Serizawa said nothing, but his expression darkened. He took out his pocket watch and twisted the stem, an old habit that utterly failed to reassure him. To the contrary, it only increased his apprehension and dismay.
“That’s assuming everything goes perfectly,” Graham said, still skeptical of Hampton’s alarming nuclear scenario. “But if it doesn’t?”
“If you have another answer, Doctor,” Stenz said, “I’m all ears. But conventional arms are only slowing these things down… at best.” He weighed his options before reaching a decision. “We’ll need presidential approval.” He turned to Hampton. “In the meantime, get the warheads prepped and moving to the coast.”
Graham looked on speechlessly, visibly aghast, as Hampton hurried to carry out his assignment. With the decision made, the other scientists and soldiers filed out of the briefing room to get back to their respective stations. Graham departed as well, but Serizawa lingered behind, still toying with the antique watch. Within minutes, only Serizawa and the admiral were left in the cabin.
“You look like you have an opinion on this,” Stenz said.
Serizawa placed the watch on the meeting table and slid it over to Stenz, who picked it up. The admiral’s puzzled expression made it clear that he wasn’t sure where this was going. He examined the watch.
“It’s stopped,” he noted.
“Yes,” Serizawa said. “At 8:15 A.M.”
A look of understanding came over Stenz’s face. “8:15 A.M. August 6, 1945?”
“Just outside Hiroshima,” Serizawa said.
Stenz handed the watch back. He seemed uncertain how to respond. “Quite the collector’s piece.”
“It was my father’s.”
And with that, Serizawa exited the room.
SEVENTEEN
The female MUTO’s trail of destruction was visible from the air. Acres of American farmland had been devastated by the creature’s passage, the gentle geometry of patterned fields left brutalized in the monster’s wake. Crushed barns and silos were ground into the clawed earth. Anxious farm animals roamed among the ruins of scattered family farms. Nor were the ensuing small towns and suburbs spared. Highways were flattened. Entire neighborhoods and housing developments were razed to their foundations, their former residents fleeing in panic just ahead of the destruction. The wreckage of abandoned malls and shopping centers, schools and churches, joined a seemingly endless disaster zone that stretched west for as far as the eye could see.
Ford was shaken by what he’d seen from the transport plane. Even with everything he’d witnessed overseas, this struck far too close to home. It felt as though the nightmare that had begun for him in Janjira fifteen years ago was still stalking his family — and the country he’d pledged to defend. And now there were three monsters?
“Okay, everybody off!” the loadmaster ordered. “This is as far as we can fly.”
The C-17 had touched down on an evacuated airstrip somewhere east of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. The rear doors of the plane opened and the troops disembarked into the harsh sunlight. After being cooped up in the hold of the Globemaster for hours, Ford’s eyes needed a moment to adjust.
He spied a small town less than a mile away — and crashed aircraft further in the distance. The loadmaster saw him staring at the smoking wreckage.
“We’re well within range of its EMP,” Staff Sergeant Hultquist explained. “From here on out, it’s by land or not at all.”
Ford understood. Dr. Serizawa had explained to him about the MUTO’s electromagnetic pulse, the effects of which Ford had personally witnessed in Japan and Honolulu. He deduced that the crashed planes marked the current borders of the second MUTO’s field of influence.
He felt glad to be on solid ground.
Along with Morales and the other soldiers, he was crammed into a waiting troop carrier that was part of a larger convoy heading toward the front lines of the conflict. More planes were landing, disgorging yet more personnel, to be transferred into additional carriers. Ford was impressed by the scale of the mobilization. He’d never seen anything like it, not even in Iraq or Afghanistan. The military was pulling out all the stops to deal with the rampaging monsters.
He hoped that would be enough.
The convoy pulled into a small town whose name no longer mattered. What had once been Main Street, U.S.A. was now a war zone, lined with abandoned cars, charred storefronts, and smoldering debris. A toppled water tower was being cleared away. Broken glass and scraps of newspapers littered the ground. Dry air reeked of smoke and ash. Bloodstains remained on the pavement. No surviving civilians could be seen anywhere; what was left of the town was now a military staging hub. Jeeps and Humvees were parked at every corner. Troops hustled in and out of the few standing buildings, carrying out the duties with a definite air of urgency. Shelling could be heard in the distance.
It was hard to believe that this had once been somebody’s hometown.
The carrier braked to a stop and the soldiers piled out of the vehicle. Uncertain where to report to, Ford took a moment to survey his unreal surroundings. He had wanted to return home, but not like this. He glanced around, trying to figure out some way to get from here to San Francisco — and his family.
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.”