back, and he realized he'd been grazed by shrapnel.
They almost killed me, he thought. If I hadn't ran... they would have killed me.
Steve stopped running, and Kenichi saw that the reporter was approaching the jeep. It'd been flipped on its by a stray plasma shot, spilling the soldiers onto the ground. Steve checked their pulses, then looked to Kenichi and slowly shook his head.
Kenichi averted his eyes. Suddenly, he felt like he was about to vomit.
"The jeep might still be good," Steve said. "These things are made to take a beating."
The burly American leaned against the jeep, heaving deeply, and slowly managed to flip it back onto its wheels with a jolt. Hopping into the seat, he gestured for Kenichi to get in.
"Fuel tank's good, and the suspension didn't get destroyed," the reporter said. "Let's get going before they come back around."
Kenichi nodded, then ran over to the jeep, trying to avoid the empty gazes of the soldiers as he did. He plopped down on the passenger seat, and held on tightly as Steve slammed a foot down on the accelerator.
"You seem very familiar with this car," Kenichi said, once he managed to keep his stomach down. "How?"
"I was a correspondent in Korea," Steve replied, eyes still on the road as they zoomed past the gate. "I had to know a few things if I wanted to keep alive."
Kenichi nodded, slowly, then turned to look back at the burning wreckage of the base. He could hear more explosions, and he numbly realized that was probably the army camp going up in flames.
How many lives will be lost today? he thought to himself. How much of their blood is on my hands?
"We need to get down to Sapporo," Steve was saying. "I'm not sure if air travel is safe, but we can get on a boat down to the mainland, and see if we can get back to Tokyo from there."
"You're awfully calm about this," Kenichi said, gripping the seat tighter. He glanced to the side, and saw idyllic countryside whizzing past.
"This is not the first world-changing event I've witnessed." Steve sighed. "Though this might be scarier than before. There's no telling what's happening elsewhere. For all we know, they could be doing the same to Washington, or Moscow. I have a hunch it's limited to this island for now, but that might not last. We need to get back as soon as possible and alert the world of what's happening here."
Kenichi looked back at the reporter. For a moment, he recalled his orders, and considered his options. There was no way he could overpower a big native like Martin, even if he wasn't wounded. There were no weapons nearby. And even if he could take the reporter down...
He didn't want to. The man had saved his life, and the thought of trying to kill him just made his nausea worse.
So, he simply leaned back into the seat, and watched the countryside roll by.
==/*\==
Somewhere near Moscow, Russian FSFR
The fishing bauble hit the water with a gentle splash, sending a few ripples across the tranquil pond, and Georgy sat back down on the crate he brought with him. The cold air nipped at his face, but he paid no heed to it, instead keeping his eyes trained on the water. It was a good day for an outdoor activity- fresh snow on the ground that left everything glittering, blue skies, and only a light breeze.
His grip tightened on the fishing pole. He'd have plenty of time for outdoor activities, now.
Still, there was nothing to be done about it, and he knew better than to worry about forces beyond his control. Sighing, he leaned back and reached into his bag, glass clinking against glass as he rummaged about. Finally, he pulled out a small clear bottle, and poured some of its contents into a tin cup. He watched the drink fizz for a half moment, then raised the cup to his lips...
"Comrade Zhukov!"
Reflexively, he tipped the drink into the pond, then turned about to see a fat-faced man in uniform jogging down the dock, waving some papers in his hand. Brow furrowed, he stood up and carefully laid down his fishing rod on the crate.
The man came to a stop a few feet away, then snapped a salute. Already his face had turned a bright pink, reminding Georgy of a boiled ham.
"Comrade Lieutenant Grigori Mikhailovich Alyokhin, reporting," the soldier gasped.
"At ease, Comrade Lieutenant," Georgy said. "Unless things have changed, I'm still retired."
"That is why I am here, Comrade Marshal Zhukov," Alyokhin replied, and held out the papers. "You are wanted back in the Kremlin; there is an emergency."
"Emergency?" Georgy snatched the bunched documents from the young man's hand, then began to quickly skim over them. "I can't see why they'd want me back for what I presume is more American posturing. Is it about Hungary aga-"
Then, as he read the papers, his eyes widened. He blinked a few times, as if the cold Russian morning had frozen his eyes over, then he flipped through the pages rapidly. Words caught his attention, as though leaping from the crumpled paper like a tiger.
Hokkaido. American base. Unknown aggressor.
He neatly folded the paper, then stuffed it into his coat pocket. Wordlessly closing his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, he nodded to Alyokhin.
"I take it there is a car waiting for us?"
"Yes, Comrade Marshal Zhukov. The Presidium expects you ten minutes ago."
"Very well. Have someone get my fishing set back home."
The young lieutenant paused for only a moment before nodding. "Of course."
The two trudged their way back up the dock, leaving the quiet pond behind. As expected, a nondescript car was waiting for him, and he plopped down on the hard seat with more relief than he cared to admit. Damn his traitor of a heart.
"Do we have any information about the unknown aggressor?" he asked Alyokhin as the man took the driver's seat. "It's not one of those giant beasts, is it?"
"I don't know, Comrade Marshal." The younger man seemed pale, now. "All that I know is that you are expected."
Georgy set his jaw, and stared ahead.
If this is a headache, he thought, I can't imagine how my old comrade across the curtain is feeling.
==/*\==
The White House
By the second knock on the door, his eyes were open, and he found himself staring blearily at the ceiling. With a numb hand, he fumbled at the nightstand, then finally managed to turn the lamp on. Painful light flooded his sight, and he scrunched his eyes shut, before forcing himself to open them again. Something in his gut protested as he sat up, but he ignored it.
"Come in," he said, voice creaking.
The door opened a crack, and his Chief of Staff poked his gaunt face through. "Sorry to wake you at this time of day, Mr. President."
Dwight glanced at the small clock on the nightstand, then back to Adams.
"Sherman," he began, a false sweetness to his voice, "may I ask what is so important to wake me up at one o'clock in the morning? Is Nicky up to something again?"
"We've lost contact with our bases in Hokkaido, and we don't know what's the cause."
Suddenly, the fog of sleep seemed to have disappeared. Dwight stared at his Chief of Staff, and realized there was a look of near-panic behind the man's eyes.
"Has the rest of the Cabinet been informed?"
"No, just the Secretary of Defense and the Joint Chiefs."
"Have them meet with me in the Oval Office." He stood up, slipping on a jacket over his pajamas. "And get the Russian Embassy on the phone."
Adams briefly ducked out, and Dwight took the time to run a hand through his thinning hair. After six years on the job, he was used to being woken in the dead of night, but something irked him about this time. Slipping on a pair of loafers, he stepped out of the room, closing the door gently behind him as to not wake Mamie. Nodding briefly at the pair of agents standing outside, he turned to see Adams coming back down the hallway.
"Tell me everything," he said, and started walking.
"One hour ago, contact was lost with Chitose Air Base in Hokkaido," Adams said. "Reports are scattered, but it seems to have been caused by an attack of some kind. Then, within half an hour, we lost contact with the rest. Camp Crawford was hit first, then the others were hit in an order we can't determine."
"Has anything come from the JSDF or civilians on Hokkaido?"
"Not yet. If there's an invasion going on, Tokyo doesn't know."
Dwight straightened at the word invasion. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here."
A pair of Secret Service agents opened the doors to the Oval Office, and he saw that McElroy and a few others were already in the room, telephones and documents smothering his coffee table. Those who were sitting started to rise as he entered the room, but he simply motioned for them to sit back down. Someone pulled up a chair, and he sat down, studying the situation.
"Talk to me," he said. "What kind of attack are we looking at, here?"
"Mr. President, we're not entirely sure," McElroy said. He handed over a map of Hokkaido, with a handful of red circles hastily drawn around Chitose. "Whoever hit us hit the radio towers first. All reports have been coming in from scattered survivors, and it's been difficult to get a proper picture."
"Just tell me what picture we have so far."
McElroy dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. "Well... some are saying a mechanized assault, while others are saying something... big, hit the bases."
"Something big," the President repeated. He glanced at Adams. "Get Typhon Base on the phone. I want to know if that big dinosaur or any of those freaks has left the island."
"MONARCH confirmed ten minutes ago that Godz-, I mean, LSA-1, LSA-2, and LSA-3 have not left the island perimeter."
That's not entirely a relief, Dwight thought. How many sleepless nights have these monsters cost me? Could yet another one have sprung up?
"I want above-normal readiness in the South Pacific in case they get antsy, and get the Soviet Embassy on the line," he said. "No, scratch that. Alert the SAC to go to DEFCON-3, then get the Russkies talking. I want to be able to hit them with thirty megatons in thirty minutes in case things are the worst-case."
"Yes, Mr. President," McElroy replied, then made the call.
There was a noise behind him, and Dwight turned to see a young aide enter the room, panting as he waved a piece of paper.
"Communique from the Soviet Ambassador," he panted. "Backdoor channel."
"Literally, I suppose," the President mused, briefly envisioning doughy old Zarubin jogging up to the gate. "Are they denying involvement in the attack?"
The aide handed the paper over. "It seems that the Kremlin is just as surprised as we are, Mr. President."
Dwight read it over quickly. "Hmph. Of course they would claim surprise. I want any ship in the Pacific not aiming at Godzilla to make a beeline for our bases in Japan. Are the bombers on standby?"
"Yes, Mr. President."
"Good. Now-"
He was interrupted by the sound of all the phones on the table ringing at once. An awkward moment passed, then he motioned for them to answer.
It was Chief Taylor who reacted first, face paling as he listened to the phone. The others followed suit, and McElroy quickly placed the phone down with trembling hands.
"Mr. President, we need the television on. There's a transmission on all three channels, pertaining directly to the attack."
Dwight gestured to the small television on his desk. "Do it."
The television was pivoted around, and Adams turned it on. Dwight leaned forward, cupping a chin with his hand as he studied the grainy screen.
For a few moments, there was static, then an image became clear. At first, his brain failed to register what he saw, as though the sight was too far beyond what he considered possible. But impossible things had been all too common these past three years, and it wasn't long before he accepted the reality before him.
A man- or, at least, a man-shaped figure- stood in view. From head to toe, it was covered in a strange-looking suit, and Dwight thought back to of some of the prototype pressure suit designs the NACA had sent to his desk. A black visor, like that of a pilot's mask, hid the figure's face from view. Behind it, the President could see even more suited figures, all standing to attention. Where they were, however, he could not say. It looked almost like the inside of a base, or the CIC of a sub, and yet there were aspects he had never seen before.
"Nations of the planet Earth, we have crossed an ocean of night to arrive at this blue world you call home." The speaker's voice was oddly accented, and distorted behind what sounded like a megaphone. "We are a people not unlike yours, though you are to us what you are to apes. As such, we have made claim to the island you call Hokkaido. Already, we have proven our strength- a small force has removed all military presence from our new home, including that of the so-called superpower of America."
"Son of a Catholic whore," Chief Taylor murmured, only to be shushed by the President.
"-we do not desire war with the nations of Earth. And so, we offer what you call an olive branch. In twenty-four of your hours, a delegation will arrive at the United Nations building in New York City, so that you may negotiate the concession of Hokkaido in a way that benefits all parties. We are willing to exchange our vast knowledge, knowledge that allowed us to harness machines that are beyond your beholding. It is, in our view, a fair trade for a land that is relatively sparse."
"However, make no mistake- Hokkaido is ours. We will defend our new home with a might you can scarcely imagine. It falls upon you to behave maturely, and reach a diplomatic agreement with us."
Then the television returned to static, and Mamie Eisenhower woke to the sound of her husband cursing to the heavens.
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The Christmas War, Chapter Two: Hokkaido SOS