Jurassic War

Nineteen

Staff Sergeant Wilson grabbed a stick and traced an outline of the island in the dirt. He marked off an area showing the big lagoon. “We’re here,” he said, pointing.

The crude map looked similar to the one Lieutenant Colonel Carson had used to explain the mission before they left their training camp at Jacques Farm. Dawson had always pictured the island as a tiny strip of land. Something a marine could traverse in an hour. But it seemed larger in real life and the atoll was overgrown with dense foliage. Raiders would have a rough go of it heading into the interior, trudging through the heavy vegetation.

“We’ve got a change of plans.” Wilson grinned.

“Change one thousand,” Mudhole added, referring to the enlisted marine phase used to mock the brass and their ever-changing orders.

“Exactly.” Staff Sergeant Wilson laughed. Then he traced a smaller lagoon at the other end of the island. A recent downpour had settled into a drizzle.

Dawson recognized it as the landing zone for another squad in the initial plans.

“Seems a boat or two might not have gotten word that we were converging on one beach.” Wilson tilted his helmet back. “They’re out there and have already engaged the enemy. Shooting was pretty heavy a moment ago.”

“How do you know it’s the enemy?” Bishop pressed.

“All that shooting.” Wilson shrugged.

“Yeah. But that didn’t sound like Jap gunfire.”

Wilson looked at Bishop quizzically, as though he hadn’t picked up on it.

“Sounded like our firearms. And ours only.”

Dawson considered the comment. They had spent so much time training at Jacques Farm that he could tell when a Thompson was being fired compared to a Browning. Yet, the fusillade of gunfire had erupted so suddenly that he couldn’t discern exactly what he’d heard. But he suspected that Bishop was right. The kid seemed pretty sure.

“What could they be targeting with so much firepower?” said Wilson.

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” Bishop frowned. “The freaking wildlife around here.”

“That was a lot of shooting. But you’d expect the garrison to be heading this way.”

“Our fire fight with the creatures was quite heavy,” Dawson offered.

Wilson seemed to consider the comment. “Suppose you’re right. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.” He turned to the sketch on the ground when another burst of gunfire broke out. Only this time it seemed a lot closer.

“What the hell is that?” Mudhole shouldered his weapon.

“Relax.” Wilson motioned for him to rejoin the group. The firing died off quickly.

“The other landing party couldn’t have moved that fast inland.” Bishop bit on his cigarette. “All the heavy machinegun fire came from the eastern part of the island. That shooting just now was a lot closer to us.”

Staff Sergeant Wilson stood up. He looked them all over. “Those shots came from the center of the island. Our commanding officer has concerns about our ability to get past the breakers when we retreat. And he is worried about the aerial assault…”

“And?” Bishop pressed.

“He dispatched two privates to deliver a note to the other side.”

“A note?”

“A message that we would surrender.”

“What the heck?” Bishop stammered and couldn’t say any more.

Reaching into his shirt pocket, Bishop pulled out a chrome lighter and flicked the flint-wheel. He lit the cigarette in his mouth and took a long drag. The end burned an amber glow in the dark night, and the smoke wafted through the jungle with a redolent scent, masking the pungent stench of decaying vegetation and fungus.

“Listen, not all the Staff NCOs are on board with it. But I doubt it matters anyway.”

“Why not?” said Dawson.

“We’ve got our orders to move into the interior on the seek and destroy mission. Ain’t very likely that we’ll get word of a surrender once we move out. And besides…”

“What?” Bishop snapped.

“And besides… those boys with the note are likely dead by now.”

Wilson’s comments slipped over Dawson like a suffocating blanket. He could hardly breathe and inhaled deeply to catch his wind. Despite the carnage he’d witnessed on the beach, the thought of moving inland and getting killed just walking along unsettled him.

Everyone seemed taken aback by the comment. Bishop’s eyes narrowed behind the orange ashes at the nub of his cigarette butt. “Maybe the Japs didn’t get them.”

Dawson thought about it. “No. Those were Sanpachi rifles we heard.”

“Yeah. So, either the enemy shot at them, or something ambushed the enemy.”

Something ambushed the enemy, Dawson thought. For some reason, he’d only considered the dinosaurs attacking the Raiders, as if the native inhabitants and the Imperial Army would be spared from the creatures. After all, they lived on the atoll with them. But now he understood the commotion on the beach had likely upset a delicate balance in the tropical ecosystem. Everyone on the island was potential prey to the creatures. He wondered how many lingered in the jungle, and how big they grew.

“Whatever the case, we need to move out now.” Staff Sergeant Wilson stood erect. He pointed to Bishop. “Take point.”

Bishop grinned. Then he took a long drag from his butt, inhaling deeply. He savored the smoke for a moment and then exhaled. “Yes, sir,” he said, moving to the front, as a column formed behind him.

Tossing the remainder of his cigarette onto the wet ground, it smoldered and went out. He assumed the point position.

Dawson fell in a few marines back from Bishop. Private First Class Miller’s team were in between him and the point man, with Jenkins toting a BAR and Knight carrying a Garand. Dawson was followed by Wilson, who clutched his Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol. Two fire teams from Staff Sergeant Kane’s rifle squad were added to the mix. Private First Class Simmons, a stout marine, hefted a Thompson, and led a fire team. The next team was led by Private First Class Alverez, who opted for an M1 Garand. Bringing up the rear was the fire team led by Private First Class Wells, who carried a Thompson submachine gun. Mudhole had the BAR, and Anderson held an M1 Garand.

A capable rifle squad, Dawson was surrounded by able marines. He felt reassured that the Raiders had ample firepower to take down whatever enemy they encountered, beast or foe. Yet, something kept nagging at him, and a chill ran up his spine despite the humidity. Something ambushed the enemy. We haven’t seen the worst of it yet, he thought. Not even close.