Footprints of Thunder (48 page)

The discussion moved on to the preparation efforts. The military was using overflights of the potential sites to develop the bit maps that would guide the cruise missiles to their target area. Since the missiles would be launched by both ships and B-l bombers and would have to travel different distances over a variety of terrain, timing would be tricky and need highly accurate maps.

Nick felt dazed. His mind had not switched over to the practical side of the plan; he couldn’t get the image of one hundred bombs going off at once out of his mind.

Nick paled at the thought of the impact on any site, but especially Portland. Bombing uninhabited sections of Alaska or eastern Washington was horrifying, but the thought of its effect on a metropolitan area sickened him. Abruptly, he decided to risk expulsion from the council and broke in at the first pause.

“Since the sites are unstable, sometimes they are the present and sometimes the past. How will you be sure to deliver the bombs to the past?”

Gogh smiled at the question. Clearly he had thought of this and prepared an answer.

“The missiles are terrain guided. They will be programmed with the terrain from the past. If they do not identify the terrain as matching their program they will not arm their warheads. Instead, the missiles will harmlessly pass over the site,” Gogh said, and then swept his audience with his eyes. “Thus guaranteeing the detonations will occur in the past.”

Nick conceded to himself that it could work. Still, from what he knew of the programming of cruise missiles Gogh wasn’t telling the whole story.

“Dr. Gogh, isn’t it true that under combat conditions cruise missiles often arrive at their target after previous attacks have significantly altered the terrain?”

Gogh looked at Nick suspiciously, as if he knew where Nick was leading him.

“Can you tell the council how the missile’s programming handles that contingency?” Nick continued.

He glared at Nick, leaving uncomfortable silence in the room. Finally, Dr. Gogh answered in a monotone. “When the missile nears its termination point, and the terrain ceases to match the digitized map, the missile can exercise an option to use the last confirmed position to estimate distance and direction to target.”

Many of those at the table began murmuring, but Nick wanted to make sure everyone knew full well what Gogh’s missiles would do.

“In other words, Dr. Gogh, if the missiles get lost, they will guess.”

This time everyone murmured.

47. Death For Dinner

Our decoys were bringing the flock down and we were ready to fire, when there was a flash. Suddenly, we were pelted by roasted ducks—burned, feathers and all.

—
Reuben Black, Winston, Maine, 1972

Warm Springs Indian Reservation, Oregon

PostQuilt: Tuesday, 2:25
P.M.
PST

T
he sounds of the feeding were horrifying, but the thought of who was being eaten was worse. Dr. Piltcher sat in a crumpled heap, broken by the thought of the fate of his friend. Petra kept her arm around his shoulder while he stared at his hands in his lap. Her words were no comfort to him, but Petra” continued speaking softly, as if to soothe herself. Colter stood nearby, holding his spear like a talisman, but soon he returned to the others and squatted.

“That’s not Dr. Coombs. I mean what we’re listening to.”

Dr. Piltcher continued to stare at his hands, but Petra looked up.

“What? How would you know?”

“Well… there’s just too much eating going on. Don’t take this wrong … but if that was Dr. Coombs he would have been gone a long time ago. Know what I mean?”

Petra was sickened by the logic, but it made sense. The dinosaur that terrorized them was so big, Dr. Coombs would have provided just a snack, and the gruesome sounds ahead indicated several feeding dinosaurs. Dr. Piltcher remained oblivious to Colter’s suggestion until Petra took his hands in hers. He looked up then, his eyes puffy and red. Petra was going to speak but Colter cut her off.

“Doc, Dr. Coombs would be an appetizer, and whatever’s up there is eating a six-course dinner.”

That brought Dr. Piltcher to his feet, his cheeks reddening, but he turned to Petra, not Colter. When he spoke his voice trembled.

“Monoclonius was a herbivore. It wouldn’t eat my friend, it would only kill him.” Dr. Piltcher paused to control his grief. When he spoke again it was with anger. “If you want my opinion, somewhere in there,” he said, pointing toward the noises, “is a pack of small scavengers making a meal of my best friend.”

“Uh-uh.” Colter argued. “Whatever is up there is big, and they’re having a feast, not a snack. Let me make it plain for you. If that was Dr. Coombs, those mono-monsters would be picking their teeth with his bones by now.”

Petra watched as Dr. Piltcher’s face flushed again. This time he turned to face Colter, staring him in the eye. When he found his voice it came in a near shout.

“What do you know, Colter? In all the time I’ve known you, you’ve shown an interest in only one thing.” He turned and pointed at Petra, opened his mouth to speak, but then turned back to Colter. “Colter, you are what you are, an ignorant young man who’s biggest accomplishment will be seducing a young woman I admire … and love. Why she chose you … chose to carry you, I’ll never know. But I’m telling you, George … Dr. Coombs, is dead.”

Colter flushed this time, but when he spoke it was in a whisper.

“He may be, Dr. Piltcher. I never said he wasn’t dead. I’m just telling you what they’re eating up there isn’t him.” Colter paused, collecting his thoughts. He wasn’t angry, but he was hurt. “As for being ignorant, I guess I am when I’m back in the city. Sitting around discussing all that crap you guys think is so important, I probably looked pretty dumb. I admit it, I wouldn’t have been there if it wasn’t for Petra. But you tell me, Dr. Piltcher, who’s the ignorant one out here? Who wouldn’t let me go get a gun? And who is whispering and who was shouting when there’s a pack of dinosaurs about a hundred yards away?”

Dr. Piltcher stared back defiantly, but had no answer. In the city his vast storehouse of the arcane had given him cult status and a circle of followers who marveled at his knowledge and wisdom. But here in this strange world, book learning meant nothing. It didn’t matter whether it was monoclonius or triceratops that had impaled and carried off his friend. What mattered was having the knowledge to keep it from happening again. If Colter had his way they would be walking through the brush with rifles and George would still be alive. Instead George was dead, and their only weapon fashioned by the one he had called ignorant. As if to confirm it, Petra turned and spoke to Colter.

“Is there any chance Dr. Coombs is still alive?”

“Slim. If we want to know, we need to see what’s going on up ahead. Why don’t you wait here while I scout it out.”

Petra looked at Dr. Piltcher and back to Colter, and then shook her head.

“I think we better stick together. But as soon as we know for sure one way or another, let’s get out of here.”

Colter shrugged and led off, resuming his slow, stealthy approach. The sounds grew louder and more terrible. The gurgling and growling repelled them, and they had to force themselves forward against their natural inclination to run. Suddenly, Colter bolted several feet and then knelt behind a dense bush. He stared straight ahead for a minute and then signaled to the others. They quietly crept up behind him, but the sounds of the feeding were so loud now that they could have driven a car up and not been heard.

When they were all together Colter reached out and gently pushed a limb aside, revealing the clearing where they found the egg. On the far side of the mound was the dinosaur who had attacked the RV and carried off Dr. Coombs. She had returned to her nest, and then finished bleeding to death. Her lifeless form was lying on its side and its body was nothing but shredded, bloody meat. Half a dozen bipedal dinosaurs were tearing off huge hunks of flesh, or gnawing on ribs torn from the carcass. The biggest ones were fifteen or twenty feet high. Smaller bipeds, no more than two or three feet high, circled around the outside, darting in to grab dropped pieces of flesh, or bits of bone. The larger carnivores snapped and snarled at the little ones, but were too slow to stop them. There was more than enough meat anyway.

Something moved through the brush near them and they froze in fear. One of the smaller dinosaurs darted through, then ran into the clearing and began circling the dinner party, looking for a chance to snag a helping. They sighed with relief when it passed and then backed away slowly until they felt safe enough to talk softly. Petra spoke first.

“I didn’t see Dr. Coombs’s body there. Maybe he got off somehow.”

“If he did,” Colter suggested, “he’d be back along that blood trail. It may be risky to search there. We don’t know if any more of these things are following it to supper.”

Dr. Piltcher and Petra understood the implications. Every second they spent among the dinosaurs was a risk, but walking along a blood trail could be suicidal. Still no one wanted to be the first to give up on Dr. Coombs. Colter took the now familiar role of leader.

They backed well away from the clearing before circling around to the trail, which was heavily trampled by the gathering scavengers. Though the blood was drying, it was still crimson on the green grass. Quickly, before they met another predator, they backtracked toward where they left the trail originally. But suddenly something cut across the path, and they gasped in fear. The three were about to start off again when Colter turned, looking to where the little dinosaur had disappeared. He took a couple of steps off the path and then squatted. Petra knelt next to him as Dr. Piltcher looked over his shoulder, and they saw blood on the grass.

“More blood. So what, Colter?” Petra asked.

“How did it get here? The trail’s back there.” Colter stood and walked a few more steps. “Here’s more of it.”

Then, without another word, Colter trotted off through the brush. Petra and Dr. Piltcher looked at each other, suddenly realizing it was another blood trail. A hundred yards away they found him staring at a pack of small dinosaurs in the grass ahead.

It took Petra and Dr. Piltcher a minute to recognize Dr. Coombs’s remains. The small dinosaurs had shredded his clothes and picked his bones nearly clean. Even his skull had been peeled of its flesh, although his eyes were still intact in the sockets.

When the small pack of dinosaurs spotted them they froze, heads up and tails held straight out. As Colter screamed and then charged the pack, thrusting at the closest dinosaur with his spear, the pack scattered, some with meaty bones still in their mouths. Colter stood looking down on Dr. Coombs’s remains, Petra’s mind was overflowing with horror, and Dr. Piltcher was once again lost in his grief. This time he had no doubt about his friend’s death.

Colter returned to the others, his face impassive.

“Want me to bury him? There’s still quite a bit left. I don’t know, though. They’ll probably just dig him up again. Maybe we could cover it … him, with rocks.”

Dr. Piltcher was about to reply when the branches behind him began to snap. The three turned to see a fifteen-foot-tall carnivore coming through the brush, towering above them. Its head and jaws were huge. It walked on two well-muscled back legs, but its forelegs looked smaller and useless. A long thick tail dragged behind.

“Run,” Colter yelled, and the others obeyed. Colter took the lead, breaking trail through the brush. He ran a straight line, dodging only the thicker stands or those with thorns. They pounded through, oblivious to the blows from the branches. Dr. Piltcher; soon exhausted, began to trail behind. When Petra noticed she shouted to Colter, who shot a quick look over his shoulder, and then trotted off to the side, motioning for Petra to take the lead. When Dr. Piltcher plodded past, Colter fell in behind, watching over his shoulder for the dinosaur.

Petra set a slower pace than Colter so Dr. Piltcher could keep up, but something was wrong. Petra had seen him jog for miles before. He was stumbling along now, head down and breathing raggedly. The brush thinned, and then they broke into a clearing that led down to the lake, where the grass was short and looked well grazed. They were moving at a slow jog around what Petra realized were huge piles of animal droppings. Dr. Piltcher stumbled over one pile but kept his feet. Petra dropped back to jog next to him, setting a pace. Dr. Piltcher’s chest was heaving and his breathing was irregular.

When Petra looked back for Colter, her feet caught in something and she fell headlong into the grass, just missing a pile of dried dung. Dr. Piltcher stopped when she fell and dropped to his knees, desperately trying to catch his breath. Petra found herself lying in the grass on an uneven surface, the turf beneath her looking like a badly laid carpet with huge wrinkles. Petra rolled to her knees, looking for Colter, but he was nowhere in sight. Neither was the dinosaur. Dr. Piltcher was still on his knees, his breathing labored, one hand was pressed tight against his chest, and his face red and sprinkled with sweat. Looking up at her, he shook his head, and began puffing rapidly through his nose, trying to control his breathing. He spoke finally, in a hoarse whisper.