He followed the road for an hour until he came to a gas station, a last-stop-on-the-mountain shop. Mark already had several full containers in the back, but there was no telling how long before the next one.
Pumping gas was more of a production than it used to be, and Mark fussed about with sealed tanks and siphoning hoses, his new Walkman headphones on, whistling along as he worked.
A birdlike warbling in the brush thus escaped him.
The tall grass parted, as the little lizards hopped out onto the road.
It was a small troop – they always seemed to move in threes – perhaps base nuclear organization.
Twenty miles outside the valley, they were beyond Shanna's immediate perception.
Besides, they were learning how to hide from her – all she should feel would be a mild sense of unease.
That's what Otto was.
He did not have higher cerebral functions.
Memory storage, on the other hand...?
With reptilian motivations and mind.
What's-Worse? That was the game Nolan Hinkle played, with his exponential genius of a daughter.
Invariably, it led him to lecturing about all the possible ways the world could come to an end – and of course, what humanity might attempt to stop it – along with comparable world-destroying events from the past, from the KT extinction, to the Black Plague.
Nolan Hinkle destroyed the world in his imagination a dozen times every night of his life.
And perhaps this is what Otto absorbed. If Shanna was the soul of the empath, what Otto had taken was the id.
In each of the little lizard's hands were pneumatic needles, all glowing bright emerald green.
The lizards eyed Mark with his headphones on, and his back to them, their avid eyes turning speculatively to his truck – easier travel through tyrannosaur territory, and a car-jacking was the last thing Mark would expect.
The bushes rustled as they skittered closer, their wicked foot-claws tapping, their hand-talons spread.
Mark opened the door, fiddling with the keys.
There was a flash of movement from the brush.
Behind Otto, the bushes exploded and Junior darted out, jaws agape.
With Mark still completely oblivious, the little rex totally ignored his vulnerable leg and latched onto the first of the Ottos by the throat, ripping like a bulldog.
The other two squawked, brandishing both their claws and needles – an effort that lasted all of three seconds as Junior launched at them, fangs first.
In moments, the little lizards were torn to shreds.
The loose needles and their glowing liquid contents went spinning into the overgrown leaves.
Mark climbed into his driver's seat and started the engine, still whistling.
Junior stared longingly as Mark trundled off down the road. The little rex had been following the four-by-four all the way from town.
With single-minded tyrannosaur stubbornness, Junior had once again gotten so close – his target unmindful and unguarded – he had been but seconds away – he had been tasting it.
Junior bent to tear loose a piece of lizard drumstick.
But he hated these little bastards.
So he guessed he had a few minutes.
In perfect gluttony, Junior gobbled up the rest, leaving not a scrap behind.
And then, with his stomach bloated, his eyes blinked in the direction Mark had gone.
A rex didn't think – it just followed its nose.
Besides, Mark was just simply taking the highway. That made it easy.
His lips still bloody, and scraps of Otto still in his teeth, Junior scampered out onto the road and followed.
THE END
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One
Akinari Tanaka clutched his rifle tightly as he marched prisoners along a dirt road that parted the small atoll. A superior private, his collar was adorned with red patches and three gold stars. Four privates assisted him, carrying their rifles at port arms, boxing in the prisoners. The guards were called Hetai on the Japanese mainland, the Emperor’s foot soldiers.
Neither of the two naked men that dawdled along the muddy lane presented signs of a threat. They were simple people, local natives, and not prisoners of war.
Tanaka questioned to himself the reason for their capture, but he did not voice his concern. He took orders and was promoted faster than others due to his loyalty during recent combat service in Manchuria. When the Jun-i (warrant officer) had instructed Tanaka to assemble the armed guard and lead the prisoners from the makeshift stockade to the hill beyond the old Government House, Tanaka felt that three soldiers would be suitable. The Jun-i demanded otherwise; he wanted more soldiers on the working party. He commanded the garrison, and, as a warrant officer, served as its highest-ranking soldier.
Somehow, the captured natives held significant value. Escape was not acceptable. He selected his friend, Osamu, to complement the security detail. Osamu was loyal to him, the most senior of the four privates; pudgy, and like the others, he’d never experienced combat.
A light rain stippled Tanaka’s khaki uniform, and mud caked his boots and kicked up on his puttees, wrapped tightly around his lower legs in a crosshatch pattern to provide protection from the jungle environment. Two of the privates had bayonets affixed to their Sanpachi 38 (Arisaka) bolt-action rifles. Pushing the captives along with jabs to their shoulders, a few thrusts hit with force, drawing blood and cries of pain.
He told the soldiers to cease injuring the prisoners at once. The Jun-i had instructed Tanaka to deliver them without harm.
Everyone settled down and became more alert as they turned onto a narrow path.
Slowly ascending a hill, Tanaka scanned the dense foliage. Fetid odors of decayed vegetable matter wafted through the humid air from the jungle floor. Something moved within the canopy of tropical vegetation. It almost seemed to be trailing them.
A chill ran up his spine, despite the humidity. He halted and shouldered his rifle.
The remainder of the caravan moved ahead, while Tanaka discerned the situation. He doubted the Americans had landed, but they were fighting on islands nearby, so he couldn’t be sure. Tanaka had greater concerns about natives trying to rescue the prisoners.
Maybe they will try to free their tribesmen? He wondered.
A large palm frond ruffled, and a shadow moved through the dense brush. Smaller than the size of a man, Tanaka breathed a sigh of relief and started after the others.
Just a large lizard, he thought, picking up his pace. But it seemed very large.
The column crested the hill, and Tanaka lost his breath as he closed the distance. He topped the plateau and a great expanse of ocean came into view. Soldiers formed a semicircle in a clearing. The Jun-i stood in the center with a Gocho (corporal) beside him holding a samurai sword. His commander motioned to bring the prisoners into the center of the circle.
A lump grew in Tanaka’s throat. His pulse quickened, but he directed the captives as ordered. Two privates stepped forward and knocked the natives to their knees. Osamu glanced at Tanaka, askance. And then, the Jun-i waved the guards off, and Tanaka’s men stepped aside.
The Gocho advanced upon the kneeling captives. His corporal insignia had silver stars, which shimmered in the grey light reflecting off the blade of his sword.
Both prisoners knelt on the grassy knoll, as raindrops pelted their bare shoulders. Countenances frozen in helplessness met Tanaka’s eyes. Their grim faces were locked in a mixture of agony and disbelief.
With feet planted slightly more than a shoulder-width apart, the Gocho raised the samurai sword and swung with lightning speed. The blade sliced through the back of a prisoner’s neck and the victim’s head lopped off, falling to the ground with a thud. Blood spurted from the cleaved opening, dousing the damp grass.
A smell of copper drifted from the body. The remaini
ng prisoner screamed in terror and tried to stand up, as his tribesman’s corpse teetered over to the ground, headless.
Privates shoved the recalcitrant prisoner back to his knees.
As he wailed in misery, the Gocho whirled the sword through the air in a skillful demonstration, then increased the arc and swung downward fast. The head dropped off so quickly the agonizing scream was immediately followed by a plop in the grass.
Within a moment of the decapitation, the ground rumbled. Then it trembled.
Soldiers broke for a path leading downhill toward the beaches on the northern side of the atoll. Tanaka wondered if the fallen natives had called upon their ancestors to avenge their deaths. He regretted leading them to their demise.
Another tremor on the ground, and Tanaka followed his comrades.
Descending the steep embankment, the ground above Tanaka shook violently. Then, the unmistakable sound of something massive treading upon the plateau came to a halt. Stillness was followed by a predatory roar.
And then, the menacing sound of chomping echoed from the sacrificial site. Clamor of snapping bone and tearing flesh drove Tanaka to run, until his lungs burned, and his legs wavered like rubber.
He only slowed when he was a safe distance away. Yet his pulse still raced with fear.
Down by the water’s edge, on the northern side of the small atoll, Tanaka caught his breath and settled his nerves. He questioned the practice of killing a prisoner, and he wondered about what kinds of creatures lived on the island.
Tanaka stood on the water’s edge, where the blue Pacific kissed the pristine sand of Butaritari Island, the largest of the Makin archipelago.
Two
On August 17, 1942 at 0300 hours, Private First Class Randell Dawson ambled single file down a narrow passageway aboard the submarine Nautilus. His unit reached the metal ladder and Dawson nervously awaited his turn to go topside. Fully loaded in sixty-five pounds of combat gear, the Marine Raiders were going to make headlines, with the first official special operations raid in United States military history.
He clamped a hand around the cool, steel crossbar, then placed a boot on the lower rung and began climbing toward the open hatch above. Mechanical fumes choked his breath.
Marines paused before scuttling onto the miniscule deck, holding up others on the ladder. When he finally popped his head out of the submarine, a deluge poured from the pitch-black sky. He breathed in the fresh, salty air. Large waves broke against the hull, and disorganization and turmoil were discernable on deck. A company of Raiders disembarked into rubber boats. Each craft held a ten-man unit, comprised of three rifle teams of three marines and a unit leader. Several marines battled miserable elements, slipping on the wet deck and struggling in the darkness from being cast overboard, while crews of sailors worked to line up the rubber boats.
Dawson hung close to his unit, making sure he didn’t get sidetracked in the fray. He worried the boat would launch without him.
Staff Sergeant Williams led the unit. He walked across the deck, surefooted, as though accustomed to ambulating over metal doused by rain and seawater. Then, he hopped down into a rubber assault boat and waved to the men. All three rifle squads were lined up in order.
Jenkins climbed into the boat and set up his Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) on the bow. A 7.62 mm cartridge, the rifle fired 500-650 rounds per minute. His team circled around him, with Private Knight toting a Thompson automatic machinegun, and Private First Class Miller holding an M1 Garand semi-automatic rifle. The next squads loaded into the boat carried similar weapons and lined up on either side of the assault craft. Dawson joined them, sitting in the back of the boat with his rifle gripped tightly against his chest.
His fire team fell in around him. Private Bishop toted the BAR, and Private Collins had the Thompson machinegun. Private First Class Wells tucked in beside Dawson’s team, with Private Anderson holding an M1 and his team member’s BAR. An African American, Wells had begun his training at Montford Point, rather than Parris Island. He’d excelled and earned a place in the prestigious Raider battalion.
Private James “Mudhole” Merrill started the 6hp Evinrude engine and steered the rubber boat toward an assembly area as waves washed over the bow. Mudhole got his nickname because he’d forgotten to fill his canteen before a forced march and drank out of a puddle to quench his thirst. A sergeant coined the term and it stuck.
The boat pitched in rough seas and the downpour hindered visibility. Camouflage selected for the mission also made it difficult to observe the task force of twenty boats. Almost ninety Raiders had sailed aboard the Nautilus, while slightly over a hundred marines, the remainder of fleet marine force, had traveled in the Argonaut.
Pulling further away from the Nautilus, Dawson could barely make out the silhouette of either submarine in the dark night.
Many of the Raiders wore black-dyed uniforms and affixed scraps of burlap to their helmets, disrupting the round outlines. The remainder wore standard issue olive-drab, planning to smear mud on themselves after hitting the beach. Fleet command hadn’t yet released the lightweight Frog Skin battledress camouflage planned for fighting in the Pacific theater. Still, Raiders were highly trained commandos with the best equipment and tactics in the United States military. The units were formed with the expectation to perform special operations and function like British commandos and Chinese guerillas.
A group of black rubber boats collected near each other. Rain glistened off the smooth surface, helping to spot the various boats. Dampness crept into Dawson’s sinus cavity. It was difficult to determine who was piloting each boat or differentiate Able Company from Bravo Company of the 2nd Marine Raider Battalion. The boats pitched aimlessly in the choppy waters of the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific Ocean.
Approaching the flotilla, murmurs passed from boat to boat. Dawson huddled next to his rifle squad wondering if the mission would go according to plan. Private Bishop held the Browning automatic rifle ready to fire, and Private Collins gripped his Thompson machinegun tightly.
“This doesn’t look good,” Collins muttered.
Dawson couldn’t see his expression. “What do you think is happening?”
“Hard to tell. But there’s a lot of commotion coming from the brass.”
A few boats were clumped close together, undulating in the choppy waves. The commanding officer’s beak of a nose stood out in the occasional slivers of moonlight that cut between the rain clouds.
Lieutenant Colonel Erik Carson gesticulated toward the large Makin atoll.
And then, Dawson heard the pounding of breaking surf before he glimpsed the obstacle between them and the beachhead; enormous waves. He figured the harsh conditions might wreak havoc on their landing. The situation looked grim.
“Maybe they’re thinking about calling it off.” This from Private Collins.
“I don’t think so.” Dawson shook his head. “Likely they’re refining the plans.”
The pounding surf added to the commotion, making it difficult for him to hear anyone other than his squad. Dawson knew that calling it off was not a likely option. Allied forces had taken a beating in the Pacific theater and they desperately needed to win a battle to bolster morale and gain more support back home.
“Let’s just hit the beach and get on with it,” Bishop finally said.
“Can’t just rush in there.” Dawson swallowed. “Once we land and start taking fire, there won’t be time to revisit planning. Have to do it before we hit the breakwater.”
“Naw, that beach doesn’t seem all too dangerous.”
“Coming from a lead swan, a Missouri boy. The surf is mighty dangerous.”
“Dawson, you grew up in New England. What do you know about rough surf?”
He sat up, peeved. “Know more about the ocean than you.”
“Says who?” Bishop was hunkering for a fight, with anyone.
“Let’s just focus on the enemy … and not each other.”
Through the light reflecting off t
he water, Dawson spied a sullen look in Collins’ eyes. He wondered if the young lad was up to the operation. Many of the Raiders were fresh recruits, taken from outstanding candidates in the fleet Marine Corps divisions, but also the standouts in basic training. Collins hadn’t been tested in combat by any means.
And Bishop was so bloodthirsty for battle, it caused Dawson pause. He could see Collins freezing up under fire and getting someone killed, or envision Bishop making a brash move, and getting a bunch of people killed, unnecessarily. Dawson understood the risks when he signed up, but now thinking of his fiancée back home made him concerned about dying a senseless death from another’s mistake or failure to carry out his duty. For reassurance, he tapped the metal tin in his breast pocket, housing a letter to Mary back home.
“When we hit the beach,” Dawson finally said, “you two are going to do exactly like I tell you.”
“Why, because you outrank us?” Bishop sneered.
“Precisely. Because I outrank you both.”
“I’ve been in service almost as long as you.”
“When you get promoted, you’ll get your own squad. But for now, you report to me.”
As Bishop turned away, Mudhole hit the throttle and steered closer to the three boats pitching in the middle of the flotilla, where the brass had set up an expedient command post. He cut the engine when they got a couple of boat-lengths away and drifted toward the closest raft.
Staff Sergeant Williams nudged his way toward the bow. Then, he leaned over and grabbed hold of the next boat, speaking to the brass about next steps as voices carried off in the wind, indiscernible.
Raiders murmured in the cockpit, wondering about the new instructions. Bishop started in again. “I bet we head toward the lagoon.”
“Quiet!” Williams looked back and glared at them.
Bishop swallowed, and the other marines broke off. Then, the staff sergeant spoke to the commanding officer further. A discussion that sounded in a whisper and drifted off in broken segments, so Dawson couldn’t make any sense of it.
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