Dinosaur Thunder Read online

  “Can you probe the surface of the interior without stepping on it?”

  “Stand by,” Watson said.

  Watson unsnapped the long-handled scoop, extending it full length. Carefully stepping around concrete rubble, he worked his way to the edge of the perimeter. Inside, Watson could see chunks of what once had been a concrete floor. Most of the floor was gravel-size rubble arranged in elongated piles, looking like ocean waves. Watson touched the surface with the scoop.

  “It feels solid,” Watson said.

  After the long pause for relay to Earth, Paulson came back. “Advance slowly, probing every six inches,” Paulson said.

  Watson paused long enough to rotate his shoulders and to exchange looks with Chandra and Maven. Maven shrugged his shoulders while Chandra rotated her shoulders back and forth, indicating Hell no. Watson could switch off the Earth link and talk to his team, but decided against it. Having Paulson suddenly commandeer the mission was unorthodox and even weird, but Watson was as curious about the conditions in the interior of the structure as Paulson was. Even without the order, Watson was going in.

  Inching toward the still-struggling dinosaur, Watson felt like a soldier probing a minefield. Six inches at a time, he worked toward the dinosaur, always one eye on the tyrannosaur. Suddenly, the carnivore stopped struggling. Cocking its head, it stared at Watson with one eye.

  “I think it spotted me,” Watson said.

  “Get out, sir,” Chandra said.

  “I’m coming in,” Maven said.

  “Everyone stay where you are,” Paulson said, stopping Maven as he started into the perimeter. “Keep your cameras on the dinosaur.”

  They stood, locked in a staring contest with the tyrannosaur. Then abruptly, it turned its head, using its other eye. Suddenly, it lunged, but the invisible restraints held, and it barely moved. Twisting and turning, it repeatedly lunged, jaws snapping silently in the vacuum.

  “Try moving sideways,” Paulson said.

  “Moving? I thought prey were harder to see if they didn’t move.”

  “Please move sideways,” Paulson said after a long pause. “It’s safe.”

  In a PLSS suit, sidesteps were impossible, so Watson turned, hopping to his left. The tyrannosaur struggled another second, and then stopped, cocking its head from side to side as if searching for Watson. Finally, it gave up, ignoring Watson, resuming its frenetic struggles.

  “Commander, I won’t ask you to go any further,” Paulson said.

  “That thing is cemented in place,” Watson said. “It’s safe enough to get closer.”

  “If you are comfortable,” Paulson said.

  “Do you have a goal in mind?” Watson asked as he resumed inching forward.

  “Yes,” Paulson said. “I would like a sample of the material the dinosaur is standing on.”

  Watson studied the predator, estimating the sweep of its tail and the length of its neck. Watson did not think it could reach him.

  “You don’t want to get that close,” Maven said.

  “I’ll be careful,” Watson said.

  Inching slowly, Watson worked his way over waves of rubble, the tyrannosaur ignoring him, still wrenching back and forth violently. Reaching the edge of the black mass the trapped animal stood on, Watson used the long-handled scoop, touching the black material. It was solid. Watson tapped the material and then turned the scoop over, using the serrated edge to scratch the surface. No marks.

  “It’s hard like rock,” Watson reported.

  There was a long moon-to-Earth pause.

  “Try probing it with the orgonic material you collected.”

  “Orgonic?” Watson said.

  “The pieces of black material,” Paulson said.

  “Why?” Watson asked.

  A long silence followed. Watson imagined an intense argument taking place on the other end of the Earth link.

  “Try the collected samples because they may be made of a related material.”

  That explained nothing, but Watson knew he would not get anything more. Maven came forward, detaching his sample bag, offering the first piece of the material they found. Watson snapped the scoop head off his long handle and attached the tongs. Then he used a multitool folded into pliers to extract the material from the sample bag and transfer it to the tongs. Now using the long-handled tongs, Watson touched the material to the surface.

  “Same result,” Watson said. “What were you expecting?”

  After a long pause, “We’re just experimenting. Try the sample Dr. Chandra is carrying,” Paulson said.

  Watson returned the sample to Maven’s bag, and then Maven backed away as Chandra came forward. Using the same procedure, Watson extracted the sample from Chandra’s bag. As before, the surface of the piece was hard to focus on. The tongs gripped it, however, and Watson lowered it to the surface. When the material touched, it slowly sank.

  “It’s melding with the surface,” Watson said.

  “Extract it,” Paulson radioed after a pause.

  “This just gets better and better,” Maven said.

  “Major Watson,” Paulson said. “Please collect as much of the black material as you can. From now on, that is the only mission priority.”

  “Yes, sir,” Watson said.

  “What about the dinosaur?” Chandra asked.

  “I say we leave it,” Maven said. “The Russian women’s hockey team will be along soon, and they can deal with it.”

  2

  Pest Control

  I did find a statistically significant increase in the number of unlicensed dinosaurs appearing outside of ranges and licensed habitats (see attached). I have not been able to identify the source of these dinosaurs, or a pattern, but I will work on it again next summer if I receive another internship.

  —Chad Barrett, university intern, memo, Department of Dinosaur Control

  Present time

  Hillsdale, Florida

  Carson Wills turned his van down the access road, driving through an open security gate onto fresh blacktop. A sign over the entrance read MILLS RANCH. “Ranch” was a grandiose term for a weekend farm owned by yuppies. Ahead, a large two-story “farmhouse” sat on the highest point on the property, where the masters could look out on their estate. A large deck on the second story overlooked the pool below and the shallow valley beyond. Carson pictured young executives, girlfriends and trophy wives standing on the deck, drinks in hand, admiring the view of what had once been a productive farm—tomatoes and lettuce, Carson guessed by the look of the fields.

  From the deck, visitors would see land that generations of farmers had fought nature for, taming the lush subtropical forest piece by piece, making a living for their families and feeding the state and the nation with year-round crops. The crops, livestock, and sense of purpose were gone, replaced by pastures for horses, llamas, or the newest fad, domesticated dinosaurs. Apatosaurs were the most popular, but only for the very rich. These massive animals with their long necks and tails took more acreage than the Mills Ranch could offer. Smaller sauropods were common on ranches like the Mills Ranch, and even armored dinosaurs like Monoclonius, triceratops, or smaller ankylosaurs. Managing beasts like triceratops was difficult, however, and took a professional staff. Carson guessed these paddocks would hold small sauropods or maybe a hadrosaur, probably a duck-billed hadrosaur.

  Carson pulled into the circular drive, parking his cream-colored GMC van next to a red Audi. The decal on the side of his van showed a cowboy lassoing a T. rex. Above the image was painted DINOSAUR WRANGLER, the name of Carson’s company. The same cowboy logo was embroidered on the chest of his yellow cotton shirt. For a five-hundred-dollar minimum, plus expenses, Carson or one of his employees would come on call and deal with dinosaurs that had escaped from preserves or broken through fences. Despite the decal, Carson had never encountered a tyrannosaur and never would, since carnivores were strictly regulated. There were only a few in Florida, all federally owned and managed. Private ownership of carnivores was
a felony, and there were only two ranges in the United States where they roamed free. The only carnivores roaming free in Florida preserves were small scavengers like the seven-pound Bambiraptor.

  Ignoring the brass knockers, Carson rapped on the front door with a knuckle. Marty Mills opened the door, wearing Levi’s and a long-sleeved denim shirt. He was clean-shaven, with dark hair trimmed neat, blue eyes, and a genuine smile that showed off his bright-white teeth.

  “Hey, Fanny, the dinosaur guy’s here,” Marty called over his shoulder. “Thanks for coming.”

  Marty Mills took Carson’s hand, shaking it and pulling him in at the same time. The entry was walnut hardwood. A staircase led to the second floor, a spacious living room opened to the right, and on the other side, a set of French doors led to a library.

  “I’m so glad you’re here,” Fanny Mills said as she came down the stairs. “We called the preserve, but they don’t have any rangers available. They put us on a list.”

  Fanny Mills wore cargo shorts with a navy blue polo shirt. She was pretty—very pretty—with short black hair, large expressive brown eyes, and another smile full of bright-white teeth. Her face, arms, and legs were genuinely tan, not the spray-on fake tan that gave you the color without the cancer risk. Coming directly to Carson, Fanny took his hand, shook it, and then held it while she spoke to him sincerely.

  “You’re not alone, are you? It’s too dangerous to do it alone. We won’t let you, will we, Marty?”

  “No, of course not,” Marty said.

  It took Carson a few seconds to realize the Millses were genuinely concerned about his safety. “Mr. and Mrs. Mills,” Carson began.

  “Marty and Fanny,” Fanny said, finally releasing Carson’s hand after a final squeeze.

  The squeeze gave Carson a warm rush.

  “Look, I have been doing this for a long time. Let me take a look at what you’ve got, and if I need help I’ll call in one of my crew.”

  “It’s a velociraptor,” Marty said.

  “Probably more than one,” Fanny said, taking him by the arm. “They run in packs. Of course you would know that.”

  “Velociraptors are illegal,” Carson assured them. “If it’s a carnivore, it’s more’n likely an oviraptor. They keep them in the ranges as scavengers to keep the range free of carcasses. The problem is that they keep escaping because the barriers are built for the big animals. If it is an oviraptor, there’s not much to worry about. Might eat your cat if you have one, but that’s about it.”

  “I heard an oviraptor killed a baby in California,” Marty said.

  “Urban myth,” Carson said. “Do you have a baby?”

  “No, but we’re trying,” Fanny said, taking Carson’s arm, and leading him down the hall.

  Fanny and Marty were uncomfortably open, Carson thought, but Carson liked them. The Millses took Carson down the hall to the biggest kitchen he had ever seen, with a breakfast bar and kitchen table. The back wall was glass, with more French doors that opened out to the pool deck. The tile floor in the kitchen was the same as the tile around the pool, so with the French doors open, the pool area and the kitchen would seem to be one large room. There was another set of stairs along one wall of the kitchen, and the Millses took Carson to the second floor and another large open space sprinkled with arcade games and a foosball table. A large wet bar sat against one wall, and another glass wall led out to the deck. Two pairs of binoculars sat on the bar. Marty picked them up, and Fanny led Carson onto the deck.

  Fanny was unusually physical for a married woman, holding Carson’s arm, leaning against him, guiding him with a hand on his back. Carson enjoyed the contact, feeling it was somehow illicit. Carson also knew that if the plumber showed up later that day, Fanny would be just as attentive.

  “Here you go,” Marty said, handing Carson one of the binoculars. “We saw the velociraptor down the valley by the old barn.”

  Marty took the binoculars, following Marty’s point. The binoculars had image-stabilization technology, and the view through the lenses was as stable as looking out a window. Carson found the old barn. It was a half-collapsed structure that looked like a pile of weathered scrap wood.

  “We saw it run from the tree line on the south into the barn,” Fanny said.

  Carson studied the barn but saw nothing.

  “We’ve seen it twice now,” Marty said. “Fanny saw it yesterday early in the morning, and I saw it last night.”

  “Have you been to the barn?” Carson asked.

  “No!” Fanny said emphatically. “Marty wanted to go, but I said, ‘Don’t even think about it.’ I told him, I said, ‘Marty, we need a professional,’ and so we called you.”

  “Did you find me in the yellow pages, online, word of mouth?” Carson asked.

  “Online.”

  Carson made a mental note to drop his yellow pages advertising. Only one call in fifty was coming from print advertising.

  They watched the barn for another couple of minutes.

  “I’ll go take a look,” Carson said.

  “Not alone?” Fanny said, touching his arm.

  “No worries,” Carson said, feeling her genuine concern. “I’m a professional.”

  The Millses followed him to his van. Carson loaded his tranquilizer rifle with a dosage for an animal the size of an ostrich, still expecting an Oviraptor. Putting on his camouflaged hunting vest, he put a pouch of darts in his shirt pocket, preloaded with a range of dosages.

  “Those tranquilizer darts are a lot bigger than I thought,” Fanny said.

  “They’re nothing like they show on TV,” Carson said. “Each dart is really a full-size syringe with an explosive charge on the end,” Carson explained as he put on his gear. “The rifle is CO2 powered. I can adjust the power setting so I can shoot an animal from as close as two feet or as far as thirty yards without hurting it.”

  Carson opened the rifle, extracting the dart.

  “When the dart hits, this blue end compresses and this brass rod strikes the firing pin, setting off a charge. The explosion drives the plunger and injects the drug.”

  “Cool,” Marty said.

  “How long before the animal is sedated?” Fanny asked.

  “Depends on the size of the animal. Too small an animal, and I could kill it with this dosage. Too big, and it won’t go down at all. If the dosage is right, it takes five to ten minutes for the animal to get manageable.”

  “Five minutes with an angry velociraptor,” Marty said, whistling.

  “It’s not a velociraptor,” Carson said.

  “We’re going with you,” Fanny said.

  “It can’t be a velociraptor or any of his bigger cousins,” Carson said. “Dinosaur rangers tag any predator, and besides, there aren’t any large predators in the Ocala preserve. If any of the scavengers they do keep start probing the fence line, they put them down. Predators just can’t get loose, let alone this far from a preserve.”

  Carson snapped the bag with his throw net to the loop on his left side, checked the load in his pistol, and put it in his holster. Then he took the leash pole—an extendable aluminum pole with a wire loop on the end. With the loop over the head of the dinosaur, Carson could tighten the wire and keep the animal at bay with the pole.

  “Aren’t you taking a rifle?” Fanny asked, pointing to the guns hanging on the wall of the van.

  “I’ve never had to use one of those,” Carson said, closing the van door. “I’ll take a look in the barn and check the area for animal signs. Depending on what I find, I’ll either handle it or call in for help.” Carson pulled a phone from his vest pocket and showed it to them. “If I need help, it will cost more than the five-hundred-dollar minimum.”

  “I would hope so,” Marty said.

  The Millses walked with him to the edge of their carefully watered and trimmed lawn and then stood on the edge as he walked down the hill into the valley leading to the old barn.

  Most of the former lettuce and tomato fields spread across the valley
to the north. The pastures were to the south. Carson skirted two pastures green enough for Kentucky Thoroughbreds and then through the scrub growth beyond. Ahead to the south, Carson saw the original farmhouse, its windows and doors boarded. The barn sat a hundred yards behind the house. The barn was in bad shape, the end nearest Carson partially collapsed. The rest of the structure still stood but listed to the south, looking ready to fall at the slightest breeze. Given the regularity of hurricane winds in Florida, it was a miracle the structure still stood.

  Carson slowed his pace, now choosing his footing to avoid sticks and dried leaves. Approaching the barn, Carson paused often, listening. With virtually no breeze, there was no downwind approach. Assuming the barn was as boarded up as the old house, Carson crept to the collapsed end. Part of the wall was gone, leaving a hole he would have to duck through. That was good, since only a medium-sized animal could get through the opening. He did not want to come face-to-face with triceratops with only a dart gun and a leash pole.

  Waiting and listening, Carson heard nothing and saw nothing. Then he duck-walked through the opening, the tranquilizer rifle in one hand, and the leash pole in the other. Inside, he stood and moved right until he could stand with his back against a portion of the wall. Waiting for his eyes to fully adjust, soon Carson could make out details. The floor was dirt, giving the interior an earthy smell mixed with the stink of manure. Light leaked through cracks and joints, illuminating slivers of the interior but creating deep shadows too. Looking around, Carson found the interior disequilibrating, the slanted barn boards giving the illusion that the floor of the barn was tilted. There was little left in the barn except for a pile of blue plastic crates, a stack of hay bales, some circular saw blades hanging on the wall over a workbench, and a pair of snowshoes hanging from a ceiling beam. A set of dilapidated stairs led to a loft. Under the stairs was a pile of hay that looked out of place.

  Alert for any movement, Carson walked to the hay pile. The mound was roughly circular and filled with a mix of straw, dried leaves, and dirt. Carson leaned the leash pole against the stairs, then squatted, digging into the mound. It was warm. Upon feeling an object, he pulled it out of the pile. It was a brown oblong egg. An egg like he had never seen before.