The Dinosaur Battle Of New Orleans

by Dane Hatchell

  “Hey! Hey, Keesha’s parents!” a familiar voice called out from behind a palm tree on a corner.

  Broderick couldn’t see the man, only the square ended shovel he held, but knew it was T-Bob from earlier. “It’s okay, T-Bob. You can come over.” He hoped T-Bob could make some sense of all of this but seriously doubted it.

  Carrying the shovel with both hands, the handle at a 45° angle across his chest, T-Bob marched to the scene ready for battle. “I heard gunshots. Did y’all hear gunshots?”

  “Yeah, we heard them,” Broderick said, wondering how T-Bob would take the news if he told the employee he had done the shooting.

  “What happened to that dinosaur exhibit?” T-Bob asked as he stepped up to the dead creature.

  “T-Bob, that’s not a model. That’s a real dinosaur,” Broderick said.

  T-Bob’s eyes lost focus. His pursed lips rose and almost touched his nose. “There aren’t supposed to be real dinosaurs here.”

  As simple-minded as T-Bob seemed, he reasoned the circumstances well. “I agree. And believe me, I wish this one wasn’t here now,” Broderick said.

  Screams rose in the distance; coming from near the entrance to the zoo. Something in the tone of those cries reached out and latched icy-cold fingers around Broderick’s inner core. Sheer horror electrified the air, building an invisible cage.

  Broderick needed to get his wife and daughter to safety but didn’t know which way to turn.

  More death-screams erupted from different parts of the zoo. Various animals joined in protest to whatever threatened their sedentary lifestyle.

  “Daddy, more dinosaurs are coming,” Keesha said and pointed.

  Broderick whipped his head over and saw a creature as tall as a Great Dane lurking near a patch of bamboo. This bipedal dinosaur had bird and reptile characteristics. The short arms had feathers but were far from wings capable of flight. An olive-green swath ran from the top of its skull all the way down its tan, spotted body to a tail that made the dinosaur near ten feet long.

  The deinonychus had yet to spot the humans. Broderick wanted to keep it that way as he realized bullets might not be enough to protect them this time.

  “There’s another one, Daddy,” Keesha said.

  Broderick felt his daughter tightening her grip around his waist. “T-Bob, is there a place we can hide?”

  “Yeah,” T-Bob said as if a thought had surprised him. “The reptile house. It was built to withstand a hurricane. We rode out Katrina in there. I have keys to all the exhibits here.”

  Never taking his gaze off the two raptor-like dinosaurs, Broderick said, “T-Bob, move at a slow, steady pace until we get out of sight of those creatures.

  “Dionne, you follow T-Bob and take Keesha by the hand. I’ll follow and keep an eye on them.”

  T-Bob closed an eye and nodded. He pushed his jaw forward and led the way.

  Chapter 8

  The MSY control tower exploded with cheers when Co-pilot Jim Hall radioed in that Captain Wesselman had successfully landed the 737 on the Mississippi River.

  Ritchie Lamoine knew it wasn’t time to declare victory. It was up to the Coast Guard and any other support vessels in the area to rescue the passengers and bring them safely ashore. Still, the historic landing of a 737 on the Mississippi River without the plane flying apart was destined to be named the Miracle on the Mississippi.

  “Hey, Ritchie. Come over here,” Mark Chaney called out. The air traffic controller hunched over his control station with his gaze glued to the radar screen.

  “Are those things still there?” Ritchie asked.

  “Yeah, but they aren’t as bunched up as before. They’re circling overhead, posing a threat to the whole airport,” Mark said.

  This is why they pay me the big bucks, Ritchie thought. Shutting down MSY would severely impact flight travel in the whole US and jilt some international flights over the rest of the globe. He had the authority to make that decision, which would cost airlines millions and millions of dollars.

  There was no way he could close the airport without explaining the imminent threat. How would he do that and sight danger from flying pterodactyls as the reason? He’d be sent directly to the nut house. But, lives were in danger. Whatever heat came his way, he’d just have to endure until he had hard evidence to back him up.

  Ritchie turned a switch on his radio to connect to every air traffic controller in the tower, and said, “Attention. Due to unknowns threatening the airspace, I am suspending all departures at this time. Contact all inbound and redirect to other airports.”

  Those words were simple enough to say. The burden he had just placed on controllers, airports, pilots, and passengers, though, was unimaginable. Controllers’ scowls and blank faces of disbelief looked back at him.

  “You have your orders,” he said.

  “Ritchie,” Mark said. “Got an F-fifteen heading from the Gulf returning to Belle Chasse. Maybe you can contact them and see if that jet can fly over and scare those things away from the airport.”

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea. The jet would be at risk too.”

  “The pterodactyls are at three thousand feet. If he flies above that, he’ll be okay. We need to clear the airspace. Make those things move out of here,” Mark said. “He can’t fire his guns at them. But maybe a couple of flybys would work.”

  That wasn’t a bad idea. A huge chunk of metal harassing the interlopers might send them scurrying.

  Ritchie hurried over to his desk and looked at a laminated sheet scribed with important phone numbers. Finding the number for the Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base located a short twenty miles south, he punched in the number on the phone.

  Why hadn’t the pterodactyls moved on already? They continued to circle above the airport as if drawn to it like a magnet. He didn’t know how much of a threat they would pose to the public, but this was the worst possible place for those strange creatures to be.

  If the F-15 could shoo the pterodactyls away, MSY might be back up in business in a few hours. That would certainly put a feather in his cap. Of course, he’d take all the credit for thinking outside of the box. That’s how’s he came to be making the big bucks anyway. Stepping on the backs of fellow workers had made him rise to the top.

  The Naval Air Station operator answered.

  Ritchie was on his way to a fat bonus at the end of the year.

  *

  Lieutenant Kevin ‘Nuke’ Tassin cruised at five hundred seventy m/hr over the depleting swamps and marshlands of Louisiana’s coast, heading back to base. Protecting the Gulf’s coast from foreign intruders for the last ten years had given him a personal perspective of the erosion few shared. This was a crisis happening in real time. In fact, it was said Louisiana lost a football field of landmass every hour. There were a few programs in place to help restore the wetlands. One program collected old Christmas Trees after the holidays and fortified the coastal muck with them. That made people feel better, but the action was as effective as blocking a river flow with a toothpick.

  Kevin felt blessed, though. He grew up in the neighboring St. Bernard Parish, in the historic city of Chalmette. Chalmations, as they referred to themselves, were a tight community of unique individuals, bound by culture and local customs. They thought of themselves so highly, that if you asked one of them where they were from, they would simply say the Parish. Louisiana had Parishes, whereas in the rest of the US, the states were divided into counties.

  The actual Battle of New Orleans took place in Chalmette. The Chalmette Battlefield memorial and cemetery were part of the Jean Lafitte National Historical Park and Preserve, and he had visited many times over the years.

  Kevin made his move back near his hometown after an overseas tour in 2007. Hurricane Katrina in ’05 had flooded St. Bernard Parish so severely that less than a half dozen homes out of twenty-seven thousand were habitable. He wanted to be closer to home to help his friends and family rebuild.

  “Nuke, how’s your fuel?�
�� the Belle Chasse air traffic controller said over his headphones.

  “Fuel’s good, Catahoula,” Kevin said. “It will be a while before I yell bingo.”

  “More importantly, how’s your bladder?”

  “Not so bad that I can taste the piss yet. I can always hang my lizard out the window if I need to. What’s up? I’m down to ten angels and coming in to land,” Kevin said, thinking he was too close to base to be sent back to the Gulf on another mission.

  “Got a report on a number of bogeys circling MSY.”

  “Bogeys? UFOs?”

  “MSY described them as large unidentified birds.”

  “Let me get this straight in my head. You want me to go to MSY and check out a flock of birds? Really? My cannons don’t shoot corn.”

  “Believe it or not, it’s enough of a problem to close the whole airport to all air traffic. MSY requested you to make a flyby and hopefully drive them away.”

  “Roger, Catahoula. Scare tweety-birds away from MSY International,” Kevin said with obvious sarcasm. He had a twinge of excitement when he thought he might get a chance to chase another UFO. He had only one encounter with what would qualify as a genuine unexplained aircraft event.

  A few years ago, he responded to a call in Plaquemines Parish. He had the bogey on his radar for over a full minute before it disappeared. The investigators concluded the UFO was nothing more than swamp gas. How anyone thought he could track swamp gas on radar was beyond him.

  “The bogeys’ ceiling is three angels. You’ll be going in blind, so don’t get cocky and get too low. Engine turbines don’t chew fowl very well.”

  “Roger, Catahoula. I don’t need a wingman for this mission,” Kevin said while adjusting his computer for MSY International. “Going buster for MSY. Will drop it to four angels on approach. You better get the fire trucks ready, and the hoses charged up.”

  “Why? You expecting a crash and burn?”

  “No, I’m going to scare those birds so badly, it going to rain white and paint the runway like it’s fresh snow.”

  “Roger, Nuke,” Catahoula said and chuckled. “Switch from UHF to VHF civilian communication band. When you’re done, radio back and RTB.”

  “Roger, Catahoula,” Kevin said. “Make sure to ice down the Abita beer for the crawfish boil tonight. I’m ready to suck heads and pinch tails.”

  “Roger, Nuke. I’ll hand you a cold one when you step off the jet. Over.”

  “Roger. Over,” Kevin said. There was no need to hit his afterburners to go buster to get to MSY. He was just acting over-the-top with control. The airport was less than thirty miles away. He’d have to throttle back now to make a safe approach at two hundred m/hr.

  *

  Kevin had visited little of the city of New Orleans in the last few years. Things just weren’t the same as he remembered. Lots of restaurants, bars, and retail establishments had closed because of hurricane Katrina or simply became a victim of changing times. Benny’s Blues Bar, Uglesich's restaurant, McKenzie's Bakery, even K&B Drugs. Ain’t dere no more, Kevin thought in local slang.

  Hubigs Pies had burned to the ground in 2012. Man, he sure missed those hand-sized fried pies! Chocolate and peach were his two favorites.

  It was time for him to check in. “Where you at, MSY? This is Lieutenant Kevin ‘Nuke’ Tassin. Coming to you live via JASJRBNO. Over,” Kevin said as the Mississippi River passed underneath.

  “Roger, Nuke,” the controller said. “The unknowns are still in the area at three thousand feet. Approach with caution.”

  “Roger. Too bad I don’t have birdshot in my guns. Y’all would cook up a bird gumbo if I did.”

  “Sounds tasty, Nuke. I know you Cajun’s will eat anything, but I believe I’d have to pass anyway,” the controller said.

  “You must be one of them Yankees,” Nuke said, knowing the controller’s Southern twang marked him as a native.

  “Not me. I just grew up on the other side of the swamp. I speak fluent Red Neck, though. You know, Bud Lite, Coors Lite, and Miller Lite,” the controller said. “Let me know when you have a visual.”

  “Come in, Nuke,” a different voice said from MSY.

  “Go ahead.”

  “I went to high school with a Kevin Tassin. This is Ritchie Lemoine.”

  “Yeah, Ritchie. We worked at that machine shop our senior year. Glad to see you made something of your life other than being a grease monkey.”

  “You too. Must be a hoot flying a jet for the military. After this is over, we need to get together and have a beer. I’m buying.”

  “You’re on. Coming up to the airport now,” Kevin said. A few miles to the east, a flare from the Shell refinery licked up toward the heavens. The roaring flame made him wonder how many sacks of crawfish a burner that size would boil.

  Kevin expected to see a large black cloud hovering over the airport. Instead, he saw what looked like small aircraft circling. But these creatures were certainly not aircraft. They weren’t birds either.

  “I’ve got a visual, MSY. But I’m not sure I know how to report,” Kevin said. “Kinda reminds me of flying dinosaurs I watched on Land of the Lost when I was a kid.”

  “We understand, Nuke. From down here they look like pterodactyls. But we were reluctant to put that in our call to Belle Chasse.”

  “Roger, MSY. I’d be in my easy-chair back at the base nibbling off a six-pack if you had. I can’t take any photos, but I can get a radar shot of this for the boys back at the base to look at later.”

  He flipped the switch on his look down/shoot down radar and banked to get an above advantage over his targets. Who dat say who dat when I say who dat? Kevin thought to himself as he often did when befuddled.

  Cheating a little, he dropped below three and a half angels before locking in his radar. The radar distinguished low flying objects from ground clutter. The cross-section footprint of these bogeys was unlike anything he had seen before.

  After a few seconds of observation, most of the bogeys began a rapid descent toward the tower. Falling almost as if he had shot them out of the sky. A few, however, did the opposite and climbed upward.

  When Kevin’s imminent collision alarm lit up the cockpit, he realized he had pushed fate too much by dropping too low. He immediately thrust the throttle forward and pulled back on the tiller, trying to gain altitude as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, a quick escape wasn’t in the cards.

  The creature flew by too fast for him to get much of a look. When it hit his left wing, his teeth nearly rattled out of his head.

  Multiple alarms made the cockpit sound like an old video arcade. The left engine flamed out. Half of the left wing was missing. The vertical stabilizer was damaged and the left horizontal stabilizer inoperable.

  The jet banked hard port side. Kevin gripped the tiller so tightly that he thought he’d never be able to open his fingers again. The jet did everything in its power to stabilize, but it was a losing battle.

  I’m in deep doo-doo, Kevin thought. He would have to put the forty-five thousand pound bird down and eject. With no time to spare, the only vacant area nearby was right underneath him. The airport runway was clear, and he didn’t have to worry about the fireball starting any inadvertent fires.

  Already so low to the ground, he pointed the jet’s nose downward and pulled the ejection seat firing handle. Explosive cartridges blew the canopy off and detached the seat. Then, powerful rockets blasted underneath lifting him upward.

  The shock his body felt was ten times worse than the earlier collision. With all the dangers pilots faced during flight, the whole time they were strapped to explosives. That thought struck Kevin as ironic as the rockets lifted him higher, and he briefly wondered if the system meant to save him might malfunction and be the death of him.

  Then, the parachute deployed. Kevin had his world inverted as the chute caught air and snagged him back toward the Earth. His body left the tight embrace of the seat’s straps, and faster than he would have liked, the runway sped
toward him.

  Kevin heard his F-15 smash to the concrete a few hundred feet away. The ensuing fireball towered into the air as he caught a glimpse before his boots hit terra firma.

  Dropping and rolling, as he’d trained to do, absorbed some of the impact from his fall. This was the first time he had ever landed on concrete, though. Hard earth was bad enough, but concrete was completely unforgiving.

  Kevin flatted to his back as the parachute draped over him. He took a few seconds to push his mind past the adrenaline rush to do a self-health assessment. As near as he could tell, no bones had broken. His left foot and shoulder received the most abuse. All in all, he was in pretty good shape considering what he had just gone through.

  As he dug his way out of the silky cloth that carried him safely to the ground, an occasional pop and hiss indicated his jet continued to burn. Such a waste, he thought. The F-15 cost more than he could make in fifty lifetimes. He removed his helmet and let it fall to the runway.

  He emerged as shattering glass and dull thumps reverberated behind him. Turning, Kevin had a clear view of the creatures menacing the airport. And, yes, they were in fact, pterodactyls; which absolutely made no sense at all.

  There must have been thirty or forty of them haphazardly flying about. Some had crashed into the control tower. Some had planted onto the runway, and others had smashed into terminal windows. The pterodactyls acted as if they were disoriented.

  Then Kevin wondered what had attracted the creatures to the airport in the first place and remembered how they reacted when he turned on his look down/shoot down radar above them. Radar, he thought. That might be the connection. The tower’s radar had attracted them, and his radar somehow upset the applecart. When the pterodactyls flew lower, the tower radar must have disrupted their sense of flight.