Jurassic Dead

by Rick Chesler

  “Captain,” Xander said, addressing the bulky brute of a man in the middle whom he assumed was in charge. Although he couldn’t really be sure, but usually, the control figures let their lackeys carry the guns.

  “Mr. Dyson, welcome aboard.”

  “I need three things,” Xander insisted. “One, immediate warmth. Two, a shot of your strongest alcohol, and three, an explanation as to what couldn’t wait that I had to be rushed to this world of frozen misery.”

  The captain grinned beneath bushy white eyebrows crusted with flakes of ice. “The first two will pale in comparison to what we’ll show you.”

  Xander frowned. “I doubt that. What have you got?”

  “It’s what Mr. DeKirk has found, and he insists he sees your reaction first hand. So come with us down below, where it’s warm and the vodka is plentiful.”

  Xander bowed, and let them lead the way.

  DeKirk. What did that old bastard have up his sleeve? There weren’t many men who could order Xander halfway around the world and he’d go, but DeKirk was one of them. Certainly a man of Xander’s genius, talents, connections and skills, didn’t need DeKirk, but he was one of several competing benefactors, stocking Xander’s lab in Austria, bankrolling several lines of research and ensuring that his less-than-legal efforts failed to attract attention of the authorities. Xander’s needs ran towards the very expensive, but his products were in high demand. He was near to closing several deals, pitting various agencies and governments against each other in a bidding war that would ensure his future—and his place in history, at only the ripe old age of thirty-eight.

  They led him down a brittle metal staircase, and then across a lower deck teeming with crewmembers rushing about, preparing the great open area with winches and hydraulic cranes, de-icing the large cargo doors. Xander paused to stare as they opened the doors, expecting the hold to be filled with some sort of precious cargo.

  Instead, as the doors completed their motion, they revealed an enormous empty space inside. Empty except for giant chains set to secure something immense.

  “What the hell, did you find King Kong?”

  Xander looked back to the captain for an answer, but found him disappearing into an open door, with the soldiers outside, flanking the entrance.

  Following quickly, with just a backwards glance, as huge spotlights burst into light, aimed at the hold. The ship surged and Xander had to grip a railing or lose his balance. He didn’t know what he hated more at this point: helicopters, boats, or just the brutal cold.

  “What’s your intended cargo, Captain?” he asked, as he entered and the door closed hard behind him.

  A chuckle, and a shot glass was thrust in his face. The captain had tossed aside his coat and in a black wool turtleneck, he raised his own glass and drank with Xander.

  “You won’t believe me until you see it for yourself,” he said. “You may need another shot, but here…” He approached a laptop on the desk in the cramped but warm room and turned to face Xander. “These will be your quarters, by the way, for the duration until we get to Adranos Island.”

  “What?” Xander swallowed the bitter vodka, licked his lips, and glanced around. Small bed, one desk and no windows. A bookshelf and of course the laptop and monitor. “I’m not going to any island.”

  Then the laptop screen sparked and resolved into the familiar visage of DeKirk’s face. “Ah, Xander! Welcome to the party.”

  “Yeah,” Xander replied, pulling up a chair and sitting level to DeKirk. “I don’t recall having the option to RSVP.”

  “No need, my friend. Now, I hope you’re ready?”

  Xander shrugged, glanced at the captain, who was busy refilling both glasses, and now Xander wondered how many the man had already imbibed, and what, exactly, made him need so many?

  “I’m sending you images from our American friends down at Erebus Station, Antarctica.”

  Great, Xander thought, we’re going somewhere even colder.

  “Hold onto your balls, and prepare to have your mind blown seven ways to Sunday.”

  Xander accepted the glass. “I’m intrigued. Bring it on already.”

  DeKirk pulled back and made some clicking noises, and the screen changed to a grainy bright view of an icy work site, an industrial place of cranes and platforms. Dozens of men in parkas bustling about, and then… a shift, and a view in a tunnel, something rising on a platform. Something huge, something…

  Xander peered closer, squinting

  His fingers flinched, opened, and the glass fell and shattered.

  “Holy shit, is that…?”

  “It is,” came DeKirk’s voice, barely containing his giddiness. “Perfectly preserved, and it’s not alone. We’ve found at least two other dinosaurs, different species, but just as intact.”

  “This is it,” Xander whispered, marveling. The cold, the flight, and the rough seas were all forgotten. “It’s…everything.”

  6.

  Monitoring the ship’s bow from her darkened office with a small set of next-gen rangefinder binoculars outfitted with night-vision technology, Veronica Winters observed the helicopter’s take-off. She waited with baited breath to see who could possibly be so important as to warrant a dangerous delivery to DeKirk’s private and super-secret tanker.

  She waited, hoping she’d get her first glimpse of his face, if the man dared remove his hood in the extreme winds and temperatures outside. She hoped that even from this distance that she’d be able to make an ID. If not, she’d have to break her cover as the Hammond’s doctor, a cover her CIA superiors had worked hard and pulled several lucky favors to get in place. After spending the last two years in much more agreeable climates, such as Morocco and Monte Carlo, Veronica had no urge to consider heading out into less extreme conditions any time soon.

  Come on, she thought. Mystery man, show your damn face and save me the trouble.

  Already, she felt far too vulnerable on this mission: being the only woman, and a beautiful one at that, alone, with thirty female-starved crewmembers loaded with testosterone and bad manners, was not her idea of a good time. Every one of them would be feigning injuries at some point to book an appointment with the hot doctor, and for this mission, Veronica actually adopted a contrary disguise, toning down her looks, cropping her hair, and bundling herself in incredibly itchy and unattractive sweaters, but it did no good. Not with this crew of louts, or that ever-drunk captain always leering at her. It had been a long six days since cast-off from Chile.

  Antarctica. She knew the destination from their Intel hacked from a rare less-than-secure email communication from one of DeKirk’s contractors. A paleontologist, of all people, named Marcus Ramirez. What DeKirk wanted a fossil-hunter for was anybody’s guess, but this had been a ten-year case of trying to nail DeKirk on anything, hopefully gaining evidence on a multitude of international crimes: money-laundering, sex-trafficking, drug running, artifact stealing, and corporate espionage were just a few of the possibilities. It should not have been this hard, but it was. He had deep pockets and incredible security. He was rarely seen in public, although he sat on at least twenty different boards, most with charitable leanings to provide himself some degree of legitimacy. He had no known romantic attachments, no indiscretions as far as Veronica could ascertain, and no weak links.

  It was a nearly impossible assignment, and although she had come close on several occasions, she had come closer still to having her cover blown and the whole thing going up in smoke. Back in Morocco, she could have nailed him on a lesser charge of tax fraud, but held out when she had an indication that he was working toward something much, much bigger. Something with global implications. The highest secrecy, and something that involved a new direction for DeKirk: genetics. He now had teams of biologists and labs set up in several third world countries and islands in the Atlantic. That was the first priority, and Langley confirmed it, rushing to get her a new identity after intercepting the urgent communication from the American Antarctic base.

&n
bsp; She shipped out to Chile, assumed the role of doctor on the tanker, and now… she was so close. She knew this mystery man wasn’t DeKirk: far too fit and spry by his movements. He did have that the same arrogant, overconfident edge that DeKirk had, though, but he also had something else. Irritation. He was pissed off about being here, and that much was certain. So, he wasn’t DeKirk himself or one of his lackeys. This was someone else, someone important and someone—

  The captain approached with two thugs, and the new arrival pulled back his hood and lifted his goggles.

  It was only a couple seconds before one of the soldiers obscured the view, but it was enough.

  She could never forget that face. Those high, pronounced cheekbones, the comma-shaped scar on the left cheekbone, the angry blond hair. Those eyes: cruel and hard as nails.

  His face was in every law enforcement’s most wanted database. FBI and CIA had joint teams looking for him with Interpol assistance. He was a ghost, a phantom.

  Worse, an assassin. He killed not with bullets or knives, but with rare toxins and biological agents. Viruses were his specialty, and if he was involved, Veronica’s fears of a global initiative with DeKirk’s funding and reach might be sorely understated.

  All that paled to the real reason she nearly cried out at the recognition of Xander Dyson.

  Seven years ago, he had killed her partner and lover, murdered him in the worst way imaginable—a viral death that took days, and gave him just enough time to make it back to her, only to die in her arms. It was a loss that haunted Veronica every minute of every day.

  Now, at last, here in the most unlikely of places, Xander was in her sights.

  7.

  Antarctica: American Drill Site Montgomery-Alpha

  Refreshed if not at all rested, Alex felt too snug in his father’s sweater, but the casual sweatpants worked fine. His fingers and toes tingled, and the padded loafers felt like little slippers from heaven. As he entered his father’s command office again, he felt a sudden crushing weight of guilt. Tony. His body, torn and broken, was out there, a few miles to the east, and it was likely they would never get it back, and this icy wasteland would be his tomb for eternity.

  “Alex, sit down,” his father’s voice broke him from his misery, “and grab a cup of coffee if you like, right in the corner.”

  Shuffling in that direction, Alex never made it that far. His eyes tugged to the window and view of the action outside: blazing spotlights, the cranes in full action, then men rushing back and forth, securing crates and readying a pair of giant ice-rovers with a flatbed trailer, equipped with great chains and harnesses.

  “It’s going to fit on that?” he wondered.

  “It will, I’m told.” Marcus stood, stepped away from his desk, and walked to the window. He was dressed a little more professionally, with a dark tweed sports coat and white turtleneck, khakis and a set of alligator skin boots that Alex couldn’t recall ever seeing him wear before. Of course, it had been a long time since Alex had spent much time with his father, let alone noticed what sort of footwear the man preferred. When he wasn’t busy ignoring his son or his wife, Marcus Ramirez was consumed with writing papers, researching, and giving boring talks at conventions full of equally boring scientists theorizing about everything except what was going on right under their nose.

  Alex decided to switch the conversation to an arena where he stood a chance.

  “So, heard from mom lately?”

  Marcus tensed, and Alex could see his reflection in the glass. Flinching. “Ironically, yes. Just yesterday.”

  “Oh, how’s her health?”

  “You know your mother, talks about everyone else’s problems. Never her own.”

  “Well, I can tell you. She’s not doing well.”

  Marcus nodded. “Kind of figured, but how would you know? All she wanted to ask about was you. Appears she hadn’t heard from you either, in a year at least.” He leveled a glare at Alex. “So, it’s not just your wayward father that you reserve your apathy for?”

  “That’s not fair.”

  Marcus shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not having this conversation, not now. I told her you would most likely turn up somewhere in custody and needing one or both of us to bail you out again. I just never imagined it would be here.” He sighed. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking of making the biggest point, the largest splash possible. Given the circumstance. Exposing—”

  “Yes, yes, I get it. All the corporate greed and worldwide hypocrisy, but did it have to be here? Now? You have no idea who it is that’s bankrolling this operation.”

  Alex crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh, we were quite aware. How you got into bed with someone who’s the worst kind of monster, one who claims to be a philanthropist.”

  “DeKirk is paying the bills and this… this is good work, damn it. Important work.”

  “Unlike what I do?”

  Marcus closed his eyes and shook his head. “I have no idea what it is you do, son. Other than get in trouble and drag everyone else down into hell with you.”

  The barb stung, and coming right on the heels of his guilt about leaving Tony, and Alex had no comeback. Instead, he decided to shift back to the unfamiliar arena, where at least he wasn’t a target. “So where are the others? The Cryos or whatever he called them?”

  Marcus pointed to a pair of ordinary-looking shipping containers at the edge of the pit. “Already packed and ready for their trip.”

  Alex whistled. “They were…in the same condition? Preserved?”

  “They were. Flesh-on-bones. Same strata, and I have a theory that the bites and tears what you saw on the T. rex? Might have been from these little critters.”

  “Did you say they were sub-adults?”

  “Right, from their bone structure and general traits that’s our thinking. Only twenty feet long, a ton in weight. Early Jurassic period, the only carnivorous dinosaur discovered up until…well, our other friend down there. Cryos as you called them, have a crest on the tops of their heads, and are probably capable of color distortion for mating and battle purposes. A real amazing specimen, one I can’t wait to explore at length, if DeKirk will still allow me that honor.”

  Alex shrugged. “Sorry for almost blocking you from playing with your toys.”

  “Alex—”

  “No, listen. I…wait, what’s going on down there?” He pointed to the cranes, which were straining, then sharply rocking to one direction, and then the other. The spotlights spun and tracked down, and sharply back and forth.

  “Oh shit,” Marcus hissed, and rushed back to his desk, eying the monitors, sizing up the situation—a blur of images and faces. The winch cables straining and the body on the platform spinning out of control, as men were tossed from its side and others hung on.

  “It looks like a fight,” he said, grabbing the microphone.

  “No,” said Alex, “get your men out of there. Those are—the others.”

  “Who?”

  “The things. The Russians…”

  8.

  “I’m going out,” Marcus said, sounding hollow as he tried to follow the blurry and frenetic action on the screens. What the hell was happening down there? Some kind of fight. Had the Russians followed Alex over? Now the contest was in earnest for the prize, and shit…if they damaged the specimen! His mouth dried up and he found himself frozen to the spot. He wasn’t cut out for this, didn’t know the protocols. These men, the soldiers… DeKirk, where to start? What could he possibly do in this situation?

  In moments, however, the decision was taken from him, and a different instinct took over. “I’m going out there,” Alex said, already rushing for the door, and snagging his dad’s coat from a hook.

  “No, you’re not!” Marcus yelled, but the door had already been flung open.

  Alex whipped the hood over his head and pulled out the gloves. “No one knows what they’re facing but me.”

  “You? Now you’re a combat soldie
r?”

  “No,” he said over the whipping winds on the metal stairwell outside. “Just someone with a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  With that, he was out, and Marcus—after a moment’s hesitation—was energized. He rushed to a closet and started dressing in one of the spare jackets and gearing up. Done, he snatched a phone and raced out after his son.

  #

  Down at the drill site, Alex rushed around one of the shipping containers, giving it a cautious look, as if expecting something to burst through the metal at any second, with spear-length teeth and snarling jaws.

  The sound of gunshots echoing off the glacial walls and splitting through the hissing wind snapped him back to the moment, and he was back, rushing—still in those damn comfortable slippers—through the packed ice, racing for the edge. He yelled and waved his arms, trying to get the attention of the men along the edge, framed in the shifting spotlights.

  At least a dozen soldiers stood around the edge, aiming, trying to get clear shots of whatever it was down there.

  Then suddenly, Marcus was there, running beside Alex and waving his arms. “Don’t fire! You can’t damage the specimen!”

  Dad, Alex felt like saying, it’s damaged enough already, a few bullets won’t make a difference. Then he thought, if that was the case, how did it move? Those wounds should have killed it—if the millions of intervening years hadn’t done the job in the first place.

  One of the grunts, decked in a white camo jumpsuit, looked back and aimed his M5 at them both as they skidded to a stop.

  “Back off, civilians. This is a military operation now.”

  “The hell it is,” Marcus spat, pointing into the pit. “DeKirk gave me orders, too, and that thing—his investment—better be intact when he comes to collect it.”

  The soldier made a snarling face and looked back into the pit—where Alex, bending over the edge, could barely make anything out. With the dueling spotlight beams and the twisting wires and lifting apparatus, the makeshift metal scaffolding and the shadowy thing on the rising platform, about a hundred feet below, he couldn’t make out anything in any kind of focus. At least, nothing that made sense.