Greg Cox - Godzilla - The Official Movie Novelization

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.”

San Francisco? Ford contemplated the train. Missiles or no missiles, this could be his ticket home. He had to get on that train.

“Negative,” Waltz said. “Can’t do it, sir. That train is a national asset, not Amtrak.” A corner storefront, that was still more or less intact, had been converted into an ad hoc operations center. Worried-looking officers studied GCSS-Army maps spread out on top of tables, while aides rushed about, issuing and receiving orders and reports. Radios chattered in the background. TV sets flickered sporadically, providing intermittent news coverage of the unprecedented crisis. Ford was reminded of the frenzied relief efforts back in Waikiki. He hoped that Akio and his family were safe wherever they were now.

“Yeah, copy that,” Ford replied. “From the casings on those Minuteman-3 ICBMs, I’d say the digital module has been bypassed and you’ve prepped them for a full analog retrofit.”

“Is my jaw supposed to drop, sir?” Waltz said, unimpressed. “I get it. You’re EOD. But I have my crew and we know what we’re doing.”

Tre came forward to hand Waltz some paperwork. Apparently, he’d been assigned to the security detail on the missile train, even if Ford was still struggling to claim a spot. Ford tried hard not to resent that.

“Aim the pointy end at the monsters, right, sarge?” Tre said. He grinned at Ford as he headed out of the store toward the train. Ford hoped he’d be seeing him again soon.

“When’s the last time one of your guys had their fingers in a live bomb, sergeant?” Ford wasn’t taking no for an answer. “I’m a damn good EOD… and my family is in that city.” He looked Waltz straight in the eyes. “I’m on that train.”

It wasn’t a question.

The overflow from Nevada was already flooding the triage unit at San Francisco General. Hospitals up and down the coast were getting hit. Doctors and nurses and EMTs hurried from patient to patient, dealing with burns, head wounds, concussions, broken limbs, and even more serious injuries. Severe cases, who nonetheless still had a chance of survival, were being prepped for surgery. Every bed, cot, seat, and examination room was occupied, while plasma and other vital supplies were beginning to run low. Gurneys full of casualties were lined up in the halls. Elle was busy clamping a leg wound on a scared college student when she heard Laura Watkins calling to her from across the ward.

“Elle!” The embattled head nurse held up a phone. “For you!”

“Tell ‘em I’ll be right down,” Elle said impatiently. Dark arterial blood spurted from the jagged gash on her patient’s leg, which was resisting her efforts to halt the bleeding. Answering the phone was the last thing on her mind right now. If I can just get this slippery artery clamped off…

“It’s your husband!” Laura shouted.

Ford had found a working phone at the rear of the store. As he waited for Elle to pick up the receiver, he kept one eye on the missile train waiting outside. Through the storefront window, he could see troops already boarding. Like the other soldiers, he was now geared up and in uniform. He knew he didn’t have much time before he had to join the mission.

He heard a rustle on the other end of the line. “Elle?”

“Ford!”