by Steve White
Alexi turned to me and raised his eyebrows. He was lit up by the morning sun and frowned when he spoke.
‘Can we go straight there?’
‘Sure,’ said the pilot. ‘We can drop you as close as you want then dump your supplies at the camp.’
Alexi leant back so he could see into the cockpit. ‘Can we see a download from the drone?’
Miller linked in to our pads. The image was clean and clear, and showed a Ceratosaurus feeding on a dead Apatosaur.
We studied the picture.
‘Is it alone?’ Alexi asked the pilot. After a brief pause, the Pink Team commander in the backseat of the Osage responded.
‘Red One Actual, looks like it’s alone.’
On the pad, the image pulled out as the drone controller decreased magnification. The Ceratosaur was indeed by itself. It looked small and skinny. Alexi rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
‘Looks like a juvenile.’
‘Scavenging,’ I thought out loud.
‘Too small to have made a kill like that,’ said Alexi. ‘Still looks pretty fresh and the body’s hardly been touched.’
This was good. It meant other predators would soon be attracted. Even with so many herbivores, so many potential walking meals, passing through, scavenging was still easier, still less dangerous than killing.
We smiled at each other. ‘Let’s get down there then,’ I said.
Alexi switched screens to the map display. He pointed to open woodland just to the south of the dead Sauropod.
‘Can you put us down about two klicks to the south of the kill?’ he asked Miller.
The pilot paused for a second. ‘Yep, we can do that.’
From the cockpit came the crackle of comms chatter. Seconds later, Miller called, ‘Hold tight.’
We gripped the cabin’s open doorway. There was the sudden stomach-lurching rollercoaster motion of the tilt-rotor banking and we both lurched forward so we were looking straight down at the ground.
‘We’ll be at the LZ in ten minutes,’ called Miller.
‘Copy that,’ radioed Alexi.
Once the tilt-rotor straightened out, he nodded his head into the cabin. ‘Let’s get ready.’
I gingerly clambered inside and made it to the canvas seat where my gear was stowed. I unzipped the case for my shotgun and slung the weapon across my chest. Alexi did the same but left the Ruger in its cover. He laid it on his lap.
‘Don’t worry about the ghillie suits yet,’ he said. ‘Let’s wait until we get set up.’
I nodded. ‘We should probably find a place to stow the Bergens before we head off to the site.’
‘Is the Ceratosaur still there?’ Alexi asked the pilot. His Russian accent came out thick.
‘Yep,’ Miller called back. Then, rather ominously, he asked, ‘Can you get up here?’
We steadied ourselves as we staggered into the cockpit. It was not easy carrying heavy weapons, no matter how light they were supposed to be.
While Sarah [the co-pilot] flew the Victor, the pilot swivelled in his chair.
‘I don’t like it,’ he said, anxiously.
‘Like what?’ I asked, a little incredulous.
‘Carrion like that will draw in a lot of predators. I’m going to bring in a second drone, double the overwatch while you’re on the ground. It’s just a precaution.’
‘Two minutes,’ called Sarah.
The pilot flashed an ‘OK’ signal then turned back to us. ‘I’m putting one of the tankers on alert five, just in case we need to stay out longer, but, again, that’s just a precaution.’
He nodded towards the cabin. ‘You guys better get prepped for dust-off.’
The Victor made a slow, descending turn to the left. As we headed back into the cabin, I had to steady myself and try not to think about airsickness.
Once seated, Alexi rhythmically tapped the cabin floor with his foot, perhaps from excitement, perhaps from trepidation. He stroked the rifle that was now back in his lap as though calming a swaddled child.
Through the cabin’s open door, I watched the engine nacelles swivel to the vertical position. The downwash began kicking up dead leaves and detritus, but the recent rain had dampened down the dust.
There was a thump as the Victor touched down and sank into its wheel wells. Immediately, Freely [the crew chief] called, ‘Let’s go!’
We jumped down and he tossed us our Bergens then waved.
‘Good to go?’ asked Miller over the comms. He was watching us from the cockpit.
I gave him an OK signal. He flicked a salute at us then I heard the mounting roar of the engines powering up.
We dropped to one knee and ducked away from the blasting downwash as the tilt-rotor rose. Debris swirled around us and I tugged down my goggles. I looked up in time to see the Victor transit to horizontal flight and curve up and away. The Osage fell in behind it and the two headed up, their engines’ noses fading into the distance.
And, once more, we were alone in the Jurassic.
Natural sounds replaced the thunder of engines. Crickets chirped. There was the buzz of flies and other animal noises that I didn’t recognize, while the breeze sighed amongst the conifers and maidenhairs around us. The trees looked heavily pruned, their branches denuded as high as the largest Sauropod could reach.
The ground that had looked so lush and green from on high was actually churned, cratered with hundreds of footprints that had flattened the ferns and ground pines into a carpet of flattened leaves and stalks. Much of the new growth had been grazed to nothing but nubbins, but everywhere was the sure sign that many dinosaurs had passed this way: dung. Piles of it were everywhere, pats and spheres and Sauropod apples. Flies swarmed over them and were a draw for our first dinosaur of the day, a little, skipping Drinker or similar. With the Pink Team gone, little heads appeared from their underground burrows but they remained agitated and only one or two braved the open to snap at the insects and pick at the dung for seeds and shoots.
I took a compass heading and pointed north with the blade of my hand. Alexi nodded. There would be no more talking unless we had to.
I actually didn’t need the compass. A spiralling cyclone of pterosaurs marked the site of the dead Apatosaur I no longer thought of as a ‘kill’. Looking at the ground around me, and thinking about the freshness of the cadaver, it was much more likely that this was a sickly individual that had fallen behind its herd and died only a short while ago.
It was morning but already hot. I didn’t miss the weight of the ghillie suit; however I missed its air conditioning. I trailed behind Alexi, regularly walking backwards to check behind us, the shotgun cradled in my arms, fingers on the trigger guard.
There were larger animals ahead. A heat haze shimmering off the prairie made it hard to identify them but they were moving on all fours, or so it seemed, but we exercised caution and slowed. We both dropped to one knee and pulled out binoculars from our coveralls.
It didn’t take a second to identify the dinosaurs ahead. They were Camptosaurs, a bachelor herd of seven young males, each with the same cream-coloured head of a mature adult but a velvet chocolate-brown body rather than the deep black of a breeding-age male. They were not fully grown, perhaps 10–15ft long, and still rather skinny. They had narrow, beaked, sheep-like heads, but with a brow ridge over their eyes that made them look angry. At their age, safety was in numbers; too young to breed, too old to stay with the females, they were driven out by the older males and formed little bands, but it was a dangerous time for the youngsters. Accordingly, they often associated with a bigger, better‑armed and more dangerous species, Stegosaurus, and this was just such an occasion.
Two of the giant plated dinosaurs swaggered from out amongst the conifers, thagomizers swinging back and forth. They were males, the towering plates blazing with colour in the morning sun and their chainmail wattles glistened. And they were massive, 20ft long and 3 tons, but with small heads not unlike those of the Camptosaurs, just a little more elongated. One
of them flexed its forelimbs and pushed up, bear-like and clumsy, so that it could crop the crown of a tree fern. It couldn’t stand fully upright but pivoted diagonally on its hips, its tail dropping to the ground in support. Lithe little Dryosaurs skipped in to snap up fronds that helicoptered down. The mane of thin bristles on their backs were an iridescent emerald and bright blue that shone as they darted around the thunderous Stegosaurs.
The Camptosaurs grazed low on all fours, but even with the presence of the Stegosaurs, one was always standing up on his hind legs, watching, only dropping to all fours when another male stood, usually with a mouth bedecked with fern fronds.
I snapped some images of the assemblage before we moved on. The circling pterosaurs seemed to leave the herbivores untroubled, which we took as a good sign as we passed among them, the highest point of the Stegosaurs’ tallest plates way above our heads.
I checked in with the Pink Team.
‘Is the Ceratosaur still there, over?’
The gunship commander came back to me. ‘Copy that. Other than him, picture is clear.’
Picture clear. No other predators in the vicinity.
We already had our Allosaur. We really wanted a Torvosaurus.
Alexi knelt once to study the map display. With a finger, he circled a copse of trees about 100 yards to the south-east of the dead Sauropod.
‘Should take about 20 minutes to get there,’ I said.
Alexi slipped the Ruger from its case and slung the elephant gun over his shoulder. The Bergen straps dug into my shoulder and the rebreather mask itched as we stalked through heavily grazed prairie. I batted flies from my eyes.
Dryosaurs stopped browsing to watch us pass. The nearest trotted away, long tails curved out behind them, manes swishing.
We came up on the Ceratosaur through the thinning woods. The ground was pockmarked with crisscrossing streams of footprints and the air was full of insects swarming around piles of dung.
The Ceratosaur was a jittery young male, still without adult colours, markings still yet to fully develop and clumps of baby down matted to him here and there. He was eating fast, tearing off chunks of meat and bolting them down, blood flying. Pterosaurs and long-legged running crocs swarmed about him, the fliers knuckling about like bats coloured as seagulls. The crocs were like armoured cats with long tails and short snouts. They were perhaps Fruitachampsa, from the small head and size – little more than 3ft. They squabbled with each other over bloody scraps or with the pterosaurs, who struck back with their sharp beaks. Occasionally the Ceratosaur would snap at them with his gore-covered jaws and the scavengers would scatter, but only briefly; the Sphenosuchians looking even more like naked cats as they came creeping back.
There were still no other large carnivores to be seen and his belly was swollen but the Ceratosaur still ate urgently. Young and anxious, and no doubt an inexperienced hunter, he no doubt fed whenever he could, perhaps never sure when he would get the chance again.
The rebreathers were at 85 per cent efficiency when we headed towards the stand of Araucarians. Ever cautious, Alexi paused and ran his binoculars over the copse, studying the shadows for the slightest movement that could mark the presence of a predator. Yet there was nothing but the wind in the trees and he finally waved us on.
Alexi needed a raised position to overlook the site. He found the upended roots of a long-dead tree that gave him what he needed, once he had cleared away moss and a few dried-out ferns. He could kneel with the Ruger resting on the crumbling bark and we ranged the rifle. The wind was light and there was little haze so we had excellent visibility.
I checked in with the Pink Team, which was refuelling in flight. The drones were on overwatch and all was quiet so we settled and had breakfast while enjoying the spectacle of life in the Jurassic.
While we ate our MREs and drank from our waterpacks, the young Ceratosaurus finally seemed to have eaten his fill. He hissed and roared at the scavengers, sending the bandy-legged crocs scuttling and the pterosaurs flapping skyward. But he seemed to get bored of that quickly and went back to toothing the meat of the Sauropod’s soft belly but without enthusiasm.
He wandered a few steps from the carcass and settled onto his belly then rolled on to his side, watching sleepily while the Sphenosuchians and pterosaurs mobbed the body.
Despite the shade, the temperature climbed in the copse as the sun did the same overhead. Rays of light streamed through the Araucarians’ cloud-shaped canopies, spotlighting insects dancing in the air like moots before my eyes. I pulled on my insect hood to try to fend off the cloud of biting insects that circled my head. A tuatara-like lizard darted in and snapped one up and scuttled off, wings protruding from either side of his mouth.
Sweat beaded on my forehead then ran down my face. Alexi had leant back into the cradle that the tree roots formed around him and snoozed. I cleared the sweat from around the eyepieces of my binoculars and studied the Ceratosaur. He seemed sound asleep. A small male Coelurosaur had joined the running crocs to scavenge, protofeathers ruffled as he squabbled noisily with the nimble Sphenosuchians.
The radio clicked.
‘Jurassic, this is Pink One Actual, how copy?’ It was the Pink Team commander, in the backseat of the gunship. Alexi opened his eyes.
‘Pink One Actual, this is Jurassic. Copy loud and clear.’
‘Jurassic, drone picked up a pack of Allosaurs rendezvousing on your position from the north-east, how copy?’
‘I copy, Pink One Actual.’
‘Be advised we count three adults and a number of young.’
‘Roger, Pink One, we’ll take that under advisement.’
I turned to Alexi. These were not potential targets for us. The rifle was still at rest on the tree but he did pick up the shotgun and rest it in his lap.
‘They’re here for the Sauropod,’ I said.
He just nodded and lifted his binoculars.
As if on cue, the Ceratosaur’s head snapped up and he turned to the north-east. He rolled on to his belly and, swollen with meat, struggled upright. His jaws swung open and he let out a long hiss, raising up a cloud of flies that had settled to feed on the blood covering his muzzle. Then, he turned and headed south.
The running crocs, the pterosaurs and the Coelurosaur seemed unconcerned.
Alexi pulled his camera and stood. We leant around the tree roots to look to the north-east, and there they were – a crèche of Allosaurs.
The three adults were all females herding a gaggle of fluffy chicks. They had probably all nested and raised their young together. The chicks were noisy and nervous, and seemed to move as one big, downy mass.
‘Cute,’ said Alexi and snapped photos.
In complete contrast to the young Ceratosaur the adult Allosaurs had stomachs that were clearly empty. They looked bowed in and their ribs stood out under their dull hides. They had probably not eaten a full meal since the young had hatched, most of the prey going to the chicks, but now, before them, lay a veritable banquet. The leading female began to trot towards the carcass and gave a roar that startled the chicks, who dropped to the ground as they did sometimes when their mothers became nervous or to hide from predators.
When the females didn’t stop, the gaggle of chicks snaked along to catch them up and only slowed once they were in the shadow of their mothers, but they had to trot just to keep up. Their parents were striding quickly towards the dead Sauropod (which I had identified as a sub-adult Apatosaurus) torn between motherhood and hunger.
When the first female reached the kill, the scavengers scattered, although many didn’t go too far, pausing to wait with reptilian patience or to effortlessly ride the thermals so that their shadows circled the carcass below, looking more like rays beneath a murky ocean’s surface.
Despite the presence of their young, the primary concern of the females seemed to be to slacken their own hunger first. Biologically, this made sense. How could they defend their young in a weakened state? Even from where we were hidden we could hear
the sound of meat being rent apart and the clack of jaws. The blood and flesh seemed to agitate the females and they snapped and hissed at each other, which made the anxious chicks even more fearful. They piped and squawked at their unhearing mother, and huddled together for safety.
However, one of the mothers finally overcame her own hunger and dropped a ravaged ribbon of meat amongst the young. The chicks went from fear to greed in a split second and immediately set about the bloody provender. A pecking order soon became clear. Larger chicks bullied away the smaller ones and noisily fought one another or engaged in tugs of war over rashers of Sauropod flesh. Their down was soon matted with blood.
I was soon concerned about filling up my camera’s hard drive! Such behavioural interactions were vital science and I was proud to be able to contribute to our greater understanding of these magnificent predators.
Meanwhile, Alexi’s Ruger sat forlornly on the tree.
The mothers’ guts filled at a staggering rate, the females gaping their jaws obscenely wide and jerking their heads back to slice away the flesh with their batteries of serrated teeth, their thick neck muscles bunching, sometimes aided by a taloned foot planted against the carcass to provide leverage.
It seemed for every two mouthfuls they took, the third would go to the young so that even the smallest was able to dine well, especially once the bigger chicks had eaten their fill. Some were so ravenous they ate until they vomited then carried on eating! Even the vomit was not wasted; the little running crocs, apparently untroubled by the carrion’s condition, darted in to snap it up, trotting away triumphantly, although one had to give up its loot after it was chased down by the Coelurosaur. After a brief pursuit, the Sphenosuchian dropped the meat and scampered away while the little dinosaur bolted down its prize.
It was no more than 30 minutes after the Allosaurs had arrived that the radio once again buzzed in my earpiece.
‘Jurassic, Front Range. Be advised, Torvosaurs coming up on you from the south-east.’
Alexi and I both straightened.
‘Copy, Front Range.’