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  And then everything was quiet again.

  Gotta pay attention, Chase thought to himself, peering warily into the forest. Even though everything seems peaceful, can’t forget this is a really dangerous place. There are deadly animals here, and they don’t always go crashing through the forest. They might stalk you, tracking you down like a hungry cougar. Or like the devil frog, they might just hide and wait for you to walk by—

  A distant scream suddenly broke the forest behind them, followed by a roar so angry and powerful Chase could actually feel the rage. There was another scream—a scream of terror—another roar, and the rattling Brraaaaaaat! of a machine gun. There were more yells, shouts, shooting—

  Brraaaaaaat! Brraaaaaaat! Brraaaaaaaaaaat!

  —a scream of agony, that ended as abruptly as it started.

  Smith’s men instantly whipped around in their tracks, their rifles up and ready, everyone staring back into the forest, toward the sound of the unseen battle. Chase too was staring hard into the woods, his heart pounding like it was trying to beat its way out of his chest. A hard elbow abruptly shoved him aside as Smith stalked by. The team leader’s face was hard as granite. The man stared into the forest, then looked quickly back and forth, checking the trees for signs of danger.

  Treeck stepped past Chase and up to Smith.

  “Call ’em?”

  “No,” Smith said flatly. “They’re busy. They’ll call when they’re ready.”

  Chase glanced quickly over his shoulder. The other men were facing outward, their rifles tight in their hands as they searched for threats.

  The nearby fight continued, the chatter of single-shot and automatic gunfire—

  Crack! Brraaaaaaat! Brraaaaaaat! Crack! Crack! Brraaaaaaat!

  —mixed with yells, shouts, roars, an agonized scream, and snapping brush.

  “They’re completely involved,” Treeck said. “Totally defensive.”

  Smith nodded grimly. He glanced behind him—saw his men covering the forest—then blew out his breath. He whistled softly, then gestured back the way they’d come.

  The squad moved out, rifle barrels tracking back and forth as the men watched for danger, Chase now in the middle of the formation.

  Chase’s heart was still pounding, his breaths fast and hard like he’d just finished a long run. After several seconds, the firing ceased. Smith held up a fist and the men stopped—still scanning the forest—as Smith cocked his head, listening.

  He’s waiting for a radio call, Chase thought, glad he’d been given a headset. Waiting for the other team to report …

  He didn’t have long to wait. There was a crackle of static in his ear, followed by a chuffing voice.

  “Smith!”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’ve just been trashed, man! Wiped out! Coombs and Placer are gone, Rivers is hurt pretty bad.”

  “What do you mean, ‘gone’?”

  “They’re gone, man! Hauled off and eaten, swallowed, torn apart, whatever those things do—”

  “Take it easy,” Smith ordered. “We’re on our way.”

  Smith exchanged glances with Treeck, then began hiking again. Chase noticed that he didn’t say anything to the others.

  He’s got a lot of confidence in them, Chase thought. Knows he doesn’t have to warn them, knows they’re doing their jobs.

  Chase wasn’t certain that made him feel any better. It was comforting to know he was surrounded by professionals. But it was disconcerting to know he was in a place where he needed such professionals.

  The team was moving more quickly and with more determination than when they’d been going the other way. But they were still cautious. Everyone was raptly scanning the trees—looking back and forth, up and down—and when Chase looked back over his shoulder he saw the last man in line was practically walking backward as he eyed the forest behind him.

  When they reached the meadow with the jet—

  Thank heavens that’s still here!

  —Smith headed around the perimeter, staying inside the trees. Chase didn’t ask why, but sensed the man wanted to keep his men out of sight.

  Chase felt chills as he wondered what might be out there to see them.

  After several minutes, Smith keyed his radio.

  “Bridger … what’s your position?”

  It was twenty seconds or more before Bridger answered.

  “Southeast of the meadow. ’Bout two hundred yards into the trees.”

  Rather than answer, Smith tapped his radio—

  Click! Click!

  —and continued hiking.

  After several more minutes, Chase noticed a new … smell … in the air. Mixed with the musty aroma of the forest was the tang of gunsmoke. And blood. Chase couldn’t explain it, but he could smell something else, too. He smelled fear.

  And terror.

  And—

  He began to see small trees and shrubs that had been freshly flattened. Broken branches and uprooted ferns. Gashes where the forest floor had been scratched and clawed.

  And he saw blood.

  At first, there were just small crimson spots and speckles glistening on the leaves. But then the specks and splashes became larger and more frequent. And there were wet spots on the ground where blood had seeped into the dirt.

  Smith moved on impassively. Something on the ground just off the trail caught his eye. He stopped, and after a moment glanced back at Chase, seeming uncomfortable.

  “Um …”

  “It’s okay,” Chase said softly. He realized the man was worried about Chase seeing something disturbing. “I can handle it.” And then: “I once saw a T-rex bite a guy right in half.”

  Smith wrinkled his nose, then turned and pushed ahead. Chase didn’t look at whatever had caught the man’s attention, peering instead in the opposite direction.

  There was a rustle in the brush ahead. The men tensed as Smith whispered, “Bridger?”

  “Over here.”

  Smith stepped past a tree, then swung his weapon back on its sling and knelt to the ground. Chase stepped past Treeck to see what was happening.

  He sucked in his breath.

  One of the Bravo Team men—Bridger—was kneeling over someone. The man on the ground—Rivers—looked like he’d been run over by a truck. His clothes were ripped and torn and stained with blood. He was conscious, but breathing fast and hard.

  Smith took one look and snapped: “Zadina!”

  The last man in line rushed forward, unslinging his pack as he came. “Okay, I’ve got this,” he said to Bridger.

  He ripped open his pack, which contained first-aid supplies.

  Smith helped Bridger out of the way, sitting him back against a tree.

  “You said the others were … taken?”

  Bridger nodded, his eyes closed, breathing fast, on the verge of shock. Chase felt his stomach turn, thinking about the kind of animals that could send one of Smith’s rugged commandos into shock.

  “Didn’t have any … warning,” the man whispered. “They were right there … in the brush … didn’t know they were there ’til we were surrounded … ’til they jumped us. And then—”

  The man shook his head.

  “—and then there was nothing we could do. They were all over us.”

  “How many?”

  “Five, six, maybe seven.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  Bridger waved vaguely and Smith look back at Treeck. Treeck nodded, then gestured to a man named Criss and the two moved off in search of the missing men. Chase noticed Smith didn’t have to say, “Be careful.”

  BRIDGER’S SHIRT SLEEVE was torn and Chase saw blood running down his arm. He pulled the Swiss Army knife from his pocket, then knelt and cut the man’s sleeve open. Smith and Bridger watched in surprise, but didn’t say anything. Chase pulled the torn fabric away to find a deep laceration along the man’s arm, just above the elbow.

  Gonna need stitches, he thought. But …

  He half turned, looked into
Zadina’s open pack, and spotted a gauze compress. He grabbed it, ripped the package open, and clamped the compress down on the bleeding wound.

  He looked at Bridger.

  “Were these things lizards?”

  “Huh?”

  “Were they dinosaurs? Reptiles, crocodilians, something like that?”

  The man nodded dumbly. “Yeah. Big lizards that ran on two feet.”

  Chase reached back and slapped Zadina on the shoulder. “You got any alcohol?”

  “What?”

  “Disinfectant,” Chase repeatedly. “Modern-day reptiles’ve got filthy mouths. Full of E. coli, salmonella, stuff like that. I don’t know how much it’ll help, but we gotta try and clean these wounds. We don’t and they’ll get nasty infections.”

  Zadina frowned uncertainly; he’d pulled on surgical gloves and was trying to stop the bleeding from a row of ugly lacerations across Rivers’ chest.

  “Uh, got some alcohol wipes …” And then: “Placer was the medic; most of the important stuff’s in his pack.”

  He didn’t have to explain that both Placer and his pack were missing.

  Which means his gear’s scattered across the forest, Chase thought grimly, trying not to think of the man himself.

  A thought.

  “You got any booze?”

  “What?”

  Yeah, dumb question, Chase thought. Guys like this wouldn’t be allowed—

  Zadina glanced up at Smith, then reached into his pack and removed a bottle. Chase had never tried alcohol—playing football, baseball, basketball, and trying to be his best physically saw to that—but he recognized the bottle.

  Bourbon.

  Smith gave Zadina a scowl that would have vaporized steel.

  “Yeah,” Chase said, surprised. “That’s the stuff.”

  He took the bottle, struggled with the seal, and cracked the cap. He looked at Bridger.

  “This is gonna hurt.”

  He splashed some of the whiskey into the laceration. Bridger yelped and jerked, but then it was over. Chase handed the bottle back to Zadina.

  “Use a lot,” he said, glancing at Rivers’ chest. “He’s gonna need it.”

  Chase clamped the compress back over Bridger’s wound, then took a roller bandage from Zadina’s pack. He tore it open with his teeth and quickly wrapped the man’s arm, securing the compress in place. “That too tight?” he asked.

  “No. Feels fine.”

  Just to be sure, Chase took the man’s hand and pressed on a fingernail. The nail blanched—turned white—then quickly regained its color.

  Okay, Chase thought. Circulation’s still good.

  He quickly looked the man up and down, but couldn’t see any other injuries. He leaned back, noticing Bridger and Smith staring at him in surprise.

  “What?” Chase asked, as if treating dinosaur wounds was something every fourteen-year-old could do. “I got the merit badge.”

  5 Back on the Trail

  THERE WAS A RUSTLE of leaves and Treeck and Criss stepped from the trees. Treeck wore a stony expression, but Criss seemed unusually pale: he was carrying a shredded backpack.

  Smith looked over.

  “Find ’em?”

  “Sorta.”

  Smith wrinkled his nose. Chase realized the men were being careful about what they said—

  Don’t wanna frighten the kid!

  —but knew what they were talking about. He’d seen it before.

  Smith glanced around the forest, then looked at Rivers: Zadina had just finished cleaning and bandaging the man’s wounds. “Can you walk?”

  “Need some help, but yeah.”

  “All right. Let’s get back to the jet and regroup.”

  CHASE WAS SURPRISED, but despite the team’s injuries—and losses—there was no talk of leaving.

  Or of giving up the search for Zach.

  While Rivers rested in the shade of a large pine (with the engines off, the jet’s cabin had become oppressively warm) the remaining men unloaded supplies and quickly set up camp inside the trees. They pitched seven dome-shaped tents in a bunch, clearing spots for three campfires around the perimeter.

  Chase was given a tent to himself. He was glad no one asked if he was brave enough to sleep alone, but noticed his tent was in the very center.

  After camp was set up, Chase walked to the edge of the trees and looked out over the meadow. The jet was close by, looking strange against the backdrop of exotic Mesozoic trees and mountains. There were strange flying things high in the air, which Chase suspected were either pterosaurs or something equally creepy.

  Across the meadow, a herd of odd-looking animals filed from the woods and began nibbling on the trees. The animals were about the size and shape of giraffes, though they were clearly reptilian. Smaller, chicken-sized things scurried through the high grass around them. The smaller animals were mostly hidden by the grass, though one would occasionally hop onto a rock or a stump for a look around.

  Chase thought the small dinosaurs were probably carnivorous, but:

  They look more playful than dangerous. Probably some sort of scavengers.

  Then something else stepped from the trees, and Chase caught his breath. The creature had the shape of a tyrannosaur or velociraptor, though it was far too small for one and way too large for the other. It was seven or eight feet tall, maybe twenty feet long from the tip of its nose to the end of its tail.

  The animal raised its nose as it looked about, possibly testing the air. It stared longingly toward the grazing giraffe-things for a moment, then looked across the meadow. Chase stood perfectly still, feeling the hair rise on the back of his neck. He couldn’t tell for sure, but thought the thing was looking at him.

  Maybe wondering what I’d taste like.

  He had no doubt the animal was some type of predator. He wondered if it was one of the creatures that attacked Bravo Team, but decided it probably wasn’t.

  It blends in with the forest, he thought analytically. But not so completely the guys wouldn’t have spotted it.

  The predator peered at Chase for another moment, then turned and vanished back into the trees.

  Chase shivered, wondering if he should tell Smith about it—

  If I was the boss, I’d want to know there were things like that sneakin’ around!

  —but before he could decide Bridger came walking from the trees. The man was holding his rifle ready, Chase’s bandage still wrapped around his arm.

  “Hi,” Chase said.

  “How ya doin’, Doc?”

  Chase grinned, warmed by the compliment, which he sensed was sincere.

  “I’m good. How’s Mr. Rivers?”

  “He’s good. Needs some stitches, obviously, and he’s pretty beaten up. But he’ll be okay.”

  “Good.”

  Bridger looked quickly around—checking to be sure he wouldn’t be overheard—then asked, “How much do you really know about medical stuff?”

  “Not a lot,” Chase admitted. “I learned a little in Scouts, but I couldn’t take out your tonsils or anything.”

  Bridger nodded, then asked: “Keep a secret?”

  “Sure.”

  Bridger looked around again—still no one close enough to overhear—then said: “I’ve had this itch ever since we were attacked. It’s driving me crazy. Got any ideas?”

  Chase blinked. He couldn’t believe some Green Beret—or Navy SEAL or Army Ranger or whoever the guys were—was asking his opinion. But:

  “Let me see.”

  Bridger held out his “good” arm—the one without the bandage—and Chase could see red lines on the skin where he’d been scratching.

  “Wow, looks like it hurts.”

  “It’s killing me,” the man said. “And it’s got Rivers, too.”

  The man reached over like he was going to scratch again, but Chase blocked his hand.

  “Don’t do that; just makes it worse.”

  Chase squinted and looked a little closer. Kids who’d been in toxic
plants often scratched like that, and his first thought was that the man must have walked through the Callovian equivalent of poison ivy.

  But:

  I was over there and I’m not scratching … just Bridger and Rivers: the two guys who were actually in contact with the dinosaurs.

  He looked a little closer.

  “Those things have feathers?” he asked. “The things that jumped you?”

  Bridger nodded. “Don’t know if they were feathers. But they had some kind of plumage. Why?”

  Chase squinted a little closer at the man’s arm.

  “ ’Cause they gave you fleas.”

  “Fleas?”

  “Or something like that. Look.”

  He pointed. The man had hairy arms which made it hard to see, but there was a tiny spider-looking thing crawling along the skin. It looked like an itty-bitty wood tick. Looking closely, Chase spotted another, and then another.

  “Holy crap,” the man said. “What do I do?”

  Chase thought. “You got any insect repellent?”

  “I’m sure we do.”

  “I’d try that. Use a lot of it.” He thought of something else. “And you got any more bourbon?”

  The man blinked, then looked around again, this time checking to be sure Smith wasn’t anywhere close.

  “I think I could find a little.”

  “If the repellent doesn’t work, you could try that.”

  “Really?” But then: “Oh … the alcohol again?”

  “Yeah. I’ve heard that beer kills worms; bourbon might repel fleas.”

  The man grinned. “Seems like a waste of good booze …”

  “You could always scratch yourself silly. Or”—something else occurred to him—“if nothing else works, maybe we could use fuel from the jet. Wouldn’t be good for your skin, but maybe we could dilute it with water. Anyway, if you get desperate, I bet it’ll kill fleas.”

  “Okay,” the man said. “Repellent, booze, kerosene … in that order.”

  “And change your clothes, too. You know, just in case.”

  “Gotcha.” He reached a fist out for a quick bump. “Thanks, Doc.”

  Chase grinned. “Anytime.” And then when the man turned back for the campsite: “Hey—”