AUTHOR'S NOTE: Obviously I don't own Godzilla.
OVER THE SANTA MARGARITA MOUNTAIN RANGE
Jimmy Stewart suppressed a groan as he caught his co-pilot aiming another astonished look his way.
Be careful what you wish for.
He wanted to get in the cockpit of a B-52. He also wanted an experienced co-pilot to go along with it.
Stewart got his wish on the former, but not the latter.
Second Lieutenant Kyle Harley was a sallow-faced shrimp of a young man barely two months out of flight training. While waiting for takeoff, the co-pilot had gone down the list of every movie of Stewart's he'd ever seen, wanting to know things like, "Is John Wayne really as tough as he is in the movies?" and, "Is Donna Reed as nice as she is on her TV show?"
Thankfully Stewart, as a brigadier general, had full authority to tell the second lieutenant to please shut up and concentrate on flying.
That didn't stop Harley from gawking. Nor the other members of the bomber crew . . . except Master Sergeant Warburton. The gruff, bulldog-looking gunner was a World War II vet who looked like he hadn't smiled since that time.
Stewart would gladly take that man's sour disposition over the stares of adulation any day.
"Target still proceeding northwest," radioed the spotter plane below the B-52 squadron. "Coordinates Three Three One One Seven Five."
"Roger, Sparrow Five," replied Colonel Jurgens, the squadron commander. "Time on Target two minutes."
"Perkins," Stewart called to the bombardier/navigator. "You heard the CO. The plane is yours."
"Roger that, Sir. Adjust heading five degrees to port."
"Five degrees to port. Roger."
Stewart pulled the huge bomber to the left. Nothing to do now but keep it on course and wait for Perkins to decide when to drop the 54,000 pounds of high explosives they carried right on Godzilla's noggin. He shook his head briefly. The B-17s he flew in World War II could only haul about 8,000 pounds worth of bombs.
Unlike over Germany, the sky was vacant of flak and Luftwaffe fighters. Their absence made it easy at times for Stewart to forget he was on a combat mission.
Remembering the recon photos of the ruins of San Diego and other cities and towns made him sober up in a hurry.
A line of black dots fell from the bellies of the four B-52s ahead of him. Moments later the next four bombers in formation dropped their payloads.
Then came their turn.
"Target acquired," Perkins reported. "Bombs away."
The B-52 rose slightly as it loosed its bombs.
Stewart clenched the plane's controls. He prayed this worked. How could it not? The entire squadron had dropped nearly 650,000 pounds of bombs. Godzilla was unbelievably tough, but not even he could survive such an onslaught.
"Did we kill him?" Harley asked. "We had to have killed him."
"I can't tell," Perkins responded. "Too much smoke and dust down there. Still, there's no way that damn ugly lizard could be -"
"Look out!"
Stewart had no idea who shouted the warning. Moments later a jet of blue flame streaked near the first group of B-52s.
The radio burst to life.
"Holy shit!"
"He's shooting at us!"
"How the hell is he still alive?"
"Can the chatter!" Colonel Jurgens bellowed. "Evasive maneuvers!"
B-52s began weaving about the sky. Stewart banked his plane right.
That's when a second stream of blue flame appeared. This one connected with one of the bombers. The huge plane disintegrated in a flash of orange and black.
Stewart trembled for a moment. A split second flashback transported him back over Germany twenty years ago, watching B-17s explode from Nazi anti-aircraft fire.
Another B-52 blew up. And another. Stewart threw the plane into a right left turn, the g-forces pushing him back in his seat and threatening to cave in his chest. Grunting, he swung the bomber to the left.
The rear of a B-52 filled his vision.
Harley gasped.
"Oh hell!" Stewart heaved the plane to the right.
A flash of blue caught his eye.
The bomber in front of him exploded. Stewart tensed as chunks of debris rocketed toward him.
A horrendous crash shook the B-52. Stewart's hands crushed the controls as the plane bucked in all directions. A fierce blast of wind slammed against his body. Sharp pricks stung his face. Stewart clenched his teeth, fighting to steady the bomber.
"C'mon . . . c'mon, dammit!"
The B-52 dipped to the left. Stewart glanced at the altimeter. The numbers spun down and down. He yanked the controls to the right. The plane rose a bit, then dropped again.
"Harley! Give me a hand!"
No response.
"Harley! Har-"
Stewart whipped his head right. His jaw tightened.
Wind shrieked through the huge tear in the cockpit. Harley's body sat limp in his seat, the young man's head and shoulders a mangled mess of blood and meat.
Stewart peered over his shoulder. The navigator lay face down on his blood-soaked panel. The electronic warfare officer appeared stunned, but otherwise okay.
He started to turn his head forward . . . and froze. Fear and disbelief surged through his body. Stewart's eyes locked on the starboard wing.
Or rather, what remained of it.
Half the wing was gone, and with it both outboard engines. The inboard Pratt and Whitneys still hung from the aircraft, belching flame and smoke.
The B-52 dipped further to the left. Stewart trembled, expecting the bomber to completely roll over any moment.
Only one option remained.
"Bail out! Everyone bail out!"
Stewart watched the EWO's seat blast out of the cockpit. He then looked over to the navigator and called out his name in the vain hope he might still be alive.
After two shouts, the man still didn't stir.
Nothing you can do for him.
Stewart yanked out the pin on his ejection seat and pulled the handle.
An invisible steel boot kicked him in the ass. His insides quaked as the rocket under his seat shot him out of the plane. The wind battered him even worse than in the shattered cockpit.
The seat fell away. Stewart's shoulders nearly got yanked out of their sockets as the parachute deployed. He snapped his head left to right. Dozens of miniature comets hurtled toward the ground, all that remained of many of the B-52s. He noticed two bombers fading into the distance.
At least some of them made it.
Stewart scanned the sky again. He only spotted three other parachutes, most likely from his bomber.
Snorting, he looked down. The wrecked B-52 rolled over once, then twice. Both wings sheered off and spiraled away.
His face tightened in anger, Stewart gazed at the panoramic view of the mountains, urban sprawl and the Pacific Ocean. The sheer magnificence of the view was lost on him at that moment.
If an entire B-52 squadron couldn't kill Godzilla, what the hell could?
XXXXX
NEAR LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA
"Let's go! Move it! Move it!"
Lt. Colonel Hal Moore waved his soldiers forward as they leaped out of trucks and Jeeps. Schwarzkopf and the other junior officers directed the men behind trees and protruding rocks and into ditches. Heavier weapons like mortars, recoilless rifles and bazookas were put up front, along with two Jeeps carrying .30 caliber machine guns.
Moore, however, didn't think any weapons carried by his cobbled-together battalion would do a lick of good against Godzilla. He sneered as he gazed at the soldiers digging foxholes or setting up their mortars and recoilless rifles. He wanted to scream and curse at the futility of all this. A lot of men were going to die here today, and for what? Did they really expect to stop Godzilla? Or even divert him away from Laguna Beach, and eventually Los Angeles?
Moore closed his eyes and thought of his wife, Julia, imagining the letter she'd get informing her of his death. The letter that would read how he valiantly died defending the country when it should really say, "Your husband and his men died in a futile battle against Godzilla. Their sacrifice was in vain as the beast wound up destroying Los Angeles.
Futile or not, the Army ordered him here to fight Godzilla. That's exactly what he'd do, to the best of his ability. Even if they couldn't stop him, maybe, just maybe, they could give the civilian population a little extra time to get out of the monster's path.
That thought was somewhat comforting.
"Holy shit! Look!" One of the soldiers cried.
Moore looked to the distant hills. At first he didn't see anything unusual . . . until one of those hills moved!
Even from several miles away, Moore heard Godzilla's distinctive roar. Tremors rippled under his feet as the monster lumbered toward them.
"C'mon! You're not gonna stop that thing by gawking at it!" Captain Schwarzkopf hollered at a mortar team who'd stopped setting up their weapon to stare in fright at Godzilla.
Other officers and NCOs also yelled at men who spent more time gaping at the monster instead of preparing to fight it. But Moore noticed a few lieutenants and senior sergeants also staring in horror at Godzilla.
A little yelling fixed that.
Moore trekked back to his command post, which was simply a Jeep with a map taped to the hood and a short Mexican corporal in the passenger's seat with a field radio. A distant rumble of thunder caught his attention. He stared out at the Pacific Ocean and spotted three gray shapes in the distance. Puffs of smoke burst from the guns of the cruiser Galveston and the destroyers Epperson and Maddox. Geysers of smoke and dirt erupted around Godzilla as he traversed the hills outside Laguna Beach.
More thunderclaps filled the air, these much closer. Moore turned to the hilltops behind him, where the 105mm howitzers sat.
Godzilla roared again as shells exploded around and against him. Moore's face tightened. Despite all the reports he'd seen on past Godzilla rampages, he still found it inconceivable any living thing could survive a direct hit from an artillery shell. From multiple artillery shells, in fact.
A mechanical growl merged with the booms of the howitzers. Moore watched several M-48 and M-24 tanks race past his position. Clouds of dust kicked up behind them as they headed for Godzilla. Moore fought the urge to throw a fist in the air and cheer them on. Unfortunately, rooting for the tanks to beat Godzilla seemed akin to rooting for the lowly Washington Senators to beat the all-mighty New York Yankees for the American League pennant.
The tremors underneath him grew in intensity as Godzilla drew nearer. Jeeps and trucks bounced. More than a few men prayed aloud. One or two cried. Moore's face muscles began to hurt as he tried to prevent any ounce of the fear that engulfed him from pushing to the surface.
The tanks opened fire. Usually one or two shots before rolling to a new firing position. The howitzers and the ships continued hammering away. Dirt and trees tumbled through the air and crashed to the ground from the non-stop explosions.
Moore held his breath when Godzilla's mouth opened. A jet of blue flame consumed an M-48. The tank liquefied before his eyes, then vanished in a fireball.
Another tank met the same fate . . . and another.
The monster's footfalls shook the ground. Moore wobbled from side-to-side. A few soldiers yelped. He noticed Schwarzkopf trying to look stoic while all the color drained from his face.
An M-48 halted and fired. The 90mm shell burst against Godzilla's stomach. The monster barely took notice. The tank began to move.
Godzilla stomped it flat.
Moore jogged over to Schwarzkopf. The captain kept one eye on Godzilla and the other on Moore.
"No sense waiting any longer. All units, fire at will."
"Yes, Sir."
Seconds later recoilless rifles and mortars thumped. Machine guns chattered non-stop. Several riflemen also joined in the barrage, not that their rounds would come close to Godzilla, or do any good even if they did.
Godzilla's footfalls became more deafening than the roaring gunfire that surrounded Moore. Shells and bullets flew off in all directions as soldiers found it difficult to aim with the ground constantly shifting.
Moore fired his M-14 until the magazine ran dry. He went to remove the empty clip . . . and stopped. He swallowed and leaned back, eyes bulging.
His heart threatened to punch through his chest. He'd seen aircraft carriers, he'd seen the Empire State Building. Neither were as awe-inspiring, or as frightening, as Godzilla. His mind nearly shut down, trying to comprehend the beast before him.
Since his first days at West Point, Moore had come to believe in the absolute superiority of the U.S. military. This nation had the best bombers, the best ships, the best tanks and the best trained men in the world . . . along with enough nukes to wipe out any Commie country that wanted to raise Cain three times over.
It all seemed insignificant compared to the creature standing before him.
Godzilla roared again. Moore had to clasp his hands over his ears. Many soldiers around him did the same thing.
Atomic fire shot out Godzilla's mouth. It struck half-a-mile away. Moore swallowed as he watched howitzers, vehicles and men simply disintegrate.
Godzilla breathed fire again. Flames swept through the vegetation and reached nearby homes. Sweat drenched Moore's body.
The monster's head moved toward him. This time Moore couldn't stop himself from trembling. He glimpsed movement out the corner of his eye. Three soldiers broke ranks and fled. Moore said nothing. He just fixed on Godzilla's menacing stare, thinking about Julia and the kids, hoping they'd get along fine without him.
Godzilla's mouth opened.
Moore didn't blink. His lips moved in quiet prayer.
"'Our Father, who art in Heaven. Hallowed be thy name . . ."
Blue flame shot over Moore's head. He whirled around and watched it strike a hill behind him where a howitzer had been placed. Half the hill exploded, as did the artillery piece.
Moore quickly thanked the Man upstairs for watching his back, then turned to his men. Many of them continued to fire at Godzilla, not that it accomplished anything except to piss off the monster more.
Moore hesitated. He didn't want to give this order. No leader did. But what purpose would be served staying here one second longer.
"Fall back! Everyone, fall back!"
The soldiers jumped out of their trenches and foxholes. Moore waved furiously at them to hurry.
"What now, Sir?" asked Schwarzkopf.
Before Moore could open his mouth, a jet of blue flame struck close by. The men caught in it turned to ash. A truck exploded.
"I'll figure it out later."
XXXXX
ABOVE LOS ANGELES
Lieutenant McCain flinched every time a flash of blue tore through the hazy skies over L.A. One blast claimed two F-4 Phantoms. Another turned an entire flight of Air National Guard F-86 Sabres into fireballs. Another sent an A-5 Vigilante plummeting toward Long Beach in flames.
Still the planes kept coming, striking Godzilla with bombs, rockets and cannon shells. The beast stomped through the city unfazed. With casual swats and swipes of the tail, tall buildings crumbled. Footfalls crushed entire neighborhoods. McCain shivered when he saw an overpass crowded with vehicles collapse as Godzilla walked through it. The creature then opened its mouth and unleashed its deadly breath. More waves of fire swept over the city. Columns of thick black smoke rose into the air. McCain prayed most of L.A.'s residents had gotten out of the city in time.
An F-8 Crusader unleashed a barrage of rockets. Several bright streaks smashed into the plates covering Godzilla's back and exploded. The beast swung around and roared. The F-8 banked hard right.
Godzilla swiped at it. The jet shattered like a light bulb dropped on a concrete floor.
Two F-4s dove on Godzilla, ready to unleash their bombs. The beast swung back around and opened its mouth.
The fighters vanished in a stream of atomic flame.
McCain's heart pounded. When would that deadly breath claim him?
Hopefully never. I got out alive the first time. I can do it the second time.
He swung his A-1 Skyraider to the right and flew south for a couple minutes before coming back around. Attack from behind. He always attacked the monster from behind . . . and as low as possible. That kept him out of its line of fire. Why more pilots didn't do this McCain failed to understand.
Most of the ones who don't are dead . . . or will be soon.
As if to reinforce the thought, a burst of blue flame blasted two F-105 Thunderchiefs out of the sky.
McCain placed the A-1's pipper on Godzilla's huge leg. He launched the remaining rockets under his wing, then fired a few bursts from the 20mm cannons.
As expected, his mini-barrage did nothing to the monster.
Heart hammering, McCain stared up at the beast towering over the city. He nearly cringed. The feeling from his first encounter returned. The feeling an ant must get whenever it looks up at a human.
All thought vanished as Godzilla twisted its head and torso toward him. McCain gasped. An invisible coat of ice covered his body.
Turn, turn turn! Do you want to die?
McCain slammed the stick to the left. He glimpsed an ominous blue glow in Godzilla's mouth.
The Skyraider groaned. McCain gritted his teeth as the g-forces built up, like one anvil after another being placed on his chest.
His rearview mirror filled with blue flame. A thunderous boom consumed the air around him. The Skyraider shook violently. McCain swallowed a breath.
Please God. Please God.
He relaxed, slightly, as the plane stayed in the air. McCain forced himself to look over his shoulder.
Another section of L.A. burned. Godzilla roared and leaned back, breathing fire and blowing up a pair of F-4s.
McCain took quick gulps of air. He swung right just before he reached L.A. harbor. He checked his fuel status. Just past bingo fuel. With only a few rounds left in the cannons, he knew he couldn't do any more good here.
Even fully armed I couldn't do any good.
McCain hugged the coast as he flew north, the tension melting from his body. He wanted to feel joy at surviving another encounter with Godzilla.
All he could think about were the other Enterprise pilots who hadn't.
Names ran through his head. Gordon. Jablonski. McIlvaine. Smith. Curtis. Eckleson. Men he'd known for months. Men he ate with, drank with, played cards with, shared his life's ambitions with.
All gone.
Yet he remained.
And for how long.
The cityscape soon faded below McCain, replaced by cliffs and trees. He looked above him, scanning for any other aircraft headed back to Enterprise.
He saw none.
I can't have been the only one to make it.
And what if he was? Would the crew think him a coward?
Hesitating for a moment, he flicked on his radio.
"Aztec Two-Six to Temple. Ordnance expended and I'm past bingo fuel. Heading home."
"Roger, Two-Six. Be advised we have a squall develop . . ."
An electronic flutter went through his headphones.
"Temple, could you repeat last message?"
McCain thought he heard a voice, a distant one at that. The flutter, however, grew louder.
His brow furrowed. This didn't sound like any sort of static he'd ever experienced.
He looked around. Maybe some exterior source was causing this. The controller on Enterprise did mention something about a squall. Could that be affecting communications? There were high tension lines running along the cliffs. Maybe they were causing this.
McCain spotted movement on the road near the lines. A boxy vehicle with blue and gold trim. It looked like a police paddywagon. And it was hauling ass.
Who wouldn't with a giant lizard wrecking California?
He nodded to the vehicle, hoping the officers inside, and even any convicts it might be carrying, would make it safely to wherever they were headed.
A couple minutes later, Enterprise contacted him again.
"We were getting worried, Two-Six. We thought we may have lost you."
"Sorry, Temple. Radio was on the fritz. But I'm reading you loud and clear now."
"Roger that, Two-Six. Be advised we have a squall closing in on us from the west. Sorry to say you'll be landing in less-than-ideal conditions."
McCain snorted. Less-than-ideal. Landing on a pitching hunk of metal in the middle of the ocean was hard enough. Throw in a rain storm on top of it and you had a seriously tightened sphincter.
Still, I'd rather do that every day for the next month than face Godzilla again.
McCain frowned, knowing how unrealistic that wish was.
TO BE CONTINUED