Jurassic War

Thirty

Dawson broke through dense brush and stepped onto the muddy roadway. The rain let up to a drizzle. He glanced to the right down a desolate road. Turning left, silhouettes of infantrymen came into view. Moving at a swift pace, he recognized Staff Sergeant Wilson’s contingency.

“Looks like our trek into the jungle beat them to the point.” He smiled at Bishop.

“Just goes to show that we could have taken the easy way.” Bishop grimaced. “Could’ve used the road. Look at them. Not a mark on the whole bunch.”

“We need to get a move on. No time for pleasantries with them.”

A rumbling sound emanated from the right, then a small vehicle shot out of the vegetation and zipped across the lane. Windshield wipers swished the rain off the glass. The Imperial scout car had dents and scrapes all over the rear. Exhaust fumes and smoke from under the hood choked Dawson’s men standing nearest to the scout car as it raced by them.

Barreling down a utility pathway, it disappeared from sight. Rattles echoed from the bumpy trail. The billowing smoke dissipated.

“Double time it,” said Dawson, bolting across the lane.

Footsteps pattered after him, smacking the mud.

“This is one gunky island,” Bishop griped, slipping on the roadway. “Can’t wait until we’re done here.”

“Won’t be much longer. Just blow this dump and head back to the boats.”

Just as they reached the end of the lane, a firefight sounded from the northeast. Staff Sergeant Wilson’s unit had already engaged the enemy at the garrison before Dawson even reached the fuel dumps. The targets were closer together than he’d imagined.

A clearing spread in front of them, leading to three massive fuel storage tanks, and a wharf extended into the ocean beyond them. The scout car was parked between two steel tanks.

Soldiers hustled around in front of the fuel tanks, setting up a perimeter. The man Dawson had shot in the shoulder barked orders. Lewis guns were set on tripods. A few of them had small shovels and dug into the earth. Heavy machine guns, entrenched soldiers, and the clearing would give the enemy a huge advantage.

Dawson turned to his fire team and hunkered down in the reeds. “The situation doesn’t look good.”

“You can say that again.” Bishop shook his head.

“What are we going to do?” This from Private First Class Simmons.

“Our mission is to blow those fuel dumps. We’re not here to take down the enemy.”

“How do you suppose we’re gonna’ do one without the other?” Bishop carped.

Peering over the brush, Dawson surveyed the situation. The enemy was digging in, planning for the fight to come to them from the front. And the marines had approached them as expected. He considered alternate means to reach the objective.

“Meserve, get over here,” Dawson finally said.

“Sure.” The private crawled through the grassy terrain using his elbows.

“Give it to me.” Dawson pointed to the pack on Meserve’s back.

The marine wriggled out of the haversack. “Here you go,” Meserve said, handing it over to Dawson.

“Thanks.” Dawson took the pack and slid it on.

“So, what are we going to do?” Simmons needed to know.

“We have five marines.” Dawson looked them over. “Let’s set up a perimeter with Fuller and Bishop located at two flanks, angling heavy fire with their Brownings. Simmons will hunker in the center laying down rapid fire with his Thompson. And we’ll put Meserve out past the end of the right flank. He’ll take a position beyond Fuller and sharpshoot the enemy with his M1.”

“What about you?” Bishop seemed confused.

“My plan is to slip far around your flank, crawl towards the water.” Dawson caught their enthusiasm and grinned. “I’m going to sneak up behind them. Then, I’ll place the majority of explosives on the tank closest to the pier.”

“Let her blow and the other tanks will catch on fire.” Bishop smirked. “Brilliant.”

Dawson tapped him on the shoulder, then peered over to watch the enemy’s progress. They scurried around, fortifying their positions. Standing upright, they weren’t ready for a conflict. A sniper could whittle them down.

“Move into your assigned positions.” Dawson looked them over. “And when Meserve gets set up, he should take the first shot. Make it count.”

He stretched onto his belly and slid the end of his rifle sling, near the muzzle, around his thumb. Then he began crawling along a line parallel to the enemy forces. Moving away from the scene, Bishop trailed behind him, shaking branches and getting his rifle caught up in the undergrowth. Dawson worried the brash marine would grow agitated and stand up, blasting away at the enemy before reaching his assigned flank, and possibly giving away his position.

Checking the enemy, the Imperial troops were settling down. They would certainly detect movement in the underbrush. He paused and signaled Bishop to halt.

Dawson planned to slow their progress and allow Meserve to get the drop on the enemy soldiers. Attracted to an offensive, the Japanese would focus on their left flank and allow him to slip ahead on the right. Hopefully, Private Fuller would have the sense to immediately follow up Meserve’s sharpshooting with heavy fire from the Browning.

A moment later, a crack resounded from the far end of the perimeter. The shot struck an assistant gunner crouched beside a Lewis gun. He keeled over, then the machinegun opened up on Meserve. Flames erupted from the end of the barrel and bullets riddled the brush.

Fuller lit up with his Browning machinegun. Rounds dug into sandbags and dinged off the fuel storage tanks. A volley of gunfire ensued, directed at the two marines.

They did it, Dawson told himself.

He glanced back at Bishop. “Don’t fire until you’re in position, and I’m halfway to the shoreline.”

“They need help for Pete’s sake.” Bishop lay in the bush, shaking his head.

“Simmons will join the fray when needed. Do as you’re told, so the mission succeeds.”

“Got it.” Bishop didn’t sound convinced, but he seemed placated.

Dawson crawled at a swifter pace. He paused to check on the Japanese infantrymen. They remained preoccupied with the two marines.

Meserve appeared to be set up behind a log, but he was taking heavy fire and could only return so many shots. The enemy seemed content to remain dug into their positions. Fending off an attack and protecting the fuel dumps would be an accomplishment for them.

The superior private in charge of the defense scanned the entire area composing the American perimeter. He searched for other marines. Apparently, he wasn’t convinced the attack would only come from the right. He was smart enough to consider a multipronged offensive. Still, the Imperial troops continued to lay down fire at the marines on the right, blasting away at the underbrush and giving the Raiders little chance of returning fire.

Dawson froze, hoping the enemy wouldn’t spot him. He checked on Bishop, who thankfully remained still. Another effort needed to distract them.

Simmons opened up with his Thompson, riddling the enemy with .45 caliber rounds. Bullets strafed the loose dirt and blasted into a couple of soldiers. A wounded infantryman spun in a death dance, squeezing the trigger of his Sanpachi rifle. The wild shot hit his comrade, who screamed in agony.

Enemy guns swung toward the center position and lit up the night.

Fuller and Meserve began firing on the Imperial soldiers. Now, the Japanese infantrymen were caught in a semi-crossfire. Some returned fire at Fuller and his 7.62-millimeter machinegun, set up on a bipod. He presented the biggest threat to them. Rounds from the Browning penetrated the fuel tanks, spilling diesel and gas on the ground.

Perfect, Dawson thought, crawling swiftly. Light rain sprinkled on his neck.

He prayed Bishop would hold off until he was part-way to the water’s edge. A hasty move might draw attention to Dawson and foil the plan.

Volleys of gunfire exchanged between the adversaries. Muzzle flashes revealed the positions of the marines engaged with the Japanese. Dawson wondered if they could hold out long enough for him to get across the plain. Only crabgrass standing a couple feet high concealed his position. He paused to avoid detection.

The superior private surveyed the edge of the jungle. He pointed at Bishop.

Another automatic rifle entered the fray, as Bishop tore into them with his Browning. Muzzle blasts flared in the night battle. The relentless fusillade of rounds barraged the enemy position, causing soldiers to duck for cover.

Bishop kept at them, as steam rose from his barrel and the gun vibrated incessantly.

Rounds plinked into the vast storage drums looming over the enemy position. Any flames wafting in that direction would engulf the fuel dumps into a conflagration that could be seen from the submarines in the ocean. The allied forces needed a victory in the Pacific campaign, and Dawson figured they were a few hours away from a triumph.

The salvo from the left flank suddenly halted; Bishop ran out of ammunition.

While he exchanged magazines, the other three Raiders renewed the fight. The enemy took the bait and swung back to the center and right. Dawson squirmed ahead.

He moved faster than before. Dawson reached a thicket stretching to the water. Adjusting into a crouched position, he dashed through the brush, while keeping an eye on the Imperial troops. They were preoccupied with Fuller and Simmons laying down heavy fire. Even the superior private concerned himself with the attack at hand, never wavering his attention from the known American positions.

Bishop rejoined the fracas, and Dawson moved into an all out run for the shoreline.

Still keeping a lookout on the Japanese troops, confirming that he hadn’t been detected, he failed to watch every step.

Dawson tripped and fell, landing face down in the wet moss.

Pain spiked into his ribcage. A fallen tree with a broken branch poked into his side. Rolling onto his stomach, he pushed up with his arms. The twinge exasperated; a fractured rib.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a row of yellow orbs glaring at him.

“Damnit!” He cursed, rising to his feet.

Then, glancing back to the enemy fortification, he ensured that the fall hadn’t brought any attention. Gunfire continued to rage a cacophony of blasts. Spent powder and drizzle obscured the battle scene.

He stood almost out of the enemy’s line of vision. Fuel tanks now blocked the view to the extent he couldn’t even see Meserve.

Starting for the beach, a small dinosaur hopped on his leg. It bit into his thigh. Pain stabbed into his flesh, as the creature cut through his pantleg, and its razorlike teeth cleaved into the meat. Dawson refrained from bellowing in agony. Reaching for his stiletto fighting knife, he grabbed the handle. With the blade projecting from his clenched hand, he thrust it under the Procompsognathus’s chin.

The knife found purchase. Dawson grabbed its neck with his free hand and drove the steel deeper into the creature’s throat. It yelped.

Squealing, the dinosaur dropped to the ground, writhing in misery.

All the commotion sent the line of dinosaurs into a frenzy. Dawson broke for the water and a pack of Procompsognathus dinosaurs ran after him. The rest charged over the plain. Some headed for Bishop, while others ran towards the open clearing.

He hit the choppy surf and plunged forward, almost stumbling face first into the ocean. Regaining his footing, he steadied himself, then waded out until he stood in water over his waist. Splashing waves bobbed against the haversack. He worried the explosives might get wet. They had wrapped TNT sticks in plastic to avoid getting them saturated during the landing in small boats. Such a method was also used in anticipation of fighting in the rain. But with all the tumultuous activity, he feared the plastic might have been disrupted.

Plodding through the rippling current wasn’t the best option. Yet, he came to think of it as their only alternative. They couldn’t expect to advance upon the fortified position and complete the mission successfully. Raiders were meant to improvise, adapt, and overcome. The training put them on equal footing with British commandos and Chinese guerrillas. Such an unconventional approach by stealth from behind the enemy lines was just the sort of tactic the Marine Corps hoped would result from the training back at Jacques Farm.

The gaggle of dinosaurs that chased him into the water stood at the edge. Yapping and cawing at him in frustration, they didn’t enter the surf. A few followed him, moving along the shoreline as he waded towards the pier.

Dawson had planned to approach by shore. Now, he made an impromptu passage through the murky waters of the bay. Waves broke fifty yards offshore at a coral reef. Pounding breakers and the constant eruption of gunfire bolstered his confidence of an unfettered approach to the fuel dumps. He waded over to a piling under the wharf and peered around it.

A few dinosaurs had tracked his route. They yammered on shore, cawing and squawking in his direction. Occasional nipping at each other served as the only reprieve in their antics.

Waiting for the opportunity to approach the fuel dumps gave him a break from the conflict. He thought about the training leading up to this mission. Dawson wondered how he’d gotten selected for the Raider battalions when so many topnotch candidates joined the Marine Corps. He chastised himself for even thinking about the term ‘join’. Nobody joins the U.S. Marines. Given the unique mission, the Marine Corps is strictly a volunteer force. No draftees. A candidate for the marines is a recruit until earning the title of a U.S. Marine at graduation. The title is hard to obtain, with almost half the recruits washing out. Only a few make it.

Many higher-ranking officers felt the Raider battalions were misplaced. Any able-bodied marine could fill the role, many generals had sneered. Dawson tended to agree. So, he wondered how the brass came to choose Raider candidates. And how he got selected over so many able marines. Now, he was leading a unit of Raiders and wondered how it all had come about.

Perseverance, he concluded. His senior drill instructor had singled him out in boot camp as defining the trait. An ability to endure discomfort and his drive to succeed were his greatest attributes. Success in the field centered on his country upbringing. Accustomed to hunting, camping, and spending time in the woods, he’d learned tactical means to flush out quail and track game. Those skills were coming into play as much as his military training.

More squabbling from shore. He feared the scavengers would give him away. Even if the clamor from battle and crashing waves masked the commotion of the dinosaurs, the hooting and scampering movements might garner attention. The time to move was upon him.

Dawson reasoned that any attempt to fend off the scrounging pests could potentially reveal his position. He’d have to carry out the mission with them clamping on his limbs. Taking a moment to gather his wits, he felt a tremor reverberate the sand under his feet. The water rippled away from shore.

An earthquake, he postulated. But the sensation repeated itself too soon for a seismic event. And then, he felt another vibration, and another.

Something extremely large was headed their way. A deadly beast more ferocious than anything they had encountered on the island thus far. The approaching creature posed a lethal threat to his comrades, but it could also provide a diversion for his operation.