Why the hell am I still here?
Marcus Jones sighed as he leaned against one of the large shipping containers that lined the Barbours Cut Terminal. The stocky, dark-skinned US Customs agent gazed around the inlet and the adjoining San Jacinto River. On any given day several ships would either be docked here or sailing upriver to other sections of the Port of Houston.
Not this day.
The port was dark and quiet. The foreign container ships that normally unloaded their goods here either headed back to their home countries or just plowed circles through the Gulf of Mexico, awaiting orders. No one seemed to know what to do. The US had surrendered to the Venezuelans and the Simbaaku, but Texas was no longer part of the US. The rest of the world didn't know how to treat this state, or any of the others that seceded.
Jones had no idea where the secession left him. He was an agent of the US Government, which Texas no longer recognized. He didn't even know if Customs and Border Protection could exist under the surrender terms, or if those terms applied to him being in Texas.
Most importantly, would he still get a paycheck? Despite all the craziness with aliens and monsters and surrendering, he still had to make rent, pay his bills and eat. He thanked God he was single with no children. What would he do if he had a family to take care of with the world going to shit?
Jones figured he'd keep showing up for work until the end of the week. If he got his check, cool. If not, he'd do what many of the other Customs agents here had done. Walk out.
His brow furrowed. Even if he did get paid, was US currency worth anything any more? President Atherton's surrender had plunged world financial markets into chaos. The dollar was in the toilet. How the hell was anyone going to . . .
A rushing sound caught Jones' attention. He pushed himself off the container and looked out at the San Jacinto River.
What the hell is that?
An enormous wake barreled toward Barbours Cut. It exploded into a mountain of water. Jones stumbled back, mouth agape. Fear overwhelmed him.
Titanosaurus' trumpeting roar blew out his eardrums. Jones cried out in pain, turned and ran. A quake blasted through the ground. He fell, and tried to push himself up when a second quake knocked him back down.
Titanosaurus roared again as he kicked several shipping containers, sending them spiraling through the air.
One of those containers landed on Marcus Jones and crushed him to a pulp.
XXXXX
Ruffin grimaced as he saw more tracers rip through the darkness two miles away. Flashes of oranges flickered across the surface of the water. The Trinidadians firing back at the Venezuelan ship.
"So much for surprise, Sir," said Best. "What now?"
Ruffin continued to stare at the distant battle. It would take a few minutes to reach the Trinidadian soldiers. Even when they did, what could they do? The heaviest weapons they had were grenade launchers. They wouldn't do much good against a warship.
There was also a matter of priority, and priority was to take out the control complex. Nothing else mattered.
He tried to rid himself of the guilt over abandoning fellow warriors, especially when one of them was Jaelin.
They all know the score. So long as the Simbaaku and Venezuelans control Titanosaurus, we're screwed.
"Make for the complex. Top speed. With the element of surprise gone, we gotta get there ASAP."
Gomez gunned the engine. Their RHIB, along with the others, shot across the waves. Ruffin shifted his gaze from the silhouette of the coastline to the distant battle. Fiery contrails rose from the water, followed seconds later by explosions. He guessed the Trinidadians used their Carl Gustav 84mm recoilless rifles.
"Jaelin, Ruffin," he radioed the sniper, praying he would answer. "SITREP."
"We got made, Sir. It was one of their BVL type corvettes. Two RHIBs sunk, at least six dead and two wounded. We put a few rockets into their bridge and hull. They're backing off and we're headed to shore."
"Roger that. Be ready for a welcoming committee."
"Same to you guys."
Ruffin turned back ahead, propping his MP5 on the RHIB's bow. The massive opening to the hardened shelter drew closer. At least a mile to go.
Blobs of light appeared inside the shelter.
"That can't be good," said Gomez.
"Akua, check it out."
The native of Nauru pressed a nightscope to his eye. "There are enemy soldiers on the walkways. Anywhere from eight to ten on each side."
Ruffin snorted, then got on the radio. "All boats. We've got enemy soldiers on both walkways. Maintain course. Repeat, maintain course. All grenadiers to the bow. Pop frags at one hundred meters. After that, everyone open up with everything you've got. We're gonna have to bull our way in."
He gripped his MP5 tighter. The massive opening loomed before them. Four hundred meters. Three hundred. Two hundred.
"Major!" Akua hollered, the nightscope up to his eye. "I think I see someone in a silver jumpsuit. Port walkway."
Ruffin held his breath. Silver jumpsuit. That had to be a Simbaaku.
Oh shit. They pack –
A thin blue beam shot from the opening.
XXXXX
Captain Borgman sensed the tension permeating the red-lit space of Van Speijk's combat information center. He could see it in the eyes and the body language of the men sitting at their consoles. They were nervous.
I'm nervous. This would be the first true combat experience for them all. Yes, he and several others had conducted anti-piracy operations around the Horn of Africa. But chasing down skiffs filled with AK-47 toting criminals couldn't compare to this.
Borgman took a deep breath and attempted bolster his confidence. Van Speijk may not be the newest ship in the Royal Netherlands Navy, but she was still very capable. The ship carried eight Harpoon anti-ship missiles, 16 Sea Sparrow anti-air missiles, four torpedo launchers, a 76mm gun, a 20mm cannon, a Goalkeeper close-in weapons system, and an NH90 anti-submarine helicopter. All in all, a very formidable arsenal.
Not that it seemed that way when potentially faced with the Venezuelan navy's 11 warships and two submarines, and their air force's 59 combat planes and nine attack helicopters.
Hopefully we will be finished here before General Moscoso can send them all after us.
Hopefully.
Borgman eyed one of the monitors in the front of CIC, the one that showed the hacked satellite feed from the CIA woman working for Chief Briggs. Ant-like figures of Venezuelan sailors hurried toward the frigate General Soublette and the BVL-class corvette Guaicamacuto, both docked at Puerto Cabello. Two other vessels sat beside them, a supply ship and a landing craft. Sailors swarmed around them, too, but with only machine guns and light cannons, he didn't consider them much of a threat.
At least, not yet.
Borgman then stared at the image of the corvette Yavire, burning in the water courtesy of some Trinidadian anti-tank missiles. He debated whether or not to target the ship. He only had eight Harpoon missiles, and the frigate and patrol boats on their way to Caracas would likely turn around when the Venezuelans caught on to their deception. Could he afford to waste one of his precious anti-ship missiles on a damaged vessel?
Just because it's damaged does not mean it cannot fight.
"Lieutenant Geerligs," Borgman said to his weapons officer. "Target one Harpoon each on the Venezuelan frigate and patrol boat docked at Puerto Cabello. Also target the damaged patrol boat."
"Yes, Captain. Targeting enemy frigate and patrol boats."
The seconds passed slowly before Geerligs spoke again. "One Harpoon each locked on enemy frigate and patrol boats."
Borgman clasped his hands behind his back, forcing his face into a stoic mask. "Fire."
"Yes, Captain. Harpoon One away."
A shudder went through Van Speijk as the 691-kilogram missile blasted out of its launcher. Two more Harpoons followed. Silence hung over the CIC as Borgman's eyes flickered between the missile tracks on the radar screen and the satellite image of Puerto Cabello.
A bright flash blotted out the burning Yavire. Borgman gave a slow nod of satisfaction. A few of the men in CIC let out audible breaths. No one cheered. They had just killed more than 60 people. That wasn't something to cheer about. It was something that, due to circumstances, they had to do.
The satellite feed showed a streak of light, then a huge fireball rising from the Venezuelan frigate. Seconds later the other patrol boat exploded.
Borgman relaxed, but only for a moment. They had destroyed three enemy ships, but more were still out there, including the two Type 209 submarines. Nobody knew their locations. That made him nervous.
Submarines made all surface commanders nervous.
Van Speijk's helicopter was searching the area for the subs. Hopefully the crew could locate and destroy them before they could attack. If anything happened to his ship or the Trinidadian vessels, their ground troops would be stuck in enemy territory.
"Captain," called out Lieutenant van Lente, Van Speijk's communications officer. "We have a message from Eclipse. They detected a convoy of vehicles leaving Puerto Cabello and heading for the control complex. They want us to move closer to shore for a fire support mission."
XXXXX
"Lieutenant McGlothen."
He turned to the stout Trinidadian with flecks of gray in his hair. "Yes, Sergeant?"
"Message from Eclipse, Sir," said retired Sergeant Latapy, a 20-year veteran of the Air Guard who'd been pressed into service to act as crew chief on the Dash-8 Q300 transporting McGlothen's platoon. "A convoy of Venezuelan marines has left Puerto Cabello en route to the control complex. At least company-strength. The Van Speijk is currently shelling them, but they say you should still expect a hot LZ."
McGlothen forced himself not to swallow. "Thank you, Sergeant."
Latapy nodded and headed back down the aisle, maneuvering around 82nd Airborne soldiers.
McGlothen clenched his teeth, his stomach forcing its way toward his throat. Oh please don't puke.
He caught the platoon sergeant staring at him. McGlothen forced down the creeping bile and straightened his shoulders, at least as much as the 50-pound parachute strapped to his back allowed him.
"Nobody ever said our job was easy," lamented Sergeant First Class Espinosa.
"You can say that again, Sergeant."
The short, compact platoon sergeant took a step toward him, his dark eyes drilling into McGlothen's. "You'll do fine, Sir. Remember your training, follow your instincts, keep your cool no matter what, and we'll win the day."
McGlothen nodded. "I will, Sergeant. Thank you." He looked around the Q300 interior. "I never thought I'd have my first combat jump in a plane like this."
Espinosa shrugged. "This is how the guys back in World War Two did it, jumpin' out of those old C-47s. Think of it as harkening back to the Eighty-Second's roots."
McGlothen couldn't help but smile. His nervousness eased.
At least for a few seconds, until Sergeant Latapy shouted, "Five minutes from jump! Five minutes from jump! Check your chutes! Check your chutes."
McGlothen turned his back to Espinosa so the sergeant could examine his T-10 parachute.
"You're good, Sir!" Espinosa slapped him on the shoulder.
The paratroopers hooked up their static lines. McGlothen felt sweat drench his face as the Q300 lumbered closer to Venezuela.
Latapy opened the rear side door. Gale force winds ripped through the compartment, dropping the temperature in seconds.
Still McGlothen couldn't stop sweating.
"Stand in the door!" Latapy hollered.
McGlothen waddled up to the door, the wind battering his entire body. He grimaced and squinted. Two huge orange balls lit up the distance. He assumed them to be the Venezuelan warships Van Speijk had destroyed. Now he didn't have to worry about them putting to sea and shelling him and his men.
Of course, there were still plenty of other things to worry about with this last-minute oper-
"GO!" screamed Latapy.
McGlothen didn't even think. He just leapt through the door. A rush of fear and excitement went through him as he went into free fall. Then came sudden jerk as the chute deployed. McGlothen grunted, then refilled his lungs. He grabbed the straps of his chute and scanned around him. Fire consumed two ships docked at the naval base. He spotted a third fire in the water. More circles of flame dotted the ground below, probably from Van Speijk's shelling. They would have stopped now, not wanting to risk a friendly fire incident. He took all the flames as a good sign. Maybe the Dutch blew the hell out of all the Venezuelan marines. Or at least most of them. It would make things easier for the platoon when they hit the ground.
Laser-like tracers flew up from the ground toward McGlothen and his paratroopers.
XXXXX
"This is News Chopper Thirteen reporting live over Barbours Cut, or rather what's left of it."
Reporter Neil Haney feared for a brief moment the comment might have been insensitive. But another look at the fires and wreckage below convinced him the comment was justified.
"Just minutes ago, Titanosaurus emerged from the San Jacinto River and destroyed this terminal. The last report we had was that the alien-controlled monster is approaching Houston proper. The Texas Air National Guard has barred all civilian traffic from the city's air space. We'll try to get as close to Houston as possible to broadcast this . . . developing situation."
Haney winced at the word. Developing situation. How about disaster in the making. And the worst part was he couldn't get anywhere near it. Live coverage of a monster attack on Houston would punch his ticket to the network.
No it wouldn't. He had to stop thinking like that. With the country torn apart by secession and surrender, he had no idea where things stood with his network, or any of the others.
Screw it! He couldn't think about that stuff right now. He had a story to cover. The biggest story of his career.
"We're still awaiting word on casualties from Titanosaurus' initial attack. What we do know from government officials in both Houston and Austin is that evacuation of Houston is impossible. All citizens are being urged to seek shelter in basements, and all police, firefighters, EMT and other emergency personnel have been called up. National Guard units have been dispatched to Houston, but given what happened recently in the Caribbean, it's hard to think . . ."
Something in the water caught his eye. He ordered the pilot to swing around to the right.
"We just spotted a large wake heading toward shore. I don't see any ship on the water. Maybe it's a submarine, but it would have to be a very large submarine to make a wake li-"
An enormous dark shape exploded out of the water.
"Oh . . . my . . . God."
Even over the thumping of the helicopter's rotors, Haney could just make out the distinctive roar of Godzilla as he stomped ashore.
TO BE CONTINUED