by Steve White
As it was, it took us further down the beach. With the tide out, the beach gave way to old coral formations and rock. There were tidal pools and despite being in the Latest Cretaceous, I was tempted to go beachcombing. Others had the same idea. A lone female Acheroraptor (a type of small Dromaeosaurid raptor) was crunching down a small crab then turned to scrabbling around in the pools, looking for more seafood.
How sweet, I was thinking to myself, when the little raptor suddenly bolted and disappeared into white coral stone. Never a good sign. I shouldered my weapon and spun about, looking for trouble, but what I saw was a shadow undulating over the flats. I looked up and there it was: a Quetzalcoatlus, bigger than the drones, wings wider than the Victor orbiting overhead. It came soaring in low over the exposed rocks then flapped with a deep thud like a very distant explosion.
Further down the beach it wheeled and we had its vast wings in profile. Then they folded, and the giant pterosaur made a solid landing. It was at this point we realized there were two others on the ground already and the specks of white were no doubt gulls. It was also most definitely in the direct line the Prince had been heading.
Chance unshouldered his Ruger, took a knee, and removed the weapon from its case. Then he secured his shotgun across his chest. I could have tasked a drone to take a look, but where was the fun in that? Instead, we proceeded along the beach but at a more cautionary speed.
The pterosaurs and the attending gulls were having at something in the rocks. Maybe it was fish or shellfish, but the gulls suggested carrion of some ilk. Once we were closer, Chance said quietly and decisively, ‘Glass it.’
I pulled out my optics and focused in on the scene. It was definitely something dead. I could see the tattered remains of a flipper. Some marine reptile had come to grief. The Quetzalcoatalids were picking their way carefully around the thing; one would occasionally bend its long neck downward and there would be a jerk of the head or a snap of the beak and then the great elongated bill would come up trailing red meat and the gulls would swarm in, and the noise would swell as they shrieked and cawed at one another, squabbling over the scraps.
But there was no T-rex. If the Prince had come this way he had since moved on. So, we stuck to the trail but not too closely, giving the pterosaurs a wide berth. However, it was not wide enough to miss the fact that the unfortunate centre of their charnel attentions was a turtle, the biggest I have ever seen. I mean, it was huge. Maybe there had been some event last night. The adults come ashore at high tide to lay their eggs in the sand and perhaps this one’s timing was off. Either way, we could only surmise that it had been caught still ashore as the tide had started to go out. Heaving her massive bulk down the beach to the sea, for it almost certainly had to be a female, she had slipped into some crevice in the rocks that had toppled her onto her side. Hung up, unable to right herself, she was left there when the sun came up and her struggles drew the attention of the scavengers, including, perhaps, our darling Prince. Her back flipper was gone; there was nothing but a bloody hole that the pterosaurs were driving deeper and deeper into, while the fore flipper was bitten and ravaged.
Then, to my horror, I realized the turtle was still alive. Its beak was gasping, its eye wet and filled with that sad reptilian confusion and resignation of an animal quite literally out of its depth. This was of no concern to the pterosaurs, whose only concern was not stumbling themselves. The toothed gulls meanwhile hopped about the rocks and the carapace of the turtle, looking for the best spot to clean up. Some were even perched on the back of the pterosaurs, which moved with a strange grace on the ground; when one raised itself to its full height, it would have towered over an adult T-rex.
Now came the dilemma of the ethical, moral creatures that humans are. The turtle was being eaten very slowly alive. It was also being baked alive in its own shell by the sun. It was beyond saving but we were in a very strong position to put the animal out of its misery.
The ROEs strictly forbade us from interfering. Even so, Chance raised the rifle and sighted.
‘Clean shot,’ he said.
A Quetzalcoatlus drove its beak and tore away turtle. The poor creature’s only mobile but half-eaten flipper waved pathetically.
The comms chimed.
‘Ahh, Cromwell, this is Pink One Actual, what are your intentions?’
Chance chambered a round.
‘Ahh Cromwell…?’
I glassed the turtle’s face. It looked teary-eyed. I knew inside this was just to keep the eye moist but a softer heart could quite easily have believed the animal was crying. I imagined what the teams at the FOB were thinking while they watched our live feeds.
Pink One Actual came up again, firmer this time. ‘Cromwell, may I remind you of the rules of engagement and penalty clauses in your contract regarding breaking the rules of engagement and the laws specifically relating to non‑interference.’
‘No, you may not. I am well aware of them. But I will remind you they were probably written by people who have never seen an animal being eaten alive.’
Unable to watch anymore, I turned away and headed back towards the trees where, fortunately, the trail led us.
Chance didn’t follow at first. He had actually taken a knee and his eye was still on the Ruger’s sight. His finger was on the trigger. Not on the trigger guard so there was no chance of a misfire. It was actually on the trigger. I saw his shoulders rise as he drew a breath. I sucked in one of my own. Would he…?
I wondered how long he could hold his breath. Wondered how long I could hold mine.
Then, his shoulders slumped as he exhaled. He lowered the rifle and stood.
I called his name and he sighed then turned. He looked at me and shrugged then we turned back for the trees.
I checked the time. An hour and a half until bingo. We were soon amongst the swaying beds of reeds and the floating heads of pollen and seeds. The sun was high but the sea breeze was pleasantly cool. Dragonflies bejewelled the long reeds and crocs basked on sand banks that we had to circumvent to get back on track. The trail wove back and forth along a winding channel that kept heading back to the beach then would reverse and back to the trees until at last we were amongst cypress domes and stands of palms, and spits of land covered in thick ferns.
And here there were Edmontosaurs.
The duckbills were browsing far and wide across the tidal flats, stripping ferns and browsing amongst the domes. The herd was large but strung out. There were crèches of calves learning the Hadrosaur menu from the adults they trailed. Although the young were old enough to feed themselves, an adult would occasionally half-eat a fruit-laden branch from a plane tree and leave the rest for the calves gathered about it. The yearlings were back with the fully grown as well, fit and healthy, fattening up on the fruits of the new season. They were even up for a little socializing, not quite sexually mature but willing to put in some practice, the bucks harassing the females, even the biggest adult ones, and getting brayed at and even bitten for their efforts. They had more success sparring with each other, shouldering and nipping at one another, slamming one another with their deep tails.
It was all very pastoral, but the Prince’s trail led straight into the herd. We paused for a quick lunch and rehydration, while I checked our position. A salient of forest extended out from the main treeline, and it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that that was where our quarry was heading.
I was making this sage observation to Chance when something disturbed the Hadrosaurs closest to us. There was a ripple of discontent and a swelling in noise. The adults had stopped feeding, and the calves had gathered into tightly formed crèches about them, sub-adults amongst them. One of the adults trumpeted out an alarm.
We turned to see where they were looking, at something further up the river.
And there she was. It may have been that our Prince was actually a Princess. We didn’t care. We immediately moved in amongst the reeds for cover.
I glassed her. Chance was right – she must
have been almost 20 years old. Maybe over a ton in weight and perhaps 8ft at the hips. She still had the long legs and jaws of youth, and was in her summer colours and plumage, and despite the alarm calls that were springing up around her, she moved with the elegance and casual swagger of an apex predator about to enter her prime.
That, of course, was nature’s plan but, it was not ours.
The Edmontosaurs were moving further into the flats and away from the river, away from the Princess. Her course continued to take her towards us as she followed the river bank. The cypress was thick along the water’s edge and she kept disappearing then reappearing a little further down the river. This made the duckbills even more agitated and there was a general movement by the herd away from the channel and deeper into the reeds and domes.
I checked in with the FOB.
‘Potential target sighted.’ It was a stupid thing to say; they knew this as well as I did but, you know, ROEs… ‘Request permission to fire.’
There was a moment of consultation then the comms crackled. ‘Permission granted.’
Chance pushed back his hood. He had his game face on, stoic and unemotional. He sighted down the channel.
Princess turned away from the river and began following the edge of the salient of forest, relaxed, it seemed, not really in hunting mode. She paused now and then to watch the Edmontosaurs retreat or sniff the air. She really was beautiful in that rough and ready frontier style. There were blackened scars in the down on her flanks that turned to white on the leathery skin of her belly. There were also puncture marks in her neck. Not a love bite but something altogether more aggressive.
The reeds made a prone shot impossible and kneeling improbable. Chance would have to take the shot standing.
I ranged the Princess. She was just under 150 yards out, to our north-west. The breeze was 4 knots, blowing westerly. Chance adjusted his sight and wrapped the rifle’s strap about his shoulder then took his stance, feet firm against the earth.
He aimed.
The Princess had stopped and was perusing her domain.
Watching through the optic, I said softly, ‘Ready when you are.’
It was quiet now. The Edmontosaurs had quietened and were feeding. Gulls cawed somewhere. The loudest sound was the breeze in the reeds, that sibilant rustle.
It was quiet enough for me to hear Chance draw breath.
The crack of the rifle was brutal. A split second after the report came the smell of cordite and, through the optics, dust exploded from the Princess. She staggered, and then I heard her roar in fear and pain.
But she didn’t fall.
‘Shit,’ I heard Chance curse.
It was a wound. Not a kill. She looked about, frantic then disappeared into the forest.
‘I was aiming for the head,’ he said. ‘I think I got her in the shoulder.’
I checked in with the Pink Team while Chance swore passionately beside me.
‘Do you want us to finish her?’ the gunship asked us.
Chance shook his head. Maybe there was too much pride at stake but I suspect we both couldn’t take the thought of having someone else do the dirty work, no matter how dangerous it might seem.
‘Cromwell, Pink One Actual. I would strongly recommend against going to those trees. At least let me task a drone with making an IR pass over them.’
‘No,’ said Chance. Pride goeth before a fall.
‘We’ll handle it,’ I called. I tried to sound relaxed, but there was an edge in my voice when I said, ‘But if you want to keep it tight over us, feel free.’
Even from here those woods looked awfully dark.
We slogged our way over to the treeline and scouted her last known position. There was blood sprayed over the trees. I wondered if she was presently drowning in her own blood. If the elephant load had struck her in the shoulder, it might have penetrated her lungs, which would now be filling up with fluid. I felt a pang of sympathy and the urge to finish her. She’d been too beautiful for a long, slow death.
But then again, she was wounded and the forest was deep.
We stood for a while in silence and listened. There was no panting or cries of pain. If we were lucky she would be dead already. But luck was a wounded Tyrannosaur today.
There came the clack of Chance cycling the Ruger. He studied the woods then turned to me.
‘Drop the Bergen. We’re going in light.’
I shrugged off the pack. All I would be taking was the shotgun, ammo, water and snacks.
‘Looks like we’ll still be putting something out of its misery today after all,’ I snarled. Chance just gave me a look.
I informed the Pink Team of the plan, such as it was.
‘Be careful,’ came back on the comms.
‘Oh, you can count on that,’ I said, then Chance plunged into the shadows.
We hadn’t gone far when we found more T-rex scat, voided, no doubt, in fear and pain. The blood trail was easy to follow and there were snapped branches; she had been staggering uncontrollable, trying to outrun the pain she was no doubt in, the panic that had no doubt seized her.
The magical stillness of the woods was replaced with a dark and solemn terror; this was the moment in the show where the two cops stumble into the serial killer’s lair, where the fairy forest turns out to be full of monsters. I imagined a lot of eyes watching us from the shadows.
If Chance was feeling any of this, he didn’t show it. He would stop occasionally and listen, or kneel and touch the ground.
We found Tyrannosaur vomit, semi-digested meat already swarming with flies and covered in the gouts of blood, the bits of lung that had been coughed up with it.
I kept hoping for a body but there was none.
We moved slowly and methodically. Chance would push a branch aside for me, and I would see the blood dripping from the leaves.
He stepped around tracks that grew fresher and fresher. The Princess was slowing, stumbling.
The comms chimed. I tapped Chance on the shoulder, and he took a knee.
The drone operator was an old hand. He spoke softly, kept his tone even.
‘Cromwell, Hell Creek. Be advised. We got a paint on an adult Tyrannosaur west of you, two klicks, coming your way.’
He was after the Princess.
‘Cromwell, how copy?’
‘I copy, Hell Creek.’
‘Red One moving into overwatch.’
The gunship was orbiting the adult. I pulled the pad and called up the map display. Ahead the forest opened into a small glade bisected by a small stream. This, no doubt, would be the last resting place of our Princess, who was probably desperately thirsty with shock.
The surrounding woods were dense Bald Cypress and Glyptostrobus. Thick clusters of knees and roots running down to narrow mudflats. Gnarled stands of katsura. No place for an adult rex. It would have to come down the stream. On the image intensifier, I could see the Princess. Chance would be annoyed.
He wanted to do things the old fashioned way, but me, I didn’t want to – ha ha – take chances.
‘Cromwell, Hell Creek, are you moving?’
‘Er, negative.’
‘Copy, stand by.’
Chance looked back over his shoulder and frowned.
‘Cromwell, we’ve got something at about your two o’clock position. Not big and moving slowly, but it’s about 50 yards ahead of you.’
The forest bent in and breathed out more shadows. It was so quiet.
Chance cut in. ‘Copy, Hell Creek,’ he said softly. ‘We’ll confirm the target is dead then pull back to the river. You can pick us up from there.’
I shifted the shotgun. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea? The gunship could finish her if she’s still alive.’
Chance stood but didn’t look back. ‘I need to be certain.’ The emphasis was on ‘I’.
I stood. ‘I don’t like it. That jungle is really dense and we don’t know what’s ahead of us.’
But Chance’s ego was already buoying him fo
rward. I was sweating into my ghillie suit when I followed.
The roots, the tangles of branches, katsura bark like shed snake skin covered in thick green mats of moss, hanging nooses of Spanish moss, scabrous fungi and rank mushroom farms – it all crowded in. The ground beneath was spongy with moonworts and liverworts. My boots squished into them and black water oozed up. Duckweed stuck to my toecaps.
Nothing big could hide here but it’s what you don’t see that kills you. Chance slowed. Up ahead, I could see a dappled light. Behind me, there was nothing but shadow.
He crouched now as he picked his way forward. Then he slowed and knelt behind a serpentine cluster of roots that was covered in vines. Purple grapes hung from them.
He waved me forward. When I knelt beside him, he gestured with his chin.
Amongst the clustered, clawed hands of cypress, the Princess had collapsed into the stream. At first I thought she was dead, but I glassed her and saw her flank suddenly heave as she struggled for a breath, the water rippling around her.
Chance lay the Ruger on a crux in the root.
I was watching her. Her eye was half open and a nictitating membrane drawn half across. She was half dead. Blood ran down the side of her jaw and from her nostrils, a seething scab of fly bodies. Her down was greasy and ruffled, not smooth and breeze-swept as when we’d first seen her.
I started at the rifle’s report and the eye burst apart, the flies bursting into the air.
And that was that. The Princess settled like falling debris. Her tail gave a rattler twitch then uncoiled into the water.
I lowered the optics and turned to Chance. He had the rifle at port arms and sat contemplating the dead rex.
‘Hate it when that happens,’ he said.
I checked in with the Pink Team. Out target was dead but it felt messy, a Pyrrhic victory. She wasn’t even an adult.
Chance was sloshing up the river toward the Princess when the Prince came.
He was probably no relation, was smaller than her, which is how he had been able to slip amongst the dense forest with ease. And he was covered in mud, which is why the drones had trouble picking him up. His heat signature was a scribble at best.