NEAR SAN JUAN CAPISTRANO, CALIFORNIA
A bolt of pure energy shot through Jimmy Stewart when he saw the green Army vehicles. A grin crossed his face, making him forget his sore legs from an afternoon's worth of walking and sharp pains in his back and neck from a night's worth of sleeping on the ground.
Getting old stinks.
But he shoved that thought aside and broke through the trees, hurrying down the incline toward the vehicles. Finally no more walking. Finally he'd run into people. Every road and the two tiny towns he'd come across since getting shot down yesterday had been devoid of people. Now he . . .
Stewart halted. His muscles tightened as he took a second, more careful look around.
He saw no sign of any soldiers. What he did see sucked out every bit of his newfound energy.
A huge, reptilian footprint and three flattened vehicles within it.
The aches and pains from his travels hit him full force. Grimacing, Stewart ambled the rest of the way down the incline.
"Hello!" he called out in the vain hope someone was still around. After doing this four times without a response, he gave up and examined the vehicles along the road.
Two of the Jeeps and one of the deuce-and-a-half trucks had flat tires. Another Jeep contained under a quarter tank of gas.
The other truck, however, had a half tank of gas and no flat tires.
Stewart salvaged what he could. K-Rations, canteens, a blanket and an M-14.
Oh yeah. He shook his head at the rifle. This will come in handy if I run into Godzilla.
He threw his supplies in the cab of the truck, which started with no problem.
So where to now? March Air Force Base would be the logical choice. But Godzilla would have reached Los Angeles by now.
Stewart shivered, wondering if the city still remained. He prayed Gloria and the kids made it out all right.
He sighed as thoughts of his wife blanketed his mind. Why did he have to be so short with her before he left? Why couldn't he have just taken the time to explain to her why he needed to go, instead of snapping at her? Gloria was his wife, not some wet-behind-the-ears second lieutenant like Harley . . . had been.
Stewart briefly shut his eyes, visualizing the young man's mangled corpse. How old had he been? Twenty-two, twenty-three maybe? Did he have a wife? A girlfriend? Damn, what was the kid's first name?
His hands flexed on the steering wheel. He thought stuff like this would forever be relegated to the past, having to watch young men fly into combat and die.
That horror had returned thanks to a damn mutant dinosaur.
A half-hour passed. Stewart saw no sign of people. He did come across several abandoned cars, probably out of gas, he imagined. He also passed the charred ruins of Laguna Beach. Even with the windows rolled up, the stench of burnt wood permeated the cab and clogged his nostrils.
He gazed at the horizon. Thick dark smoke stained the sky. Stewart sank back in his seat, picturing Los Angeles burning beneath it.
Gloria. Please be all right.
The truck rumbled on for another fifteen minutes. Stewart was set to make a left when he caught movement out the corner of his eye. He whipped his head around.
Over a dozen soldiers hurried out of the woods near the road.
"Finally, people. Thank you, God." He put the truck in park, pushed open the door and jumped out.
"You fellas are a sight for sore eyes. I was starting to think I was the last man on Earth."
"We're glad to see you . . ." The man in the lead came to a sudden stop. His eyes widened. So did the eyes of the other soldiers behind him. One guy tugged on the sleeve of his buddy and pointed at Stewart.
"Holy . . ." The apparent leader continued to gape. "You're Jimmy Stewart!"
"That's Brigadier General Stewart to you."
The man's stunned expression vanished. He snapped to attention and saluted. So did the other soldiers.
"Sorry, Sir. Lieutenant Colonel Hal Moore."
Stewart returned the salute, then shook Moore's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Colonel. Where did you come from?"
"Laguna Beach. We threw everything we had at Godzilla. Went through us like we didn't exist. We're the only ones who made it out alive, that we know of. What about you, Sir?"
"I went up with a squadron of B-52s. Dropped over six hundred thousand pounds of bombs on that damn monster. Fat lot of good it did."
A few of the soldiers looked shocked. Stewart couldn't blame them. What on God's green Earth could survive a pounding like that?
Godzilla, apparently.
"So where were you headed, Colonel?"
The corners of Moore's mouth twisted. "North, to L.A. Unfortunately from all the smoke on the horizon I have a bad feeling there is no more L.A."
Stewart saw some of the light fade from Moore's eyes. The man's face sagged. Stewart could practically read Moore's mind.
I failed.
He had to be thinking that. That's exactly what Stewart was thinking.
"I was headed that way, too. To March Air Force Base. But who knows if it's even there anymore. Even if it is, I'm sure they evacuated before Godzilla got to the city."
Moore nodded, turning toward the smoke-filled horizon. "I don't think L.A.'s an option either, Sir."
"Did you have a rally point in case things went bad at Laguna Beach?"
"Costa Mesa. Though Godzilla probably went through it on his way to Los Angeles. We've been trying to raise our division HQ." Moore turned to the tan-skinned soldier with the bulky radio/telephone unit. "So far no one's talking back."
Stewart exhaled slowly and stared at the blacktop beneath him. After a few seconds he looked back up at Moore. "We need to get a military base. Army, Navy, Air Force, doesn't matter. And a major one, one where they might stage for another attack on Godzilla."
For a moment, Stewart expected Moore to say, "What are you, nuts? You want to fight that thing again?"
Instead the Colonel pulled out a map and spread it out on the driver's seat of the deuce-and-a-half. He traced his finger over the colorful image of California.
"Looks like we've got two choices, General. The Pacific Missile Test Center fifty miles north of L.A., or further north there's Vandenberg Air Force Base."
"The Test Center's the closest one. We'll go for that."
Moore nodded. "We can't go through Los Angeles. Godzilla's probably turned the place to rubble by now. Our best bet is to circle around the San Gabriel Mountains outside the city and head west toward Oxnard. We'll stick to backroads as much as possible. The highways are no doubt going to be jammed with civilians trying to get away from Godzilla."
"Then let's do that."
Moore assigned one of the privates in the group to drive the truck, while he, Stewart and the others climbed in the back.
Most of the soldiers, Moore included, spent a majority of the trip sleeping, in spite of the growling engine and a few bumpy roads. Even Stewart caught a few Zs, going on the theory he'd better get all the sleep he could now, as it would be a luxury once they got back into the fight.
They drove through the night, with another soldier taking over for the first driver. At one point a young pimply-faced private hesitantly slid over to Stewart.
"Um . . . excuse me, Sir?" His voice quivered.
"Yes, Private."
The boy sucked his lip. "Um, I was . . . well, I don't know if it's appropriate, but . . . um, General. C-Could I get your autograph . . . Sir?"
Any other time, Stewart would have dressed down the man for such unprofessional behavior. He didn't like when soldiers turned into autograph seekers while he was in uniform. When he put on his star and wings, he ceased being Jimmy Stewart the actor and became Jimmy Stewart the U.S. Air Force Brigadier General.
But then he considered what this kid had been through at Laguna Beach. Stewart fought Godzilla thousands of feet in the air and never even saw the monster from the cockpit of his B-52. This private probably had a ringside seat for Godzilla's rampage. He couldn't imagine how terrified the boy must have been.
Stewart smiled and took the piece of cardboard and the pen from the soldier's hand. "What's your name, Private?"
"Uh, Eric . . . Eric Boddicker, Sir."
Stewart scribbled on the cardboard.
To Eric,
It's a pleasure serving with you.
All my best.
Jimmy Stewart
He handed the cardboard back to the private, who beamed at him.
"Thank you, Mister . . . I-I mean, General Stewart. My girlfriend's gonna flip when I show her this. Our first date, I took her to see The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance."
"You made a good choice there, son."
"Yes, Sir. Um, thank you, Sir."
The private scooted away, still grinning.
Stewart eyed Eric Boddicker, hoping the young man would live through this so he could show his girl the autograph.
With all the detours and traffic jams, it wasn't until dawn that they closed in on Oxnard.
Stewart groaned, his entire body sore from sleeping in awkward positions in this rattling truck. Other men also stirred, rubbing sore necks and shoulders. After brief self-massages, a few of the men broke out their K-Rations. Stewart refrained, deciding to wait until they reached the Pacific Missile Test Center. He'd be able to get some real food there.
Unless they decided to evacuate.
"Acosta. Let's give the radio another try," Moore ordered the R/T operator.
The soldier nodded. He flicked a few switches and pressed the handset to his ear.
"Able Tango Three Three Provisional to any U.S. military forces. Do you read? Over."
The soldier's brow furrowed. He stared at the handset, then at Moore. "Colonel, we've got some kind of weird interference."
He passed the handset to Moore, who listened for a few seconds.
"Problem, Colonel?" asked Stewart.
"It's like Acosta said. We've got some kind of weird interference. Not static. It's like some . . . pulsing sound. I really don't know how to describe it."
"Let me see." Stewart shuffled over to Moore and took the handset. He scrunched his face when he heard it. Like some sort of electronic flutter.
Jamming? That might make sense if they were under attack by a human enemy. He doubted Godzilla would have any way of jamming communications.
He gave the handset back to Acosta, who tried calling out again with the same result. Stewart's eyes flickered from the soldier to the rear opening. A truck with blue and gold trim sat off to the side of the road. Two men in blue uniforms squatted by the front, changing a flat tire. Stewart thought he saw the word POLICE on the side of the vehicle.
"Colonel, let's check with those fellas. Maybe they have a radio that works."
XXXXX
Grigori Yazlov's heart hammered in his chest as he watched the U.S. Army truck drive past them.
"Shit!" Dmitri Azatoya's hands pressed harder against the spare tire he held. "Do you think they'll stop?"
Before Grigori could speak, the truck answered for him. Its brake lights flashed on. Moments later the truck backed up.
"What do we do now?" Dmitri looked up, sweat glistening on his brow.
"Stay calm," Grigori hissed. "We don't have anything to worry about. We're just two ordinary American cops. Now act like it."
Grigori took a couple deep breaths, settling himself. His stomach still felt like a cauldron of boiling acid.
Two soldiers jumped out of the truck. One a lieutenant colonel, the other . . . actually, the other man wasn't a soldier. He wore an olive green flightsuit and the insignia of a brigadier general.
But the face. Something about it looked so familiar . . .
No. It can't be.
Grigori had seen many of the man's movies as part of his KGB training to operate within the United States. He'd even liked them. He also knew the man still served in the reserves.
But never in his wildest dreams did he expect to meet Jimmy Stewart.
"Good morning, officers." Stewart nodded to them. "Having a little trouble?"
"Just a little," Grigori tried to sound casual, like many Californians. "Blew out a tire."
"Need any help?"
"No thank you. We're almost finished. Hey, aren't . . . aren't you Jimmy Stewart?" Grigori felt he had to ask the question. Any typical American would. To not would invite suspicion he didn't need.
"Guilty as charged. Though right now it's General Stewart. And this is Lieutenant Colonel Moore, U.S. Army." Stewart explained how the two of them had been part of the unsuccessful battle to keep Godzilla out of L.A. He then looked at the side of the fake paddywagon, then back at Grigori. "So what are a couple of San Diego cops doing this far north?"
Grigori fought to keep any hint of nervousness off his face. "Evacuating prisoners from the city lock-up. We were supposed to bring them to L.A., but with Godzilla bearing down on it . . ."
"Understandable. Say, you wouldn't happen to have a radio in here, would you. Ours seems to be on the fritz."
"Wish I could help you, General Stewart. Unfortunately, this thing was in for maintenance when Godzilla showed up in San Diego. At the time we needed every vehicle we could to evacuate the prisoners. Beggars couldn't be choosers, you know."
Grigori held his breath, his stomach twisting in painful knots. Would the actor/general accept his story? Did he perhaps say too much?
"Damn. Sorry to hear that. We wanted to . . ."
A distant, familiar roar carried through the air. All heads turned to the hills and forests behind them.
"How far away do you think that was?" Grigori asked, not having to fake the quiver in his voice.
"Far enough that we'll be long gone by the time he gets here," Stewart answered. "You fellas sure you don't need any help?"
"Thanks, General. But we'll be wrapped up with this in a couple minutes. You can bet we won't dilly-dally."
"Okay, then. Take care of yourselves. We're headed to the Pacific Missile Test Center. You may want to join us there when you're done."
"Thanks for the offer, but we were planning on dropping these guys off in San Francisco. I don't feel like babysitting a bunch of hoods forever."
"Gotcha." Stewart nodded. "Good luck, gentlemen."
Both Grigori and Dmitri waved to Stewart and Moore as they got back in the truck and drove off. The two KGB agents quickly put on the spare tire and got into the paddywagon as another roar from Godzilla echoed through the air . . . this one a little closer than the last.
Grigori thought about Stewart's destination, the Pacific Missile Test Center. In a few hours, Godzilla would completely destroy the base where the Americans carried out many of their nuclear missile tests.
He did, however, hope that Stewart would survive the attack. Grigori wanted the man to keep making great movies.
TO BE CONTINUED
