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Jurassic Park: X Factor (Chapter Nine -- Arrival)
By drucifer67
The boat ground against the sloping, sandy beach as the crew steered into landing position. A crewman dashed across the deck and flipped open the plastic cover on a small control panel. The side of the ship’s deck began to move up and away from the ship, accompanied by a low hum. Two other crewmen leapt over the side, racing to secure the ship to whatever they could find.
Once the ramp was lowered, the sailor operating it turned his attention to the remaining SUV. Grant stepped in to help, and Rick followed. In a few moments, the vehicle was freed from its moorings and Rick was in the driver’s seat, trying to start the engine.
The ship’s crew unloaded the storage compartment on the front of the ship, producing a variety of crates and boxes. Grant saw the unassembled tangle of poles and cables that made up the high hide. He hoped that he and the rest of the team would be able to figure out how to use it.
Rick turned the key in the SUV’s ignition. The engine whined and sputtered for several moments before it finally roared into life. He put the vehicle into gear and eased it toward the ramp.
Then the ship’s deck pitched so suddenly and with so much force that Grant was immediately reminded of the tropical storm of the night before. He went down and slid across the deck, slamming into the side railing headfirst. The SUV launched down the ramp, slamming into the sand and nearly rolling over forward before falling back down on its wheels. It rocked on its springs for a moment, with Rick, dazed, still in the driver’s seat.
Then Lex screamed, a sound Grant remembered too well, and he knew all too well what the scream meant.
The giant predator was fond of the shallows at the edge of the ocean, and often hunted there. Today it had found something out of the ordinary. It raised itself to its full, awe-inspiring height, and opened its long, slender jaws, bellowing. For a moment, Lex’s scream was lost in the Spinosaur’s roar—but only for a moment.
In his peripheral view, Grant saw Ramirez, wild-eyed, scrambling toward the beach. Directly ahead, however, was Lex, slowly sliding down the severely canted deck of the ship.
And the Spinosaur was clearly focused on her.
Grant scrambled toward her on all fours, hoping he could get to her and lead her inside the cabin of the ship before the gigantic predator decided to act.
He had covered perhaps half the distance when the dinosaur bellowed again, and began to move forward.
He knew he could never reach Lex before the Spinosaur, but he tried just the same. Taking to his feet, he closed the distance across the crazy angle of the deck.
Then he heard a new sound, a shriek unlike anything he’d heard before, and instinctively dove back down on his belly. He cast a glance over his shoulder, terrified to see what might have made such a sound.
What he saw was Hector Ramirez.
Ramirez stood with his feet apart in the sand beside the ship, with an odd-looking tubular device, mounted on a tripod, in front of him. He was shouting to one of the other members of the mission team.
“Load it, Mason! Load it! It’s still alive, load the damn thing!”
Ed Mason had introduced himself as a former Army Sergeant who had served in the Persian Gulf. Now he looked like a terrified child as he hefted what looked like a missile, about two feet long, and slammed it into the tube Ramirez was holding.
The Spinosaur was a mess. The unearthly shriek Alan had heard was Ramirez’ weapon, and it had done an incredible amount of damage. The dinosaur’s lower jaw hung askew, attached only by a few tendons. The left side of its head was a ruined pulp of tissue and bone. It whipped its head wildly back and forth, as if trying to shake off whatever was causing the incredible pain.
Ramirez fired his weapon again. The second missile struck the Spinosaur at the base of its neck, exploding in a flash of powder and flesh and tissue. The great predator stood completely still for a moment—Grant was insanely reminded of avoiding detection by a Tyrannosaur—then it slowly pitched forward, coming down in the shallows alongside the ship. It created a miniature tidal wave, pitching the ship up one last time. When the boat settled again, Grant looked over the railing at the gigantic fin protruding from the sea—all they could see of their deadly attacker.
Grant, Lex, and the mission team had gathered all the remaining salvageable gear and carried it a few yards up the beach. The ship’s crew was busy checking over the hull—rather hurriedly—for any damage that may have been inflicted during the attack. The captain had ordered the men to perform urgent repairs only—anything that wouldn’t sink them would wait until they reached Costa Rica. He had clearly seen all the dinosaurs he wanted to see.
With all of their gear collected in one place, an obvious question came to mind, and Grant wondered why no one had asked it before.
“How the hell are we going to carry all this stuff?” Ed Mason asked. He had recovered from his terror and had assumed his tough-guy persona again.
“We put what we can in the car,” Rick answered. “And we pack as much as we can on our backs. Best if we decide right now what we can and can’t do without.”
“We won’t need the TOW anymore,” Ramirez threw in. “They only sent two missiles with it.”
“The toe?” Lex asked.
“TOW anti-tank missile,” Rick answered. “The bazooka-thing Ramirez used on that Whatchamacallasaurus.”
“Spinosaur,” Grant corrected.
“Yeah, that.”
“As long as we’ve got a few good rifles and some common sense, we won’t need anti-tank missiles,” another team member spoke up. He had introduced himself back at the warehouse as John Lee Carlisle, and claimed, in his easy southern drawl, to have hunted “everything that can hunt you back”.
“And the gas grenades,” Grant added. “Don’t forget to carry the tear gas grenades with us.”
“I think we’re better off killing whatever we can,” Carlisle argued.
“Let’s just say I’ve seen the effects of tear gas on some of the more aggressive species,” Alan said.
Rick stood amidst the collection of crates, taking inventory. “I say we break open the rations, and everyone can take enough to get by for a few days. I don’t imagine we’ll be here more than a few days anyway.”
All seemed to agree. “Then we break out the weapons—we’ll load a few heavy items into the car, along with the grenades that fit the car’s launchers. We’ll finish up with the lighter weapons, rifles and such, and everyone can carry a rifle on their back. That should account for the majority of the gear.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Mason agreed.
“What is this thing?” Rick asked, holding up a corner of the mess of poles and panels that made up the high hide.
“That,” Grant answered emphatically, “goes with us.”
Ian was asleep on the hard bunk when Bradford entered his cell. He rolled over and sat up.
“To what do I owe the ah, rather dubious honor?”
“Just wanted to talk to you, Dr. Malcolm. About Eichmann.”
“What about him?”
“His methods can be…crude. But in the end, one way or the other, he’ll get the information he’s after. He’s good at what he does.”
“We have ways of making you talk,” Ian said mockingly.
Bradford smiled. “Something like that. Look, Ian—“
“Please, please, my friends call me Ian. You can call me Dr. Malcolm.”
“Sorry, Dr. Malcolm.” Bradford kneeled on the floor, and Ian noticed for the first time that a pair of metal braces framed the man’s leg. “This is awkward for me, because I’ve long respected your work. I wish you’d tell Eichmann what he wants to know, and then this whole sorry business will be finished.”
“Finished? Why would I believe, ah, for an instant, that this thing is anywhere near finished?”
“That’s just it, Doctor…it’s not going to be finished until you cooperate with Eichmann.”
“I have no intention, ah, of cooperating with Eichmann. Eichmann is, is the antithesis of everything I believe in. He is intent on control, on controlling everything and everyone around him. He believes he can control Isla Sorna. He can’t. Isla Sorna, ah, can’t be controlled, not by a thousand Eichmanns. You say that you’ve long respected my work—“
“Absolutely.”
“—then certainly you must see that what you and Eichmann, and all of these gentlemen wearing the bad golf outfits, ah, all of what you’re trying to accomplish here, is eventually going to serve as nothing more than another example of applied chaos theory.”
“Perhaps,” Bradford said, standing slowly. “But in the meantime, we have a job to do.”
Malcolm nodded soberly. “So do I.”
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