Godzilla at World's End

by Marc Cerasini

  "Harpooner? Can you hear me?" Korsov demanded over the ship's radio.

  The bald man gripping the gunstock on the bow of the bobbing ship turned, tapped his headphones, and nodded to Korsov through the bridge windows. Then he turned back to face the prey that swam before him.

  Slowly, inexorably, the Ordog was gaining on Godzilla. And only now did the utter insanity of his mission occur to Captain Korsov. All this for a few gallons of blood and tissue samples, he thought.

  Of course he understood why his shadowy employers wanted the material. Godzilla's flesh was an enigma. Its properties of instantaneous regeneration were well known, but not fully understood. So far, only the Japanese and the Americans had supplies of Godzilla's DNA to study, and they weren't sharing them with anybody.

  But the European pharmaceutical company that was paying Korsov's employers wanted their own supply of Godzilla cells, and were willing to pay a lot of rubles to get it. Korsov's employers convinced the pharmaceutical company that the Ordog's special equipment was perfect for the task.

  So who was Korsov to question his bosses, as long as they were paying him so well?

  "We are almost in range, Captain!" Podynov cried as the Ordog approached Godzilla. The ship was leaping out of the water now as it slammed into the creature's wake at a speed of nearly forty knots. The crew on the bridge had to hang on or risk being dashed to the deck. The man at the wheel, a seasoned veteran of the sea, hung on with white knuckles but pushed grimly onward.

  Suddenly, Godzilla's tail thrashed out of the water on the Ordog's starboard side. The tail towered over the ship, then crashed into the waves only a moment later. The resulting spray battered the ship, almost capsizing the Ordog.

  "Man overboard!" Podynov cried. Korsov turned. He saw a flurry of activity on the deck. One of the men had been swept into the sea. Korsov could see that the man was quickly disappearing in the distance behind them.

  "Captain, we have to turn back!" Podynov cried.

  "No!" Korsov commanded. "Our goal is worth the sacrifice. We go forward!"

  The men on the bridge exchanged apprehensive glances, but they obeyed their captain.

  Korsov clutched the bridge control panel and gazed through the windows. Godzilla raised his head out of the water and bellowed. The roar seemed to vibrate through the ship and shook the crew's courage.

  "Prepare to fire the harpoon!" Korsov cried into the radio.

  On the bow of the ship, the harpooner pulled the parka's hood off his shaven head and peered through the gun sight. His captain's voice crackled through his headphones.

  "Aim for the neck," Korsov directed.

  The silent man at the gun squinted into the sight, focusing the crosshairs on a portion of Godzilla's throat right below the pointed ears. The charcoal gray flesh rippled.

  The harpooner held his breath as he squeezed the trigger. With a whoosh of escaping gases, the harpoon leaped out of the tube and shot across the waves, dragging a thick line behind it. The harpoon struck Godzilla exactly where the harpooner had aimed.

  As the point of the harpoon embedded itself in Godzilla's thick hide, secondary hooks emerged from the main bolt, digging deeper into the monster's flesh and anchoring the harpoon in place. The clear hollow plastic tube that was embedded in the center of the harpoon's long steel connecting cable soon filled with greenish fluid as the ship's pump began its work.

  On the bridge, Podynov looked at Captain Korsov. "The pumps are on-line!" the first mate announced. He checked the gauge on the control board in front of him. "The tanks are beginning to fill with the monster's blood."

  Godzilla suddenly dipped his massive head, pulling the harpoon's line taut and dragging the Ordog's bow down into the waves. With a scream of surprise, the harpooner lost his grip on the gun-stock and was swept into the sea.

  This time no one bothered to cry "man overboard." They knew that Korsov would not endanger the mission to save a man's life - any man's.

  "The first tank is full," Podynov cried, switching over to the second of three 150-gallon tanks in the hold of the fast patrol ship. Godzilla continued to surge forward, dragging the ship behind him like a child tugging on a bathtub toy.

  Two minutes later, Podynov switched to the third and final tank. Godzilla had not slowed his forward momentum. Indeed, the creature seemed oblivious to the tiny ship he was dragging behind him through the increasingly rough surf.

  Korsov peered over the first mate's shoulder, wondering how long the hull of the Stenka-class ship could withstand such a buffeting. The gauge on the control panel indicated that the third tank was nearly full.

  "Prepare to cut the cable loose," Korsov announced with a note of triumph. Podynov lifted the plastic cover on the detonator that would set off the explosive bolts to sever the nearly indestructible steel cable.

  "Now!" Korsov cried. Podynov's chubby finger stabbed the detonator button, but nothing happened. He turned to Korsov with an expression of obvious panic etched on his face.

  "The bolts did not detonate, Captain!" he cried.

  "I know that, you fool," Korsov cried, pushing the man aside and checking the control panel's connections. Everything seemed to be in order.

  Suddenly, the Ordog dipped again as Godzilla lowered his reptilian head and pulled the cable taut. The patrol ship was almost swamped, and a powerful wave washed over the bow and slammed into the bridge, shattering a window.

  "Captain!" Podynov cried, fear in his voice. His face was bleeding where he had been struck by a shard of window glass. "What do we do?" he whined.

  "Get out there and cut the cable!" Korsov commanded, thrusting an ax from the emergency stores into the startled first mate's hands.

  "But the cable is made of titanium steel," Podynov continued to whine. "It is indestructible!"

  "Do it!" Korsov shouted forcefully, pushing the man off the bridge and out onto the deck. The first mate was followed by three other sailors, all clutching axes. The men stumbled to the harpoon gun, clutching safety handles along the way. As soon as they arrived, they began hacking on the cable, sending sparks into the gray twilight.

  But after a minute of hacking, Podynov's ax shattered in his hand. The first mate dropped the broken handle and stared forward.

  "Oh, no," he muttered, his eyes widening in horror.

  Godzilla dived beneath the waves.

  As the monster's head dipped beneath the surface, the cable went taut, pulling the Ordog into the crashing waves. A huge fountain of spray shot into the air as the tortured hull of the Ordog literally broke apart. Men and chunks of metal flew through the air like falling leaves.

  In a moment the ship was swamped, and the crew of the Ordog was drowned or torn apart by the force of the ship's destruction.

  As Godzilla disappeared beneath the surface of the Sea of Okhotsk, he dragged the ragged remains of the Ordog and its doomed crew with him.

  Minutes later, deep under water, the explosive bolts that held the ship fastened to Godzilla finally blew up, as they were programmed to do by the owners of the ship.

  Three giant bags inflated around the tanks full of Godzilla's blood and tissue as another hatch blew open, throwing the tanks free of the sinking hull.

  Slowly, the three tanks floated to the surface. A powerful radio beacon began to broadcast the tank's location on a special frequency, and a bright signal light on top of the tanks began to flash intermittently.

  Thirty minutes later, as the sun set, a helicopter appeared on the darkening horizon. The aircraft ignored the debris and corpses floating in the area and flew directly toward the tanks. In another minute, the chopper's crew lowered a retrieval hook.

  As soon as the tanks were pulled from the waves, the helicopter circled the area once again, then flew toward the Russian coast with its precious cargo - a cargo that was worth the sacrifice of many lives to obtain, as Captain Korsov of the ill-fated Ordog had insisted.

  Even his.

  4

  SPECIAL ASSIGNMENT

  Mo
nday, November 13, 2000, 0900 hours

  Joint Headquarters, 82nd Airborne Division

  U.S. Army XVIII Airborne Corps

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Private First Class Sean Brennan's heart raced as he approached the regimental headquarters building. For the hundredth time in an hour, he wondered why he'd been summoned here in such an unorthodox manner.

  He feared he knew the answer and secretly dreaded that today would be the day the truth came out.

  I must have been crazy to think I could get away with it, he thought glumly. He removed his cap and rubbed his hand over the military stubble on his head - a nervous habit he'd had since he was a kid back in Massachusetts.

  As Private Brennan approached the structure - which looked more like a big colonial house than the military command center for one of the busiest regiments of the U.S. Army - he felt a sense of awe mingled with rising fear and apprehension. He had never been this close to officer country before. Yet the building itself was deceptively innocuous-looking. Only the cluster of satellite dishes on the roof and a much larger array of microwave towers nearby hinted that it was anything more than the home of a wealthy civilian.

  Before entering the headquarters' main security area, Private Brennan checked himself to see if his uniform would pass muster. He felt some comfort in knowing he was well turned out. He knew his shoes were shiny and his uniform immaculate, and every button and ribbon was in its proper place - not that there were many of the latter. Brennan had been in the army only ten months, after all.

  But he wore his wings proudly over his heart. That simple insignia marked him as one of the select few who had completed the five weeks of arduous and punishing paratrooper training at Fort Benning before being assigned to Airborne - the toughest and most distinguished unit in the United States Army.

  And I'm about to lose it all, Sean Brennan thought with mounting dismay. He felt more nervous than he had before his first parachute jump - and, later, his first night jump.

  Taking a deep breath, the soldier pushed through the main doors and presented his written orders - delivered that morning by messenger - to the officer at the desk, just as he had been commanded to do. After returning Brennan's crisp salute, the lieutenant took his orders and scanned them.

  Private Brennan's eyes nervously searched the room, finally settling on the huge coat of arms on the wall. It was a portrait of a striking blue dragon on a stark white background - the insignia of the 82nd Airborne. When he saw the image, Brennan's heart swelled with pride.

  Even if I lose it all today, he thought, at least I'll know that I made it this far.

  "Follow me," the officer announced blandly after stamping the papers and handing them back to him.

  Sean Brennan's heart began to race again. They must have found out! he screamed to himself.

  If they did, then Sean Brennan's - no, Patrick Brennan's - military days were over. Even if he avoided jail for enlisting under a false identity, he would probably have to return to Boston.

  He preferred prison to the shame of facing his mother.

  If only I'd waited a year or so, he thought. I could have enlisted legally.

  But seventeen-year-old Patrick Brennan knew there'd really been no other choice for him. He had to do what he did, when he did it.

  The trouble began in the late 1980s, when Patrick's father died, leaving Patrick's mother to bring up him and his older brother. Things were tight, but tolerable. At least they were for a while.

  Then, in 1999, Ellen Brennan had suffered her first heart attack. It was followed by more medical complications. She recovered eventually, but could no longer work. Without a salary, Ellen Brennan was forced to live off what was left of the Social Security system in the twenty-first century. Suddenly, there was not enough money - or enough of anything - for Ellen and her two sons.

  So Patrick's older brother announced that he was leaving - going to Australia with a stolen passport he purchased on the black market. There were jobs there, or so everyone on the street said. That was more than could be said about Boston - or anywhere else in America, for that matter.

  In the ugly post-kaiju days, things were falling apart fast. It was really tough to survive even if you had a job. It was nearly impossible if you did not.

  Sean left home in the summer of 1999, and neither Patrick nor his mother had heard a word from him since. For all they knew, Sean was in an Australian prison.

  With his brother gone, Patrick felt lost, lonely, and guilt-ridden. He knew his mother could live better without having to support a teenage son. But try as he might, there was simply no way Patrick could earn any money to help out - not unless he joined one of the criminal gangs that were springing up everywhere.

  But Patrick Brennan was a good kid at heart. He didn't want a future selling drugs or black market goods - or worse.

  Then one day, about a year ago, he saw a commercial on television. Join the army, and be all that you can be. He'd seen the soldiers in town - most American cities were full of soldiers now, since martial law had been declared. The men in uniform all looked trim, confident, and most importantly, well fed.

  Patrick looked in the mirror. He was a big kid, he was athletic, and he looked old for his age. But he was only sixteen years old, too young for the military. And he made lousy grades in school - unlike his older brother, who had been almost an honor student when he graduated from high school.

  Patrick realized that his older brother could have joined the military easily, if he had wanted to. And then it hit him.

  Why not become Sean?

  His older brother had left behind all of his identification - including his birth certificate, driver's license, diploma ...

  The next morning, Patrick left his mother a note and went down to the enlistment office. Sixteen-year-old Patrick Brennan became eighteen-year-old Sean Brennan that day. He never looked back. Basic training was a snap. After basic, Sean volunteered for Airborne. He found that easy, too.

  Just yesterday, his sergeant told him that he had a bright future in the 82nd ... but today ... what would he say today?

  "In there," said an unsmiling lieutenant, pointing to a door with a number etched on it. Sean Brennan froze and brushed his hand through his short brown stubble.

  "Just go in," the lieutenant ordered.

  Swallowing hard, and figuring his military career was over, Private Brennan pushed the door open. But instead of a phalanx of officers with court-martial papers clutched in their hands - as he had imagined - he found nine more privates sitting around a table.

  Like him, these men were all fresh out of jump school and fairly new to the 82nd. And, like him, they all looked pretty nervous. As Private Brennan found an empty chair, he scanned the other faces in the conference room. Though he didn't know anyone well, he recognized some of them. He spotted lanky Jim Cirelli, a former rock 'n' roller, and a big, powerful soldier named Johnny Rocco. He also recognized someone who lived in the same barracks - a little, quiet guy named Bob Bodusky. Sean remembered seeing another man in the room at the PX - a skinny private named Tucker Guyson - but he had never talked to Guyson before.

  He didn't recognize anyone else.

  Sean was barely seated when a sergeant burst into the room and cried "Ten-HUT!"

  All the privates jumped to their feet as General Akworth, the new commander of the 82nd Airborne, entered the room.

  "At ease, men," the general announced. "Be seated."

  As they sat down, Sean Brennan's heart began to slow down for the first time that morning.

  My secret is still safe! he wanted to cry out.

  Private Brennan could barely suppress the smile that threatened to burst forth at any moment. But with an effort of will, he forced his face to remain passive, as he chanted his personal mantra in his head. I'm Sean Brennan ... I'm Sean Brennan ... I'm SEAN ... SEAN ...

  Monday, November 13, 2000, 11:06 A.M.

  Independent News Network headquarters

  World Trad
e Center Tower

  New York, New York

  "You have a message, Ms. Halliday," Robin's assistant said, handing her a pink slip with a name and number scrawled across it.

  At first Robin barely glanced at the message as she dashed to her office to check her e-mail. Then she took another look at the piece of paper in her hand and collapsed into her chair.

  Mycroft E. Endicott wants to see me! she realized, suddenly breathless. Then she almost screamed aloud.

  At eleven-thirty!

  Robin Halliday leaped to her feet, bumping her denim-clad knee on the edge of her desk. I have twenty-five minutes to get ready for an executive meeting! she realized with horror. And I pick today to come to work in my ripped Gitanos!

  As she rushed off to her dressing room for something more appropriate to the occasion, Robin wondered just what this meeting was going to be about.

  Thirty minutes later, Robin arrived at the CEO's outer office wearing a tasteful, conservative suit-dress. She had to admit that she looked stunning, and perfectly costumed for the executive-suite setting.

  Robin was greeted by Endicott's businesslike secretary, who promptly led her into the CEO's inner sanctum.

  "This way, Ms. Halliday," the prim woman said, ushering her into the enormous corner office. "Mr. Endicott will be with you shortly."

  When she entered, Robin was surprised to see her former boss, Nick Gordon, staring out the window at the skyline of the city. She observed that he looked as dashing as ever. She also noticed that there was no one else in the spacious office.

  What's he doing here? Robin wondered suspiciously. Does he know what this meeting is all about?

  Robin realized she would have to find out before the boss showed up. She had to be ready for anything.

  "Hello, Nick," Robin purred, rushing to give him a hug.

  "Hey! Robin," Nick replied, flashing her a toothy smile, making him all the more attractive.

  Too bad he's always been married to his work, thought Robin with regret.