The Lost Island

by Paul Kearney

  The turbine above their head started up, quickly building to a deafening whine. Mullan, the copilot, leaned back and pointed at Jenny’s head. She understood, and unclipped a spare set of headphones that was hanging on the bulkhead, setting them over her ears. At once, some of the noise was cut off, and she could hear the quiet, professional murmurs of the pilots in front of her. Their calm and competence was reassuring.

  She looked out of the square Perspex window and saw fifteen feet away the bureaucrat and the rest of his team staring at her from the side of the helipad. The man looked furious. She had beaten him to the punch. Jenny smiled at him, and chanced a small wave, which he did not return.

  Sore loser.

  Of course, she would have to work on him once they were all on the island. It was a task she didn’t much look forward to. He looked like an uphill struggle.

  “Tango two zero, you are cleared for take off.” The voice crackled in her ears.

  “Zero, roger that, lifting off now.”

  The Scout rose into the air, and was immediately shunted sideways by a great gale of sodden air. Jenny yelped despite herself, and gripped the thigh of the soldier who sat next to her. He began to smile like a red-faced Cheshire Cat.

  “Haven’t flown before?” he asked kindly.

  “Not in one of these.” She closed her eyes for a moment as the helicopter rose and was shaken by the wind as though it were a rat in the jaws of a terrier.

  “Good God! I thought we were supposed to be in a lull of the storm,” she said with alarm.

  “This is a lull,” McCann said. “If it weren’t, we’d be halfway to France five minutes after take-off.” He grinned, and seemed to be enjoying her discomfiture.

  They rose above the ship, the Scout shaking and shuddering every foot of the way. Even McCann’s face lost some of its florid colour as they were bludgeoned up and down in the sky.

  “1200 feet,” Brice’s voice said up front. “Cloud ceiling 1500. Course one-two-five, speed eighty-five knots.”

  “Roger that,” Mullan said beside him. Even seated in the rear of the little aircraft, Jenny could see the strain in both their shoulders, and noted their constant adjustments of the controls.

  A short time later, they spoke again.

  “Guns Island, dead ahead. Dropping down.”

  “Roger that. 800 feet. Two miles out. Airspeed ninety-two knots.”

  The helicopter descended, until the monstrous waves below seemed almost close enough to touch. But it was calmer down here, she noticed gratefully, in the lee of the island.

  I’ll never enjoy a fairground ride again, Jenny thought. She lifted her hand from McCann’s leg. It felt cramped and sore. He rubbed his thigh.

  “That’s some grip you have on you!” he commented wryly.

  She said nothing, her full attention taken up now with the spectacle of the black mountain. It seemed as if they were hurtling directly toward it. For a moment, she thought of Cutter and the others with real pity — they had climbed those cliffs, or had tried to.

  My God, it must have been horrendous. She wouldn’t let herself dwell on the other possibility; that they had not made it to the top at all.

  “Two minutes.” Brice’s voice sounded in her ear. “Bringing her up now.”

  “1200, 1300, 1400,” Mullan intoned.

  “Coming up on the south side,” the pilot told them.

  They cleared the cliffs, and at once the wind hammered into them again. The pilot swore, and lifted the collective, his feet see-sawing on the pedals. “Jesus, that’s some updraft. Help me hold her, Les.” The airframe shook and rattled and the turbine roar above their heads intensified as the rotors fought the wind.

  “Bring her up, bring her up!” the copilot yelled.

  “I’ve got her, I’ve got her. Damn, no.”

  The helicopter tilted almost on its side, throwing Jenny against her seat belt, leaving her hanging in the air. McCann’s rifle slipped out of his hand and clattered to the floor of the aircraft, then banged against the port-side door.

  “Christ, Sean, get her nose up!” the copilot yelled, raw fear in his voice now.

  The Scout wheeled across the sky like a swatted fly. Jenny saw the sere, snow-scattered ground below come zooming at her window.

  She screamed.

  TWELVE

  Connor lay and looked up at the ceiling of the tent. All about him, the sound of the wind was a relentless roar, and the tent was thrashed by it, beaten back and forth until the poles that supported it creaked and groaned.

  There was a grey light in the air, an almost-dawn. He was wet through, but warm. On one side of him the army medic, Doody, snored softly, and on the other Abby lay frowning in sleep, a tiny crust of dried blood flaking off her cheek. There were five of them in the tent, all told, and they lay on their karrimats in a few millimetres of water, with the sleeping bags unzipped and piled over them. Like a litter of puppies, curled up together.

  Puppies! Yeah, right. Connor found himself smiling at the image. Then he looked at Abby again, and swallowed. For a few seconds last night, he had thought her gone, and the pain of those moments was still with him.

  Unwilling to revisit the memory, he eased himself out from under the sleeping bags, and immediately felt colder. He still had his boots on, and within them his feet felt like wrinkled prunes. He found it hard to remember the last time they had been dry.

  He clambered over his companions as gently and quietly as he could and unzipped the front of the tent. At once, the wind caught the tent flap and set it rippling and snapping. He poked his head out into wrist-deep snow, amid a cloud of the powdery stuff. It was colder, much colder than it had been the night before, and the snow was blowing like smoke across the ground, collecting in hummocks and mounds where the grass grew in tufts. But he preferred the snow to the rain.

  God, he hated getting wet.

  He peered back into the semi-darkness of the tent. Everyone was still asleep, even the soldiers. Their faces looked blue-grey in the early light of the predawn. One of them, Farnsworth, had slept with his pistol to hand — a Browning 9mm. Connor looked at it, then, stifling a shiver, he gently took the weapon, and crawled all the way out of the tent. He zipped closed the flap after him, and straightened, groaning as his damp limbs eased out their kinks. This is what it’ll be like to be old, he thought.

  He hobbled away from the tents with the pistol in one hand, rather proud of himself for his acquisition. Then he put his back to the wind and whistled soundlessly as he answered nature’s call. When he was finished, he hopped up and down on the spot, trying to generate some warmth.

  The cloud was so low he felt as if he could stand up on his toes and touch it. It had stopped snowing, he realised, but snow was tumbling across the top of the island in white powdery sheets. Looking north, he could see a couple of hundred metres before the cloud and snow blotted out the further horizon. The plateau which was the top of the island was broken up in furrowed stone gullies and crags. Where there was shelter, yellow grass grew in clumps, but nothing taller than that.

  The place felt like a hostile, alien planet. Like Mars, he thought. Mars is cold. But it’s red, too. This place felt like a wilderness at the end of the world.

  He walked forward, away from the tents. Looking back at them he saw that the snow had piled up on their windward sides. Their dark colouring stood out against the colourless landscape. A shiver ran through him.

  I could really go for a hot cup of coffee, he thought.

  He stumbled, not looking where he was going, and tripped headlong into a small gully, a mere gash in the skin of the island. Braced to impact against hard rock, he landed instead on something yielding, something so utterly unexpected that it took his breath away. He stumbled to his feet as fast as he could, pointing the pistol.

  A low groan filled the air, a great bass noise that Connor felt vibrate in his own flesh. There was a cloud of steam, and a stale, sickening smell, like mouldy grass. Connor backed away slowly, eyes wid
e. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, and it closed again, as though he were a fish gasping for air.

  “Iguanodon,” Cutter’s voice said behind him, and Connor spun in panicked surprise, still waving the pistol in front of him. “Put that thing down before you hurt yourself, or me,” Cutter said, then he turned his attention back to their discovery.

  “God in heaven, an Iguanodon. See the thumb-spike? It’s a young one, hardly five, six metres long. Quite a find, Connor.”

  Cutter was standing with an M-4 held loosely by the stock, staring down. The animal had fallen into the sheer-sided gully and broken at least one of its legs. It was dark brown, with white stripes along its spine. Its eye flicked back at them sluggishly, and it raised its head a fraction, then fell back again. There was ice glistening upon its lower limbs, and one hind leg was bent at a horrible angle.

  The animal moaned again, a deep mournful sound.

  “It’s been here a while; it’s just about had it,” Cutter said, his voice changed now. “Must have stumbled there in the dark.” He walked around the beast, examining the ground. He bent and wiped snow away from the grass with his hand. “There was more than one; this is all torn up over here.”

  “It’s in pain,” Connor said, staring in awed fascination at the great, broken beast.

  “I know,” Cutter said. He brought the carbine up to his shoulder, clicked off the safety, and fired.

  The crack was obscenely loud, but the wind seemed to bear it away almost at once. A glistening black hole appeared behind the creature’s eye, and the head quivered, then flopped down. The massive ribs moved in and out for a few moments more, and then were still.

  “Professor,” Connor said, “was there no other way —”

  “This is what we’re here for,” Cutter said, his eyes dark and unreachable. “This is what we’re here to do.” He turned around and began walking back to the tents. Already, people were piling out of them, the gunshot having roused them, the soldiers scrambling to their feet.

  “God forgive us,” Cutter said, “it’s what we’ve always been good at.”

  Willoby charged up, his voice angry.

  “I’ll thank you to give me my weapon back,” he said bluntly. “What the hell’s going on, Cutter?”

  “Iguanodon with a broken leg,” Connor said breathlessly. “Cutter killed it.”

  “Sergeant Fox,” Willoby said loudly, “take Bristow and check it out.”

  “Right boss.” The two soldiers ran past Cutter, their eyes wide.

  “The Iguanodon is Early Cretaceous,” Cutter was saying as Connor trotted alongside him, but the Liopleurodon is Jurassic —”

  “Late Jurassic,” Connor said. “Could be there’s an overlap. It’s not impossible.”

  “So you think they could both be from the same period.”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” Connor had forgotten about the cold, the wind, the snow and his wet clothes.

  “I suppose, though I think it’s much more likely that we’re talking two different eras here.” Cutter halted in his tracks and looked back at the snow-swept blankness of the northern horizon. “I saw three anomalies last night, in the distance, before we turned in. They’re probably gone by now. But were they all linked to the same epoch or are we talking two or three different eras? That’s the question.”

  “Cretaceous,” Connor said, eyes shining in his pinched face as he imagined the legions of other creatures he might encounter. The very thought thrilled him in ways he couldn’t express.

  Cutter stared at him.

  “Be careful what you wish for, Connor,” he said quietly.

  The team reassembled at the tents. They were a sorry looking bunch, wearing wet clothes that were now freezing on their backs, and most sporting some kind of gash or bruise. Connor handed Farnsworth back his pistol with a sheepish grin.

  “Had to pee — thought I’d take some, you know, protection.” The soldier’s expression was hard.

  “Wake me up next time; I’ll make sure nature’s wonders don’t get a look at your tender spot,” he snapped.

  Beside him, Doody smothered a laugh.

  ***

  “Set up camp,” Willoby said, addressing the group. “Fox, I want this place squared away within the hour, all three surviving tents up and secured against this bloody wind. I want everyone to change their socks and put on whatever we have in the way of dry clothing. Look after your feet, people, and don’t stand around in the cold while you’re wet. Bristow, make a brew for us all. Watts, check out the comms situation. I want a sitrep on range and batteries.

  “Doody, check everyone over for frostnip, trench foot, aches and pains. You know the drill. I want to know the ammo and food situation down to the last round and biscuit. Come on people, you’re not on your own time any more; we’re at work now. Cutter, a word in private, if you please.”

  Willoby led Cutter away from the campsite. They stood looking down on the Iguanodon carcass.

  “We stick together, from here on in,” Willoby said with quiet savagery. “No more bloody bimbling off. We’ve no idea what’s wandering around this island, or what’s going to pop out next from these anomalies of yours. Is that clear, Cutter?”

  Cutter raised his hood against the wind.

  “Captain, you almost sound as though you’re giving me orders.”

  “Your people have to utilise a bit of common sense,” Willoby said. “We don’t let each other leave the camp alone from now on. I say again, is that clear?”

  They peered at each other for a moment, then Cutter nodded.

  “Fair enough. I have one order of my own though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “These creatures have nervous systems quite unlike our own. Some of them, you shoot them in the head and they’ll not know they’re dead for another ten minutes, and by that time you’re just jam in the grass. No one opens fire until I okay it, Willoby. Are we agreed?”

  Willoby nodded.

  “All right. That’s your field, and so it’s your call.”

  With remarkable swiftness, the campsite was transformed from the squalid mess of the night before into a well-regulated and seemingly shipshape establishment.

  The three tents were set up properly, their edges weighed down with lichen-covered stones to prevent the vicious wind from carrying them away. The gear was unpacked and a line of wet socks was soon knotted to a length of paracord and suspended from a nearby crag. Some of the soldiers preferred to wear their wet footgear around their necks to dry them.

  The team hunted out what remained of their rations, and behind a stone-built windbreak they prepared the first hot food they had tasted in days, holding their hands up to the guttering blue flames of the little gas burners to feel the warmth. Snow was gathered up and melted for drinking water, though according to Cutter’s map there was an old well on the island, built into the abandoned military post on the north side.

  Cutter’s first instinct had been to pack up the tents and make for it at once, but, on reflection, he found himself agreeing with Willoby’s more cautious approach. The anomalies Cutter had seen gleaming in the dark the night before had all been in that direction, and it was better to recce the area out before going charging up there with all their gear packed on their backs and who knew what awaiting them.

  “This will be our base of operations for now,” Cutter said as the team gathered around him behind their stone windbreak. “As soon as we’ve organised ourselves, Captain Willoby, Bristow and I will head north, to check out the lie of the land and see what other creatures are roaming around. Stephen, you’re in charge while we’re gone.”

  Stephen nodded.

  “Connor, you and Abby do your level best to get the hand-held detector working again. This is a relatively small area we’re working with, but it would still be useful to know when the anomalies are up and running.”

  Cutter paused. “Abby, are you listening to me?”

  She stood with her head cocked to one side, h
er blonde hair plastered over her bruised forehead, and her hood around her shoulders.

  “Cutter, do you hear that?”

  “What, the wind?”

  “No, something else. I’m sure I —” Then she shouted, “Quiet! Quiet everybody!”

  The entire team froze at the tone of her voice.

  “I hear it,” Watts, the signaller said. “Boss, it sounds like a heli.”

  All their senses straining, they rose to their feet, listening intently, trying to filter out the ever-present roar of the wind.

  “It’s coming from the south,” Willoby said at last. “A helicopter, by God.”

  “It’s a brave man flies in this,” Stephen murmured. “Or a stupid one.” He whipped out his binoculars and stepped away from the group to scan the leaden sky. “Can’t see a thing.” But the noise was becoming louder minute by minute.

  Then it erupted into view over the edge of the cliff, a small, grey-painted aircraft with an Irish tricolour on its tail boom. It swung round in the sky above them and soared past, the wind turning it around in the air so that one moment they were facing the cockpit, and the next the tail rotor.

  “He’s too low!” Doody shouted.

  The pilot must have been fighting for control, but the aircraft simply wasn’t powerful enough to fight the massive blast of the northeasterly that was racing across the plateau.

  “Come on, come on man.” Cutter found himself muttering through clenched teeth. “Get her down — just set her down.”

  “Oh, no,” Abby mouthed.

  The helicopter reared up one final time, was slammed sideways by the storm and came down again tail first. It disappeared over a ridge. They heard the crash, sharp and loud, and then there was only the sound of the wind again.

  The team stood frozen, disbelieving.

  Willoby collected himself first.

  “Doody, get the medkit. Bristow, Minimi. Farnsworth, you’re with us. Fox, you and Watts stay here. Try the comms; that heli was Navy, it must be from a ship nearby. They may be able to read our signal. Let’s get to it, people.”

  Cutter and Stephen joined the group that set out for the north, and the six of them set a fearsome pace as they made a beeline for the crash-site. Stephen had brought his sniper rifle, but Cutter was armed only with a pistol. None of them wanted to think too hard about what they might find in the downed helicopter.