Pacific Rising Read online

  PACIFIC RISING

  John W. Dennehy

  Copyright 2017 by John W. Dennehy

  This book is dedicated to the late James Petrongelli, MGySgt, USMC

  Courage is endurance for one moment more…

  One

  Maki followed her parents down the bustling streets of Tokyo. Rain poured in a deluge as people shuffled along the sidewalk. Car horns honked and shoes slapped at puddles. Traffic sat still, car after car, jam-packed like she’d never seen. Shopkeepers were closing early.

  Everyone moved in haste, worried about the storm. Afraid.

  Rain batted off the rubber hood of her pink slicker. And Maki’s knapsack thumped against her back with each step. Her hood muffled the street sounds. Winds blew hard, impeding her progress. Maki held her mother’s hand tightly and used the larger adult for support to help plod ahead.

  “Move out of the way!” her father shouted, trying to clear a path through the throng. He dragged his family along behind him.

  “This way, Maki.” Mother pulled her hand.

  “Why are we rushing?” Maki said, struggling to keep up.

  “Shush now, and move…” Mother pressed ahead. “No time for talking.”

  People dashed in sundry directions, with no rhyme or reason to the movement on the sidewalk. Nobody adhered to conventional paths of travel. Everyone shoved other pedestrians, trying to make their way through the city, a mass hysteria of people in flight with panic-stricken eyes. Father paused and wiped the thick lens on his glasses.

  “Why doesn’t everyone keep to the side?” Maki complained.

  “There isn’t any order.” Father shook his head, dismayed.

  “Why not?” Maki kept at him. She was surprised he’d heard her over the commotion, and even more amazed that he’d responded.

  “Just keep moving,” Mother interjected.

  Maki looked around, confused. She wondered why this storm had spawned such concern. At a tender age of twelve, she had experienced numerous tropical storms and a few hurricanes. This storm hadn’t garnered much consideration at first.

  Her mother wasn’t currently working, and her father had taken a much-needed vacation day. They planned to spend the afternoon on a shopping venture, expecting a bit of rain and wind. All of them had dressed for the weather and prepared for a tropical storm.

  They’d headed out late morning, and Maki bounced through puddles carefree, splashing them with her rain boots. Her family took a late lunch at her father’s favorite delicatessen in downtown Tokyo. A news station aired on a flat-screen television, mounted to the restaurant wall, and reported on the storm.

  When the broadcast zipped headlines across the monitor, her father stood up and headed toward the television. Maki read the words: “Emergency Weather Alert.”

  The news station reported on the tropical storm being upgraded to a severe hurricane on short notice. Her father worked as an engineer and came back to the table scratching his bald head, obviously unable to comprehend such a mistaken forecast. Already the ocean kicked up massive waves, and camera crews shot film of rough surf battering the shoreline. The images were ominous, as though the Pacific had come to life and would pound the ancient coast.

  Now, her family scrambled through the city, hoping to catch public transportation back to their small apartment in northern Tokyo. Most of the cabs were occupied. Even if they found one available, they’d sit in traffic, like waiting in a parking lot.

  People moved along the sidewalk with fearful eyes darting about. The merchants closing shops had dire looks of concern cast on their faces. Maki wondered how wind and rain could stir such alarm.

  Even her parents were afraid, and they usually took everything in stride. Her family handled burdens stoically. Hysteria engulfed everyone. And her father pushed his way down the sidewalk, clearing a path for Maki and her mother. Typically non-confrontational, he snapped at people to move it along and get out of the way.

  His efforts were futile. A tide had turned and sent a wave of people headed in their direction.

  Maki wondered what might happen if they didn’t get to shelter soon.

  Then, her father came to an abrupt halt. He looked up past the tall buildings, toward the sky. Maki glanced at the grey overcast, and torrents of rain cascaded on her face, blurring her vision.

  A moment later, a ferocious roar resonated amid the far towers, rattling windows.

  Something dark and massive shifted beyond the skyscrapers. Through the downpour, she glimpsed the monster near the harbor and understood why people rushed in the opposite direction.

  And then a flood washed down the street, hurling people through swelling currents.

  ****

  Earlier, General Yoshi had reported to the command center for the Japanese Self-Defense Forces, eager to learn about recent developments. He’d stood behind a console watching video feed and data recordings, as a lump grew in his throat, and dread engulfed him.

  A tremor reverberated along the ocean floor, and rough currents churned over the surface. Ten-foot waves rose and undulated across the Pacific Ocean. Hurricane winds battered the Japanese coastline.

  Something broke the surface of the water, and a rock-like shape plied through the turbid waters. The general scratched his chubby face.

  Yoshi sighed and pointed at the screen. “Zamera returns!”

  “What do you mean?” This from Major Nagasaki.

  “A fierce Kaiju,” Yoshi muttered as images returned to mind from his youth, rampaging over the countryside.

  “Nonsense,” Nagasaki replied. “Merely an old folk tale.”

  Shaking his head, Yoshi pictured the Kaiju nestled at the base of an underwater mountain range, asleep, dormant for decades. Then, the hurricane stirred this pre-historic creature to life.

  The shifting of tectonic plates must have brought it out of a decades-long slumber.

  Watching the screen, Yoshi figured the Kaiju had fallen into a crevice after it was attacked with a small nuclear weapon in 1965. Perhaps the sea floor had closed around it and put Zamera into a deep sleep. The earth had shifted again, and a major storm brewed in the rough seas, waking the creature.

  The rocky form in the water spiked further above the surface, and massive legs kicked in the turbulent current. Major Nagasaki gasped in horror. The head resembled a triceratops, with horns protruding from protective armor.

  Stout rear legs and a long tail, its back was lined with jutting plates, stalactites poking in sundry directions. It cut through the water effortlessly. The front legs paddled, shorter, demonstrating the creature was accustomed to walking on hind legs. Claws extended from its limbs, sharp and deadly. The creature’s entire body was covered in dense, protective scales, resembling armor-plating.

  The head led to a long muzzle with fangs. A meat eater, the Kaiju blinked its eyes, alert, and no longer groggy from sleep. Yoshi shook his head, alarmed. Hunger obviously churned in the beast’s stomach and drove its every move.

  Yoshi feared its appetite could only be satiated through revenge. Battles from the distant past came to mind. The Kaiju had ravaged the countryside while tracked armored vehicles shot it with cannons and rockets, and fighters whizzed through the air, launching missiles. All efforts were to no avail, futile. Only the last resort of a nuclear weapon had driven the monster away.

  Now, the Kaiju had returned and swam through rolling waves, headed toward the coastline where it had wreaked havoc many years ago.

  Nearing shore, the creature’s jagged back rose from the water, cutting through twelve-foot waves. It swam into the harbor of the city the monster decimated in 1965.

  The attack during Yoshi’s childhood had slipped into the distant past, a foggy chimera, which he sometimes doubted ever existed. For a m
oment, he stood staring at the screen, watching the monster, and everything came rushing back and seemed like yesterday.

  The Kaiju moved toward shore, as though it had merely taken an afternoon nap, leaving it punchy and hungry. Still in mind for a fight, it pressed ahead swimming hard against the current.

  Spikes protruding from its back created a wake trailing the monster. The Kaiju encountered boats pitching in the stormy water. It flailed in the violent water, approaching the boats, and batted a large vessel with its claws, ripping striations in the hull. An eerie metallic sound resonated over the equipment in the command room. The ship held together as crew members screamed in fear and agony.

  Zamera dove under the water. Then, it swam into a small boat, tossed in the turbulent sea. A pleasure yacht that hadn’t returned to port before the storm, the boat appeared defenseless. The Kaiju bit into the hull and snapped the yacht in half like a toy. Wood splintered in its mouth, along with pieces of fiberglass. Tasting flesh and blood sent the beast into a frenzy. People spilled from the broken hull into the harbor. The Kaiju maneuvered its large head above the water, like a serpent gobbling up the fare.

  Then, it swam toward a fishing trawler and knocked the ship out of his path with a swing of its massive head, and a blow with long horns.

  A crew of sailors tumbled into the sea, screaming for help, as the vessel went into a roll and capsized in rough waters. Ten- and twelve-foot waves crashed over the sides of the ship, and a fissure ran down the hull, splitting the boat in two.

  The Kaiju snaked its head through the water and scooped up sailors who’d fallen overboard. The monster chomped madly, snapping bones and tearing flesh, and then it scarfed them down. Large chunks of human flesh and jagged bone went down the hatch, unchewed, bound for slow digestion. But the Kaiju seemed too hungry to care.

  Now, Zamera resumed its journey toward the large city. Tail whipping back and forth, the monster churned through the water, crashing into the broken vessel, bashing the fragmented boat to pieces. Sailors clung to the shattered hull in a desperate attempt to stay alive. The massive tail thrashed again, and sent a chunk of wreckage plummeting toward the ocean floor.

  When its stocky legs found purchase on the sandy bottom, the Kaiju lunged upward from the water and propelled a thirty-foot tidal wave hurling towards Tokyo.

  The Kaiju took a few steps, pounding the surf like thunder, and let out a massive roar.

  Two

  James Penton accelerated his Jeep Wrangler through a heavy downpour as rain pelted off the canvas soft-top. He went to the gym a few days each week during lunch, a privilege of serving in the Marine Corps for close to thirty years. Now, he had to get back to the office and be quick about it.

  Weather predictions had forecasted a mild tropical storm, but the base command recently upgraded it to a hurricane.

  The little island of Okinawa sat in the Pacific Ocean on the outskirts of the storm but would take a battering. Penton wheeled the Jeep into a parking lot behind the hangar serving Marine Aircraft and Logistics Squadron 36, known as Blade Runner. The Jeep rolled up to a reserved spot. It was designated for the Aviation Ordnance Chief of Marine Aircraft Group-36, Marine Corps Air Station, Futenma.

  Master Gunnery Sergeant Penton double-timed it to the building and entered a hatch near the rear. He marched down the corridor soaking wet, boots smacking the recently buffed tile floor. The scent of Pine-Sol wafted in the air. Beads of water dripped from his desert utilities, heavily starched and pressed with sharp creases.

  He’d followed regulations and worn his cover on his head from the Jeep until he entered the building. Now, he held the hat in hand, also starched and ironed. Penton sauntered down the hallway, stretching out the long legs of his six-foot frame.

  Turning a corner, he entered his office and headed directly for the coffee pot. Penton didn’t say a word to anyone until he’d taken a swill of lifer-juice. His mug had the Blade Runner squadron emblem plastered on it. An M-16 rifle and a Cutlass sword were shadowed by the Rising Sun, flanked by a wrench and key.

  Then, he walked over and took a seat on the edge of his desk. “What’s the latest on the storm?” Penton said to his office assistant.

  “The storm has definitely been upgraded to a hurricane,” replied Lance Corporal Sally Johnson. “The eye is headed directly toward Tokyo, but we’re expected to get some really high winds.”

  “We’d better clear the flight line. I’ll head down to see Top Anderson and get some of his Marines from the ordnance shop to help.”

  “You want me to wait here?” Lance Corporal Johnson said.

  “Stick around in case we get a call from the Brass.” Penton took another swig of coffee. He shook his head at the distasteful blend.

  “That bad?”

  “Helps build a cast-iron stomach.” Penton patted his gut. No love handles on him, anywhere. He’d stayed in shape his entire career, running, lifting weights, and he kept the beer drinking to a minimum.

  Penton chugged the rest of the coffee down and put the mug on the counter. He headed out the door, leaving his cover on the desk.

  He walked down a corridor, resembling the painted concrete block walls of a public school, then rounded a corner and stepped through a set of double doors. The next hallway was unfinished, lined with metal lockers, stuffed with flight suits and gear. Walls were merely exposed block, and the floor was bare concrete.

  Penton pushed through another hatch and stepped into an immense hangar bay. The area was empty except for a few cargo boxes. All the aircraft were tied down on the runway, grounded due to the storm.

  Several doors ran along the back wall of the hangar. Most of them were swung wide-open, with Marines dressed in oily coveralls headed in and out. Aircraft maintenance specialties filled the backrooms, airframe and welding, and a host of aviation support occupations. Penton headed to the first shop, a thick metal door clamped shut.

  He rapped on the door. A moment later, it creaked open and a young private first class greeted him wearing a sidearm.

  “Master Guns,” the private first class said, swinging the door wide.

  “Afternoon.” Penton nodded. “Top around?”

  “He’s in the back.”

  Penton stepped into the ordnance shop. He walked by a couple of metal desks with industrial chairs behind them. All the desks were unoccupied, except one taken up by a disheveled staff sergeant. Behind the desks an office area was shared by a master sergeant and a first lieutenant.

  He glanced into the office and found it empty. Then, he cut to the right and entered a secure area where metal fencing divided the room in half.

  The ceiling was the height of the hangar outside, and so the chain-link fence ran about three stories high. Inside the protected area, a few young Marines huddled around a metal table, assembling two .50 caliber aircraft machineguns. A few others hunched over a deep sink, filled with chemicals, hard at work cleaning machinegun parts.

  Penton shook his head. The young men had their arms in the sink and didn’t bother with protective rubber gloves. He looked at the gloves hanging on the wall in front of them. Both pairs were stretched out, swollen in size, a reaction between the rubber and the solvents used to clean the guns. The chemicals damaging the gloves should make them realize they need protection, Penton thought, shaking his head in dismay.

  Top Anderson wasn’t in the cleaning and assembly area.

  Then, he heard a familiar laugh from inside the cage. Penton walked over to the weapons locker opposite the cleaning area. Comprised of twisted metal, the cage rose about two stories high. Huge bolts connected the bottom to the concrete flooring.

  The cage was packed with aircraft machineguns, enough to equip almost every bird on base. Penton walked over and found Top Anderson standing with a corporal and a sergeant, apparently working through a new inventory procedure. They handled the task lightly, carrying on with banter and laughing.

  “Look who’s come to pay us a visit,” Master Sergeant Anderson said to th
em.

  “Top, how are your folks doing?” Penton said.

  “We’re doing just fine.” Top Anderson smiled. “Nice of the highest ranking enlisted Marine on base…to come pay us a personal visit.”

  “Not sure the base sergeant major would agree.” Penton chuckled.

  “He’s a pencil pusher,” Top Anderson replied. “I’m talking about Marines that still work for a living. Ain’t nobody higher up in this Marine Corps than a master guns, at least that’s what I always say. And you’ve got that exploding pineapple in the middle of your chevrons, there.”

  Penton grinned coolly at the comment. Anderson was likely the best candidate for his replacement.

  He noticed Corporal Alvarez laughing more than necessary. She was fit and wore a Naval Aircrew badge, one of the few younger Marines in her unit who had earned the grueling flight time to qualify. Penton and a few others wore Combat Aircrew badges.

  “What brings you by?” Top Anderson turned serious.

  “The storm…” Penton looked around. “Let’s head into your office.

  “Sure.” Top Anderson nodded, then turned to the Marines beside him. “Carry on.” He handed Corporal Alvarez the clipboard. “And report to me later with the results.”

  “Sure thing,” Corporal Alvarez said, smiling flirtatiously at Penton.

  Penton figured she was the one running the inventory. She likely had more brains than most of her peers and took the lead, even though a sergeant was in the working-party. Probably told staff sergeants what to do when she was a lance corporal.

  He followed Top Anderson to the office.

  “What’s the deal?” Top Anderson placed both hands on his hips.

  “Turns out the storm is much worse than expected.”

  “All the aircraft are grounded, and tightly fastened down.” Top Anderson looked over at Penton curiously. “The ordnance is all accounted for and safely tucked away. We’ve got all of the weapons back in the shop.”

  “Not here to question your ordnance crew. I’ve got enough to deal with checking up on every ordnance unit in MAG-36.”