Thuktun Flishithy
New member
A/N: Much like The Christmas War, this is a sidestory to Leviathan that doesn't require prior reading. This was spawned by an idle thought I had more than two years ago- that when you consider the sheer amount of munitions used, the secret conflict where the US tried to kill Godzilla with atomic testing in the 50s as described in the 2014 film would make it more destructive than WWII by an order of magnitude, yet the death toll would probably be in the range of 0.
Of course, this is more than just a story that consists of "we nuked him and he ignored it". This is a story of the fears and madness borne of the Nuclear Age. It is a story of humanity's relationship to the world we live in, and of the joys of discovery.
And it is also a story of one man's ACME-esque attempts to destroy a particularly stubborn reptile.
Enjoy.
Perhaps the biggest lie in the world was the Pacific Ocean.
It was right in the name, after all. Pacific. Tranquil, serene. It brought to mind cloudless skies and bright sunshine, gentle waves lapping at pristine beaches. Quiet nights with only the wind in your ears, and countless stars above.
It did not bring to mind the countless corpses and wrecks that lay at its bottom, relics of the bloodiest naval battles in the history of the world. Nor did it bring to mind typhoons, more plentiful and powerful than anywhere else, that could leave thousands of dead clogging the water. The ocean was certainly not being Pacific when it surged against the coastline in massive tsunamis that washed away entire villages, pulling the land itself into its hungry maw.
And to the crew of the Titania oil rig, scattered across the angry waves in lifeboats and inflatable rafts, the word pacific did not describe the rows of bone-white spines the shape of maple leaves, slicing through the water as their owner left the twisted remains of the rig behind.
Perhaps it was not the ocean itself that was the lie. Rather, it was all the countless fabrications and denials and fibs sequestered beneath the waves, big and small, that combined to form the greater falsehood.
As a hard rain came down from the dark night sky and drenched them further, the marooned men would slowly realize that they had found the greatest of those falsehoods contained hidden within the Pacific- that this world belonged to Man.
Little did they know, there would be more lies to come.
Oahu
As soon as he saw the man step into the ring, Gordon already knew how he was going to win.
McQuayle was a big enough man, sure, but it was clear he didn't know how to hold himself in a proper fight. He stood as stiff as a board as he held up his bandage-wrapped firsts, as if hoping that his height advantage would scare Gordon off. His eyes darted back and forth, from Gordon to the small throng of screaming sailors and aviators around them, wavering too much in focus.
For his own part, Gordon simply rolled his shoulders and stretched his haunches, then got into a low-hand guard. He kept his footwork simple, just as he did back when this was his life, and had to repress the urge to grin as McQuayle looked down and began to half-assedly copy him.
Then the bell rang, and the beefy ensign immediately bullrushed forward. He swung wildly, like he was in a schoolyard scuffle, and Gordon simply ducked under, giving McQuayle a quick jab to the ribs with his right fist. As expected, there was a low grunt as the ensign backed away, letting his guard down as he tried to go for a jab of his own.
Gordon punished that mistake by sliding slightly out of the way, catching McQuayle with a left cross. Spittle flew as his opponent's head snapped to the side, and his shitastic footwork finally caught up with him as he fell. Landing in a sprawl, the ensign tried to struggle to his feet, only to shake his head and slap the deck with his hand three times.
"Out!" barked Phillips, the impromptu referee.
The gathered sailors cheered, clapping and hollering, but Gordon ignored it. Walking over, he offered a hand to McQuayle and helped the officer back to his feet.
"Gotta think before you punch, ensign," he half-yelled to get past the cheering. "A good hook ain't nothing if you don't know how to use it. Now get your ass to the infirmary and make sure your head's alright."
McQuayle opened his mouth, probably to answer, only to wince. He sufficed with a nod, then dazedly walked towards the exit of the base's gym. Gordon watched his staggered gait for a moment, jaw set, then motioned for Case and Martinez to escort him.
"All right, sailors," he bellowed, standing straight as he looked about the ring. "I think I'm done for the night. Enjoy your shore leave. I sure as hell intend to."
A few disappointed groans escaped the crowd, most likely from those hoping to see another dumbass get his face pounded into hamburger meat, but for the most part they simply gave one last cheer and began to clear out. Gordon watched them go, then let his shoulders sag a little.
Unwrapping the bandages around his fists, he tossed them into a nearby bin and began the long saunter back to his quarters. It was quiet, this time of night, and so he managed to arrive undisturbed.
As soon as he opened the door and saw the single envelope on his desk, he already knew what was going to be inside. And yet, he still bothered to pick it up as he made his way towards his bunk. Reaching for a cigar from the box he kept stashed away, he cut off the tip and lit it with a match, watching the flame slowly turn it to ash. Puffing once, he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was in shaky handwriting, and he could see a few blots here and there, likely from long-dried tears.
Douglas, the letter began. Aritomo finally passed last night. He was sleeping. I want you to know-
The rest of the words were lost as the flames consumed the paper, radiating out from where he'd pressed the cigar. He watched as the eggshell white page curled and blackened, fire lapping at its edges ravenously, until they threatened to do the same to his fingertips. Crumpling the ashes in his hand, he ignored the brief sting as he tossed the burnt letter into the trash.
Laying back down with the cigar screwed firmly in the corner of his mouth, he laid back down on his bunk, eyes fixated on the ceiling. He stayed as still as a rock, with only the tensing of the muscles along his jaw betraying the emotion simmering within him.
He didn't know how much time passed before he heard a knock on his door. Stamping the cigar out on the ashtray, he walked over and opened the door. As soon as he did, and saw the lean figure with the admiralty insignia on his cap, he quickly snapped into a salute.
"At ease," Rear-Admiral Chambers said. "Lieutenant-Commander Douglas Gordon, I presume."
"Yes, Admiral," Gordon quickly replied. "Permission as to ask the purpose of this visit?"
"I'll be getting to that soon enough. Mind if I come in?"
Gordon moved aside and let Chambers enter. It was then he noticed the short, portly man in a civilian suit who had come with the Rear-Admiral. Gordon's hand twitched at that, but he said nothing.
"Would you like a seat, Admiral?" he asked instead.
"No, I've been sitting in a plane for the past twelve hours, and I'd very much prefer to get some blood in my legs." Chambers removed his cap and placed it under his arm, smoothing his thinning hair over with his free hand. "Lieutenant-Commander Douglas Gordon. Commissioned in 1941, with combat experience in over a dozen major operations, including Incheon, and only one disciplinary incident featuring a captain with a broken jaw."
"That same captain was later dishonorably discharged for sexual assault," Gordon replied, curtly. "I am sure you knew about that."
"Yes, and I also know that you've written papers on attacking hardened targets with specialized artillery, both conventional and nuclear, and have worked with a number of task forces in operations along that vein, most prominently being Operation Upshot-Knothole. You still have Top Secret clearance from that one."
"And that's why you're here."
Chambers smiled thinly, then nodded to the civilian suit. "Show him."
The portly man quickly shut the door behind them, then placed a briefcase on the desk. "Everything that is said in here is now considered sensitive information. What I am about to tell you requires Top Secret clearance, minimum."
"Then tell me."
Opening the briefcase, the suit cleared his throat. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name's Dr. Mitchell Hardwick. I work for MONARCH, a joint task force under the direct supervision of the president."
"Sounds new."
"Very new. We were founded two weeks after Gojira's attack on Tokyo. We are charged with the search and study of massive unidentified terrestrial organisms. Organisms like Gojira."
The name still leapt out at Gordon like a hissing viper., even all these months after seeing the grainy photos of an impossible monster standing in a burning city. It was all too easy to pretend that the world hadn't changed forever when you were an ocean away, but he was not one of those lucky ostriches. Jaw set, he sat down at the desk.
"Lemme guess. You found some more of those... kaiju?"
"We don't like using the Japanese word for it," Hardwick said. "Some of us call them MUTOs."
Chambers coughed, prompting Hardwick to glance over and redouble in pulling the papers out of the briefcase. Gordon arched an eyebrow as a glossy black and white photo of a oil rig was placed before him. It was a newer-looking model, though he was not entirely sure.
"That is... well, was the Hyperion oil platform, located approximately a hundred miles off the coast of Mindanao, in the Philippines. Built in 1951, with a daily production of 100 barrels. It was notorious for leaking, though Standard Oil Company of New Jersey insists that they had the issue under control."
Hardwick placed another photograph down, this time in color, and Gordon's brow furrowed. The structure was gone, save for a few slagged pieces of metal sticking above the water. It seemed as though it had been less destroyed, and more unmade.
"A month ago, on the fifth at 22:13, the Hyperion platform's buoy system detected a massive object approaching them at speeds in excess of a hundred knots. All attempts at radio contact failed, and they had to evacuate within ten minutes when it was clear that it was on a collision course. Within two minutes of the last of the crew getting off, they saw said object collide with the platform, crushing it utterly."
"That must have caused a bad spill."
"Well, that's the thing. There was no spill. The crew reported seeing a bright glow coming from under the object immediately after it pulverized the rig. When our team investigated the wreckage, it was found that the well had been plugged up with slag from the platform, as well as some of the surrounding seabed."
Gordon looked back up at Hardwick, studying the man with a steely gaze. The nervous look on the scientist's face was quite telling.
"So... we have another Gojira."
"Oh, not another Gojira," Chambers interjected. "This is something much worse."
"What he means," Hardwick hurriedly said, "is that Gojira's attacks were in a much smaller range, focused on any vessels that got too close. This particular MUTO, however, has a much larger range, and different targets in mind."
"You mean he's hit more?"
"Three weeks ago, it attacked a large pesticide production plant near the Bay of Plenty in New Zealand. Similar case- massive object approaching at more than a hundred knots, though this time it seemed to merely let the waves in its wave due the work. No leakage, but the damage to the production facilities are so great that it won't be open for another three years. Only three days after that, it melted a chemical waste dump near the Aleutians."
Gordon took the photos from Hardwick and looked them over. Again and again, he was greeted with the sight of heaps of slag, expanses of twisted metal, and scorched earth.
"So you're telling me that this thing has been zipping around the entire Pacific, smashing major production facilities? That doesn't sound like he's scrounging for food or asserting his territory. Sounds like a goddamn act of war."
"Animals don't wage war," Hardwick asserted, frowning. "Even prehistoric ones."
"We do."
The scientist opened his mouth to protest, but Chambers cut him off. "Regardless of motive, we are treating this creature as a significant security threat. Even if it doesn't actually move on population centers, all it takes is for it to attack a Soviet refinery and we might get dragged into a war we didn't start. Hell, at this rate, it might kill trade and production around the Pacific in a matter of years. And it gets worse."
Gordon's mustache twitched from side to side as he considered the Rear Admiral's words. "Can't see how it gets much worse than another Gojira, only with a bigger grudge."
"Well, it's not exactly another Gojira." Hardwick produced another photo. "Here. On its most recent attack, against the oil rig Titania, someone actually managed to photograph it as it turned around from the wreckage."
Gordon felt his jaw clench as he looked at the black and white image. Though it was blurry, he could still see the trio of bone-white spines rising above the water, shaped like the world's biggest oak leaves. The photo crinkled slightly as his grip tightened. Another one of these fuckers.
"I know it looks similar, but there are some slight anatomical differences. However, that's not the biggest take-away from this." Hardwick pointed at a blurry spot near the tail of the beast. "That's a dingy measuring about twenty feet in length. If we scale it to those dorsal plates, we get something approximately two and a half times the length of Gojira."
That finally gave Gordon pause. Slowly, he set the photo down, feeling a sudden need to grab some whiskey.
"So you're telling me this thing is ten times bigger than the last one."
"Anywhere between eight and fourteen times the size of Gojira. We estimate it to be four hundred feet tall or so, with a mass anywhere between a hundred and three hundred thousand tons. Length of approximately six hundred feet or greater."
"If this is anything like Gojira, we are looking at one of the biggest threats to national security since the Soviets got the bomb." Chambers straightened slightly. "I think you already know why you're being told this."
Gordon looked the Rear Admiral in the eye. "You want me to kill him."
"Discreetly. Gojira's attacks strained international tensions enough, and this might be too much. You will be placed in charge of a joint task force with the express purpose of finding a way to kill this monster, and to do it before the news gets out. With express authorization from your superiors, you will be allowed to use any weapons you deem necessary, including nuclear."
Gordon's eyes trailed back to the picture of the beast. His fingers twitched, and he slowly got up and walked over to his cigar box. Lighting one up, he took a deep puff.
"When do I start?"
Of course, this is more than just a story that consists of "we nuked him and he ignored it". This is a story of the fears and madness borne of the Nuclear Age. It is a story of humanity's relationship to the world we live in, and of the joys of discovery.
And it is also a story of one man's ACME-esque attempts to destroy a particularly stubborn reptile.
Enjoy.
==/*\==
Perhaps the biggest lie in the world was the Pacific Ocean.
It was right in the name, after all. Pacific. Tranquil, serene. It brought to mind cloudless skies and bright sunshine, gentle waves lapping at pristine beaches. Quiet nights with only the wind in your ears, and countless stars above.
It did not bring to mind the countless corpses and wrecks that lay at its bottom, relics of the bloodiest naval battles in the history of the world. Nor did it bring to mind typhoons, more plentiful and powerful than anywhere else, that could leave thousands of dead clogging the water. The ocean was certainly not being Pacific when it surged against the coastline in massive tsunamis that washed away entire villages, pulling the land itself into its hungry maw.
And to the crew of the Titania oil rig, scattered across the angry waves in lifeboats and inflatable rafts, the word pacific did not describe the rows of bone-white spines the shape of maple leaves, slicing through the water as their owner left the twisted remains of the rig behind.
Perhaps it was not the ocean itself that was the lie. Rather, it was all the countless fabrications and denials and fibs sequestered beneath the waves, big and small, that combined to form the greater falsehood.
As a hard rain came down from the dark night sky and drenched them further, the marooned men would slowly realize that they had found the greatest of those falsehoods contained hidden within the Pacific- that this world belonged to Man.
Little did they know, there would be more lies to come.
==/*\==
Oahu
As soon as he saw the man step into the ring, Gordon already knew how he was going to win.
McQuayle was a big enough man, sure, but it was clear he didn't know how to hold himself in a proper fight. He stood as stiff as a board as he held up his bandage-wrapped firsts, as if hoping that his height advantage would scare Gordon off. His eyes darted back and forth, from Gordon to the small throng of screaming sailors and aviators around them, wavering too much in focus.
For his own part, Gordon simply rolled his shoulders and stretched his haunches, then got into a low-hand guard. He kept his footwork simple, just as he did back when this was his life, and had to repress the urge to grin as McQuayle looked down and began to half-assedly copy him.
Then the bell rang, and the beefy ensign immediately bullrushed forward. He swung wildly, like he was in a schoolyard scuffle, and Gordon simply ducked under, giving McQuayle a quick jab to the ribs with his right fist. As expected, there was a low grunt as the ensign backed away, letting his guard down as he tried to go for a jab of his own.
Gordon punished that mistake by sliding slightly out of the way, catching McQuayle with a left cross. Spittle flew as his opponent's head snapped to the side, and his shitastic footwork finally caught up with him as he fell. Landing in a sprawl, the ensign tried to struggle to his feet, only to shake his head and slap the deck with his hand three times.
"Out!" barked Phillips, the impromptu referee.
The gathered sailors cheered, clapping and hollering, but Gordon ignored it. Walking over, he offered a hand to McQuayle and helped the officer back to his feet.
"Gotta think before you punch, ensign," he half-yelled to get past the cheering. "A good hook ain't nothing if you don't know how to use it. Now get your ass to the infirmary and make sure your head's alright."
McQuayle opened his mouth, probably to answer, only to wince. He sufficed with a nod, then dazedly walked towards the exit of the base's gym. Gordon watched his staggered gait for a moment, jaw set, then motioned for Case and Martinez to escort him.
"All right, sailors," he bellowed, standing straight as he looked about the ring. "I think I'm done for the night. Enjoy your shore leave. I sure as hell intend to."
A few disappointed groans escaped the crowd, most likely from those hoping to see another dumbass get his face pounded into hamburger meat, but for the most part they simply gave one last cheer and began to clear out. Gordon watched them go, then let his shoulders sag a little.
Unwrapping the bandages around his fists, he tossed them into a nearby bin and began the long saunter back to his quarters. It was quiet, this time of night, and so he managed to arrive undisturbed.
As soon as he opened the door and saw the single envelope on his desk, he already knew what was going to be inside. And yet, he still bothered to pick it up as he made his way towards his bunk. Reaching for a cigar from the box he kept stashed away, he cut off the tip and lit it with a match, watching the flame slowly turn it to ash. Puffing once, he opened the envelope and pulled out the letter. It was in shaky handwriting, and he could see a few blots here and there, likely from long-dried tears.
Douglas, the letter began. Aritomo finally passed last night. He was sleeping. I want you to know-
The rest of the words were lost as the flames consumed the paper, radiating out from where he'd pressed the cigar. He watched as the eggshell white page curled and blackened, fire lapping at its edges ravenously, until they threatened to do the same to his fingertips. Crumpling the ashes in his hand, he ignored the brief sting as he tossed the burnt letter into the trash.
Laying back down with the cigar screwed firmly in the corner of his mouth, he laid back down on his bunk, eyes fixated on the ceiling. He stayed as still as a rock, with only the tensing of the muscles along his jaw betraying the emotion simmering within him.
He didn't know how much time passed before he heard a knock on his door. Stamping the cigar out on the ashtray, he walked over and opened the door. As soon as he did, and saw the lean figure with the admiralty insignia on his cap, he quickly snapped into a salute.
"At ease," Rear-Admiral Chambers said. "Lieutenant-Commander Douglas Gordon, I presume."
"Yes, Admiral," Gordon quickly replied. "Permission as to ask the purpose of this visit?"
"I'll be getting to that soon enough. Mind if I come in?"
Gordon moved aside and let Chambers enter. It was then he noticed the short, portly man in a civilian suit who had come with the Rear-Admiral. Gordon's hand twitched at that, but he said nothing.
"Would you like a seat, Admiral?" he asked instead.
"No, I've been sitting in a plane for the past twelve hours, and I'd very much prefer to get some blood in my legs." Chambers removed his cap and placed it under his arm, smoothing his thinning hair over with his free hand. "Lieutenant-Commander Douglas Gordon. Commissioned in 1941, with combat experience in over a dozen major operations, including Incheon, and only one disciplinary incident featuring a captain with a broken jaw."
"That same captain was later dishonorably discharged for sexual assault," Gordon replied, curtly. "I am sure you knew about that."
"Yes, and I also know that you've written papers on attacking hardened targets with specialized artillery, both conventional and nuclear, and have worked with a number of task forces in operations along that vein, most prominently being Operation Upshot-Knothole. You still have Top Secret clearance from that one."
"And that's why you're here."
Chambers smiled thinly, then nodded to the civilian suit. "Show him."
The portly man quickly shut the door behind them, then placed a briefcase on the desk. "Everything that is said in here is now considered sensitive information. What I am about to tell you requires Top Secret clearance, minimum."
"Then tell me."
Opening the briefcase, the suit cleared his throat. "Allow me to introduce myself. My name's Dr. Mitchell Hardwick. I work for MONARCH, a joint task force under the direct supervision of the president."
"Sounds new."
"Very new. We were founded two weeks after Gojira's attack on Tokyo. We are charged with the search and study of massive unidentified terrestrial organisms. Organisms like Gojira."
The name still leapt out at Gordon like a hissing viper., even all these months after seeing the grainy photos of an impossible monster standing in a burning city. It was all too easy to pretend that the world hadn't changed forever when you were an ocean away, but he was not one of those lucky ostriches. Jaw set, he sat down at the desk.
"Lemme guess. You found some more of those... kaiju?"
"We don't like using the Japanese word for it," Hardwick said. "Some of us call them MUTOs."
Chambers coughed, prompting Hardwick to glance over and redouble in pulling the papers out of the briefcase. Gordon arched an eyebrow as a glossy black and white photo of a oil rig was placed before him. It was a newer-looking model, though he was not entirely sure.
"That is... well, was the Hyperion oil platform, located approximately a hundred miles off the coast of Mindanao, in the Philippines. Built in 1951, with a daily production of 100 barrels. It was notorious for leaking, though Standard Oil Company of New Jersey insists that they had the issue under control."
Hardwick placed another photograph down, this time in color, and Gordon's brow furrowed. The structure was gone, save for a few slagged pieces of metal sticking above the water. It seemed as though it had been less destroyed, and more unmade.
"A month ago, on the fifth at 22:13, the Hyperion platform's buoy system detected a massive object approaching them at speeds in excess of a hundred knots. All attempts at radio contact failed, and they had to evacuate within ten minutes when it was clear that it was on a collision course. Within two minutes of the last of the crew getting off, they saw said object collide with the platform, crushing it utterly."
"That must have caused a bad spill."
"Well, that's the thing. There was no spill. The crew reported seeing a bright glow coming from under the object immediately after it pulverized the rig. When our team investigated the wreckage, it was found that the well had been plugged up with slag from the platform, as well as some of the surrounding seabed."
Gordon looked back up at Hardwick, studying the man with a steely gaze. The nervous look on the scientist's face was quite telling.
"So... we have another Gojira."
"Oh, not another Gojira," Chambers interjected. "This is something much worse."
"What he means," Hardwick hurriedly said, "is that Gojira's attacks were in a much smaller range, focused on any vessels that got too close. This particular MUTO, however, has a much larger range, and different targets in mind."
"You mean he's hit more?"
"Three weeks ago, it attacked a large pesticide production plant near the Bay of Plenty in New Zealand. Similar case- massive object approaching at more than a hundred knots, though this time it seemed to merely let the waves in its wave due the work. No leakage, but the damage to the production facilities are so great that it won't be open for another three years. Only three days after that, it melted a chemical waste dump near the Aleutians."
Gordon took the photos from Hardwick and looked them over. Again and again, he was greeted with the sight of heaps of slag, expanses of twisted metal, and scorched earth.
"So you're telling me that this thing has been zipping around the entire Pacific, smashing major production facilities? That doesn't sound like he's scrounging for food or asserting his territory. Sounds like a goddamn act of war."
"Animals don't wage war," Hardwick asserted, frowning. "Even prehistoric ones."
"We do."
The scientist opened his mouth to protest, but Chambers cut him off. "Regardless of motive, we are treating this creature as a significant security threat. Even if it doesn't actually move on population centers, all it takes is for it to attack a Soviet refinery and we might get dragged into a war we didn't start. Hell, at this rate, it might kill trade and production around the Pacific in a matter of years. And it gets worse."
Gordon's mustache twitched from side to side as he considered the Rear Admiral's words. "Can't see how it gets much worse than another Gojira, only with a bigger grudge."
"Well, it's not exactly another Gojira." Hardwick produced another photo. "Here. On its most recent attack, against the oil rig Titania, someone actually managed to photograph it as it turned around from the wreckage."
Gordon felt his jaw clench as he looked at the black and white image. Though it was blurry, he could still see the trio of bone-white spines rising above the water, shaped like the world's biggest oak leaves. The photo crinkled slightly as his grip tightened. Another one of these fuckers.
"I know it looks similar, but there are some slight anatomical differences. However, that's not the biggest take-away from this." Hardwick pointed at a blurry spot near the tail of the beast. "That's a dingy measuring about twenty feet in length. If we scale it to those dorsal plates, we get something approximately two and a half times the length of Gojira."
That finally gave Gordon pause. Slowly, he set the photo down, feeling a sudden need to grab some whiskey.
"So you're telling me this thing is ten times bigger than the last one."
"Anywhere between eight and fourteen times the size of Gojira. We estimate it to be four hundred feet tall or so, with a mass anywhere between a hundred and three hundred thousand tons. Length of approximately six hundred feet or greater."
"If this is anything like Gojira, we are looking at one of the biggest threats to national security since the Soviets got the bomb." Chambers straightened slightly. "I think you already know why you're being told this."
Gordon looked the Rear Admiral in the eye. "You want me to kill him."
"Discreetly. Gojira's attacks strained international tensions enough, and this might be too much. You will be placed in charge of a joint task force with the express purpose of finding a way to kill this monster, and to do it before the news gets out. With express authorization from your superiors, you will be allowed to use any weapons you deem necessary, including nuclear."
Gordon's eyes trailed back to the picture of the beast. His fingers twitched, and he slowly got up and walked over to his cigar box. Lighting one up, he took a deep puff.
"When do I start?"
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