Jurassic War

Five

First Lieutenant Peterson led a unit of Raiders onto shore exactly where they had planned from the get-go. His boat pilot and team had positioned on the far-right flank of the flotilla, ready to move into action. They hadn’t gotten the word for a change in plan, and focused on the rough seas, never discerning they were breaking off and going at it alone until touchdown.

Their rubber boat cut around to the right side of the island and escaped the worst of the breakers. It lunged into the air, rolling over a steep wave, then shot toward a beach in a small cove. His pilot cut the engine and the boat glided toward a pebbled shore. Rain pelted them.

Two marines hopped from the craft into knee-deep water and hauled the boat onto the beach. A shot rang out from the distance.

“Guess the others are under attack,” said Private Owens.

Peterson listened intently. “You’d expect heavy automatic weapons fire. We just heard an accidental discharge.”

“So, they’re not under attack?” Owens pressed, toting a Garand.

“Not just yet.” Peterson shook his head. “But now the element of surprise is gone.”

The marines piled out of the boat and pulled it fully onto shore.

Assembling into three-man squads, they inspected their weapons, wiping off the saltwater as best as possible. And then, they checked over their gear and spare ammunition and locked and loaded, ready for an attack.

Private First Class Tomko led the first squad, carrying a Thompson and plenty of magazines filled with .45 caliber rounds. Private Owens had the BAR, and Private Chandler had an M1 Garand.

The second fire team was led by Private First Class Goode, who always carried a Thompson. Bill Goode was known as a tough guy from down in Arkansas. He’d crashed a Model-T converted into a hotrod as a kid and had to have a skin graft below his right eye. The skin was taken from his chest and grew hair. Marines joshed him about shaving under his eye, until they got to know him better. Drinking beer and smoking cigars came as natural to the young man as waking in the morning. They avoided joking and teasing him, afraid of what he might do to them if set off. His team included Privates Davidson and Baker. He’d assigned the BAR to Baker and the M1 to Davidson, mostly because Davidson was a little chubby for a marine and quite fat for a Raider, the nation’s elite special operations unit.

Private First Class James led the third team. He followed after Goode and Tomko’s squads, carrying a Thompson. And Private Elliot carried the BAR, while Private Hall had an M1. James was a pretty boy with a couple years of college under his belt, so he worked harder than most to make up for all the jibbing directed his way.

Peterson scanned the tree line. He held a Colt .45 semi-automatic pistol. The jungle was denser than he’d anticipated, and so he searched intently for a path into the interior.

Given the small cove and calmer water, he expected the indigenous people would utilize it for fishing. But the night was dark and their approach by stealth did not afford the use of flashlights. “Come on,” Peterson said. “We need to get closer to the trees.”

“What if someone is waiting for us?” This from Private Chandler.

“They would already have mowed us down. Now, let’s get a move on.”

Private First Class Tomko took point and his rifle team followed behind him. Lieutenant Peterson stepped in behind the first squad to spy the way forward, and the other two teams fell in behind him, with James’s team bringing up the rear.

Lieutenant Colonel Carson favored the heavily armed three-man rifle teams over the four-man teams utilized by the 1st Marine Raider Battalion and standard Marine Corps infantry units. The Raider units were armed to the teeth for highly mobile operations, but they lacked the heavy firepower of regular infantry. Raiders were the amphibious counterparts to the Marine Parachute Regiments and were expected to complete reconnaissance and special operations by foot without the aid of tanks or trucks.

They moved across the open beach and a slight break in the foliage came into view.

“Hold up.” Peterson stepped from the column.

All his men froze with weapons shouldered and ready to fire.

Peterson spotted a path leading to the interior of the island. It reminded him of an old deer trail that hadn’t been used in some time, overgrown and barely visible. “This way,” he said, motioning for the unit to advance.

Stepping back into the column, he neared the jungle and something the size of a turkey whisked across the path. A mere silhouette in the shimmer of a moment, Peterson thought he’d glimpsed sharp claws protruding from its upper limbs.

He shook his head, befuddled. And then, he took a deep breath and advanced.

The unit moved into the jungle and the pungent stench of decomposing vegetable matter and foul excrement pierced Peterson’s nostrils. Rain drizzled through the jungle canopy.

He gripped his pistol tightly, growing more fearful of what might inhabit the secluded atoll other than natives and enemy soldiers.