Kaiju Agonistes

February, 1956

“I’m sorry we had to wake you, Mr. President,” says the NSA.

“Story of my life.” The president groans, settles into his chair behind Teddy Roosevelt’s old desk, stares at his cigarette before puffing with guilty resignation. “What do we have?”

“It’s more a case of what we don’t have,” says an admiral with a seamy face and a cap that looks more comfortable than parade-ready. “Seventh Fleet has lost contact with the USS Catfish—that’s a submarine—and the destroyer Frank Knox. Also, uh, looks like an oil tanker and a Japanese fishing ship failed to make requested status checks. And, uh, Jacques Cousteau is missing. All of this in—”

“Please don’t say the Marshall Islands.”

“Yes, sir. The Marshalls again. And we have a picture of the, uh, primary suspect, from Seventh Fleet photo recon. Right here.”

The president stares at the glossy eight-by-ten. “Coffee,” he says at last. “And there’d better be brandy in it. So we have another one of these goddamn things.”

“Near as we can tell, Mr. President.” The NSA steps in, making gestures at his aides, large and expansive ones to indicate the size of the pour on the requested brandy. “Mid-Pacific Entity One was about a hundred and twenty feet; MidPac-2 must be twice as long. Same general look, though. Scales and everything.”

“And we dropped the bomb on its little brother,” growls the president. “Well, we won’t play the waiting game this time. Pacific fleet to maximum readiness. I want some very sugar-coated notes for the Chinese and the Soviets, explaining ourselves, and I don’t want so much as an unscheduled fart from our forces in Europe.”

“Respectfully, Mr. President,” says one of the suits in the entourage of interchangeable suits, “assuming a deferential posture to the reds could have adverse consequences for the election—”

“Damn it, I’m gonna let them know it’s lizard hunting season again, not volunteer to wash Khrushchev’s feet for Holy Week.” says the president. His brandy arrives, plausibly disguised beneath a thin layer of coffee, and is subjected to immediate attack. “There’s no room for ambiguity if we’re going to be throwing lead at this damned thing.”

“Do you want us to put the vice-president in the picture?” says the NSA with a thin smile.

“Still an open question if Dick’s going to be on board with us for November.” The president sets his empty mug down atop the photo of MidPac Ulcer Fuel Two. “So let him sleep. He can read his briefing in the morning like everybody else. Unless the joint chiefs come up with some urgent contradiction, I want Entity Op Plan Three. And this time I want a piece of that thing. Knuckle, eyeball, anything. I’ll have it mounted in the Lincoln Bedroom.”