Dragon Soldier

A novel by

Dan MacGregor




© copyright January 2001, Tim Huskey
Cover art by Eliza Black
ISBN 1-58608-258-2



PROLOGUE


SOMEWHERE IN COLORADO
7:04 AM

He lay among the damp ferns, watching as the dinosaurs attacked the patrol.
Water dripped on him continuously from the leaves and vines. Dragonflies flitted about, their gossamer four-foot wings buzzing like the engines of miniature fighter planes. Cattails swayed in the early morning breeze, their brown, club-like spikes waving 100 feet above the ground.
Rising slowly above the jagged peaks of the newborn Rocky Mountains, the sun was an orange ball suspended in a gunmetal sky. It’s eerie light illuminated the fierce struggle between men and beasts.
The screams of the dying soldiers mingled with the hissing growls of the reptiles. From his position seventy yards away, the watcher could also hear the crunching of teeth on bone. 
 	The Chinese force numbered ten in all; nine enlisted men in tan uniforms, wearing dark pith helmets, armed with assault rifles. Their officer, third in line, wore a small hat with a red insignia. He carried a sword and a pistol.
Two raptors struck at both ends of the line of men simultaneously, in a coordinated attack. They sprang from the undergrowth with hissing snarls to pounce on the first and last soldiers of the patrol, gutting the men with one swipe of their taloned rear legs. They began to feed immediately, tearing at the bodies, gulping mouthfuls of flesh and bone.
Once their mouths were full the raptors stupidly ignored any other course of action. They remained stationary, concentrating on ripping and swallowing, while the remaining Chinese methodically shredded them with their automatic weapons.
 The dinosaurs did not die quickly or easily. Annoyed by the stinging impact of the bullets against their pebbly hides, they lashed out with teeth and talons, bringing down three more soldiers.
Screaming orders, the Chinese major directed the efforts of his frightened men.
 Amid the ferns the watcher eased himself into a sitting position. Silver droplets of condensation rolled from the leaves to soak his shirt as he parted the undergrowth for a better view of the action. The morning breeze, blowing from his right, brought with it the tang of salt air from the inland sea. 
He squinted against the harsh glare of the sun rising in the west. With his sleeve he wiped the moisture and stinging sweat from his eyes. Then he calmly raised his rifle to his shoulder and shot the Chinese major through the head.
He shifted targets, even as the officer was falling, and fired again. A soldier flew backwards into the brush as if jerked by a cord. Another squeeze of the trigger and a third soldier crumpled.
The first raptor died suddenly, its body collapsing like a punctured balloon. It sprawled among the ferns, forked tongue protruding beyond its serrated teeth.
When the three surviving soldiers turned their attention, and their weapons, on the second raptor, they were cut down by three more heavy slugs.
Staggering drunkenly, leaking fluids, the second raptor stumbled away, leaving the battlefield to the scavengers who were already gathering. Feathered reptiles and leather-winged creatures tore at the carcass of man and beast alike, hissing and screeching.
Among the ferns and cattails he waited, alert for stragglers from the patrol or marauding beasts drawn by the scent of blood.
Within an hour the area was clear, the only evidence of the morning’s violence a few tattered shreds of clothing and well-gnawed bones. He stood up warily, rifle ready, and made his way forward to collect what equipment he could find.
He gathered six undamaged weapons along with first-aid kits and bandoliers of ammunition, slinging them across his broad shoulders or belting them around his waist. Then, with an animal-like sniff of the wind, he disappeared into the jungle.

 				CHAPTER I


TORONTO
MAY 31, 2021 AD
3:07 A.M.


A sudden constriction of his lungs awoke the North American Prime Minister. Fingers twisted painfully in his hair, then jerked his head back. He felt a cold steel blade against his throat.
He stifled his involuntary cry of alarm when the blade pressed against his jugular. An angry, warning hiss sounded scant inches from his face.
Edsel Thurran heeded that warning. He did not utter a sound, did not reach for any of the alarm buttons concealed in the headboard of the bed or grope for the pistol beneath his pillow. He held his body rigidly immobile. Only his eyelids moved, fluttering open to allow his eyes to search the darkness in a vain attempt to identify the cause of his discomfort.
"Good morning, Edsel."
The voice was low, menacing, with an edge to it nearly as sharp as the knife against his throat. The Prime Minister felt a chill run down his spine.
"I understand you wanted to see me," the voice continued. "I'm Tucker Jackson."
The Prime Minister allowed a small sigh to escape his lips.
"It is customary, sir," he whispered, "to treat the leader of one's country with some respect. Sitting on his chest, holding a knife to his throat, hardly qualifies."
Jackson grunted, then increased the pressure of the blade. 	"I like it better this way," he whispered. "And right now I'm not sure I have a country. Let's talk about that."
"Did you . . .  did you kill anyone . . .  to get in here?"
"Not yet." Jackson's tone suggested disappointment. "I could start with you."
He leaned in closer to hiss in Thurran's face. "I'm already a condemned man, so I have nothing to lose. If this is a trap . . .  ."
"No. . .  No," Thurran wheezed. "You have my solemn vow. In the drawer of the nightstand is a paper bearing my signature. It assures you safe passage from here, no matter what the outcome of our discussion!"
 "Fuck your piece of paper!" Jackson snarled. "Must be great stuff, if it will stop bullets. I'll paste it to my chest when I leave. Now let's cut the bullshit, Edsel. You know as well as I do that no one will stop to read that paper until after I'm dead, so this whole thing better be real good. Talk to me. Convince me that whatever it is you have to offer is worth risking my life, and you yours."
Jackson accented his last three words with pressure from the deadly blade. The Prime Minister shuddered involuntarily.
"I find it very difficult to communicate effectively under these conditions," he wheezed.
"You'll find it a lot more difficult to 'communicate' with your throat cut," Jackson warned.
"Why don't we turn on the lights and talk like civilized persons?" Thurran suggested meekly.
For nearly a full minute there was neither sound nor movement from Jackson. The silence stretched on so long the Prime Minister began to wonder if he'd misjudged the man. Was he about to die at the hands of Tucker Jackson?
 Suddenly the suffocating weight lifted from Thurran's chest. A hand snatched the pistol from beneath the pillow. He felt, rather than heard, Jackson move to another part of the room.
The Prime Minister drew in a deep breath and exhaled loudly. The overhead lights snapped on, forcing him to squint against the sudden brightness. He shaded his eyes with his hand as he sat up in bed. In the center of the room stood Tucker Jackson.
Nothing Thurran had seen or read in Jackson's military file, not even his photograph, had prepared the Prime Minister sufficiently for the experience of meeting the man in the flesh.
The Tucker Jackson who now stood in Thurran's bedroom was tall and lean, with wide shoulders and a whipcord body. Glossy black hair, betraying his Apache heritage, hung straight down to his collar. A black patch covered his left eye, lending a sinister, threatening appearance to his otherwise handsome face. Shadow gray clothing clung to his body like a second skin, revealing knotted muscles. He projected an aura, a powerful feeling of barely controlled violence and menace. Like a coiled snake, the Prime Minister thought as he suppressed a shiver.
Without taking his eye from Thurran, Jackson expertly disassembled the automatic pistol he'd removed from beneath the pillow. He casually tossed the barrel into one corner of the room, the magazine and frame into another. Then he smiled. It was a cruel expression, utterly devoid of warmth or humor. Thurran felt his confidence slipping away even further.
"Okay, Edsel. Let's communicate. You start."
Feeling very self conscious in his striped silk pajamas, the Prime Minister stood up and cleared his throat. I must tread carefully here, he told himself. This is a dangerous man. If I go too fast, push too hard, I risk a violent reaction from him. Too slowly, and he will loose interest.
"Yes. . . well, there is a very serious matter we must discuss, Mr. Jackson. One of national security, although at present you feel like a man without a country. I went to a great deal of trouble to bring you here, sir. Blind ads in the papers, enormous payoffs to underworld figures, letter drops. I must admit you have not disappointed me. Just getting in here, past all the alarms and security men, proves that you are precisely the man I need."
Jackson's right hand whipped out from behind his back. Light reflected from the gleaming steel blade of his knife. He snarled a warning.
"I don't like being tested, Edsel. What the hell do you want?"
The Prime Minister suppressed a smile. I have him now, he thought. Here Thurran was in his element again, the consummate politician, the deal maker. He knew exactly what to say. His confidence returned.
"I want to make a deal with you, Jackson. A trade. An even exchange. From you I want your services as a soldier and survival expert. That and your complete loyalty for an unspecified length of time."
"So what's in it for me?"
"In return I offer three things. The first is complete and unconditional amnesty for any and all crimes committed by you to this date. The second is. . .  an intangible. Call it the challenge of a lifetime, of any lifetime. And third, I will show you where to find Nicholas Covere."
Jackson growled deep in his throat. The sound sent chills down the Prime Minister's spine.
"What's to keep me from just cutting the information out of you and leaving with it?" Jackson whispered, bringing the knife up to eye level.
"I'm disappointed in you." Thurran spoke quickly to hide his fear. "I expected your natural curiosity to be stronger. Don't you want to know more about the challenge I mentioned? Besides, torturing me would be messy and noisy, attracting the attention of my guards who would, as you so aptly noted, be intent upon killing you. And. . .  there is a catch."
"No... Please." Thurran protested when Jackson stalked toward him. "I said a catch, not a trick. You were not listening to my offer. I said I would show you where to find Covere. It's not necessary for you to use any sort of violence against me. I will gladly tell you where to find the man, but there is no possible way for you to get to him unless I take you there."
Jackson reluctantly lowered the knife, then stared at Thurran intently. "I want Covere," he growled. 
"Of course you do," Thurran replied. "And I know why."
"Oh? Just what is it you think you know?"
"I know that the Army considers you a complete psychopath. They wonder how it is that someone with your skills and potential, a man awarded both the Medal of Honor and the Victoria Cross, can suddenly do something so rude and vulgar as to murder a fellow officer. Butchered him, from what I read in the report. For this unspeakable act the Army promptly court-martialed you, since you were careless enough to leave a witness.
"During the proceedings you refused to say one word in your own defense or cooperate with your appointed attorney. You sat silently through the entire trial. This attitude only added more credence to the Army's opinion that your brain had gone null and void.
"But you couldn't defend yourself, could you? For to do so would have forced you to reveal at least four other murders committed by you. Or should we say... executions?"
When Jackson merely grunted, the Prime Minister continued.
"They murdered your family, didn't they? You reacted the only way you knew how. Now Covere is the last one left alive of the original five."
Without waiting for an answer, Thurran walked to his desk where he removed several sheets of paper from a drawer.
"I had certain agencies check on your background after you escaped from the military prison," he said, fingering the papers. "Agencies that are discreet, thorough, and answer only to me. The evidence was circumstantial but the conclusion obvious. And there are many people who might view your actions as totally justified in light of that evidence. Unfortunately, the Army does not number among those. 'An eye for an eye' is not part of the Uniform Code of Military Justice. They frown on that sort of behavior. Your government, on the other hand, would be willing to not only turn a blind eye, as it were, but to even assist you in your. . .  how shall we put it? . . .  your last endeavor?"
Thurran drew in a deep breath, then spoke softly. "At this moment you are very close to being what they call a 'cold-blooded killer', Mr. Jackson. But I believe it is only because we made you that way. We forced you into it. I want very much to change that. I want to make you the hero instead of the heavy, if you are willing to cooperate."
He gestured to his pajamas, then to a telephone on a nearby desk.
"I must change into something more suitable, then make certain arrangements. It will be necessary for us to travel some distance. There are many things I must show and explain to you. My bodyguards will accompany us, naturally, so you will be searched, forced to give up all your weapons. But I swear you will not be harmed while you are with me.
"The choice is yours, Jackson. You must decide now. Stay and accept my offer, or flee, to spend the rest of your life as a hunted criminal."
Jackson considered his options for several moments, then slowly nodded.
"I suppose I am a bit curious, and damn tired of running. But there's one thing you should know, Edsel."
"Yes?"
The Prime Minister shivered as he watched Jackson slowly run his thumb along the razor sharp edge of the knife, then suck the blood from the cut.
"There were six!"



CHAPTER II

MAY 31, 2021 AD
6:29 A. M. 
SOMEWHERE OVER NORTH DAKOTA

Tucker Jackson leaned back in the padded leather seat, listening to the whine of the powerful jet engines. Through the window he could see a cloud layer obscuring the earth, reflecting the full moon's silvery light. It gave the appearance of flying over a metallic ocean.
The Prime Minister had been true to his word. The simple pressing of a button, scant seconds after Jackson's verbal agreement, produced a flood of aides, advisors, and security men. Jackson was roughly searched, even threatened with various forms of violence. They watched him as if he were a rabid animal, but did not harm him.
In less than thirty minutes he and Thurran were hustled on board a waiting helicopter, then flown to a nearby air base. Escorted into the plush interior of Air Force One, they scarcely had time to buckle their seat belts before the plane began to move. It tore down the runway, hurling itself into the air as if possessed by some inhuman urgency. The Prime Minister disappeared into the forward section of the aircraft minutes after takeoff, leaving Jackson to sit with only his four stone-faced guards as company.
Forty minutes into the flight, Jackson was served a meal by a nervous young man who passed him the tray with one hand while keeping his other firmly inside his suitcoat near what was obviously a weapon.
So much for mutual trust, he muttered under his breath.
He amused himself for some time by playing mind games with the guards. They would jump and fidget every time he made some move, no matter how innocent. So he made a lot of moves: stretching, yawning, twisting in his seat. They reacted to every one, shifting position abruptly, reaching under their coats for their guns. He wondered if he could exhaust them before the flight ended.
The Prime Minister suddenly reentered the cabin, accompanied by a tall, slender woman dressed in crisp military fatigues.
"Allow me to introduce your traveling companion," Thurran announced without preamble. He took the woman's elbow, gently urging her forward.
"Major Ronnie Sinclair, of the 2nd Marine Raider Battalion," he said with a sweeping gesture toward the woman. "And this, Major, is the famous, or infamous, Tucker Jackson, formerly a captain in the Army Special Forces."
The Major favored Jackson with a strange look that did not go unnoticed by Thurran.
"Mr. Jackson, I should inform you, is a most formidable man. He was convicted of murder, escaped from a maximum security prison, evaded an extensive manhunt, and survived for many months on his own in the Canadian wilderness. I'm sure the two of you will get along famously."
With that he again departed for the forward section of the plane, leaving the Major standing uncomfortably in the aisle. Jackson used the opportunity to study the woman.
He guessed her age to be close to his own, between twenty- five and thirty. Her features hinted at an oriental ancestry. Brown, almond-shaped eyes regarded him solemnly. Her glossy black hair reached only to the collar of her uniform, framing her perfectly proportioned face. Not even her bulky fatigues could disguise the promising curves of her lithe body.
She caught him staring and frowned. He smiled. She looked at him strangely. He couldn't tell if she was interested, angry, or amused. She carefully selected a seat across the aisle from him, making it plain she was not afraid, even if everyone else was.
Thurran suddenly returned, pushing before him a cart upon which rested a television monitor and a video tape player. The bodyguards were reluctant to leave the Prime Minister unprotected but were herded from the cabin. Thurran locked the door behind them.
"If you will direct your attention to this television screen," he announced solemnly, "I will show you both something I believe you will find very interesting."
Thurran dimmed the lights, then started the tape player. Jackson leaned forward in his seat. Major Sinclair did the same, resting her chin in her hand. Jackson risked a glance at her. She presented an interesting profile, her perfect, model-like features in direct contrast to the sterile military uniform. Then the tape began to play. Jackson turned his attention to the monitor.
 A strange landscape appeared on the screen. In the foreground grew huge ferns and other leafy vegetation. Beyond that, yellow grasses swayed in the breeze. Palm trees and thick pines sprouted in clusters. In the distance loomed the cone of an active volcano. A plume of dirty brown smoke slanted away from its summit. The sky was a deep blue-gray, interrupted by bands of swirling white clouds.
A bird-like creature came into view above the trees, gliding in lazy circles. Its wings were the color of tanned leather. Its  grotesquely pointed head tapered down to a beak entirely too large in relation to the rest of its body. The creature did not fly so much as soar, only twice making halfhearted attempts to flap its wings. The rest of the time it seemed content to sail upon the currents of the wind.
The sudden appearance of a lizard-like creature startled both Jackson and Sinclair. It darted out of the undergrowth, strutting on its two hind legs, which were larger than its front pair. Its tail whipped back and forth in the manner of an annoyed feline. Seconds later it sprinted away with amazing speed.
A herd of animals then came into view, walking ponderously through the yellow grass. They moved about on two legs as well, their pointed, beak-like snouts as high off the ground as some of the tallest trees. Green skin covered their backs, fading to a light yellow at the belly. A bony blue crest adorned their heads.
Tucker Jackson left his seat and moved forward, bending down until his face was only inches from the screen. He felt Major Sinclair move to stand next to him, any animosity toward him apparently forgotten as she, too, stared intently at the monitor.
The screen went blank. Thurran brought up the cabin lights, then looked quizzically at Jackson and the Major.
"Comments, anyone?" he asked.
Jackson straightened up slowly. "You brought me all this way just to watch science fiction movies?"
"Oh, no, Mr. Jackson," the Prime Minister replied. "There was nothing fictitious in what you just saw. No special effects, no computer animation. Those creatures, and that landscape, were very real. You see, we have invented a time machine."
Major Sinclair gasped. She moved back a step, favoring Thurran with a look she might reserve for someone proclaiming the Earth was flat.
"Perhaps," the Prime Minister continued, "the word 'invented' is misleading. As is the case with many major discoveries, the term 'stumbled upon' may prove to be more accurate. Regardless, we've got one. It is not so much a machine to travel upon or in as it is a window, or doorway, into the past."
"The past?" Jackson's eye narrowed suspiciously. "What makes you think this can't be the future?"
"My God what a chilling thought!" Thurran admitted. "A cataclysmic regression of some sort? I wonder if that's even been considered? In any case, Mr. Jackson, this is why I wanted you, why I went to such lengths to contact you, for this is your domain. You are the very best at what you do, killing and surviving. As close to an untamed savage as we could find. This is the opportunity I spoke of.
"I want you, Tucker Jackson, to lead the Major and her Raiders on an expedition into this land. I want you to be one of the first to walk through our doorway into the past."
Jackson uttered what he considered the only appropriate comment.
"Son of a bitch!"




CHAPTER III



His Apache name was Sierra Chirreba. He had his first woman at fifteen, and killed his first man less than three years later.
All he ever knew of his father came from his mother's infrequent descriptions of the man. She said he'd been white, a large man with a massive black beard, gruff voice and gentle hands. A self-styled mountain man, who disappeared into the wilderness after a few brief nights of love, never to be seen again.
Chirreba lived with his mother in southeastern Arizona. From the snow of the mountain peaks to the arid inferno of the desert below, it was here the Apaches had lived since the time of the Roman Empire.
Once it had been called a Reservation. Only a handful of Apache remained in the area, those who held stubbornly to the old ways or found the white man's world too confusing. Here Chirreba and his mother had lived as outcasts. She was shunned for having given herself to a white man.
He did not like his white name, Tucker Jackson, nor did his mother ever fully explain why she had selected it. He assumed it had some connection to his father. His mother made certain he understood it was his name, that some day he would need it in order to live among the whites. This prospect terrified him.
 One man, Manga, did take an interest in the woman and boy, eventually coming to live with them. At a nearby mission school Jackson learned the white man's letters, history, and speech.  Manga taught him the Apache way.
"The white man is ruled by greed," Manga told him one day as they walked in the desert. "He sees the land and claims it for his own. But he cannot live on it, for it is hostile. So he brings in his machines and tries to change the land. He cannot do that either, for it is stronger. Then he curses the land and leaves it. Sometimes he leaves his machines as well. But always The People remain. We were here long before the white man ever came. We will be here long after, because we do not fight the land.
"Remember this, boy," Manga warned. "You cannot fight the land and win. You must become one with it, take what it offers, learn its secrets. Surrender to it when necessary."
Manga taught him how to survive in the desert, to 'read' the rocks, the sand, the wind. Together they made Mescal, boiling and fermenting the cactus of the same name. Manga told him of the  Apaches' traditional way of life, which he called raiding. It was an honorable profession among The People.
"This we have done for ten thousand moons," Manga explained. "Why work when you can steal from others and also gain great honor in battle? To this day we raid the Mexicans, our blood enemies. Before that we took from the Aztecs, who called us The Dog People. And before that we took from those called Incas and Mayans.
"But beware the white man," warned Manga. "It is not wise to steal too much from him at one time. He will send his pony soldiers to hunt you down."
 Manga's lessons were left over from the days of the untamed West, when the Apache had lived a wild, nomadic life. Jackson had committed them all to memory, knowing they were timeless. He’d had difficulty reconciling them with what he learned of the white man's laws at the mission school.
On the forested slopes of the mountains, Jackson had learned to stalk deer and elk amid the shadowy undergrowth. Here, too, he became acquainted with weapons: the gun, the knife, the stubby, powerful bow with its flint-tipped arrows.
"Guns are good things," was Manga's opinion. "They can kill from a great distance. But they are expensive. Their noise can give away your position. The white man has many guns. They think owning a gun gives them bigger balls."
Jackson had not fully understood the remark at the time. The twinkle in Manga's eye told him the old Indian was once again making fun of the whites.
"The bow, too, is good, especially for hunting. It also kills from a distance. But the arrow is very painful and may cause your enemy to cry out when he is hit. That is why this is the true weapon of the Apache."
Manga drew the long knife from its scabbard at his hip, displaying its razor keen edge and wicked point.
"Few men have the courage to slay another face to face, to look into their enemy's eyes, to smell his fear, to feel his final breath. Especially the white man, who likes to do his killing from a distance. He does not want to see his enemy's face or feel his blood. But the Apache warrior kills silently, with the knife. This strikes terror in the hearts of our enemies."
          *          *          *          *
By his twelfth birthday Jackson was as tall as Manga, lean and strong. He could run farther in one day than a good horse could travel, maintaining the loping, loose-jointed stride which was the trade mark of the Apache warrior. For his fifteenth birthday Manga gave him a woman.
"He is a man," he heard Manga explain to his mother. "He must learn all the ways of a warrior, the pleasures as well as the hardships."
She was a Navaho girl some three years older, shy and quiet but with great experience. How Manga 'acquired' her Jackson never knew. She seemed more than willing. In her arms he discovered the secret delights of sex. Her soft, full breasts, coppery skin, and silky thighs aroused in him exciting sensations. Her moans of pleasure mixed with his each time their bodies joined.
A year and a half later his family was brutally murdered, and Tucker Jackson was shot in the head.




CHAPTER IV 

COLORADO

MAY 31, 2021 AD

What a piece of junk, Jackson thought as he stood staring at the time machine. 
His first view of the device was bitterly anticlimactic. He'd had visions of some quaking metal monster that set the earth to shaking while it spewed forth sparks and poisonous vapors.
Instead, it was an unassuming device of meager proportions, positioned inside the antiseptic white walls of a hastily erected prefab building.
Jackson walked a few feet closer, then put his hands on his hips. He sighed, shaking his head. The damn thing looks like it could cave in on itself at any moment.  
The device resembled an open garage door. Two metal uprights, twenty feet apart, festooned with thick electrical cables, supported a crossmember fifteen feet above the floor.  Unidentifiable components of various sizes were stacked haphazardly to either side. All had black or metallic gray surfaces, with color-coded leads connecting them to each other and the time door.
To the left, a heavy table supported computer components ablaze with hundreds of blinking lights. A thick rubber mat extended from the threshold of the doorway out to a distance of perhaps twenty feet. Immediately in front of this were six padded leather chairs, positioned so as to give the impression of seats in a movie theater.
Thurran and the Major immediately settled themselves into the viewing chairs. Jackson remained standing, staring at the scene displayed on, or in, the doorway.
The scene was nearly identical to that captured on the Prime Minister's video, but from a slightly different angle. Only half the volcano was visible against the left edge of the doorway. The ferns and vegetation extended to the right, thinning to grass and reeds at the shoreline of a body of water.
In the foreground an animal grazed contentedly. It had the body shape of a hippo, with four pillar-like legs supporting it. The tip of its stout tail just touched the ground. Three massive horns protruded from its face. A high, bony plate grew from the back of its skull to flatten over its neck and shoulders.
Tucker Jackson shivered involuntarily as a surge of . . .  something . . .  ran through him. Are you afraid, or excited?  he asked himself. It was as if he were viewing someone's dream, or seeing a ghost. A sensation of raw power emanated from the doorway and the land beyond.
Someone moved to stand beside him. He averted his eyes from the doorway long enough to steal a glance. The man was as tall as Jackson, heavier, with a thick brown beard and a nest of unruly hair the same shade. He wore a pair of rumpled blue slacks along with a tan sweater. Smoke encircled his head from a well?used pipe clamped firmly between his teeth.
Hands in his pockets, the man smiled at Jackson, then nodded toward the doorway.
"Almost a bit frightening when you think about it, eh?"
His voice was deep, yet he spoke so softly Jackson could barely hear.
"That's triceratops," the man stated with another nod at the pale green creature munching happily. "You're viewing it from a distance of about forty yards. To put the beastie in proper perspective, it's at least fifteen feet long, including the tail, and must weigh six or seven tons."
He glanced quickly in the direction of Thurran, then smiled at Jackson again.
"You'd best take a pew, old son. I believe the important folk are about to speak."
He calmly walked away just as two other men entered the building through a rear door. The first of the pair was square and stocky, with a crew-cut and a rigid military bearing. 
The second had the graying hair, expensive suit, and impatient manner which, to Jackson, immediately smacked of 'politician'. This development worried him. One politician, in the form of Thurran, was tolerable. The sudden appearance of a second indicated a major infestation.
The pair held a hurried, whispered conversation with Thurran. Then the politician planted himself firmly at the edge of the rubber mat, looking expectantly at Jackson.
Tucker ambled forward to sprawl in the chair next to Major Sinclair. Thurran took a seat directly behind them. His slight nod prompted the politician to speak.
"I am Herbert Colson, Secretary of Defense," the man announced, then inclined his head slightly in the direction of his companion. "This is Mr. . .  Smith . . .  from the National Security Agency. Time is short, the situation critical, so I shall not mince words."
Colson half turned toward the time door, pointing dramatically.
"Our very survival may well depend upon this project. Where should I begin? With a review, perhaps? The world political situation is, at present, highly volatile and deteriorating rapidly."
Jackson snorted loudly, earning for himself a murderous stare from Smith, which he ignored.
Volatile? Deteriorating? What absolute bullshit! he thought  Irreversibly fucked up was more accurate.  
"The collapse of the Soviet Union created a vacuum, a void into which any number of lesser nations were more than willing to leap," Colson stated. "The Chinese did so, after NATO let down its guard.
"They first forged strong alliances with North Korea, Vietnam, and Afghanistan, then bluffed or bullied their way into 'friendships' with Turkey, Pakistan and certain unstable countries in North Africa. Following those moves, they set about enlarging their military arsenal.
"The Russians, in particular, were more than willing to sell anything, from rifles to ICBMs, in order to bolster their failing economy. For nearly a decade the Chinese bought prodigiously. What they couldn't buy they stole or copied. 
"When finally prepared, the Chinese launched attacks on several fronts simultaneously. Within two weeks they opened a salient to the northeast pushing the disorganized Russians back to the Ural Mountains. At the same time they swept southward. With their allies they quickly overran Burma, Thailand, Laos, and laid siege to Singapore.
"NATO sided at once with the Russians, but the distances involved were vast. By the time the first units were ready for action Chinese forces were probing the defenses of Volgagrad north of the Caspian Sea, and Australia had been invaded.
"It was there, I believe, that Mr. Jackson saw his first action."
Jackson grunted an agreement. Colson forged ahead.
"The Battle of Darwin was a turning point in the war for the Allies. It ground the Chinese advance to a halt. They then launched their master stroke, the invasion of North America, culminating in the attack on San Francisco. Our forces stopped them there, eventually pushing them back into the Alaskan wilderness."
Colson paused to look directly at Jackson and Major Sinclair.	"I'm told you both took part in the Battle of San Francisco, in different units, so I need not describe that bitter struggle.
"When confronted with stalemates on all major fronts, the Chinese reacted violently. They launched their missiles. In North America we lost Washington, DC, Ontario, Seattle, half the state of Texas and eight large SAC bases. European losses were just as severe, while the Russians witnessed the destruction of five of their major cities, including Moscow and Odessa. Immediate retaliation hurt the Chinese and their allies just as heavily. Both sides came close to letting fly with everything they had before the situation was brought under control.
"As I'm sure you are aware, the resulting chaos and instability forced the coalition of Canada, the United States, and Mexico into the single country of North America. The Chinese experienced considerable political turmoil as well, with the public execution of five Premiers in as many weeks.
"And so the war continues," Colson said, "in spite of what the media may proclaim. For the past year, while you were a fugitive, Mr. Jackson, there has been an uneasy truce in effect. Both sides are sort of . . .  leaning against each other, as if to gather strength. Now and then we push them a little more, but when we push too hard they commence to rattle their sabers and their missiles.
"The situation is intolerable. We cannot allow them to remain. They cannot allow themselves to be pushed back. Something has to give. Soon."
"The Chinese hate everyone" Smith announced suddenly, spitting out the words with a sneer. "The inscrutable little fuckers are planning something big!"
Smith's outburst produced a shudder in Colson, but he reluctantly nodded agreement.
"An indelicate way of stating the matter, but that is what we believe. The Chinese have agents in every country. They may already know of this Project, in spite of our stringent security. Neither we nor the Russians can withstand another onslaught of the same magnitude."
Again Colson turned toward the time door and gestured.
"I cannot overemphasize the importance of this project. We need whatever raw materials you may find there, to rearm and defend ourselves."
"And maybe as a hiding place?" Jackson suddenly suggested. "A nice, deep, secret little hole to hide in until the shooting stops?"
Major Sinclair surprised him by nudging him in the ribs with her elbow, then whispering from the corner of her mouth. "Good for you."
Colson favored Jackson with an icy stare, then glared at the Prime Minister, who merely shrugged.
"I warned you. He is shrewd."
Colson faced Jackson again, nodding slowly.
"A hiding place is a viable alternative."
"Viable for who and how many?" Jackson demanded.
"Another good one," Sinclair whispered.
"That is not a subject we are prepared to discuss at this time," Colson replied coldly. "Your mission, Mr. Jackson, is to lead Major Sinclair and her people into this place, to assist them in returning with the materials that will allow us to carry the fight to the enemy."
At that point Thurran leaned forward in his seat to whisper in Jackson's ear.
"You won't actually be the first to go," he admitted. 
A knot formed in Jackson's stomach. He knew, instinctively, what Thurran was about to say.
The Prime Minister pointed toward the time door.
"Nicholas Covere went through there."




CHAPTER V


COLORADO
MAY 31, 2021 AD
9:04 PM


They were waiting for him in the dark barracks latrine; three of them, all large men with crew-cuts, bulging muscles, and brass knuckles. But Tucker Jackson had a distinct advantage. He could see in the dark.
The smell of shoe polish on their boots and the rustle of their clothing as they breathed also alerted him to their presence. His first thought was to fashion some sort of weapon, but he decided against it.
It was not time to kill. Not yet.
Shortly before dawn the Prime Minister had called a halt to the briefings, citing the need for sleep, since nearly all parties involved had been awake most of the night. In the crisp air outside the portal building Thurran had pointed out the other structures available for their use.
The fenced compound, nestled in a Rocky Mountain valley, contained five barracks, two-story frame structures painted white with pea green trim. Jackson had one all to himself, with clean clothing and toilet articles provided for him. Major Sinclair either selected or was assigned an adjacent barracks, also vacant. One of the other structures was occupied by guards and technicians. The remaining two were reserved for the Major's platoon, when they arrived.
Jackson slept soundly through the day, waking to the insistent ring of the telephone on the nightstand.  A polite voice on the other end of the line informed him briefings would resume in one hour, and a meal was being served in the mess hall.
He'd gathered the toilet articles, then headed toward the shower, only to discover his three visitors.
Naked except for a towel around his waist, carrying a bar of soap and shaving supplies, he stepped into the dark latrine, hitting the light switch with his elbow. It failed to do anything except click loudly, announcing his arrival. He reached up to lift the patch from his left eye.
The hot water pipes glowed a dull orange in his infrared vision. The bodies of the three men exhibited a reddish hue. They moved in on him at once, two from the toilet stalls on his right,  the third from the shower area to his left.
Idiots, he thought sadly. I can see you, but you'll have to touch me to know exactly where I am.
Jackson hurled the bar of soap like a rock. It struck his first opponent squarely in the forehead. As the man faltered Jackson delivered three savage kicks in rapid succession; the first to the groin, the second to the pit of the stomach, the third just under the chin.
Without lowering his leg, he pivoted, lashing out at the second man even as the first was falling. He landed two more solid kicks, hearing the satisfying crunch of breaking bone.
In just under six seconds the encounter ended. Two men lay unconscious. The third was face down on the floor, his right arm held securely in a painful twist-lock. 
"Well now, shall we begin?" Jackson suggested to his squirming opponent. "What's your name?"
"Piss off!"
"All right, Mr. Pissoff. Who sent you?"
"Fuck you!"
Jackson calmly dislocated the man's shoulder. Waiting until the retching, moaning sounds subsided, he applied new pressure to the already injured arm.
"Now look here, Pissoff, you’re the one who's uncomfortable, not me. I can keep this up all night if I have to. I wonder how much more of this you can take before this arm becomes permanently useless. You think about that."
He waited a full thirty seconds, then twisted the arm savagely.
"Who sent you?" he hissed.
"Major . . .  Sinclair . . . " the man grunted through clinched teeth.
"Why?"
"Wanted . . .  to know . . .  how good you . . .  really are . . . "
Jackson put the man out cold with a kick to the head. He dragged all three limp bodies outside, one at a time, pitching them to the ground near a trash dumpster. Shower forgotten, he ran back inside, pulled on his clothing, then went in search of Major Sinclair.
 	He was angry, determined to confront Sinclair and get an explanation.
Finding the woman was no great feat. She made no effort to hide from him, apparently confident in the abilities of her three messengers. The light from her barracks window led Jackson to her in seconds. With his booted foot he kicked open the door to her room.
For a fraction of a second she stood there as if frozen. She wore only a pair of white silk panties and an olive-drab T-shirt. Her feet were bare, her legs long and lean, and her dark, almond eyes wide in astonishment.
He gave her credit for being a pro. An ordinary woman would have screamed if her door had been kicked in. The only sound Sinclair made was a short barking yell as she launched herself at him, hands and feet lashing out in a series of strikes meant to cripple him.
He blocked the punches and kicks, then landed a back-fisted blow to her temple that staggered her. Before she could recover he caught her solidly on the ribs with a Savate kick, then dropped low, whipping out a leg to sweep her feet from under her. She hit the floor hard, the breath knocked out of her. Before she could regain her feet, Jackson rolled her face down. 
He sat on her, holding her down with just his weight, then ran his hands over the taut mounds of her shapely bottom. She squirmed, growling in anger.
"You're a beautiful woman," Jackson said with a sigh. Then he slapped her hard on the bottom.
"I don't like being tested,"  he snarled. 
"What the hell are you talking about?" Her voice was muffled against the floor.
"Your three friends, Winkin', Blinkin', and Nerd. The ones you sent to work me over. I left them out by the trash bin. Next time send some folks who know what they're doing."
"I didn't send anyone after you."
Something in her voice made him believe she was telling the truth. He needed to see her eyes to be sure. He grabbed her by the shirt to haul her upright, slamming her back against the wall, pinning her there with his forearm across her throat.  	 "Three guys were waiting for me in the latrine. They said you sent them."
"I don't have anyone to send. My platoon isn't here yet. I don't know anyone else in this place."
She looked him directly in the eye as she spoke. He believed her.
"Son of a bitch!"
He bolted out the door, leaving the Major standing there bewildered and in pain. Once in sight of the mess hall he slowed to a walk, trying to calm himself. Sauntering casually through the door, he spied Thurran seated at a small table in the middle of the dining area, eating from a metal tray. His ever-present bodyguards sat politely at the table behind him. Jackson walked across the room, then sat in the chair opposite the Prime Minister.
"You little shit!" Jackson hissed.
The Prime Minister jumped as if something had bitten him. Before he could react further, Jackson reached out to grab him by the necktie, snatching him half way across the table.
The bodyguards reacted instantly, surging to their feet, weapons drawn. They stopped short at the sound of Jackson's voice.
"Yeah, c'mon, assholes," he snarled. "I'm in just the right mood for it."
Jackson drew back his right arm, his wrist cocked upward for a blow that would send Thurran's nose cartilage spearing into his brain. The bodyguards froze, knowing they were powerless to prevent the Prime Minister's death should Jackson decide to deliver the blow.
"Back! Back!" Thurran hissed, waving the men to their seats. Jackson held the Prime Minister for several seconds, then abruptly released him. The man sighed loudly with relief, adjusting his clothing like a bird soothing its ruffled feathers.
"Have you lost your mind?" he asked Jackson.
"No. Just my patience. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't walk out of here right now."
"I can think of several, but I'm not at all certain you would listen. Tell me what it is that has made you so angry."
"Those three guys you sent to ambush me in the latrine."
Thurran frowned, his eyes searching Jackson's face.
"Tucker, you must believe me when I tell you I did not send anyone to do anything to you."
"Then who did, and why? I already had a little discussion with Sinclair. I don't think she sent them either. What the hell is going on here, Edsel?"
"I don't know," Thurran admitted. He leaned forward, speaking softly. "I assigned you to that barracks, by yourself, because I thought you would be safe there, not to set you up. We were all tired. We'd been up most of the night and needed rest. Someone else took advantage of the situation. I'll try to find out who it was." He paused a moment, inspecting Jackson critically. " Obviously you were not 'inconvenienced' by the encounter with the three men, whoever they were."
"I needed the exercise. They need medical attention. This is making me real nervous, Edsel. I don't like cloak and dagger stuff."
"I realize you are in a rather awkward position at the moment," Thurran said. "There are people here who dislike and distrust you. Please stay calm. I'll do my best to find out who instigated this attack and protect you from further harassment."
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a dining room orderly, who placed a tray of food in front of Jackson. The savory aromas reminded him he'd not eaten in some time. He attacked the food immediately, gulping down mouthfuls of eggs and fried potatoes.
"Slow down, Tucker," Thurran said. "No one's going to take it away from you."
"Around here, you never know what the hell's going to happen next," Jackson snapped. "Look, Edsel, I don't need your protection. I can take care of myself. But I do need to know what's really going on. Who are the good guys and who are the bad guys? I need you to be honest with me. You could start by telling me the truth about Covere."
"Ahhh . . .  Covere," Thurran sighed. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Covere is a complete psychopath, with delusions of grandeur. He was recruited into the CIA from the Army. In spite of his unstable nature they found him very useful, especially for assassinations. Somehow he found out about this project. He may have been told. One night, about a month ago, he broke into this complex and went through the portal. Why he did it we don't know."
"Was he alone?"
"A man and a woman went with him," answered Thurran. "They are, as yet, unidentified. A technician spotted the three of them moving off in the direction of the volcano. They haven't been seen or heard from since."
The Prime Minister sat up in his chair, watching suspiciously as Colson entered the mess hall, heading for the coffee urn. He was followed, seconds later, by Major Sinclair. She was once again dressed in her uniform. An angry bruise was clearly visible on her temple. She walked gingerly, favoring her right side.
Colson brought his coffee and his officious manner to Thurran's table. He opened his mouth as if to begin some long harangue, but Thurran cut him off.
"Not now."
Colson huffed and snorted, finally retreating to a far table. Thurran glanced again at the limping Sinclair, then gave Jackson a withering stare.
"The next time you have one of your 'discussions' with the Major, try not to be quite so physical. The two of you are supposed to be cooperating."
"I'll keep that in mind," Jackson assured him. "You might remind her of it too."
"I will." Thurran announced, then glanced at his watch. "It's nearly time for the briefing. We don't want to be late. Tonight we learn about dragons."




CHAPTER VI

ARIZONA

2006 AD

The battered green pick-up truck screeched to a halt amid a cloud of dust and fumes ten yards in front of the cabin. Five teenage white boys stumbled out, yelling, laughing, waving liquor bottles and guns.
Manga stepped out onto the porch, one hand shading his rheumy eyes from the sun, the other holding a revolver.
A single shotgun blast shredded the old Indian's chest, lifting him bodily, slamming him back against the wall.
"I tole ya!" yelled one of the boys. "Tole ya these Apaches wasn't so tough! C'mon! Let's see what his squaw looks like!"
Tucker Jackson witnessed Manga's death from the corral where he'd gone to feed and water the horses. His first impulse was to rush at the intruders, to gut them with his knife. His instincts, and Manga's training, held him back. He could not fight them all at once.
From what he could see of them they appeared to be only a few years older than himself. They staggered drunkenly toward the cabin, waving their whiskey bottles. When they began shooting panes from the windows, Jackson heard his mother scream.
They all entered the cabin in a rush. Jackson scrambled from the corral, sprinting to the rear of the truck. He worked his way along its left side, crouching low.
I'll have to create a disturbance, he decided. A ruse to get them to come out one or two at a time. Then I'll kill them all.
He never saw the sixth boy lying in the bed of the truck beneath a tarp. He never heard the shot.
A blinding light exploded behind his eyes. A hammer-like blow to his head slammed him to the ground, where his body twitched uncontrollably. When the spasms subsided he lay on his back in the dust, unable to move or speak. He knew he was barely breathing, his heart laboring erratically. He felt he was close to death.
Although his body was failing, his mind remained curiously clear. A roaring sound filled his right ear. A gray blankness cut off the vision of his left eye.
Then a face appeared, hovering over him. He concentrated on it, memorizing every detail: the buck teeth, sandy hair, hooked nose and pimples. A second face appeared, squinting.
"What the fuck you do, Tankerdsley?"
"He . . .  he was sneaking up on you . . .  'long side the truck. I... I killed him!"
"Sure as shit did!" A booted foot slammed into Jackson's ribs. He felt nothing. "Yup. Dead as hell. C'mon inside. The young one ain't half bad."
"No!. . .  I can't . . .  this is wrong, Covere!"
"Shuddup, ya little chickenshit! If you don't wanna join the party then just stay out here in the truck."
Darkness began to descend upon Tucker Jackson, a total loss of all senses. He struggled against it, fearing it concealed death, but it overwhelmed him. When he awoke again he had no idea how long he'd been unconscious. Long enough for the five boys to do what they had come to do.
"Son of a bitch I need a drink!" said the one called Covere. "That was pretty good. Not a bad piece of ass, for an Indian. Next time I get to go first, while they're still alive. We better get back to Tucson."
Jackson forced his mind to concentrate. Tucson. They lived there. He would hunt them down.
The truck roared away, its rear wheel missing his leg by mere inches. Then a new sound came to Jackson's ear, the crackling, snapping sound of flames. They had set fire to the cabin. Smoke . . .  someone would see the smoke . . .  come to investigate . . .  find him . . . 
          *          *          *          *
He awoke slowly, fighting his way up through murky layers of unconsciousness. He lay absolutely still, allowing his senses to gather and sort information.
A bed . . .  the sounds of people . . .  hushed voices . . .  footsteps on a tile floor . . .  the faint tang of chemicals . . 	Without ever having been in one he was certain he was in a hospital.
His body felt limp, weak, numb in areas. A padded dressing nudged the back of his right ear. Cloth covered his left eye. He opened his right eye slowly, saw green tiled walls, a wooden door, a woman in a starched white uniform writing on a chart. His sigh made her jump. She rushed to the side of his bed to peer down at him, then hurried from the room.
Minutes later she returned, accompanied by another woman. This one was smaller, prettier, wearing a white coat over a pale yellow dress. The smaller woman lifted his eyelid, held his wrist, then bent over and spoke to him.
"Can you hear me? Do you understand?"
He answered with a barely perceptible nod.
"Can you tell me your name?"
He tried, producing only a wheezing croak. She held a glass of water for him. After a few sips through a straw he tried again.
"Tuck-er Jack-son," he managed.
"How do you feel? Any pain? Can you feel this? How about here?"
Her examination was thorough, her questions persistent. The ordeal exhausted him. He slept for a time. When he awoke again the attractive woman was still there, like an angel hovering over him. She gave him more water, then stood near him, resting her hip against the bed, pressing against his forearm. He could feel her warmth, her softness.
"I'm Doctor Corbin," she told him. "Someone tried to kill you, Tucker Jackson, and very nearly succeeded. You've been in a coma for five weeks. This is Marrin Central Hospital, in Tucson.
"You're an Indian, aren't you?" She reached out to gently brush the hair from his forehead, then quickly assumed her official manner once again. She spoke slowly and distinctly.
"You were shot in the head with a small caliber weapon, probably a .32. The bullet struck the thick part of your skull just behind your right ear, at an angle, and apparently ricocheted. But either a fragment of the bullet itself or a particle of bone from your skull entered your brain, and it cannot be removed without doing permanent damage. Do you understand?"
He nodded. "Will I . . .  die?"
"I don't think so," she answered. "Not if you've survived this long."
 She told him what a marvelous and unpredictable organ the human brain was, how it could sometimes absorb tremendous damage and still function normally. She went on to explain the body's reaction when invaded by foreign objects. 
"In your case this fragment in your brain appears to have been immobilized, surrounded and covered by scar tissue to prevent it from moving or doing further damage. However, it is lodged firmly against the optic nerve. Since the right side of the brain controls the left side of the body . . .  well . . .  that's why your left eye is covered. There is still an outside chance you'll regain the use of it."
          *          *          *          *
Tucker Jackson's initial recovery progressed slowly. He experienced some pain in his joints, caused by the shrinkage of the muscles and ligaments during the five weeks of coma. Within days Dr. Corbin had him up walking to regain his balance and coordination.
The wound behind his ear healed rapidly, leaving only a fingertip-sized depression covered by his hair. He suffered frequent headaches and attacks of vertigo. At times his right arm and leg became stiff, semi-paralyzed, a condition Dr. Corbin could not explain. Nor did the roaring sound in his ear diminish.
It was when they uncovered his left eye that the pain became almost unbearable. The bandage was removed and the eye examined in the semi-dark room with no ill effects. The Doctor announced that the organ appeared normal except for the permanently expanded iris and pupil. But when the curtain was drawn aside, allowing sunlight to flood the room, Jackson writhed on the bed as pain lanced through his skull.
The doctor provided him with a thick black patch to wear over the eye. It was a minor inconvenience which, from the female point of view at least, seemed only to add an air of mystery to his swarthy good looks. 
As the days passed, Jackson found himself becoming attracted to Dr. Corbin. He was pleased when she began to devote more and more time to supervising his rehabilitation.
Three weeks after awakening from his coma, Jackson was moved to a private room in an isolated wing of the hospital, allowing him easier access to the gym and the physical therapy equipment. Jan Corbin often accompanied him there in the evenings, performing her own workout while monitoring his. Jackson began to look forward to these visits. He suspected she did also.
He guessed her to be eight or ten years older than himself. She was petite, the top of her head only reaching his shoulder when they stood side by side. Her figure was intriguing, like that of a gymnast. She had short brown hair, flashing green eyes and an upturned nose. 
He told her almost nothing of his life, which seemed to only draw her closer. She, on the other hand, told him all about her life in the Midwest, medical school, her family and friends. When she asked his age he lied smoothly, telling her he was twenty. He suspected she may have wanted to believe him for her own reasons.
After six weeks Jackson suddenly regained the complete use of his right arm and leg, a fact he kept to himself. He needed to stay in the hospital, needed it as a base from which he could work. After all, who would suspect an invalid of murder?
Nine days later he awoke in the middle of the night with a maddening itch in his left eye. When he removed the protective patch, he found he could see.
Only much later, after pouring over science books brought to him by Jan Corbin from the public library, did he begin to understand the properties of infrared light and his strange ability. At first it was frustrating, physically nauseating. Few objects displayed their true, distinct outline in infrared. He had to learn to sort and decipher the fuzzy shapes. His mind was not used to perceiving objects in hues of red, orange and yellow.
He understood then why sunlight was so painful, and began to expose his sensitive left eye to it for longer and longer periods. From the inside of the eye patch he ripped layers of the heavy cloth, thinning the material to only two thicknesses. This allowed him to view the infrared spectrum even during the day. 
Eventually he became adept enough to discern small objects; insects crawling along the floor at night, a set of keys in the pocket of an intern, warmed by the proximity of the body. He also saw the concealed weapons of the FBI agents who came to question him.
They were investigating because the murders of his family members had taken place on land that was still partially owned by the federal government. Jackson claimed amnesia from his head wound, revealing nothing. But his mind was filled with agonizing memories of Manga, crumpled and bleeding, and his mother's screams.
He waited a month after their visit, to throw off all suspicion from himself. Then he began stalking his victims.




CHAPTER VII


COLORADO

MAY 31, 2021 AD

11:37 P. M.


The briefing started nearly an hour late because the Prime Minister and Major Sinclair were mysteriously absent. Jackson waited calmly in one of the padded leather chairs situated before the time door. Colson paced nervously about the room, now and then casting angry glances at his watch. Smith sat in another chair, idly paring his nails with a pocket knife.
Two white-coated technicians tended the machinery of the Portal, while two other men stood off to one side, conferring in hushed tones. One of them was the tall, bearded individual who had spoken to Jackson when he first viewed the time door. The second was a rumpled little ferret of a man, skinny, stooped, with a shock of gray hair and a beak of a nose. Between whispered consultations, he busied himself with adjusting a small viewing screen and projector.
When the Prime Minister and the Major finally arrived, it was obvious they had been engaged in a spirited discussion. Thurran was still gesturing aggressively. The woman walked past Jackson to take an empty seat down the row. He noticed she still favored her right side. 
Thurran seated himself next to Jackson, then gave a curt nod. The ferret-faced man immediately shuffled forward to address them.
"I am Professor Gingrich, a geologist with the National Oceanographic and Geodetic Survey Bureau. My purpose here tonight is to brief you on the physical conditions you might expect to encounter once you enter this . . .  area . . . " He gestured toward the Portal, then cleared his throat nervously.
"This is a private briefing to allow you to ask detailed questions," he said, nodding at Jackson and Sinclair. "The rest of the expedition's participants, the Marines and support personnel, will arrive later. They will be afforded a similar opportunity."
Turning toward the Portal, Gingrich spread his arms wide.
"What you are seeing, when you look through here," he said back over his shoulder, "is this very spot on the Earth as it appeared sixty-five million years ago."
Turning to face them again, he gave an apologetic shrug.
"That's sixty-five million years, plus or minus five million, an error factor equivalent to but a few minutes of time as compared to the Earth's four and a half billion year history."
Gingrich shuffled over to the projector. He switched it on, then began speaking rapidly while displaying slides on a screen set up to the left of the Portal. It was the first time Jackson ever heard a complete history of the formation of the earth, condensed into something less than thirty minutes.
"You are about to enter a violent world," Gingrich warned. "It has only been within the last one million years or so that the continents have slowed their drifting and the Earth has settled somewhat. Before that . . .  upheavals, constant movement and dramatic, catastrophic changes were the order.
"I predict you will encounter every weather phenomena known to man, perhaps some which are not. Nor will I rule out a violent mixture of any or all. Meteors as well, perhaps, or asteroids.
Who knows what might have fallen from the skies back then. The moon certainly bears the scars of thousands of impacts."
Gingrich finally projected onto the screen a slide of North America as he predicted it might appear from space during this ancient time. The Gulf of Mexico extended well up into Oklahoma and Arkansas. Florida was entirely under water, as was much of the west coast. The Appalachians extended to the northwest, surrounding the area of the Great Lakes. Water covered most of the Great Plains states.	A black and white dotted line had been drawn running northeast from Mexico across Texas and into Virginia. It was labeled 'Equator'.
"Direction of rotation will be west to east!” Gingrich emphasized, "at a speed somewhat greater than our present one. A typical 'day' will last about twenty-two hours." 
Jackson interrupted, frowning, shaking his head. "If that Earth is rotating west to east but we're here, rotating east to west, then how come . . . ?"
"Why isn't the land on the other side of the Portal flying past us at 2,000 miles per hour?" Gingrich finished the question for him, then answered with a shrug.	"We don't know. Keep in mind, this Portal was an accidental discovery. We don't completely understand how it works.
"Much of the vegetation we've seen thus far, as well as the behavior of the native wild life, suggests high temperatures. But the Earth is unstable," he warned. "There hasn't been enough time for it to settle into any one pattern long enough for the various types of growth and terrain to properly segregate. Palm trees may grow among oaks. Desert may exist next to swamps.
"I envy you," Gingrich admitted. "An expedition such as this is a scientist's dream. I wish you good luck."
Then the tall, bearded individual stepped forward, smiling down at Jackson.
"Hello again," he said. He looked up to address the entire group.
"Let's talk about dragons!" he suggested loudly. "My name is Hugo Lassiter. I am a Paleozoologist. That translates into 'Doctor of Really Old Bones'. I dig up fossil skeletons, study them, reassemble them when possible. Fossils of monsters and dragons . . .  dinosaurs! The creatures who ruled the Earth for 140 million years!"
Lassiter conducted his briefing with great vigor and enthusiasm. He moved and spoke like an actor on a stage. Everyone in the room seemed caught up in the man's passion for his subject. They leaned forward in their seats while Lassiter projected slides of various creatures, explaining their probable habits and habitats.
"Any one of these dinosaurs, even the largest, could support four times its own weight on just one leg! So don't make the mistake of thinking of them as slow and lumbering. They will be strong, agile, and alert."
It was Major Sinclair who asked the question on the minds of all of them. "Are these things reptiles or mammals?"
"Both!" was Lassiter's unscientific reply. "I'm sorry, but that's the best answer I can give you. They exhibit characteristics of both groups, which is frustrating but not unheard of, even in modern day animals. The platypus, for example, is a fur bearing mammal which possesses a leathery bill and lays eggs.
"In recent years we have shifted our focus from the reptilian appearance of the dinosaurs to concentrate on the scientific facts. For example, a reptile controls its body temperature by absorbing heat from the sun. Now in order for a ten?ton lizard to absorb enough heat to counteract the effects of just one cool night, it would have to lie in the sun for anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours straight.
"So we suspect these are mammalian reptiles, a sort of 'missing link', if you will, capable of performing many mammalian functions, including regulating their body temperature. The shark possesses this ability to a certain extent even today. I hope to prove my theory once we enter this fascinating land."
"We?" Jackson raised an eyebrow.
"Well . . .  I had hoped to accompany you," Lassiter admitted sheepishly.
Jackson considered the prospect. "I'll have to think about that."
 He glanced at Major Sinclair, who merely shrugged, apparently deferring to his judgment. Lassiter pouted for a moment, then continued his lecture.
"All dinosaurs should be considered dangerous," he warned, "even if unintentionally. Their size alone makes them formidable. Any animal, if cornered or threatened, will defend itself or its young. The plant-eaters will possess large grinding teeth, strong jaw muscles, and massive tails.
"The carnivores will be ugly, aggressive, and powerful. Most, we believe, will hunt by sight, by the movement of the prey. Our observations indicate some may have developed a night vision, like felines, enabling them to hunt in the dark."
"Will any of them be poisonous, like snakes?" asked Jackson.
"We don't think so," answered Lassiter. "True poison glands and hollow fangs are a rather recent development, say within the last million years or so. There may be some, like the present day Gila Monster, who have a poisonous saliva. Grooves in the teeth would probably carry the poison into the wound. Others may have the ability to project a poison by spitting. In that case it would have to be absorbed through the mucus membranes of the eyes and nasal passages.
"However," he continued, "we assume most of these so-called hunters will be scavengers as well, living on carrion when available, making their bite extremely septic.
"So far I've only talked about land-dwelling creatures," Lassiter said, shaking a warning finger. "In the water it could be another matter altogether. Remember, that's where life is supposed to have begun. We don't know what might live there."
Lassiter returned to his slide show, describing other dinosaurs, some reportedly photographed through the Portal.
"Through fossils we've identified some six hundred species of dinosaurs. Those were merely the ones polite enough to die where their bones could be preserved. There are probably thousands we haven't seen, and in fact we've already photographed some two dozen unknown until now.
"It is after 1:00 AM," Lassiter said after a glance at his watch. "I suggest we stop here and begin again shortly after dawn, when we can more easily view the creatures through the Portal. I'm told the expedition will begin in two days. Is that true?"
"No." answered Jackson immediately. "We need a lot more time than that. I'd like a month, but since this project seems so important . . .  we might be ready in a week."
An angry, red-faced Smith jumped up from his chair to stand over Jackson, waving his pocket knife.
"You'll do exactly what you're told, punk, and there won't . . .  "
What happened next was almost too fast for anyone to see clearly. Jackson lashed out with his right foot, connecting solidly with Smith's crotch. A sweeping arc with the same leg caught the inside of Smith's wrist, sending the knife clattering to the concrete. Twisting in his chair, Jackson swung his leg a third time, sweeping Smith's feet out from under him. He landed heavily on his back. Before he could recover, Jackson rolled him face down, put a knee against his spine, then began twisting his neck at an unnatural angle. Smith turned purple, drooling from his mouth. The tendons in his neck began to pop.
Colson ran around the chairs as if to come to Smith's aid.  Major Sinclair stood up, catching him neatly in the pit of the stomach with her elbow. He sank into a chair, wheezing. 
"How dare you lay hands on me!"
"I'm saving your life, sweetie," she said, patting his sweating face. She pointed to the gurgling Smith. "You'd best keep that asshole on a leash. A real short one."
Smith grunted like a pig, his body jerking spasmodically as Jackson continued slowly twisting his head.
"That's enough, Tucker," the Prime Minister said softly. "You've made your point."
Jackson reluctantly released his hold. He managed to step on the back of Smith's neck, grinding his face into the floor as he turned to face Thurran.
As he did so, a slight movement at the rear of the building caught his eye. A man stood in the shadows. Jackson got the impression of someone tall, gaunt, with a face like a skull. Their eyes met for only a second before the unidentified observer slipped quietly out a rear door.
"We'll need some time to get ready," Jackson explained to Thurran. "We all smell like what we eat, like beef. The Army learned that lesson the hard way, back during the war in Vietnam. The VC didn't have to see the Americans, they could smell them!  How long do you think any of our people will survive among those predators, smelling like raw hamburger?"
Both Thurran and Lassiter nodded agreement. Jackson turned to the Major.
"We'll have to sweat it out of all of us," he told her. "Run the platoon every day, full packs, rifles, you know the drill. Don't let them drink anything but water. And absolutely no beef or pork. Fish, poultry, lots of vegetables, especially rice."
"I think we'll need some special weapons too," Sinclair said by way of agreement. "Doesn't look like a rifle bullet will have much effect on those monsters. What do you think of cross bows?"
"I like it," said Jackson. "With steel shafted arrows, so they drive in deep. Even better would be a glass vial mounted just behind the arrow head, that would shatter and release a fast acting poison, like cyanide crystals. And pump shotguns, with slugs instead of buckshot."
Smith struggled to his feet, clutching his sore neck, blood running from his nose and lips.
"We're not finished with this, muthafucker!" he hissed at Jackson.
"Yes we are, motherfucker!" Thurran's voice had the sharpness of one used to giving commands. Every one in the room was surprised at the strength and authority in those few words.
"It's all over . . .  finished . . .  as of right now, understand?" The Prime Minister stood up, advancing toward Smith. "You exceeded your authority and got what you deserved. Do it again and I'll have you arrested. Better still, I'll just let Jackson finish you."
He turned his angry gaze upon Colson. "I hold you personally responsible for his actions."
Neither Colson nor Smith made any reply. They left the building quickly. Thurran, too, seemed to be in a sudden hurry, as if embarrassed by his own outburst.
"We'll meet here at sunrise, as Dr. Lassiter suggested. Goodnight."
Jackson waited until Major Sinclair left the building, then followed her. Near the center of the compound she turned warily to face him.
"You're hurt," he said without preamble. He took her arm, pushing her into the shadows of a nearby doorway. "Open your shirt."
When she raised her fists as if to attack him, he grabbed her wrists, shoving her back against the wall. "We did that once already. You lost. Do you really want to try again?"
She sighed, shaking her head. He released her with a warning. "Stop being an ass," he said. "I only want to help."
She stood stiffly while he pulled her shirt from her pants and unbuttoned it. He pulled up her T-shirt, reaching beneath it to run his fingers along the smooth skin and tight muscles of her abdomen. Twice she twitched in pain as he worked his way along her ribs.
"Relax," he told her. "Now take a deep breath and let it out slowly."
Again his fingers worked along her ribs. He could feel the firm, full weight of her breast against the back of his hand. He thought she shivered slightly when he brushed against the nipple. He found the spot he was searching for, pressing down with his thumb. The woman twitched again, then let out her breath as he withdrew his hands. She stretched, gingerly rubbing the tender area.
"That's much better," she sighed. "What did you do?"
"It's just a matter of finding the right nerves and adjusting them. If you hadn't attacked me, I wouldn't have to make repairs now."
"What the hell was I supposed to do? You came busting into my room. I thought you were going to kill me."
"I made a mistake. I'm sorry," he said as they began walking slowly, side by side, toward her barracks. "I thought you sent those guys after me. Then I thought Thurran did it. Now I'm not sure who was behind it. Did you see the man watching us from the shadows in the back of the building tonight?"
"No. Who was he?"
"No idea. Real tall, with the skin on his face all stretched tight. Made me think he'd been burned."
"You think he's directly involved in this?"
Jackson could only shrug.
"Why would those three guys tell you I sent them?" she asked.
"To protect someone else, I'm sure. And maybe to stir up something between us, keep us from getting too close."
 They walked in silence for a few moments, then he reached out to touch her arm.
"Thanks for your help tonight," he said. "Slugging Colson was probably not the politically correct thing for you to do, but I appreciated it. What made you change your mind about me? Or have you?"
"Maybe I have," she admitted. "At first I thought you were some nut case they’d unloaded on me. Someone I could never turn my back on, who would desert first chance he got or fuck up and get us all killed. I was pissed. Then the Prime Minister and I had a long talk."
She smiled ruefully, the moonlight reflecting from her small, even teeth.
"Actually Thurran did most of the talking. Yelling sometimes. He chewed my ass for being an 'unreasonable bitch'. He explained a lot of things to me, about you, your family, what happened to you . . . " 
She stopped and looked up at him. "I'm not sure I approve of what you did, but at least I understand why. Now I know what motivates you, what kind of man you are. I think I can trust you. Can I?"
"Maybe not entirely," he admitted with a smile. "But where our survival is concerned, I am definitely on your side. What did you think of Gingrich?"
She put her hands in her pockets as they began walking again.
 	"Gingrich is a strange man," she said after a moment. "Intelligent, but unhappy, unpleasant . . . "  She stopped suddenly, putting a hand on his arm. ". . . and frightened!"
"How about Lassiter?"
"Oh, he's a pip. I like him. I think we should take him with us. He'll be fun to have around."
"Until he wanders off and gets himself eaten by something," Jackson said. "Sooner or later they'll want to send some scientific people anyway. We might as well take him, and any others you think are okay. I leave it up to you."
When they reached the steps of her barracks she turned to face him, again rubbing her bruised ribs.
"Thanks again for the repairs. Is that how you get all your women to undress, by beating them up first?"	She smiled, putting her hand on his chest. "Goodnight, Tucker Jackson. I'd tell you to sleep with one eye open, but . . . "
Impulsively she reached up to touch the patch over his left eye. He grabbed her wrist in a painful grip, but slowly loosened his hold, allowing her to brush her fingertips over the fabric.
"It makes you look interesting," she whispered. "Sort of rakish and intriguing. I think beneath your sullen, macho exterior, Tucker Jackson, is a man who is actually very nice. I could get to like you, which might not be a good idea. Very unprofessional, and distracting."
She started to walk up the stairs, abruptly turning back to face him.	"On the other hand, maybe that's not such a bad idea after all, since the odds of us surviving this little jaunt seem to be getting lower all the time. You think about it."
 Before Jackson could voice a reply she looked around quickly to be sure no one was watching, then kissed him lightly on the lips. Without another word she ran up the steps and into the building.




CHAPTER VIII


COLORADO

JUNE 2, 2021 AD

6:09 P. M.

Gingrich slipped the note unobtrusively into Jackson's hand as they entered the mess hall for the evening meal.
The geologist hurried through the serving line to collect his tray of food. He left the room quickly, without speaking to anyone.
Jackson sauntered to a table near the wall and sat down. 
Holding the note in his palm, he read it quickly.

storage room d
portal building
midnight
life and death

He tucked the scribbled message into the waist band of his pants just as an orderly appeared to deliver his meal. He ate slowly, mulling over the events of the preceding two days.
The hours had been filled with an almost feverish activity. The dawn meeting in front of the Portal had allowed Major Sinclair and him to view the sunrise over the 'target area'. They’d also seen the profusion of creatures active during the daylight hours.
At the same time the Major's platoon arrived by helicopter, along with crates of equipment and supplies. Other aircraft arrived at all hours of the day and night, bringing in special items, including two dozen cross bows, shotguns, and large quantities of medical supplies.
Jackson divided his time between uncrating and sorting equipment and assisting the Major in preparing her troops.
The men and women of the elite unit complained loudly about the unusual physical exercise planned for them. All objections ceased abruptly once they viewed the creatures on the other side of the Portal. Jackson accompanied them on their forced marches and ten mile runs, in order to maintain his own physical condition. He also went along just to watch Ronnie Sinclair.
She was an excellent soldier, as well as an exciting and sensual young woman. Watching her run was an experience in itself, especially because of the way parts of her moved beneath her T-shirt.
Where initially she had avoided Jackson, she now sought him out, requesting his assistance and advice. She sat with him for several hours before the Portal, leaning lightly against his shoulder, while they discussed preparations and precautions. She smiled often, touched him, even contrived to rub herself against him on several occasions. Jackson was convinced that, in spite of her own objections, she would be more than willing to surrender herself to him in bed or any other secluded place they might find.
Now, however, it appeared there might not be time for any such encounters. The note from Gingrich suggested imminent danger.
He finished his dinner, then wandered slowly into the compound courtyard. Sinclair was supervising the unpacking of the final shipment of equipment. He wondered if she had also received a cryptic summons, or if he should trust her enough to tell her of his own.
"You get a message from Gingrich?" she whispered from the corner of her mouth.
"Uh-huh," he grunted. He bent to pick up and inspect a weapon.
"Think we should go?"
"Uh-huh," he repeated.
"Talkative bastard today, aren't you?"
"Kiss my ass," he suggested.
"That might be fun."
He looked at her sharply, saw her blush, but her eyes were locked onto his. He saw an invitation there.
"Meet me in my barracks just before midnight. We'll go together," he instructed. "And be careful. This doesn't feel right."
          *          *          *          *
Lying prone on the roof of the barracks, Tucker Jackson scanned the darkened compound with the infra-red vision of his left eye, looking for the tell-tale reddish-orange shapes denoting human bodies.
He saw nothing unusual. No one was about, save the distant guards who patrolled the perimeter. This merely added to his sense of unease. 
A slight movement in the shadows caught his attention. He watched a shape he was certain was Major Sinclair glide silently across an open space and in through the door of his own barracks. Still he waited, as quiet and motionless as the night itself. Nothing else moved.
Ten minutes later he replaced the patch over his eye. Crawling to the edge of the roof, he lowered himself until he could swing in through an open second story window. His bare feet made no sound as he padded through the dark building. He took the stairs into the lower squad bay.
A red blob in the darkness, visible even through the patch at such close range, showed him where the woman was hiding. He was on her before she could move, his right arm encircling her upper body, mashing her breasts and pinning her arms.  He clamped his left hand tightly over her mouth. She stiffened as if to resist. He pushed her up against the wall.
"You're late!" he whispered.
She went limp in his arms. When he removed his hand from her mouth she let out a long sigh.
"How the hell did you sneak up on me like that?"
"Goat's milk. Makes me light on my feet."
"Shit!"
His right arm still held her upper body. He could feel the gentle rise and fall of her breasts in time with her breathing.  She wiggled her bottom against his groin, leaning her head back onto his shoulder. "Ummmm... we gonna do it right here, Tucker? Standing up? That's kinky!"
"Keep your mind on business, woman."
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward the door. She followed him outside, through the shadows and into the building which housed the Portal.
The device itself was shut down for the night. The building appeared deserted, its interior illuminated by three bare overhead lamps flickering weakly. They skirted the Portal and found storeroom D. Jackson knocked softly.
Almost immediately the door opened a fraction of an inch. Gingrich inspected them with a glaring eye, then pulled the door completely open.
"Quickly! Quickly!" the geologist hissed, propelling them inside with a brisk shove. He locked the door behind them. "So little time... so much to say... sit!... sit and watch... listen!"
Jackson and Sinclair hastily seated themselves in two metal folding chairs situated in the middle of the dusty storeroom. A small television and video tape player were positioned atop a packing crate in front of the chairs. Gingrich sweated freely, in spite of the coolness of the night. He fluttered about like a bird, flapping his arms, shaking his head.
"It's all a lie, you know. All of it! For years... decades!... they've lied to us, subverted the truth, twisted the facts to suit their own purposes. They killed those who would have revealed their secrets!" 
He stopped abruptly and bent over to whisper.
"Even the history we're taught in school, the 'scientific facts', have been changed so we wouldn't find out! Project Balefire was only a small part of their insidious plot. It started long before that, back when the world first discovered fossils!"
He turned his back on them to activate the TV and video player. Sinclair gave an exasperated sigh and started to rise. Jackson pushed her back down into her chair, shaking his head.
"Lies!" Gingrich almost shouted, as he turned to face them once again. "All because of what they call 'national security'. Fuck security! It's greed and fear that motivate them!"
He shook his finger as if scolding naughty children.
"Haven't you ever wondered why so many things seem to have no logical explanation? Have you read about Atlantis, or UFOs, or prehistoric mammoths frozen so completely their flesh is still edible today? What about the Bermuda Triangle, the pyramids, the nuclear explosion in Siberia in 1908? Our dating system, even carbon dating, is wrong... wrong! The Earth's history is much shorter, much more compact, and much closer to the present than they want you to know!"
Gingrich suddenly dropped to one knee in front of Jackson.
"Nicholas Covere," he whispered.
Jackson growled deep in his throat. Gingrich nodded with satisfaction.
"Yes...yes... I know about you and Covere. But what you don't know is that Covere did not suddenly take it upon himself to go through the Portal. He was sent! And this is why. Watch!"
Gingrich pressed a button to start the video tape. The scene displayed was another view through the Portal, with the volcano to one side. No animals were present. Nothing moved. For nearly a full minute Jackson and Sinclair stared at the screen in silence. Then they both abruptly sat up straight in their chairs.
"Did you see? Did you?" Gingrich asked breathlessly.
"I saw," answered Jackson. "A reflection of sunlight from something in the air."
Gingrich clasped his hands together as if praying, nodding his head.
"A reflection from a metallic surface in the air... 65 million years ago!" 




CHAPTER IX


ARIZONA

2006 AD

Eddie Tankerdsley died first. Jackson found him by looking him up in the phone book.
The name 'Tankerdsley' was fairly unique, enough so that only three were listed. The first turned out to an elderly woman. The second number was reported as non-working. When he investigated, Jackson found the listed residence empty. The third belonged to Eddie's family.
Five exhausting nights of searching passed before Jackson caught up with his victim. He feigned sleep in his hospital bed each night until the nurses completed their 11:00 PM rounds.  Then he would slip out the window into the darkness.
He spent the first night simply gathering equipment: a pair of black pants stolen from a backyard clothesline, a dark gray sweater pilfered from an unlocked car, and tennis shoes removed from an unconscious derelict in an alley.
The shoes he wore only when riding the stolen bicycle he used as transportation. For silent, close-in work he preferred the barefoot style of the Apache, with the shoes strung by their laces around his neck.
By burgling a construction trailer he acquired a flashlight, hatchet, a pair of heavy gloves, several yards of stout rope, and a canvas bag with drawstring neck. He also took a pair of long handled pliers, a handful of rusty nails and a hunting knife.
During the second, third, and fourth nights Jackson watched the Tankerdsley home. Retrieving the bicycle from its hiding place in a dense thicket, he pedaled the four miles to the quiet residential neighborhood where Eddie lived with his parents in a two story frame house. A huge oak tree grew in the adjacent lot. From its branches Jackson could see both the front and rear of Eddie's house.
The initial results of his surveillance were dismal. The house was dark and silent, with no traffic in or out. Twice he thought he detected movement from within, a blurred shape passing a curtained window. He did not feel certain enough to attempt an entry.
Late on the fourth night his vigilance was rewarded. A car pulled into the driveway and a young man got out.
"See ya, Eddie!" someone yelled. The boy waved at the retreating vehicle.
"Yeah. Same time tomorrow night, huh guys?"
Jackson watched Eddie insert a key to activate the garage door opener. He counted the seconds between the time Eddie disappeared inside and the door began its descent.
The next night he was ready, hidden in the shrubbery at the corner of the garage. The wait seemed interminable. He fretted silently, fingering the handle of the knife protruding from his waist band. When at last a car deposited Eddie in the driveway, Jackson tensed, breathing slowly to control his pounding heart.
As the garage door rose on its metal tracks Jackson slipped from the bushes. He darted inside a fraction of a second after Eddie. Skirting the vehicle parked inside, he came up behind the boy just as he was reaching for the button to lower the door.
Jackson slammed the heel of his right hand into Eddie's skull just behind his right ear, knocking the boy out cold. He dragged him out into the moonlight, tying him tightly with the rope before hefting him up over his shoulder and carrying him off into the night.
          *          *          *          *
Jackson squatted near the fire, looking at the unconscious form of Eddie Tankerdsley. He'd tied the boy to a giant cactus, his arms pulled back around the plant, wrists bound securely with rope. Eddie was in a sitting position, his legs stretched out in front of him, a rag stuffed into his mouth.
As the boy regained consciousness he struggled briefly against his bonds, moaning as the cactus spines pierced his flesh. Jackson remained near the fire, its feeble light illuminating a small circle of sand and scrub brush. Then he stood up and walked over to jerk the rag from Eddie's mouth.
"What the fuck is goin' on, man?" Eddie rasped.
Jackson made no reply. He merely squatted down before the fire once again.
"Godammit, Geronimo, this shit ain't funny! You better let me go!"
Still Jackson stared silently, watching Eddie glance around desperately.
"What the hell we doin' out here in the desert?" he asked lamely. "How'd we get here?"
Almost in slow motion Jackson raised an arm and pointed. Eddie turned his head enough to catch sight of the battered sedan parked a few yards away.
"That looks like old man Kirkendahl's car, our neighbor across the alley. How'd you get it?"
"I stole it," Jackson replied softly. "Apaches are good at stealing things."
"Who the fuck are you?" Eddie demanded.
Jackson shook his head sadly.
"I'm disappointed in you, Eddie. White men should have the courtesy to remember the people they try to kill.
"Think back," Jackson crooned softly. "Well over a year ago now. You and the others, drinking, driving out into the desert. The shack and the old Indian, the young girl, the woman...."
"Oh, Jesus!" Eddie moaned.
"I was the one who tried to sneak around the truck."
"Son of a bitch, I killed you!"
"You'll wish you had!" Jackson snarled.
"Oh shit! Oh Jesus!" A dark stain appeared on the crotch of Eddie's pants.
Jackson produced two wooden stakes which he pounded into the hard desert sand. He tied each of Eddie's ankles to a separate stake, talking softly while he worked.
"What I want from you, Eddie, is information. How fast you give it to me will determine how much pain I give you in return. I want the names and addresses of all the others who were with you that day. The others who massacred my family."
"Fuck you, man! Fuck you!" Eddie spat. "I ain't gonna rat on my friends!"
Jackson whipped out his knife and slit Eddie's right pant leg all the way to the crotch.
"I think you will," he whispered.
Eddie screamed and yelled, jerking at the ropes which bound him in spite of the vicious pain from the cactus spines.
Jackson retreated to the fire, reaching in with a pair of pliers to withdraw a glowing hot nail.
"The names, Eddie!" he snarled. "You murdered my father, raped and murdered my mother and my...woman. Raped them even after they were dead! I want the names!"
"Fuck you! Jesus help me! Fuck you!"
Jackson drove the red hot nail into Eddie's leg, wedging it beneath the boy's right knee cap.
After the second nail, both Eddie's tongue and his bowels loosened considerably, forcing Jackson to sit upwind while he wrote down the names and addresses. By then Eddie was a pitiful sight. His face was a sickly gray from pain and fear. He'd bitten through his lip, the blood running down his chin to mix with the vomit and other excrement fouling his clothing.
For just a brief instant Jackson felt a small measure of pity for the boy. The emotion vanished just as quickly when he thought of his own pain and suffering.
"Lemme go, man!" Eddie pleaded. "Please don't kill me!"
"I won't kill you, Eddie," Jackson assured him. He pulled on a pair of gloves, then scooped up a canvas bag resting on the sand near the fire. Something rustled ominously within it. Jackson nodded with satisfaction.
"They're warm enough now."
"Who?" Eddie whimpered. "Who's warm enough? What?"
"My friends from the desert," Jackson explained. "My instruments of justice."
Eddie opened his mouth to yell but Jackson moved too swiftly. Before the boy could make a sound Jackson whipped the bag over Eddie's head, jerking the drawstring tight about his throat.
Eddie's body spasmed, convulsing so violently the cactus was nearly uprooted. His legs jerked and thrashed. A muffled, gurgling moan came from within the bag.
Squatting patiently on his haunches, Jackson waited until the boy's convulsions grew weaker, then finally subsided. He stood up, smothered the fire with sand, and walked away.
Inside the canvas bag, the fourteen deadly black desert scorpions continued to sting Eddie Tankerdsley's grotesquely swollen face.
          *          *          *          *
He knew she was in the room waiting for him.
As he slipped in through the window just before dawn his infra-red sight picked up the faint, fading outlines of her footprints on the tile floor. He followed them to the bathroom door, jerking it open to confront her.
Dr. Jan Corbin stood there, shoes in her hand, staring up at him, an array of emotions evident from her expression. For several long moments they stood silently, their bodies only inches apart. Then she dropped her shoes, tentatively reaching out to touch him.
"Oh, Tucker, what have you done?"
He kissed her then, very gently. Her eyes widened in surprise and her body stiffened. She drew back, trembling.
"Please don't," she whispered.
He kissed her again, his arms encircling her waist. She returned the kiss, her mouth open to accept his tongue.
"Don't..,”  she breathed once again, but her body had already betrayed her. Jackson ripped open her blouse, scattering buttons across the floor. She pushed his sweater up and pressed her breasts against him, while her fingernails raked his back.
Jackson deftly removed the rest of her clothing as they continued to kiss. When she was naked, he scooped up her lithe body in his arms, carrying her to the bed. Then he shed his own clothing.
He gently positioned himself atop her. She kissed him furiously, fingers twined in his hair, biting his shoulder to keep from crying out when he entered her. She wrapped her legs tightly around him while he thrust into her. They reached their peak together. Afterwards they collapsed on the bed in a sensuous tangle of arms and legs.
Sometime later she sighed and slipped out from under him to pad quietly across the room and gather her clothing. She did not speak, did not even look at him until she was dressed and at the door. Then she turned, staring at him with a curious expression, finally shaking her head sadly before walking out.
          *          *          *          *
Tucker Jackson slept fitfully through the day, waking often,  expecting at any moment to have police officers or hospital officials barge into his room. But they did not appear. Neither did Jan Corbin. 
Late in the evening he went to the therapy room and found her there, exercising with a fierce determination. He began his own workout without a word. The tense silence between them became almost tangible.
Finally, she stopped. She toweled the sweat from her body, then walked across the room to lock the door. Jackson sat on the mats, watching as she went to a far corner and extracted a newspaper from beneath her purse. She dropped it in front of him.
The bold print headlines announced the discovery of a body in the desert some miles outside the city. The article went on to describe the apparent murder of a local youth named Eddie Tankerdsley.
Jackson tossed the paper aside, then held out his hand. She gave him a long, searching look. Timidly she reached out, allowing him to pull her down beside him. She knelt, stripping the T-shirt from her body, then molded herself against him.
He cupped and fondled her firm breasts, kissing her neck and shoulders. When he stood up to remove his own clothing she knelt before him, pulling his shorts down. Sighing with pleasure she engulfed him, licking and sucking until he nearly lost control. Then she lay back, drawing him down, guiding him into her. She wrapped herself around him.
When they were finished, he held her close. She rested her head on his shoulder for a few moments. Then she stood up, taking him by the hand to lead him to the shower, where they washed away the evidence of their coupling.
Drying her hair with a towel, she suddenly spoke to him for the first time.
"Do you want to come home with me?"
"I'd like that," he told her.
"I would too," she admitted with a sly smile. "Floors and benches aren't very comfortable."
          *          *          *          *
Several hours later, in the middle of Corbin's king sized bed, they made love again. He lay on his back while she mounted him, impaling herself slowly, then grinding down onto him. He palmed her breasts, rubbing her nipples with his thumbs until they were hard as berries.
"More...." she whispered, licking his neck. "Deeper... harder... God, I can't get enough... fill me with it...."
He thrust up into her and she shivered, arching her back. Their bodies slapped together. He licked the perspiration from between her breasts. A shuddering climax seized her. She lay still, resting. Then they rolled over so that he was above her. 
"You're a devil, Tucker Jackson!" she sighed, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Now, show me how the Apaches do it. I'm your woman. Take me hard..."
Afterwards, as they lay together, Jackson told her everything, even describing his new abilities. When he started to tell her of his plans for avenging his family she stopped him, fingertips on his lips.
"I don't want to know," she whispered. "That way I won't ever have to lie. Don't even tell me how old you really are. The only thing that matters is us, and the time we have together."
She laughed, running her fingers through his hair.
"This is scandalous behavior for a woman my age... a respectable doctor too. Stop that!"
She gently disengaged his lips from the nipple of her left breast.
"I can't think when you do that," she admitted. "You can't stay in the hospital much longer. Eventually you'll give yourself away. So we'll move you in here. I have an extra room. But that's all I'll do to help you. And I don't want to know anything."




CHAPTER X


COLORADO

JUNE 3, 2021 AD

12:47 AM

STORAGE ROOM D

Tucker Jackson felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise as he viewed a replay of the video tape. Once again there was the unmistakable flash of sunlight reflected from something high above the ground.
"Have there been any more of these... sightings?" he asked.
"Only this one," Gingrich replied. "But computer enhancement of this tape shows the object to be circular, approximately forty five feet in diameter, at an altitude of three thousand feet. It is traveling in excess of two hundred miles an hour."
Jackson leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh.	"That hardly leaves any doubt, does it? I think I understand now at least part of what you were..."
"Ranting?" Gingrich supplied.
"Yeah," Jackson admitted sheepishly. "...what you were ranting about when we came in. Unexplained circumstances, and secrets."
"Oh, shit!" Ronnie Sinclair looked at them with wide eyes. "You two are talking like this thing was some kind of flying saucer!"
"I think it is," Jackson replied softly. He looked at Gingrich again. "Covere was sent to find this?"
"Not just to find it," the geologist corrected. "He was given specific instructions. Any intelligent life forms he may encounter are to be subverted to our side or exterminated!”
"Our side? In the war?" Sinclair raised her eyebrows.
"Some of those 'resources' Colson wants us to bring back," Jackson told her. He directed another question at Gingrich. "How do you know all this?"
"Don't ask!" the man replied sharply. "Believe me, it's better you don't know. But I have friends. There are many of us who have become suspicious of the government's motives, intentions, and activities. Power makes men greedy, capable of anything, including murder and treason. The systematic killing of intelligent extraterrestrial beings has been taking place for years! You yourself are being poisoned. Did you know that?"
Gingrich continued, hardly pausing for breath. "Of course you are. It must be obvious to you. Did you truly believe you meant so much to this expedition that your own meals would be brought to you, while everyone else had to go through the serving line? They merely want to be certain you get the right tray... the poisoned one!"
"What kind of poison?" Jackson growled.
"A-Z-9. Are you familiar with it?"
Jackson nodded, but Sinclair shook her head. Gingrich launched into an explanation. "It's an insidious chemical, a cumulative poison stored in the brain stem. When a fatal dosage has been ingested it destroys all the neurons connecting the voluntary muscles. The victim cannot move, speak, or initiate any physical action whatsoever. The mind, which remains unaffected, becomes trapped within the hulk of the useless body. They say the victim goes insane after a while. There is really no way to tell for certain, except for the drooling.
"The object of all this, of course, is to control you, Mr. Jackson. They don't trust you at all. They will have an antidote, which they will wave in front of you like a carrot before a donkey, to force you to bend to their will."
"They? They?" Sinclair nearly screamed. "Who the hell are 'they'? You mean Smith?"
Gingrich dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.
"Smith is an ignorant lackey, an arrogant and dangerous killer. He only jumps when his chain is jerked, and Colson does most of the jerking. He's the dangerous one, because he has ambitions of his own. But Colson is also a puppet. The trail ultimately leads back to a man named Seaton Mistakola, the head of the National Security Agency. He was here the night I gave my briefing. Did you see him, standing in the shadows at the back of the room?"
"The man with the face like a Halloween mask?" Jackson asked.
"That was him," said Gingrich. "He was horribly burned some years ago in an assassination attempt. He has his eyes on everything and everyone."
"And Thurran?"
"A naive little man," Gingrich said sadly. "A patriot, possibly an ally, if he lives long enough. But his power is being undermined even as we speak, Mr. Jackson. He may not be able to protect you or himself much longer. I would measure his time in days, perhaps only hours.
"Take care yourself, Major," he advised Sinclair. "You have spies, agents, traitors among your own troops. Others will be sent in, after you and Jackson have cleared the way. You will be immediately executed, shot out of hand, should you interfere."
Gingrich glanced at his watch, then looked about furtively, as if expecting spies to materialize within the room.
"We have been here far too long. You must go now. I will destroy this tape. We will never speak like this again."
He held out a small glass vial to Jackson.
"Should you doubt what I've told you, place a few drops of this on your food at the next meal. A purple color will indicate the presence of the poison. I don't know who, and wouldn't tell you if I did, but someone in the expedition will be a friend, and will have an antidote with which to inject you once you are all safely through the portal. Good luck."
          *          *          *          *
 	At the main door of the building Jackson and Sinclair paused to survey the dimly lit compound. Sinclair leaned in close to whisper in his ear.
"Did you know... about the poison?"
"It never occurred to me," he admitted. "I trusted Thurran, and I figured anyone else who wanted me dead would come at me more or less directly. I underestimated the enemy, a stupid mistake."
She watched him reach up with his left hand and flip the patch up.
"You can you see out of that eye?"
"Infra-red," he said with a nod. "I can detect body heat. I'll tell you all about it sometime."
"Shit! That's freaky!" She suppressed a shudder.
Then they were outside, flitting silently from shadow to shadow. Two thirds of the way back to her barracks, Sinclair suddenly realized Jackson was no longer with her. She started to retrace her steps and search for him, then thought better of it. Surely there was a reason for his sudden disappearance. The reason made itself evident just as she rounded the last corner.
The man stepped out of the shadows so suddenly she almost ran into him. She noticed he was tall, thin, with a pock-marked face and hair cut so short he appeared almost bald. He favored her with a sneering, lopsided grin, then raised a pistol to her head.
A body flew out of the darkness, smashing feet first into the gunman's chest, slamming him to the ground and separating him from his weapon. He recovered quickly, struggling to one knee, but Jackson was quicker. A crunching kick to the jaw deposited the gunman on his back again. Before he could start to get up Jackson stomped down hard on his balls, then dropped on him with both knees, crushing his ribs. He grabbed the man by the hair and chin and, with a violent twist, broke his neck. The bones gave way with the sound of snapping twigs. His eyes glazed over, his body convulsed once, then sagged. A thin line of blood ran from the corner of his mouth.
Sinclair managed to recover the man's pistol. She advanced out of the darkness, holding the weapon in both hands. Jackson snatched it away from her.
"He's already very dead!" he hissed.
"So what!" she panted. "The fucker was gonna blow my brains out. I wanna get even! Who is he, one of Smith's you think?"
"Probably," Jackson said as he hefted the pistol to inspect it in the moonlight. "A government model Berreta, with a silencer. An assassin's gun. Go up to your room. I'll get rid of him and meet you there."
          *          *          *          *
Jackson slipped quietly into Ronnie Sinclair's room, closed the door and immediately removed his shirt.
"Take off your clothes!" he ordered. The woman sighed with disappointment.
"It would be much more interesting if we undressed each other..."
Jackson reached out with both hands and ripped open the front of her shirt.
"Okay! Okay!" she protested. "I'm undressing! See me?"
In seconds she was naked save for her panties. Jackson pushed her roughly down onto the bed. He kept his pants on, sliding under the sheets next to her. He pulled her close, at the same time pushing the pistol between his legs.
"If anyone comes to check on us, we need a reason for being here together," he explained. "We could be in some deep shit."
"That creep you killed..." she began, propping herself on one elbow, "...if he reported to anyone... maybe we should be hauling our butts outa here, Tucker, instead of playing at being lovers."
"And go where?" he asked. "Even if we made it past all the guards and fences we can't hide forever. Running now would only confirm their suspicions. We have to stay, bluff it out, act innocent. I'm betting our dead friend out there was acting on his own, and didn't have time to tell anyone anything."
She was silent for a moment, then lay her head on his shoulder and whispered.
"That thing on the tape... was it really...?"
"You saw it yourself," he answered. "It damn sure wasn't any bird. And Gingrich mentioned something called 'Balefire'."
"Sounds like a typical government codename for a secret project," she said. "Maybe for this project!"
"Or the one leading to the discovery of the Portal, as he calls it," Jackson said with a nod. "That may be what Gingrich meant when he talked about people dying for the sake of 'National Security'. And now we might be on the termination list as well."
Sinclair started to say something else but Jackson stopped her with his fingers on her lips. He cocked his head to one side, listening intently, then pulled her close and kissed her hard.
For a fraction of a second she resisted, pushing against his chest. Then she moaned, opening her mouth to accept his tongue.
She nearly bit him when the door slammed back on its hinges and the lights snapped on. Smith and two security men advanced into the room.
"You son of a bitch!" Sinclair hissed as she sat up in the bed, grabbing at the sheet to cover herself. The eyes of the two security men were locked on the erect nipples of her breasts.
Smith took in the scene at a glance, then stared down at Jackson, who returned the look with equal rancor. For nearly a full minute they all remained motionless and silent, until Jackson slowly sat up. Then Smith's courage seemed to evaporate. He quickly backed out the door, motioning the others to retreat as well.
Once they were out of sight, Jackson bounded from the bed, pistol held in his right hand behind his back. He peered down the hallway for some seconds before slamming the door shut.
Again Sinclair started to speak but Jackson waved her to silence. He stood there, listening, before returning to the bed.
"Well!" Sinclair whispered. "That was an interesting inspection! Do you think we passed?"
"For the moment," Jackson answered. "But Smith won't be put off for very long. He'll keep looking, even if you did fool the others with your virginal act."
"I thought I did that really well," she insisted. "It certainly got their attention. They almost drooled on themselves."
"Yes, but flashing your tits won't get us out of trouble next time."
Sinclair tried to slap him. He slid quickly from the bed.
"If they had searched us and found you still half dressed, with that pistol..." she whispered.
"I would have killed them all," Jackson replied. He tucked the gun into the waistband of his pants and reached for his shirt. Sinclair left the bed, walking toward him, her breasts swaying invitingly. She put her hands on his shoulders.
"That kiss..." she said, "... was very nice. Do you suppose we could try that again?"
Jackson took her in his arms. Her breasts mashed against his chest, the nipples hard once again. Her lips were soft, her breath warm and spicy. Her tongue met his. She moaned, grinding her pelvis against him. She moaned again when he cupped her left breast, squeezing it gently.
He broke the kiss abruptly, patting her smartly on the bottom.
"See you at breakfast," he whispered as he walked out the door.
Ronnie Sinclair stood there, her mouth open.
"Well!... well!... just God damn you, Tucker Jackson!" 
 



CHAPTER XI


COLORADO

JUNE 3, 2021 AD

7:25 A. M.

Jackson strolled casually from his barracks into the compound, alert for signs of unusual activity or lurking security men. He saw neither, and was immediately suspicious.
The early morning sun spread its warming rays across the compound as he walked slowly toward the mess hall. When he passed Major Sinclair's barracks, she came out the door to fall in step beside him.
"Good morning, I think," he said.
"Huh!" she grunted, scowling darkly. "I'm not certain I'm speaking to you this morning, you prick!"
Jackson stopped abruptly, staring at her. She slid her arm through his, pulling him along.
"That was a really nasty thing you did to me last night, leaving me there all horny and frustrated."
"It was this morning," he corrected. "Just a few hours ago. And you’re the one said going to bed with me might jeopardize the mission."
"Oh, horse shit!" she said, dismissing the idea out of hand. "It's a woman's prerogative to change her mind... several times. You may force me to resort to rape, Tucker."
"Keep your mind on business, woman, if you want to stay alive."
"I am. Why aren't we being followed, or watched, or arrested? Why hasn't Smith done anything?"
"I think he already has," Jackson warned. "We just don't know about it yet."
Inside the mess hall they took a table toward the rear, where they could have their backs to a wall. Sinclair went through the serving line. As usual, Jackson had barely seated himself before an orderly placed a tray of food and a steaming cup of coffee on the table in front of him.
When Sinclair returned she glanced suspiciously at Jackson's meal. Conversation between them was postponed by the arrival of Thurran, Colson, and Smith. The Prime Minister seated himself without invitation. The others remained standing. Colson fidgeted nervously while Smith partook of his favorite past time, paring his nails with a pocket knife.
"An unfortunate incident occurred last night," Thurran announced. "Professor Gingrich is dead. He apparently had an accident involving some type of heavy machinery. His body was horribly mutilated. A dreadful event, a sad one, but we must not, cannot allow it to disrupt our time table. We must enter the Portal on schedule."
Smith chose that moment to look directly at Jackson and Sinclair. He gave them a knowing smile.
"A tragic thing," he said.
Thurran glanced up at him. The man immediately went back to inspecting his fingernails.
"On schedule," Thurran repeated. He rose from the table, departing as abruptly as he had arrived. Colson scampered after him. Smith started to follow, then turned back to Jackson and Sinclair.
"Tragic," he repeated with a leer. Then he wandered away.
"Bastards!" Sinclair hissed when they were all out of hearing range. Her face was white. She trembled with anger. "They tortured Gingrich! Do you think he talked?"
"We'll have to assume he did. Calm down!"
For several minutes they sat in silence. Jackson finally leaned across the table.
"You got yourself under control now?" When Sinclair nodded he continued. "I want you to pick two or three of your best people, the ones you think you can trust the most. Have them stay with us all day, every minute. That should keep Smith from arranging one of his little accidents for us. Tonight you move in with your platoon."
"And what will you do?"
"I'm leaving."
"I suggested that. You said we couldn't," she argued.
"That was earlier. Things have changed now. I believe Thurran just gave us a warning. He's losing control and can't protect us. That's why he was so insistent on keeping to the schedule."
"All right. Where will you go?"
"The only place left. Through the Portal."
The woman sat up straight in her chair, staring at him, her mouth open. Jackson chose that moment to use the liquid given to him by Gingrich. Bright spots of purple appeared wherever the chemical touched his food.
"Jeeezusss..." Sinclair sighed. "You can't eat that!"
"I can't go without food for very long either," he reminded her.
She thought for a moment, then winked at him. Reaching across the table as if to retrieve the sugar container, her arm hit his coffee mug. The steaming contents splashed across his tray and lap. Jackson jumped up from his chair with a yell. Sinclair apologized profusely, making a great show of attempting to clean up the mess.
"That shit was hot, woman!" he whispered from the corner of his mouth. "Couldn't you have kept it on the tray?"
"You deserve scalded balls after what you did to me last night. Now go through the line and get some food you can eat."
Jackson returned to the table shortly, carrying a tray piled high with food, and another cup of coffee. He anointed it all with the chemical, nodding with satisfaction when no purple hue appeared. He was nearly finished with his meal before he realized Sinclair was strangely quiet.
"What's wrong, Ronnie?"
"That's the first time you've called me by my first name," she said with a smile. "I like it." She leaned across the table, speaking in a soft voice.
"I'm a little scared, Tucker. This is some weird shit. Being a soldier is one thing... at least then you have a pretty good idea who's trying to kill you. But here we need a fuckin' score card so we can tell who's on our side, if anyone is. What if you go through the Portal alone and they close it down behind you? You'll be trapped back there... or then... forever!"
"Yeah," he admitted. "Just me, Covere, the dragons, and whoever or whatever was inside the flying thing. A real interesting group to be marooned with."
He sipped his coffee, then looked at her intently.
"I'm counting on you to keep that from happening," he said. "Remind Thurran how important this project is. Hell, shoot your way through if you have to. I'll leave you a sign so you can follow me."
He quickly outlined his plan, giving her instructions.
"Fine," she said with a nod. "Meanwhile, I'm stuck back here with Colson and Smith."
"I'll take care of Smith," he announced grimly. "And I plan to leave a little message for Colson to discourage him considerably. But right now the safest place for me is through the Portal. I'd appreciate it if you'd come 'round in a couple of days and inquire as to my health."
"I promise." She reached out to take his hand. "And you be careful. This may sound a little silly, but I think I could be in love with you, Tucker. I'd hate to lose you before I get the chance to..."
Jackson opened his mouth to speak but Sinclair interrupted him.
"I know, I know...' keep your mind on business'. If you say that one more time I believe I'll kick you right in your scalded balls."
          *          *          *          *
Shortly after midnight Tucker Jackson stood alone before the Portal.
He had locked the door to the building from the inside. The two technicians who tended the equipment lay on the floor, securely bound and gagged.
He'd spent most of the day hiding equipment in various places about the compound and said his good-byes to Ronnie Sinclair later in the evening. When darkness fell, he set about collecting his hidden supplies. His self-made appointment with Smith had been most satisfying. Now he stared at the Portal, into its dark and deceptively peaceful landscape. 
He was dressed in tan and brown camouflaged fatigues, as well as steel-soled jungle boots. An automatic pistol hung in a holster against his right hip, balanced on the opposite side by a huge Bowie knife in a scabbard. A bulging pack on his back contained first-aid supplies and food concentrates. Crisscrossing his chest were belts of shotgun shells. The weapon itself hung from a sling over his left shoulder. He carried a Commando-style crossbow and a thick quiver of arrows. Half a dozen hand grenades were clipped to his belt.
          *          *          *          *
Seventy five yards away, in his private bungalow, Herbert Colson awoke from a sound sleep because of an annoying weight on his chest. An exploring hand found a small, neatly wrapped package lying there. Switching on the bedside lamp, he examined the strange parcel.
Angry at the thought of an unwarranted intrusion, Colson quickly read the note pinned to the blanket beside the package.

THE APACHES HAVE THEIR OWN WAYS
OF DEALING WITH THEIR ENEMIES.
THIS USED TO BELONG TO SMITH, BUT
HE DOESN'T NEED IT ANYMORE. YOU
MIGHT KEEP IT, JUST AS A REMINDER.

With shaking fingers Colson unwrapped the package, grunting with disgust as a slippery object fell out onto the sheets. He stared stupidly at the spreading stain on the bedclothes, until a flash of recognition swept through his sleep-numbed brain.
He sprang from the bed with a yell, running out into the open compound in his night shirt, screaming and cursing.
The dripping object he left laying on his bed was a human scalp.
          *          *          *          *
Inside the Portal building Tucker Jackson faintly heard the shouted curses of Colson. He nodded grimly. Then he flipped the patch up from over his left eye, and stepped through the Portal into the land of the dragons.




CHAPTER XII


ARIZONA

2006 AD

Three weeks after Eddie Tankerdsley died, the Tucson police discovered Walter Staley's body in an alley, his throat cut so deeply his head was nearly severed. Seventeen days later emergency crews recovered Earnest Markham's body from a pond in the city park. The week following, Thurman Andersen was found hanging from a bridge.
The police were baffled, according to the news reports. They had few clues, nor any apparent motive for the murders. Nor did they know why all the victims had been tortured before they were killed.
For Jackson the events were interesting, but considerably less than fulfilling. The fact that he could plot and carry out the assassinations under the collective noses of the authorities gave him immeasurable self-confidence. But he quickly discovered revenge was not at all as sweet as it was said to be.
It was, in fact, a gruesome and depressing project. He soon realized no matter how many white men he executed, nothing would bring back his family.
He finally admitted to himself the real object of the whole exercise was to demoralize and frighten the ring leader, Nicholas Covere. Instead, it seemed to have no affect at all. This worried Jackson.
 He decided to forget about Michael Nerri, the only other one of the group left alive, and concentrate solely on Covere. It was a splendid plan, with only one minor flaw. By then, Covere had disappeared.
*          *          *          *          *
Only once did Jan Corbin allow him to discuss the situation. Her usual method of silencing him, on those rare occasions when he felt inclined to talk about it at all, was to place her fingers against his lips and shake her head. On this particular night they lay side by side, their bodies touching at the hips.
"A penny for them," she whispered.
"For who?"
"Your thoughts, silly!"
"Ahhhh...."
A long moment passed in silence before he answered.
"I can't find them."
"Can't find you thoughts?"
He nudged her lightly in the ribs with his elbow.
"Can't find Covere. He's gone--disappeared. He's the one I really wanted. Now Nerri's disappeared too."
"Good! Maybe now you'll stop this insane vendetta."
"What's insane about it?"
"Will it change anything, bring back anyone?"
"Maybe not, but it makes me feel better."
She rolled onto her side, propping her head on her arm.
"Does it really?"
"No," he admitted. "But I have to finish it now. It may be the only justice ever dealt out, if there is such a thing."
"And what makes you the instrument of this justice?"
"There doesn't seem to be anyone else," he answered with a shrug.
She nibbled at his earlobe, trailing a finger down his chest.
"If my friends were suddenly dying, I’d hide too! Covere will turn up somewhere, sometime."
She kissed her way down his chest and stomach until her lips could encircle the object of her desire. Her warm, flickering tongue drove all further thoughts of revenge from his mind.
          *          *          *          *
Three weeks later, another event occurred which drastically altered the course of Jackson's life. He was fully recovered, or as close to such a state as the hospital staff considered medically possible. Neither he nor Jan Corbin made any mention of just how completely he had healed.
State officials, unable to locate a birth certificate or any other document to confirm his actual age, arbitrarily declared him a minor. For his own protection he was made a ward of the state, and promptly placed with a foster family.
The Right Reverend and Mrs. Dearborne were both in their mid forties, kind, portly, and insipid, convinced God had selected them to spread His Word among those heathens unfortunate enough not to have had it forced upon them already in one form or another. They accepted a mission to the mountainous interior of South Korea, where they fervently hoped to convert all the local inhabitants, as well as their new ward.
Jackson immediately set about formulating plans to circumvent this development. On his last night of 'freedom' he discussed it with Jan Corbin.
They met in a dark, secluded room of the hospital following his discharge exam. She tried not to cry, but her body trembled, tears rolling down her cheeks.
"I don't really have to go," he told her.
"You don't? That's wonderful!"
"I could runaway... escape. They'd never find me."
She sagged against him, shaking her head.
"Run where, Tucker? Back to the desert, to live like a hunted animal? And what about me? When would I see you? How would I know you were safe? If I were caught helping you... harboring you... they already have their suspicions about us and our activities. 'Contributing to the delinquency of' has been mentioned more than once. And to run now might make them believe you are somehow connected with certain... recent events."
She caressed his cheek. "It's better this way. We need some time apart, at least I do, to consider our situation."
"I could be gone for years!" he protested.
"If we really love each other, it won't matter."
He pulled her close and kissed her. She moaned, then pushed herself away and began tearing at her clothes.
"Make love to me one more time, Tucker Jackson," she whispered as she revealed her body. "Here, now, take me, and then leave. Don't say goodbye, just go. But first, love me enough to last..."
On the narrow hospital bed their bodies came together for the last time. He left her lying there, shamelessly naked, legs spread, breasts rising and falling. He did not look back as he walked out the door.
          *          *          *          *
Five months later, as the Dearbornes went about the task of setting up their household in the Korean village of Sariwon, Jackson began to explore the surrounding countryside. The land was arid and rocky, with thorny undergrowth and stunted trees, not unlike his home in Arizona. The local inhabitants were plain, homely, as weather-beaten as the land they worked. They were also friendly, curious, and generous with what little they had.
Three weeks after his arrival Jackson enrolled in the local karate school. As the months passed its discipline and philosophy captured him completely. He became a devoted student of the martial arts. His lanky build and ambidextrous ability enabled him to progress rapidly.
During that time he received four letters from Jan Corbin. He answered all but the last. At first she was warm, friendly, almost tearful, describing her love and how she missed him. Succeeding letters were shorter, less intimate. He suspected time and distance were finally having their affect. He seriously considered running away to return to her, until the arrival of her last letter. This was followed by a small package two days later.
I did some investigating for you, she wrote. I thought enough time had passed so I could safely ask questions. Covere and Nerri have both joined the Army, and qualified for some special, secret training. No one knows where they are right now, not even their families, but I know someone who might be able to find out....
Jackson's reply, a letter thanking her yet urging her to be extremely careful, was in the envelope ready to be mailed when the package arrived. There was no return address, but the postmark was from Tucson, only twenty-fours hours after Jan Corbin mailed her letter. When he opened it several photographs fell out.
The words of the note, scrawled in rough letters, burned like the poison of a scorpion.

hey injun
we met a friend of yours today. the little dokter broad wasnt bad.
 she werent real friendly at first till after we fixed her teeth. then she
 tole us all about you. how was it fucking her? probably better than it was
 for us cause she was a little wore out by the time we got round to that.
 but she finally learned to take it up the ass without screamin real loud.
 to bad she had to ask to many questions. to bad you werent here to watch.
 i be waiting for you injun if you got the balls to come after me. but dont
 wait to long cause then ill come after you.

Nick Covere's signature was scrawled at the bottom of the page.
It was an hour before Jackson could look at the photos, an hour of walking aimlessly through the hills.  Finally, in the fading light of late evening, he steeled himself and took the pictures from his pocket.
The first was a close-up of a face, only just recognizable as Jan Corbin. Both her eyes were blackened and swollen shut, her nose broken, her lips pulped and shredded. Large tufts of her hair had been ripped out. Her chin rested on a table or shelf. Laid out before her were a rusty pair of pliers and two dozen small white objects which he finally realized were her teeth.
Other photos showed her apparently still alive, being raped and sodomized in a variety of positions, by Covere and another man Jackson guessed to be Michael Nerri. Another showed her tied to a table, with a battery charger next to her. One of its two cables was clamped to the flesh of her right breast. The other protruded from between her legs.
Jackson was unable to determine of the woman was still alive in the last picture. She was bound to a wooden chair with barbed wire, her head held up by several strands encircling her face and throat. Covere was applying a flaming blow torch to her head. Her left ear was black and melted.
On the dark slope of a mountain, Jackson burned the letter and photographs. He prayed to all the gods he knew, Apache, Oriental, and Christian, pleading for revenge, for an end to his torment.
Shortly after dawn he returned to his home, staying only long enough to change his clothes. When the Dearbornes questioned him concerning his absence during the night he snarled a meaningless reply, pushing them roughly from his path.
He went directly to the karate school, fervently hoping a workout would take his mind off the horrible events and ease the pain in his heart. Even that was not to be. After savagely beating an opponent, in what was to have been a friendly bout, the instructor suggested to Jackson he would do well to meditate alone the rest of the day.
As he stormed out of the exercise area a woman confronted him in a narrow passage. He tried to push her aside, but she deflected his arm easily, stopping him with a hand to his chest. Her touch was like an electric shock. 
"I am not your enemy," she said in nearly perfect English. "Your heart is heavy with anger and grief. This you must learn to control."
Jackson recognized her then. She was called Anul, and worked at the school as a sort of janitor, generally ignored by everyone. She was of indeterminate age, neither very young nor very old, dressed in common peasant garb.
After studying his face intently, she reached out to take his hands and inspect his palms. "You have killed, and hovered near death," she told him. "Those closest to you have been killed, yet you are not ready to confront your enemies. Not while your hatred controls you.
"There is nothing else for you to learn in this place," she told him, releasing his hands. "Now you must place yourself in my care, as the gods have ordained. My brother and I have been waiting for you. In one hour I will leave. You may have that time to gather your possessions. Should you not return here within the allotted time, I will leave alone. There is not another here capable of learning what we have to teach."
*          *          *          *          *
Jackson took only his passport and a few items of clothing with him. Why he followed the woman at all he never really understood. He felt compelled to do so. Nor did he feel any remorse for the Dearbornes, whom he simply abandoned without a word. 
The woman's brother was called Tusek and, except for shorter hair and a wisp of beard, could have been her twin. Their home,  a stone and log cottage, sat deep in the forest of a mountain valley two and a half days walk from Sariwon.
Jackson's relationship with the couple was a strange one. At times they treated him as they might a younger brother or son, lavishing upon him all the love, affection, and patience they possessed. At other times he was denounced as a lowly white, undisciplined, uncoordinated, undeserving of the secrets offered him.
The weeks and months blended swiftly into years. Anul taught him the ways of the earth, of plants and herbs, those for healing as well as killing. She also taught him the secret capabilities of his own body. Eventually he was able to regulate his heartbeat, block pain, stop bleeding, even reduce or nullify the affects of drugs and poisons.
From Tusek he learned the more physical and violent arts; fighting, with and without weapons. The lessons were arduous, often times painful. Tusek insisted upon constant vigilance, so the training encompassed all hours of the day and night.
          *          *          *          *
On a crisp autumn morning Jackson knelt at the tea table, Anul and Tusek across from him. They ate and drank in silence. When Jackson rose to prepare for the lessons of the day, Anul stopped him with a wave of her hand. He bowed and waited.
"How long have you been with us?" she asked.
The question was a complete surprise. Jackson had no answer, indicating such with a slight shake of his head.
"Eight years, eight months and a day," the woman informed him. "You have grown and matured, both in body and mind. You are a man, now entitled to ask the questions you have withheld all these years. Ask."
"Why did you pick me?"
"We did not select you," Anul said, favoring him with one of her rare smiles. "The gods and fates did that, placing you near us."
The answer was unsatisfactory to Jackson, but he knew he would receive no other. He tried a different approach. "What, exactly, have you taught me?"
"We have taught you the ways of a warrior, skills which were outlawed over four hundred years ago," Tusek replied. "They are called, by some, the ways of the Ninja."
Jackson tried to suppress a smile. Tusek raised an eyebrow.
"Forgive me," Jackson said. "It's just that I thought those things were only the product of the white mans' imagination, to be shown in movies."
"I, too, have seen these abominations from Hol-lee-wood," Tusek admitted with a smile of his own. "During my one and only visit to a city. I was ejected for laughing."
Then his smile vanished. He looked at Jackson intently.
"What we have taught you is very real. The discipline, the order, did exist. No magic or mystical feats were involved, merely the control of one’s own body, the knowledge of nature. More of these arts have been lost, forgotten in the passage of time, than we have taught you. Remember well two things; no matter how proficient you may be, there will always be one who is better. And no matter how well prepared you are, there will always be one who will take you by surprise."
"We must leave you now," Anul said. She held up a hand to silence Jackson's protests. "At birth I was given the gift of Visions, of seeing what was to be. I have had many in my life, but none as strong as those involving you.
"There will soon be a war," the woman announced. "A great conflict which will devour countries. During this war you will take a wondrous journey, farther than any man has ever gone. And yet, you will not leave your own country! The Blood of the Dragon flows within you, Tucker Jackson. You will see Dragons as they really were, as well as Those Not Meant To Be Seen."
As one Anul and Tusek rose from the table. They bowed, then walked out of the cottage.
"Farewell, Tucker Jackson," Anul called out. "Beware of the Dragon That Walks As A Man. May the gods protect you!"
Jackson scrambled to his feet and ran out the door. The man and woman had disappeared into the forest. He searched for hours, but found no sign of them.
For a week he loitered about the area, hoping for their return, but finally gave up. He packed his meager belongings, then walked away, leaving the cottage behind him forever.




CHAPTER XIII

COLORADO

65,000,000 BC

12:39 A. M.

Tucker Jackson managed to take two steps away from the Portal before he was forced to his knees by an attack of vertigo that knotted his stomach. His mouth went dry, the dark landscape spinning before his eyes.
He supported himself with one arm to keep from falling on his face in the dirt. The attack passed as swiftly as it came, leaving him panting and sweating.
Something rushed at him out of the darkness, emitting a hissing squawk, a living creature which had somehow evaded his infrared sight until it charged. He swore aloud, caught off balance and unprepared.
It came at him upright on its hind legs, long tail snapping back and forth. He lashed out with one leg, his booted foot catching the creature in the chest. It fell backward into the dirt, squealing and thrashing. Jackson felt the shock of contact all the way up his leg.
Spitting and hissing, the creature scrambled to its feet to charge again. Jackson bashed it with the butt of the crossbow, sent it skidding backward. As it struggled to right itself he shot it, the arrow striking home with a heavy smacking sound.
The animal scrambled to its feet again, stiffened, then toppled over. A last rasping hiss escaped from its mouth as the cyanide crystals killed it.
"Son of a bitch!" Jackson muttered. He took several deep breaths, then turned around, only to curse once more.
There was no sign of the Portal he had walked through only seconds before. Panic welled up within him. He forced it down, calming himself. They couldn't have shut it down yet, he thought. There wasn't time enough. You've only been here a minute, maybe a little more.
He walked two steps toward the Portal, extending his hand. It disappeared up to the wrist, a tingling sensation traveling up his arm. Good. The Portal was still there, still on, although he couldn't see it. He walked to each side until his hand bumped the frame of the metal supports. There he rammed an arrow into the ground to mark the location of the device.
Lot of good it would do if they turned the fucker off, he thought. Time to move, Tucker. You've been here too long. Something is bound to have heard your fight with the animal and  come to investigate. Something a lot bigger and harder to kill.       	He notched another arrow into the crossbow, then trotted off to his left, entering waist-high grass after thirty yards. A boulder loomed up out of the darkness. He rested with his back against it.
Not a good beginning!  he told himself. Almost a meal for something within the first few minutes! 
After wiping his face with his sleeve, he climbed atop the boulder to scan the surrounding area, gathering information from his senses.
The air was heavy with moisture, difficult to breathe. His clothing was already damp and clammy. Condensation was forming on the metal parts of his weapons.
 Strong scents drifted on the air as well; sharp, distinct odors he could identify. The warm smell of rotting vegetation rose up from all around him. A salty tang drifted to him from the inland sea, to mix with the gritty, smoky odor of volcanic ash. He caught the crisp smell of trees and green plants. Overriding all was the metallic odor of ozone.
The absence of sound disturbed him. There were no chirping nocturnal insects, no fluttering wings or croaking calls as one might expect in a tropical area. His own breathing sounded unnaturally loud.
The infrared vision in his left eye revealed an area behind him containing nothing but barren dirt and rock, gradually giving way to desert. Ahead of him, the carpet of grass extended for miles, punctuated here and there by stubby, gnarled trees. Everything gave off a faint glow from heat collected during the day.
The grass area ended abruptly at the base of an orange wall of growth he suspected was the beginning of a well?established forest. Next to it loomed the cone of the volcano. Glowing red lines of lava crisscrossed its sloping sides like spider webs.
Again he scanned the area directly ahead of him. Suddenly he realized the half dozen orange lumps dotting the grassy plain were not boulders as he first thought. They were the bodies of sleeping creatures! 
Choosing a direction of travel was his immediate problem. Venturing far out into the grass would almost certainly arouse one or more of the slumbering animals. The seashore was inviting, but he recalled Dr. Lassiter's warning about things living in and around water.
This must be what it's like to set foot on another planet for the first time, he thought.
He finally moved off to his left, toward the forest, searching the area with his special sight. He paused frequently, listening and sniffing the wind.
The darkness was intense, a suffocating cloak, unnatural and grating to the nerves. In his own time true darkness was rare, difficult to find except in very remote areas. Here the darkness enveloped all.
Through the normal sight in his right eye Jackson could see almost nothing. Rocks and trees were recognizable only at close range, their mass merely a shade darker than the surrounding night. Even the horizon was barely perceptible. He would not have detected it at all were it not for the stars. They were vibrant pinpoints of light, unusually bright. Even their light did little to penetrate the alien night.
The waist-high grass swayed like wheat with his passage. Twice he detoured around small lumps of heat he suspected were creatures either sleeping or lying in ambush. The ground became softer, covered by a thick layer of dark earth with a sharp, rich odor. Off to his right something very large snorted and huffed.
Something else began to stalk him. It was too small to distinguish clearly through the grass, but moved along on all fours close to the ground. He saw it only as an elongated orange mound. Twice he doubled back on it. Each time the creature fled, returning within seconds once his back was turned.
A mile out in the sea of grass, half way up the side of a rounded knoll, a large tree protruded like an island. Jackson slung his cross bow from his shoulder and began to climb. The bark was brittle, coarse, sticky with sap, but the tree seemed able to support his weight.
The creature stalking him rushed forward, hissing as its claws shredded the bark of the tree. Its teeth snapped together with a clicking sound. He experienced a moment of panic, wondering if the thing could or would climb into the tree after him.
It circled the trunk, crushing a trail in the grass, hissing in frustration. It was shaped like an alligator. After three complete circuits around the bole of the tree the creature seemed to loose interest. It paused, sniffing the air loudly, then scuttled off into the grass. Jackson let out a deep breath, thankful the animal's attention span was limited.
He settled into the branches of the tree to wait out the night. The darkness and silence closed in immediately, producing a claustrophobic effect. Sweat dripped from him, mixing with the condensation to plaster his hair and clothing to his skin.
A breeze began to blow after perhaps an hour, serving only to make him clammy. Nothing else moved. Once, from far off, he heard a rasping bellow followed immediately by the honking of some creature alarmed or in pain. The latter sound continued for several seconds, then ended abruptly.
A glance at the luminous dial of his watch showed him the device had stopped dead at 12:39. The exact moment he stepped through the Portal.
At what he estimated to be 3:00 in the morning the moon rose over the inland sea. It seemed to surge upward into the night sky, then hang there. The earth took on the sudden appearance of an old black and white photo. A chill ran through Jackson.
The rising of the moon seemed to act as a signal. A chorus of honks, shrieks and hoots drifted to him from the inland sea. From his vantage point in the tree he could see the snake-like heads and necks of half a dozen creatures swimming in the water.
Glad I didn't decide to take a swim, he told himself.
The land creatures also reacted to the rising of the moon. He heard heavy bodies crashing through the underbrush nearby, accompanied by huffing and trumpeting. A large animal slammed headlong into the tree, nearly knocking him from his perch. It wandered away, apparently unharmed.
He breathed a sigh of relief, then allowed himself a sip of water from his canteen. Tying himself in the tree with a length of rope, he turned to look up at the night sky, feeling uneasy.
This was not the friendly moon beneath which he and Manga had hunted in the desert and forest. It was a harsh, foreboding thing, glaring down at the earth like some gigantic Eye of Doom. Jackson stared back at it, the hair on his neck bristling. He frowned, trying to figure out what was so different. Then he understood.
The surface of this moon was smooth, unblemished by the craters and pits visible in his time. He wondered when that violent bombardment would take place.
Not while I'm here, I hope.
From near the Portal a bawling, hissing battle began between two aroused creatures. Jackson assumed the victor would take possession of the carcass of the animal he'd killed earlier.
All sound and activity ceased abruptly when the blue light appeared.
Jackson first saw it out of the corner of his eye, just a flash of color and movement. It hovered above the ground near the edge of the forest, a dot of light the color of a natural gas flame. It maintained a constant brightness, moving slowly, first right, then left, then up.
Jackson's infrared vision detected nothing, not even the light itself. How could there be light without heat?
The light continued to glow for several minutes, drifting from the forest toward the grassy plain. Then it winked out. Immediately a screaming, howling wail split the night, going on and on, until Jackson found himself biting his lip and digging his fingers into his palms.
The sound, like the light, ended abruptly, simply cut off. Jackson let out a long shuddering sigh. He had no wish to discover what sort of creature produced such a blood chilling vocalization. The absolute silence which followed was just as disturbing. Not a leaf stirred for nearly two hours.
Jackson waited in the branches of the tree until the western sky was pink with the approaching dawn. He climbed down, cautiously making his way back to the area of the Portal to set out the prearranged signal. 
He smiled sadly as he walked. The signal was to be given only if it was 'safe'. He wondered if there really was such a place, thing, or condition in this primitive world.




CHAPTER XIV

COLORADO

65,000,000 BC

DAY 1

7:09 AM

Major Ronnie Sinclair knelt in the dirt, clutching her stomach, gritting her teeth against the attack of vertigo. It passed quickly, leaving her weak and panting. She stood on shaky legs, glancing around.
The sun, rising above the mountains to the west, forced its way into the slate-gray sky, burning away patches of low-lying fog. To the north the volcano belched a cloud of sparks and ash as if to welcome her. A small herd of three horned dinosaurs ambled through the tall grass two hundred yards away.
There was no sign of Tucker Jackson, save for the arrow lodged in the earth twenty yards in front of the Portal, indicating it was safe to cross over. She experienced a moment of panic, with visions of Jackson being swallowed up by some gigantic, leathery beast, leaving her alone in this strange land. She clenched her fists to calm herself. A few seconds later she heard the whistling call of a bird from off to her left. Without looking in that direction, she gripped her rifle firmly and began walking toward the sound.
Thirty yards out in the high grass an arm suddenly encircled her ankles, bringing her to the ground. A hand clamped over her mouth. She looked up into the smiling face of Tucker Jackson.
"Goddammit, Tucker, don't do that!" she hissed when he released her. She scrambled to her knees, assuming a defensive position with her back to his, so they could see for a full 360 degrees.
"I can't stand you sneaking up on me all the time," she continued. "It's embarrassing, not to mention that it scares the shit outa me."
She paused, drawing in a long, ragged breath. Jackson reached behind him to touch her thigh. She immediately grasped his hand in her own, squeezing his fingers tightly.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
"So far. Nice to have company though."
"You're soaking wet," she said, her hand exploring his clothing.
"It gets a little damp here at night."
"Oh. I though maybe some dinosaur lifted its leg and pissed on you."
"For a lady you certainly have a foul mouth!"
"The Marine Corps does that to a girl. You'll get used to me. What are we looking for?"
"Anything... everything. Tell me what you think of this place."
"It's creepy!" she declared. "Makes my skin crawl!"
"Just wait until it gets dark," he warned.
"I could have done without that, Tucker!"
Seventy yards away a creature suddenly reared up out of the grass to stand on two massive hind legs. It sported a heavy, muscular body, with a thick neck and a broad, flat head. From its chest sprouted two muscular forelimbs, like the arms of a grappling wrestler.
Yellow-brown skin rippling in annoyance, the animal snorted, sampling the air with a thick, forked tongue. Then it bounded off with a loping gait.
Sinclair watched it go, feeling the slapping vibrations in the earth as the heavy creature ran.
"Ohhhh, shit...," she sighed.
"I wondered when he was going to move," Jackson whispered. "He's been sitting out there in the grass watching me for half an hour."
A shiver ran through Ronnie Sinclair. She drew in another long breath.
"I don't think humans are supposed to visit this place, Tucker."
"I agree. We're intruders here. We could pay a high price if we aren't real careful."
"Do we bring in the others now?"
"Not yet," he answered. "Let's explore first. That way, toward the forest. Walk slow, keep your eyes and ears open. Watch for the small dinosaurs coming at you out of the grass. Along the way you can tell me what happened last night after I left."
"Ohhh, last night was interesting!”" she said as they waded through the grass. "Thurran was really upset. Thoroughly pissed off is the correct political term I believe. Took me two hours of hard, fast talking to convince him not to shut the Portal down behind you. I told him everything, Tucker. I had to... had to take the chance he wasn't part of whatever was happening."
 She laid a hand on his arm, a serious look on her face.	"None of it seemed to surprise him very much," she observed. "I think you and Gingrich were right. Thurran is losing power rapidly. He promised to continue the project for as long as he could."
"And Colson?"
"He was absolutely livid!" she answered with a laugh. "I've never seen anyone turn so many colors, both before and after he threw up on himself. That gruesome little souvenir you left him did the trick, I think. As much as he hates you, I think he's too afraid of you to do anything directly. But you can bet he's told his friends, his superiors. Word has probably gotten back to our mysterious Seaton Mistakola by now. There may be some sort of death warrant out on you already.
"As for Smith," she said with a shake of her head, "well... he's not real pleasant to look at anymore, not that he ever was."
Jackson halted their advance, raising the patch from over his eye. Sinclair nervously fingered the trigger of her rifle.
"There's something lying in the grass out there," he warned, pointing ahead of them.
They made a detour around the area. Through a break in the carpet of grass, Sinclair observed a creature resembling a giant armadillo, with a huge, spiked tail.
Once they were safely past the animal Sinclair pulled Jackson to a halt, peering up at his face. He allowed her to reach up and lift the patch.
"It looks a little unfocused, but otherwise normal," she said after examining his eye, then gently replacing the patch. "What, exactly, can you see out of it?"
"Infrared," he answered. "Shapes, outlines, blobs of body heat. I keep it covered because direct sunlight is painful."
"My curiosity is aroused," she admitted as they continued toward the forest. "You promised to tell me all about it, remember?"
*            *          *          *          *
Twice more they were forced to detour around animals hidden in the tall grass. A herd of horned dinosaurs paralleled their course. The elephant-sized creatures appeared docile, shuffling along almost aimlessly. They allowed the two humans to walk within yards of them with only a few mild snorts of alarm.
As the morning wore on, the temperature increased. Sinclair trudged heavily through the grass behind Jackson. They paused often to rest.
"Damn!" she sighed during one of their halts. "It's hard to look ladylike doing this kind of work!" She shook her head like a spaniel. Droplets of sweat flew through the air. "Along with everything else, we'll have to fight rust, mildew, rot, and corrosion. It'll be a bitch keeping my makeup on. Do you suppose it ever gets cool and dry in this place?"
"I suspect there'll be an ice age along in a few million years, if you want to wait for it," Jackson replied slowly. "You'll probably whine about that, too."
Shortly before noon they detected the sounds and smells of a large group of animals. Crawling carefully to the top of a small ridge, they parted the grass to look down on the scene below.
Spread out before them was a huge swamp-like area of ponds, bogs, and marshes. Cattails, giant ferns, and thick, twisting vines grew in profusion. To the north, the swamp broadened to a small lake. Dense forest and jungle formed its northwestern boundary. A thin arm of the swamp inserted itself between the ridge upon which they lay and the looming edge of the forest, like a protective moat. The inviting shelter of the tree line was only half a mile ahead of their position, but a multitude of creatures guarded the entire distance.
Sinclair recognized many of them from Hugo Lassiter's detailed briefings. Most visible and numerous were the Dimetrodon, alligator-like creatures possessing a huge, spiny dorsal fin similar to that of a blue marlin. They waded in the water, displaying their formidable teeth to any creature venturing too near.
Iguanodons wandered through the undergrowth. Farther out in the reedy water, huge Brontosaurus-like creatures waded and swam, bending their incredibly long necks to pluck leaves from the tops of trees. Over the entire area soared large animals with pointed beaks, riding the thermals on immense leathery wings.
 Hoots, honks, snorts, bellows and hisses came from the throats of the assembled creatures, punctuated now and then by the trumpeting of two or more combatants. 
"Lassiter will shit himself when he sees this!" Sinclair whispered.
 	Jackson nodded agreement. "We'll have to keep a close eye on him. He'll probably want to run down there and take blood samples or something."
He pointed off to the southwest, where the swamp suddenly gave way to hard earth and the ever present grass. "We'll have to go there, around the swamp, then into the forest. How are you holding up?"
"Fine," she answered, smiling at him. "Actually, after you get over the initial strangeness of the place, it's kind of exciting. I feel like that Sheena character in the comic books. Maybe I'll shuck this uniform and make myself a costume out of fur skins." She cupped a hand under one breast. "Lots of cleavage and belly and thigh showing, you know?" 
Then she reconsidered, raising an eyebrow. "I wonder if there's anything living here that has fur, besides us?"
*          *          *          *          *
The forest dwarfed them, rising out of the earth in a seemingly impenetrable mass.
There was no gradual change from grass to undergrowth to trees. The forest simply began. Its leading edge stretched away to north and south in an unnaturally straight line, as if pruned by some giant hand.
Sinclair knelt in the grass at the forest edge, barely breathing. "Here we are at the enchanted forest," she whispered. "I keep expecting Druids and fairies." 
Jackson touched her shoulder, pointing ahead, indicating a spot thirty feet up in a tree. A small dinosaur perched on a branch like a bird. Its forearms were folded against its chest. Curved teeth protruded from its mouth. It tilted its head to stare at them with one eye, but made no other movement.
"I believe he'd drop down on us if we were to walk under him," Jackson said.
Sinclair shuddered. They eased their way twenty yards north, then sat for a time, watching and listening. Jackson touched her shoulder a second time, nodding. They entered the forest together.
Only an occasional ray of sunlight pierced the thick canopy of leaves overhead, leaving most of the forest floor in semi-darkness.	The huge trees rose three hundred feet and more above the earth. In places, they rubbed together, producing eerie groaning sounds whenever there was enough wind to set them in motion.
A thick mat of rotting vegetation covered the forest floor, spotted by patches of mist and dew. Mosses and ferns grew from fallen tree trunks. Thick vines hung down from the upper branches.
"Looks like a place Edgar Allen Poe would have written about," Sinclair whispered.
          *          *          *          *
NIGHT 1
They slept in a tree, forty feet above the ground, in a nest made from interlaced vines and branches. They lined it with generous quantities of lichens and moss from the forest floor.
Hanging vines made access to their nest easy. Shorter pieces cut from thinner varieties served as safety lines, securing them to the tree.
"Hope you don't roll around in your sleep," Sinclair said,  gazing over the edge of their nest at the earth far below. "It'll be one hell of a thump if you fall outa bed."
They took turns sleeping, huddling close together, using giant fern leaves to ward off the heavy condensation.
*          *          *          *          *
Sinclair awoke instantly when Jackson nudged her. After a few seconds she heard a heavy, raspy breathing coming from somewhere very close by. She raised her head slowly, inching her rifle forward.
The creature sat on a branch ten feet above them, staring down with wide set, yellow eyes. Enough moonlight filtered through the trees to allow her to see the thing's outline. It looked like a giant toad. Neither arms nor tail were distinguishable. A dark line just below its eyes suggested an enormous mouth.
For nearly ten minutes it simply sat, watching them, immobile and silent save for its ragged breathing.  When Sinclair could stand it no longer, she snapped her rifle up to aim at the beast.
The creature bounded away instantly, hopping from branch to branch, leaving only a few rustling leaves in its wake.
Ronnie Sinclair spent the rest of the night wide awake, nestled firmly within the protective circle of Jackson's arms.
          *          *          *          *
DAY 2
The escarpment rose up sharply out of the forest. It towered over them, its craggy outlines softened by moss and rooted seedlings. From its face the black mouths of caves stared at them like the empty eye sockets of a skull.
"This is perfect," Jackson said.
"This is spooky!" Sinclair insisted.
"Caves to hide in and store extra supplies," Jackson continued.
"Yeah. Probably complete with vampires and the bleached bones of their victims!"	She surveyed the area critically. "But you're right, it would make a good hiding place. We'd have to make sure there was a back way out though. We wouldn't want to get trapped in there. I suppose you want to set up the main camp out there in the grass?"
"That was my thought," he said. "Not much shelter from the elements but at least nothing will be able to sneak up on us."
Sinclair pursed her lips, then nodded. "I'll feel a little naked and exposed out in the open like that, but we'll have a good field of fire all around. And we probably should stay near the Portal for a while."
"Now we go back and get the others," Jackson said. "After we  set up the camp, we bring a squad in here to clean out these caves. Half of all our equipment and supplies go in here, just in case."
"Are you expecting trouble?"
"Always. 'Be Prepared'. Isn't that the Girl Scout motto?"
"Boy Scouts," Sinclair corrected. "In Girl Scouts we prepared for other things, like puberty."
"I'll just bet you did," Jackson said as they turned to retrace their path through the forest.
          *          *          *          *
NIGHT 2
Again they slept in a nest high in a tree. This time they were at the edge of the forest where they could look out over the swamp and grassland. Once again Jackson awakened Sinclair with an insistent nudge.
She saw it immediately, a blue-white ball of light, drifting purposefully over the swamp. She and Jackson lay side by side, bodies touching, peering over the edge of their nest as they watched the glowing object.
"What the hell is it?" Sinclair finally whispered.
"Don't know," Jackson admitted. "Only the second time I've seen it, both times at night over the swamp."
"Incandescent swamp gas?" she suggested.
"I don't think so. I've seen that before, and ball lightening too. Both of those drift and bob and flicker. See how steady this light is?"
She reached up to touch the left side of his face.
"What do you see with this eye?"
"Nothing!" was his startling answer. "Not even the light itself! And no indication of any heat source."
 She mulled that over for some seconds. "I didn't think that was possible."
The light suddenly winked out. Jackson gripped her shoulder tightly.
"Listen!" he commanded.
Seconds later an anguished, wailing scream split the prehistoric night.
"Son of a bitch!" Sinclair whispered when the tortured wail  finally ended. "It's time to go home, Tucker!" she pleaded. "There are too many boogie men around here!"
Neither of them slept the rest of the night.




CHAPTER XV

COLORADO

65,000,000 BC

DAY 3

6:41 A. M.

Jackson and Sinclair climbed down from their sleeping nest just after dawn. It was then the creature confronted them.
 As soon as Jackson's feet touched the ground he spun to his left, his cross bow held ready.
The animal emerged from behind the trunk of a tree thirty feet away, edging out timidly to stand and stare. Its skin was reptilian, but its form more human than animal. It was somewhat shorter than Jackson, with pale green scales on its back, blending to a buff colored belly. The animal stood on two muscular walking legs. Its arms hung down nearly to its hips, longer and more developed than those of other dinosaurs, with appendages closely resembling fingers. A thin tail trailed behind the creature. 
It stared at them through two large, rounded eyes, violet colored and flecked with gold, set in the front of its face rather than to either side of its head. Its nose and upper lip were shaped like a beak. A yellow, leathery crest extended from atop its head.
Sinclair drew in her breath sharply. Jackson kept his cross bow aimed at its chest. After a moment the animal cocked its head to one side. When Jackson raised the crossbow to his shoulder the creature backed up abruptly, blinking its enormous eyes. When he lowered the weapon the creature seemed to relax, taking two small steps forward. Then it raised its head suddenly, sniffing the air, before darting off into the forest.
For several minutes Jackson and Sinclair stood there, until the woman finally voiced the thoughts going through both their minds.
"Damn!" she breathed. "That thing was intelligent!"
Jackson nodded agreement. "I wonder what frightened it away? I wonder if it will try and find us again, or if we should go look for it?"
They decided against the latter course of action, making their way instead toward the grassy plain. Fifty yards out from the forest Jackson suddenly stopped, turning back to face the trees.
"It's watching us. I can feel it," he told Sinclair. "We'll go bring in the others now, but I think we should keep this to ourselves until we decide if it's good or bad." He stared off into the distance, a faraway look in his eye.
" 'Beware the Dragon That Walks As A Man' " he whispered.
"What?"
"Nothing," he said with a shake of his head. "Just a warning a friend gave me a long time ago."
"Great." Sinclair snapped. "You get creepy messages from your creepy friends, haul my little butt off on this creepy fuckin' adventure with dragons and swamps and caves full of vampires..."
"Ronnie?"
"What?"
"You're whining again."
          *          *          *          *
DAY 3
1:35 P. M.

Hugo Lassiter's first act, upon entering the prehistoric world, was to throw up on himself.
It was a totally involuntary action, performed in full view of the Portal and all those watching through it. Nor was he alone in his embarrassment, for nearly all of the thirty two Marines and eighteen scientists who crossed over that day found themselves similarly afflicted by vertigo.
Ronnie Sinclair stood in front of the Portal, waving them through, along with the five Jeeps and nine 2 and 1/2 ton trucks  hauling equipment and supplies.
Jackson remained out of sight, hidden in the tall grass. Lassiter paced about near the Portal for a time, then wandered off across the plain, passing Jackson's position. 
Pouncing upon the scientist, Jackson bore him to the ground, placing the blade of his knife against the man's throat just beneath his beard.
"I think you have something I need," he said softly.
"Of course I do!" Lassiter snapped, eyes flashing with indignation. "And I'd be ever so much more sociable if you'd take that damn sword away from my throat!"
Jackson frowned and sat back on his haunches. He raised the knife to eye level to inspect it.
"It's just a Bowie knife, Hugo."
"Nooo...," Lassiter said, waving a finger. "Knives are small implements used for whittling and cleaning fish. That is a fucking sword! Now... to business!"
From his pocket Lassiter withdrew a small, black leather case. He unzipped it to reveal a hypodermic syringe containing a clear fluid.
"How did you know it would be me?" he asked.
"An educated guess," Jackson answered. "You and Gingrich... well... in the movies, scientists are always plotting something. But just in case I guessed wrong..." He waved the knife, then slid it back into its sheath.  "You were playing a dangerous game back there, you and Gingrich, with your spying against the government."
"So it would seem," the man agreed. "Poor Gingrich... how he must have suffered. While I am not normally a man of violence, I must admit I was particularly pleased with the reconstructive work you performed on that asshole Smith. He definitely deserved it. Give me your left hand."
He turned Jackson's hand palm up, them grimaced.
"You're filthy!" he announced. "This serum must be injected at the base of the thumb. I suggest you wash off a spot unless you want to contract an infection."
Jackson poured water from his canteen onto his hand, all the while looking about, alert for signs of danger.
"You're not starting out well here either, Hugo. Didn't Major Sinclair warn you about wandering off alone? What if a dinosaur had grabbed you instead of me? You'd be half digested right about now. You're going to have to think if you want to survive for more than a few minutes here."
Lassiter accepted the scolding gracefully, holding up the syringe for Jackson to see.
"This antidote is nearly as potent as the poison itself," he warned. "An overdose can produce some very unpleasant, and permanent, side affects. Therefore, it has to be given in three doses, with a mandatory waiting period between doses of at least ninety days, no more than one hundred and twenty. I have enough here to administer all three injections, but we shall have to keep careful track of time."
He swabbed Jackson's hand with antiseptic, then poised the needle, smiling gleefully.
"After the way you manhandled me some moments ago, I am pleased to announce this is going to hurt."
He jabbed the needle into Jackson's hand, pushing down on the plunger. Jackson jerked as the fiery liquid entered his body.
"You're right," he grunted through clenched teeth. "It hurt. And I think you enjoyed it far more than you had a right to."
"Small enough reward for being pummeled and beaten by a brute such as yourself," Lassiter replied as he repacked the syringe and zipped the case. "I have a message for you from the Prime Minister. I'm to tell you the two people who went with someone named Covere were Rosa Tillsen and Otto Davidet. The names are probably meaningless, but Thurran assured me they both worked for the same... company... as Covere, and they were both as unstable. From the look on your face I take it that's not good news."
"No, but so far nothing else about this project has been very good either."
"Well then..." Lassiter announced, rubbing his hands together. "If we are finished with the mundane cloak and dagger stuff, let's move along to something that's more fun. Show me some dragons!"
           *          *          *          *
Just before sunset Lassiter got to see his dragons. Jackson and Sinclair took him to the top of the rise overlooking the swamp. Crawling the last few yards on hands and knees, they parted the grass, allowing the scientist to look down on the assembled creatures of the marsh.
"Ohhh, shit!" Lassiter sighed.
"That's not a very scientific observation," Jackson informed him.
"Oh, my! Look at that! Just look at that!"
Lassiter started to stand up. Jackson jerked him roughly to the ground.
"Hey! Most of those things down there are hungry!" he warned.
"Yes... yes, of course...," Lassiter said with a nod. "Very foolish of me... my excitement, you know.... but... just look at them!" He sniffed the air. "And one can smell them as well!"
"Wait 'till you get up close to one," Sinclair told him. "They really stink!"
"Don't give him any ideas," Jackson warned. "He'll want to have one of the things for a pet."
"That is a marvelous suggestion," said Lassiter. "If we could find an egg...”
“And raise the little darling as your own?" Sinclair asked. "I really want to see you potty train a ten-ton lizard."
"The two of you just aren't into the spirit of this adventure," Lassiter complained.
 Jackson grabbed a handful of Lassiter's beard and pulled the man's head around to face him.
"Until further notice," he said sternly, "that's all you can do is look. Those things are dangerous, even the small ones. To them, everything looks like food! It's our job to see to it you live through this. If I catch you doing something stupid I'll kick your ass all the way back through the Portal. Understood?"
Lassiter nodded vigorously. "Certainly. Of course. But there is so much to do! We need video cameras set up here... probably a blind... a schedule of observers..."
The man was still rambling aloud as he backed down from the slope and headed back toward the camp. Jackson and Sinclair followed, the woman shaking her head.
"Tucker," she sighed, "this isn't anything like what the recruiter promised me it would be when I joined the Marines."
          *          *          *          *
DAY 5
The pterodactyls attacked shortly after sunrise. They swooped in on their bony wings, hissing like steam kettles, clutching wildly with their taloned feet.
They came in waves of half a dozen at a time, clacking their tooth-studded beaks, screaming in apparent frustration when they missed their target, as most of them did.
The creatures relied more on soaring than actual flying, finding it difficult to regain altitude once they were near the ground. Their wings were huge but rather weak. Their frantic flapping often sent them tumbling to the ground, where they skidded and flopped about until they righted themselves and hopped away.
More of a nuisance than an actual danger, the pterodactyls failed to catch any humans, although one marine received a vicious laceration across the back. Most of the creatures snagged themselves on tent ropes or bashed headlong into a parked vehicle.
For the members of the expedition, the attack brought a few moments of comic relief from the stress, heat, and constant vigilance. To Tucker Jackson it was a disturbing incident. The creatures completely disappeared after the attack, as if hiding, or seeking shelter from something.
He immediately found Ronnie Sinclair and expressed his concern.
"Something's gonna happen," he warned. "A storm maybe... the air feels strange. Get everything tied down good or under the trucks. Get that weather guesser... what's his name?... Gotlieb?... get him out here!"
The puny, spectacled meteorologist was hauled out from under a truck where he'd taken refuge during the attack. When paraded before Jackson he nodded vigorously in agreement with Jackson's prediction.
"A storm is brewing, most definitely!" he said. "The pterodactyls ride the thermals produced after the sun has warmed the earth for some time. Yet they were soaring just after dawn. The earth is releasing heat somehow, carrying great quantities of moisture aloft. We should find shelter."
But there was nowhere to go. The camp was in the middle of the grassy plain, safe from surprise attack from man or beast, but too far from the Portal or the forest to allow escape. Nor would there have been time to do so, for the storm gathered with incredible swiftness.
Within minutes, towering thunderheads all but obscured the sun, casting ominous shadows over the plain. Dinosaurs hooted, honked, and bellowed in alarm. The undersides of the clouds turned black, then an evil green. The wind shrieked out of nowhere, howling across the plain, whipping the grass and the tents into a churning frenzy.
Then the lightning began, assaulting the earth with the ferocity of an artillery barrage. Searing, blinding bolts speared the ground, blasting huge craters. Balls of luminous plasma energy erupted from the plain, shooting off at incredible angles or exploding with deafening roars.
There was no calm before the storm, no hesitant patter of the first few drops of rain. The water simply cascaded down in torrents and sheets, hammering everything. So heavy was the deluge that breathing was difficult. Drowning became a very real possibility.
Those still out in the open could only move on hands and knees, scrambling desperately for some kind of shelter. The few who celebrated their good fortune at having made it to one of the tents soon changed their opinion. The wind quickly uprooted the few not shredded by the grapefruit-sized hailstones accompanying the storm.
For three quarters of an hour the storm raged, then dissipated almost as abruptly as it began. An ominous calm settled on the land. The clouds broke, allowing shafts of orange sunlight to play over the earth. Wary men and animals emerged from whatever shelter they had found to stare at the flattened grass and the smoking pits left by the lightening. Within minutes the heat of the sun produced thick patches of steam and mist.
The dazed members of the expedition wandered aimlessly for some minutes, then slowly began the work of cleaning up. A group of them, wet and angry, descended upon Jackson, shouting about the folly of camping on the open plain. He was rescued by Ronnie Sinclair and half a dozen of her marines, who herded the group back toward the shredded tents.
The woman seemed to have weathered the storm better than most. Her hat was gone, her hair a wet, tangled mess. Her shirt was torn in several places. She had an angry bruise on her forehead, with several more evident on her arms. Absently tossing a baseball-sized hailstone from hand to hand, she voiced her own doubts.
"Did we screw up, Tucker, by camping here?"
"A little rain won't hurt 'em," he answered.
"A little rain?" She nearly choked. " Shit, Tucker, another storm like this and the animals will be lining up, two by two, male and female, waiting for boarding passes! We have two jeeps and one truck overturned, every window in every other vehicle is smashed. Every tent is shredded, equipment scattered to hell and gone over the plain, nine people knocked senseless by these..."
 	She paused to toss him the hailstone.
 "...three more almost trampled to death by stampeding dinosaurs, and most of the others nearly drowned. And you will kindly note I have not even mentioned the fuckin' lightning yet. So I repeat the question. Did we screw up?"
"Hell, I don't know," Jackson said as he threw the hailstone toward the camp in frustration. "We picked this place for good reasons. You're supposed to be the military genius here. You tell me."
"I think," she answered slowly, "we are both exhausted and cranky from being on guard duty half the night, every night... and frustration from being in different tents at opposite ends of the camp... as well as a dozen other things it won't do any good to mention right now. You're right, we both picked this place. You didn't deserve to be yelled at by anyone."
 	When she stood on her toes and kissed him lightly on the lips, he managed a smile.
"If I decide to go back to the reservation, will you go with me?"
Sinclair linked her arm in his, considering the proposition as they walked through the camp.
"I suppose I'd have to skin and cook nasty woodland creatures... keep your teepee clean, huh?"
"Dried buffalo meat and cactus juice every night," Jackson said with a nod.
"What I had in mind was something more along the lines of diamonds and furs and nightclubs."
"Ohhh... you'd be bored with that," he assured her. "You wouldn't be able to spit and scratch and swear, or do any of the other lady-like things the Marine Corps has taught you."
"What I wouldn't give for something to scald your balls with again, right now!"




CHAPTER  XVI


CHINESE-OCCUPIED SAN FRANCISCO

JULY 9, 2020 AD
 
The Chinese called him Mo Kwei --The Monster. Some whispered he had been spawned from a puff of dragon smoke. Others claimed he was a demon, summoned through magic. All feared him, for he was death. Only a few high-ranking Chinese knew his real name was Tucker Jackson.
It was in Australia where he first earned the name Mo Kwei.
His unit was parachuted in shortly after the invasion. Night after night he drifted like a shadow through the ruins of Darwin. He preyed upon the unwary, using all the skills taught him by Manga, Anul, and Tusek. At first he took the solitary soldiers and sentries, but soon realized this was an unrewarding effort. Individual soldiers were mere fodder to the Chinese, easily replaced. So he concentrated on officers, decimating the Chinese command structure.
When he found them in groups, or at considerable distance, he shot them with a silenced rifle. But it was his stealth, and his work with the knife, which terrorized the Chinese, earning him the name Mo Kwei. He cut the throats of his victims, or slashed their spines at the base of the skull, leaving them paralyzed and suffocating. When there was time he reverted to his Apache heritage, taking their scalps as well as their lives.
It was a gruesome, bloody business, sickening even to Jackson. Yet it served a purpose which could not be achieved by any other means. From captured Chinese the Allies learned of the terror running rampant within the enemy forces. Whole units were kept on alert at night, in a futile attempt to protect themselves from the attacks of Mo Kwei.
The Chinese put a price on Jackson's head, offering over one million dollars in looted gold for his death or capture. They claimed he was singly responsible for the assassinations of 124 of their officers and men. He continued his private reign of terror for several weeks, until the exhausted Chinese were routed in battle. Days later they evacuated their meager remaining forces.
 	The Australians proclaimed Jackson a hero. A representative of the British monarchy was flown in especially to award him the Victoria Cross. The celebration meant little to him. He was exhausted, his mind numb, body worn thin by his nightly forays among the enemy. But the rest he hoped for and needed so badly was not allowed him, for within days he was transferred to the American mainland to help repel the Chinese invaders there.

*          *          *          *          *
Jackson returned to the United States from Korea in the spring of 2017, working his way across the Pacific as a deck hand on board a tramp steamer.
From the port of Oakland, he traveled across the bay to San Francisco where the Army maintained one of its largest headquarters. The Presidio was staffed by hundreds of high ranking officers.
Several days after his arrival Jackson attempted to enlist in the Army. He was flatly turned down, told they did not require the services of anyone with a permanent disability, such as the loss of an eye.
Two nights later he sneaked past the electronic fences, guards, and patrol dogs to surprise an officer inside the restricted headquarters. Convinced then he possessed abilities best turned to their use, the Army relented. The months and years following were filled with intense activity, until Jackson eventually earned his Green Beret.
Entry into the military served a dual purpose for Jackson. It introduced a stability into his life. He had been adrift, without plans or prospects, possessing only the clothes on his back and certain unique skills which had dubious applications in the civilian world unless he wanted to be a criminal or assassin. The army provided him with food, clothing, shelter, the comradeship of others, and access to the record file of Nicholas Covere.
His superiors were impressed, amazed, at times appalled by his abilities. More than once he was called upon to perform small, covert operations he was never allowed to discuss. He formed no close relationships with anyone. He was respected as a soldier, but it was a respect tinged with fear. Nor did his general mood do anything to change this. His disposition darkened at every frustrated attempt to locate his enemy.
The desire for revenge still burned fiercely within him. For two and a half years he worked patiently at tracking down Covere, sifting through records, files, and computerized information.
It became apparent Covere had friends in high places, who took care to ensure his exact whereabouts were masked by false trails, phony records or top-secret classifications. Jackson suspected some part of the intelligence community was behind it. His search was further hampered by the need for caution. He knew that asking too many questions could be hazardous to his health.
The war began while he was taking part in survival training in the Philippines. He and his unit were snatched up out of the jungle and only hours later parachuted onto the Kimberely Plateau near Darwin. His search for Covere temporarily put aside, he vested terror and confusion upon the Chinese.
*          *          *          *          *
 
San Francisco was Darwin all over again, but with hills. Jackson immediately set about establishing another reign of terror as Mo Kwei.  Word of The Monster had spread through the Chinese army from reports sent from Darwin.
On his very first night in combat on the mainland, Jackson drifted wraith-like through the debris-filled streets, carefully selecting his victims. He kidnapped and killed seven Chinese officers of various ranks before he found the right one. The man was allowing his platoon to rest after climbing a steep hill. Jackson snatched him out of the darkness.
His technique was simple. Coming up behind the Chinese officer, Jackson drove the knuckles of his right fist into the man's body in three sharp blows; one to the base of the skull, the second between the shoulder blades, the third just above the belt.
The man went into spinal shock, his body twitching spasmodically. Jackson carried him off to a gutted building, where he bound and gagged him. When the officer regained consciousness Jackson rolled him onto his back, jamming the point of his knife just below the man's right eye. He withdrew the gag enough to allow the man to whisper.
"You speak English?" Jackson demanded.
"I am speaking this," the officer replied.
"How well?"
"I am educated in Peking."
"Then this is your lucky night. You might live through this."
Jackson rolled the man over onto his stomach once again, pressing his face into the dirt to muffle any screams. Then he cut the tendons behind the man's knees. When the officer stopped thrashing and shaking Jackson rolled him over once more, laying the blade of his knife against the man's nose.
"Crawl back to your masters," Jackson instructed. "Tell them Mo Kwei is here." He saw the officer's eyes widen in fear.  A dark stain spread out from the crotch of the man's pants. "Tell them I have come to punish the Chinese as I did in Darwin. I will hunt them, night and day, until they leave this country."
Reaching inside a cloth bag handing from his belt, Jackson withdrew a dripping mass.
"Take these with you so your masters will know it is really Mo Kwei who hunts them."
He stuffed the bloody scalps inside the officer's shirt, then stood over the man. "Crawl, or I'll take your hair too."
Jackson stood in the shadows, watching the whimpering Chinese drag himself up the street on his belly, screaming every few seconds for his men. For another month he continued his gruesome activities as Mo Kwei, until the demoralized Chinese forces were driven out of San Francisco.
During ceremonies conducted amid the ruins of the Presidio, Jackson and six others were awarded the Medal of Honor. He was informed of his impending promotion to Major, then flown to a SAC base in Minot, North Dakota to await further orders. It was there Nicholas Covere sprang his deadly trap. 




CHAPTER  XVII 


COLORADO

65,000,000  BC

DAY  11

The earthquake struck just after 4:00 in the afternoon. For this disaster they had ample warning. 
The dinosaurs gave the first indication something was about to happen. They began wandering about in an aimless, agitated manner, voicing odd honks and growls.
Some of the expedition's members cast fearful glances at the sky, anticipating another sudden storm. But the noticeable buildup of static electricity prompted several of the scientific members of the group to correctly predict the earth tremors nearly half an hour before they began.
Minutes prior to the event, the electricity vented itself from the underlying bedrock in the form of balls and sheets, crackling and ripping upward into the air.
Then the first jolt hit, a tremendous shock that thundered through the earth, knocking men and animals to the ground. Trees fell. Vehicles bounced several feet into the air.
As the second, third, and fourth shocks rumbled through the ground, the surface of the plain undulated like waves upon the ocean. Gaping fissures opened in the earth, then slammed shut, leaving behind steaming scars of scorched soil.
The volcano added its own violence to the affair. It vomited forth lava, smoke, and ash, spitting up huge, glowing boulders, many of which splashed into the waters of the swamp, where they sizzled and cracked.
Aftershocks continued well into the night, as did the venting of steam and electricity, but the camp suffered little. A few of the tents collapsed. Most fared far better than any rigid structure would have. Casualties among the humans were limited to sprained arms and legs from sudden falls. The scientists were jubilant over the amount of data they collected.
The following morning Jackson and Sinclair led a party to survey the local area, to determine the extent of the quake's affects. They found the swamp enlarged, containing an island of steaming rock thrust up from beneath the water. Dinosaurs returned to the area slowly, honking and hissing at the changes.
As Jackson and Sinclair knelt on the ridge overlooking the swamp, the woman suddenly grabbed his arm.
"Tucker! Tucker!" she hissed.
"I see it! Don't point!" he warned.
Far off to the northwest, where the green carpet of the forest butted against the gray slopes of the mountains, a small metallic object floated in the air, reflecting the early morning sun. It remained visible for only a few seconds, then dropped down and seemed to disappear into the forest.
Only Jackson and Sinclair saw it. By silent agreement they kept the eerie observation to themselves.
          *          *          *          *
DAY 14
The raptors found the camp early in the morning. Where the creatures had been until then was unknown. They arrived in force, determined and aggressive.
They were much like wolves in their tactics, hunting in packs of from three to fifteen. The makeup of the packs seemed to be determined by the coloring of the scales of the individuals, which ranged from solid tan to blue and gray stripes.
All alike in physical stature, the creatures walked on two extremely muscular hind legs capable of propelling them at amazing speeds. Their snouts were pointed, their eyes bright and alert. Gleaming, serrated teeth filled their mouths.
They lost their fear of the vehicles and tents within minutes, harrying the camp from all sides. Gunfire did not keep them at bay for long. Bullets seemed to have little affect on the larger creatures except to spur them to greater speed.
Jackson brought down a juvenile with a poisoned arrow from his cross bow when the creature darted in too close. Its body was immediately seized by others, torn apart and devoured. Jackson  hoped the poison in its carcass would remain potent enough to kill those who ingested its flesh, but he detected no appreciable reduction in their numbers.
Two more raptors were killed by slugs from the heavy .50 caliber machine guns mounted on the trucks, but not before they darted across the encampment to snatch up two technicians and a marine. The unfortunate victims were carried a short distance away, then gutted and eaten. It was while thus engaged that the raptors were most vulnerable, although it took twenty to thirty rounds to finally bring one down.
Nightfall brought a short respite. The raptors would not or could not hunt in the dark. At dawn the next day they returned.
Hand grenades and flares kept the creatures at a distance then. They did not like the violent explosions or the bright, glowing lights. Sinclair sent a messenger back through the Portal with an urgent request for rolls of barbed wire and more grenades. In the following days, the camp was ringed with the sharp wire, with grenade booby-traps set up on trip wires which the creatures set off themselves.
For a week the raptors kept the camp under siege, then disappeared as suddenly they’d arrived. Their presence affected all members of the expedition. Enthusiasm for exploring waned dramatically. Even Hugo Lassiter seemed to realize they were all engaged in a life and death struggle, with no guarantee the humans would come out on top.
          *          *          *          *
DAY 26
Lassiter, Jackson, and Sinclair held a council of war, sitting in folding canvas chairs inside a tent. The last rays of the setting sun were augmented by the soft glow of a gas lantern.
Jackson slouched in his chair, worn and haggard. His once crisp fatigues were bleached, smeared, and salted until they were now a shade of moldy green. Dirt was caked on almost every visible portion of his skin. It was impossible to tell where his natural swarthiness left off and the accumulated grime began.
Ronnie Sinclair looked somewhat better, but only because she was a woman and, as that species was often mysteriously compelled to do, had diverted valuable time away from other duties to make herself more presentable.
She had bathed, and combed her hair free from the majority of its collected snarls and tangles. From somewhere she had commandeered a clean T-shirt, which stretched itself enticingly across her breasts.
Of the three, only Hugo Lassiter seemed to be benefiting from the expedition. It was obvious he was enjoying himself. He had lost his pale, bookworm complexion, attaining a healthy tan from sun and wind. His beard was profuse. His eyes sparkled. He had managed to maintain an enthusiasm similar to that of a child in a toy store.
Sinclair used her knife to peel back the lid of an olive-drab can. She stared at the revealed contents, sniffing loudly, then read from the label.
" 'Ham, chopped, water added,' " she quoted with disgust, then wrinkled her nose. "I don't know what smells worse, us or the stuff in these cans that we're supposed to eat. Everything around here is beginning to acquire the peculiar odor of lizard shit."
Her comment was accompanied by a glaring look at Jackson, who snarled something unintelligible in reply. Lassiter nodded agreement.
"There are some problems we must address soon," he said. "Tucker, do you suppose we might kill and eat a small dinosaur, have some real meat for a change? As you may know, in some parts of our world iguana, alligator, and the like are considered a delicacy."
"I thought of that myself," Jackson admitted as he tossed aside his own unopened can of rations. "We'd have to dig a cooking pit and be careful we didn't set the grass on fire, but dinosaur might be good. If we can find a young one that lives off plants."
"Our second problem is our lack of sanitary facilities," Lassiter reported. "Most of us have become exceedingly rank, due to the lack of a safe place to bathe and the fresh water to do it with. I'm now convinced every dinosaur within miles can smell us all, in spite of our attempts at keeping our diets low on beef and the like."
"I've got some people working on building a shower," said Sinclair, "but the main problem is still water. We don't dare go near any of the fresh water ponds because of the animals guarding them, so we are limited to the water shipped in to us in bladders. We might try constructing something to catch rain, but it will probably get blown away in any kind of storm."
"We now have eleven jeeps and eighteen trucks," the girl reported after consulting her notebook. "All with machine guns mounted on them and spaced around the camp to help ward off the pesky critters that keep wanting to come in here and nibble on us. The barbed wire and booby traps work reasonably well, but they're a bitch because they have to be repaired constantly.
"The camp contains forty-one tents, including the three used as laboratories and this one for headquarters. They're all anchored with steel cables and spikes, but I won't promise any of them will survive the next storm. We have fifty-six military personnel, including you and me, Tucker, and eighty-four scientists and technicians. That number seems surprisingly low, in my estimation. If this project is so damn important, you'd think they'd have flooded this place with thousands of us by now."
"They're probably waiting to see if we can really survive here before they sacrifice any more people," Jackson said. "What about the special equipment we asked for?"
"We got the walkie-talkies... two dozen of them... and not a damn one will work here. No one can explain why. The engines of the vehicles work. So do the portable generators. We're having a problem there, too. People keep tripping over the wires when we lay them on the ground. When we string them on poles the pterodactyls swoop down and snatch them up. It may be a while before we get electric lights in here.
"The supplies aren't coming in as regularly as they used to," Sinclair continued. "That worries me. They're having some kind of problem back there... maybe the war has heated up again and they're short on equipment. We're getting ready to send back a truck full of stuff, including the stegosaurus egg Hugo tried to incubate."
Jackson pointed a finger at Lassiter. "One of those stunts I warned you about. If mamma gets pissed and comes here looking for her kid, I will personally feed you to her. Ronnie, what about the caves?"
"All the forest caves have been cleaned out and stocked with supplies," she reported. "That was some nasty work. There were things living in those caves who didn't want to give up their homes. I lost three good people in there. Humping those supplies through the forest wasn't easy either, especially since we had to take a different route each time so we didn't leave a trail."
"Hugo, how much more time do you need here?" asked Jackson.
"Months? Years? Decades?" The scientist could only shrug and shake his head. "Our research has only just scratched the surface. The search for minerals and ores hasn't really started yet. But... I wonder how much more time we will be allowed. Like you, Major, the situation 'back home' worries me. Our most recent 'immigrants' suggest the political and military situation is worsening. There is a feeling something is about to happen, but no one can put their finger on it. We might not want to be in a big hurry to go back, if we can go back at all."
           *          *          *          *
DAY 31
Tucker Jackson rubbed his weary eyes, then stretched, uncoiling his lanky body from the position he'd maintained so silently during his last hours of guard duty.
He and Ronnie Sinclair still divided the nights between them, supplementing the regular sentries, although there had been few nocturnal disturbances other than the occasional wandering dinosaur.
Now, as the first pink light of dawn spread across the sky above the mountains to the west, Ronnie Sinclair strolled through the dew-laden grass toward him, carrying her rifle and two bulging packs. She seemed inordinately happy about something, in spite of the uncivilized hour of the morning.
"I have a present for you," she said as she approached Jackson. She blushed, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat, but her eyes remained locked on his. He understood immediately what she was offering.
"In fact, I have several presents for you. I think you'll like them all, but you'll have to hike a little to get them." She handed him one of the packs, then waved her arm toward the camp.
"I've taken care of things here. They won't need us for a few hours."
Jackson immediately shouldered the pack, then picked up his cross bow. Together he and the woman set off across the plain toward the forest.
          *          *          *          *
Upon first inspection the cave was merely another in a series of dark openings perforating the face of the cliff. It was separated from the nearest ones by thirty yards. Its entrance narrowed considerably a few yards inside, curving sharply to the right. Forty feet beyond, it opened abruptly into an enormous cavern. Sunlight filtered down through a natural hole in the ceiling. The cave was actually a combination of two, linked together when the intervening rock crumbled away.
In the farthest cavern, fresh water gushed from a fissure high on the rock wall, cascading into a pool below. From there it rushed and gurgled across the floor to another portion of the cave where it mixed with a natural warm spring, finally disappearing underground.
Ferns, moss, and lichens grew profusely about the heated pool. The plants formed a natural carpet, covering most of the rock floor.
"I found this when we were moving the supplies in," Sinclair explained. "There are two more almost identical to this that we can use as communal baths if we ever decide to move in here. This one is just for us."
She rummaged in her pack, withdrawing two bars of soap and two thick towels. Handing one of each to Jackson, she pointed toward the water.
"Go ahead. I'll join you in a minute."
Jackson paused only long enough to remove his weapons, equipment, and boots. He waded into the water fully clothed.
The pool was roughly circular, some twenty feet in diameter, but with a depth of only four feet. A soft, sandy bottom allowed heat from the interior of the earth to seep in slowly, warming the water to nearly body temperature.
Voicing a long, contented sigh, Jackson flopped down in the water. He floated on his back for a time, basking in the soothing warmth, watching Ronnie Sinclair.
She removed several wrapped parcels from their packs, then went to a dark corner of the cave to withdraw a bundle obviously placed there for just this occasion. It was a sleeping bag, which she unrolled and placed on the soft moss at the edge of the pool. Then she, too, removed her equipment and waded into the water.
They washed each other, laughing and splashing. As each layer of their clothing was finally scrubbed clean it was stripped off and laid aside to dry. When they were both naked, she took him by the hand, leading him to the rear cave. While he waded in the chilly water she stood beneath the waterfall to wash her hair. Then they ran back to the heated pool to soak again, until Sinclair suddenly stepped out and dried herself. Jackson did the same. 
As if in time to some unspoken command they came together,
kissing with mouths open, tongues probing deeply. Her breasts mashed against his chest, the nipples hard with excitement. She kissed his neck, his chest, the hard muscles of his stomach, finally kneeling before him to take him in her hands, stroking and caressing.
He moaned aloud when she took his hard length in her mouth, sucking greedily. He ran his fingers through her hair. She wrapped her arms around him, fingers kneading his buttocks while she continued to engulf him with her warm, wet mouth.
When he could stand it no longer he pushed her down on her back atop the sleeping bag, arranging himself over her. She spread her legs eagerly, whimpering at his first blunt probing.
"Don't tease me, Tucker," she whispered. "I've waited too long. Put it in... now!"
With one smooth thrust, he entered her. They both moaned. She arched her back, her eyes looking directly into his, wrapping her arms and legs around him.
"Don't move... don't move..." she whispered. "Just... let it soak in there a while... oh, God that feels good..."
They lay together for some moments, kissing tenderly. He could feel her wetness running down her thighs, feel the twitching of her muscles where she surrounded him.
"I can't stand it any more!" she said with a throaty laugh. He withdrew slowly, then plunged into her again and again and again, harder each time. She thrust her hips up to meet him. He lowered his mouth to her breasts, tonguing the nipples to painful erectness. She screamed with delight when her first climax swept over her, fingernails raking his back. He fought hard to maintain his self-control.
They rested, panting and still joined, then began again. Only their heavy breathing and the wet, sensuous sounds of their bodies echoed through the cave.
She moaned when she came the second time. He could no longer hold back. She sensed it and urged him on.
"Yes... yes... do it... fill me..."
He exploded into her violently, filling her until she overflowed, his sticky seed mixing with her fluids to run down her thighs.
For a long time they lay together in silence, each content to feel the closeness of the other. Then she reached between his legs to find him, stroking him gently until he responded. 
Straddling his hips she impaled herself on him, moaning as he slid up into her. She rode him slowly, while he gently thumbed her nipples. They climaxed together.
Afterwards she lay in his arms, one leg thrown across his stomach.
"Talk to me, love," she whispered.
"About what?"
"You." She propped her head in one hand. "Tell me all about this mysterious person called Tucker Jackson. You're a hero, but I'd never heard of you. You were a wanted criminal, yet the Prime Minister trusts you. Tell me all your deep, dark secrets, love."
"It's not all that entertaining a story," he admitted, "and parts of it you won't like at all."
"Tell me anyway," she insisted, reaching up to touch the patch over his left eye. "I especially want to hear about this."
He was silent for so long she was afraid she had somehow offended him, but finally he spoke. Holding her firm, naked body against his own, he told her the story of his life.




CHAPTER XVIII

SAC AIRBASE

MINOT, NORTH DAKOTA

OCTOBER 6, 2020 AD

Jackson stood at the bar of the officers' club, sipping a drink. Now and then he turned to scan the crowded room, more out of curiosity than anything else.
North Dakota seemed to Jackson a strange place for a rest camp. Little about it appeared restful or entertaining. The weather was already bitterly cold, with a layer of snow on the ground. He wondered again as to the reasoning behind the orders sending him to this dismal place.
Once the Chinese evacuated San Francisco and began their long retreat up the coast, most of the veteran units, Jackson's included, were pulled from the front lines. Fresh troops replaced them, to continue the pressure against the enemy.
Transferred first to a camp in Wyoming, Jackson was allowed a few days there to rest and draw a fresh issue of clothing and sundries. He managed twice to gain access to a computer, enabling him to continue his search for Covere, so long postponed by the fighting. Then new orders arrived, sending him, without explanation, to North Dakota. For five days he languished there, knowing no one, unable to obtain any hint as to the reason for his presence.
Now, as he stood at the bar, an uneasy feeling crept into his stomach. Downing his drink in a single gulp he turned to leave, but froze in his tracks when his eye caught sight of a familiar face at a nearby table.
One of the officers seated there looked vaguely familiar. The young Lieutenant eventually turned so his name tag was visible. Jackson stiffened, beads of sweat popping out of his forehead as he read the name 'M. Nerri.' He struggled to control himself.
Michael Nerri! Covere's longtime friend. How often had he stared at the photo in the files? Where ever one of them went, or was, the other was almost certainly close by!
For nearly an hour Jackson waited at the bar, muscles cramping with tension. Nerri finally bid goodbye to the others at his table and headed for the door. He never once glanced in Jackson's direction or gave any sign he recognized him.
In the gloomy twilight outside the club a light snow fell. It muffled the sounds of Nerri's boots on the tarmac. Jackson watched Nerri walk in the direction of some maintenance buildings and hangers, the collar of his overcoat turned up, hands in his pockets. He appeared to be unaware of his shadower.
Jackson's mind raced as he slipped from shadow to shadow among the buildings, following Nerri.
Careful, fool! he warned himself. Think! It would be risky to try anything here, on a military base. To attack immediately, without a plan or more knowledge of the enemy, could be disastrous. But follow... follow and see if he leads you to Covere!
His thoughts were brutally interrupted when something smacked into the back of his left shoulder.
The projectile ripped through his clothing to buried itself in his flesh. He felt an unnatural warmth spreading out beneath his skin. A drug being released into his system.
Jackson slipped into the shadow of a doorway, gritting his teeth. He scanned the gathering darkness with his infra-red vision for some sign of his attacker. At the same time he fought against the drug, constricting his muscles to slow its advance, willing his heart beat to slow as well. He knew he would have to move swiftly to escape what was obviously a trap. Yet speed would only serve to spread the drug through his blood stream more quickly.
A second projectile struck him in the right thigh before he could move. The double dose of the drug quickly became more than he could successfully combat. He felt his muscles begin to slacken and quiver. His vision blurred. He staggered a few steps along the wall of the building until his legs gave out, forcing him to the ground.
The sounds of boots crunching through the snow reached his ears. He struggled to rise, straining against the drug, levering himself to his knees.
"Damn!" hissed a voice from somewhere to his left. A soft popping sound accompanied a third shot that bit into his cheek.
Jackson slumped to the ground, the paralyzing drug in full possession of his system. A booted toe connected sharply with his right knee. He grunted with the pain but his leg muscles would not even react to that crude stimulus.
A figure knelt beside him, jerking him up by the collar, turning his head so he could see. A ferret-faced man with pock-marked skin and bristly red hair gave him a toothy grin.
"You're one tough son of a bitch, Injun," Nicholas Covere admitted grudgingly. He held up an air pistol in one hand, shaking his head. "Most fellas can't take even one dart full of this tranquilizing drug before they piss all over themselves. I never seen anybody take three! This is gonna be an interesting night!"
Covere heaved Jackson's inert form upright, with the help of someone pushing from behind. They lifted him in a fireman's carry, Covere trotting quickly around several dark corners, then down a row of buildings to an unlighted doorway. A gust of warm air escaped when he shouldered the door open. Once inside, he heaved Jackson into a lopsided upholstered chair smelling of mold, sweat, and tobacco. From the corner of his eye Jackson watched Covere walk to a nearby table, where he laid out an assortment of items including a can of lighter fluid, a hammer and nails, wire, rope, and several knives.
Covere considered their arrangement, then nodded and removed his overcoat. He approached Jackson, propping him upright in the chair, pushing and pulling on his paralyzed limbs until he had them just so. He wedged a board beneath Jackson's chin to support his head.
"How's that? Can ya see real good, Injun?" Covere stepped back to appraise his efforts. As he did so, the sounds of at least two other people came to Jackson's ears from different parts of the building. He assumed one was Nerri. From the other he caught the unmistakable scent of expensive perfume.
The unidentified woman remained behind Jackson, out of sight. Both Covere and Nerri removed their uniform jackets, then rolled up their sleeves. Covere went to the table to retrieve the black air gun. He knelt in front of Jackson. 
"You're real good, Injun," he admitted again. "I almost missed seein' ya out there. I would have, too, if it wasn't for them night vision goggles I was wearin'."  He waved the pistol again. "We get lots of neat toys from the National Security Agency. That's who we work for ya know, me an' Mikey here."
He turned, took deliberate aim, and shot Nerri in the throat with a dart.
 	Nerri gagged and staggered one step. He managed to bring his right hand almost up to his throat before he collapsed. Covere stood over him, watching him twitch and jerk. He shook his head sadly.
"Sorry, Mikey, but you was gettin' ta be a real pain in the ass."  He looked over at Jackson. "Can ya believe that after all this time his conscience was botherin' him? Said he wanted ta confess, for Christ sake! Wanted to tell what we done back in Arizona! Asshole!"
Covere slammed a vicious kick into Nerri's right ear and laughed. "You ain't gonna tell shit, 'cause tonight I'm gonna take care of all my problems!"
He rolled Nerri over onto his stomach, then bound his hands tightly behind his back with a length of wire. He dragged the man by an ankle to the center of the room where a rope was suspended through a block and tackle near the ceiling. Tying one end of the rope to the wire around Nerri's wrists, he took a strain on the other end, then smiled at Jackson.
"Watch this, Injun. I been studyin' on some neat tortures, like from back in the Spanish Inquisition. They called this one the Strappado."
Covere pulled hard on the rope. Nerri's arms were jerked up behind his back at an acute angle. Accompanied by the popping of tendons, he was hoisted into the air, his body hanging almost parallel to the floor. Covere tied off the rope, then inspected his unfortunate victim.
" 'Course... back then they used to tie weights to the people's feet, so's they'd hang more up and down ya see,"  Covere said in a conversational tone. "Says in the book that if ya did it right it could take maybe half an hour afore the guy's shoulders dislocated. But we're in kinda a hurry here."
He grabbed Nerri's ankles and jerked down hard, putting all his weight into the movement. With a sickening, ripping sound, Nerri's arms were wrenched from their sockets at the shoulders and elbows.
Not even the powerful drug could blunt Nerri's scream of pain. The man grunted and wheezed, swaying on the rope, his arms stretched at grotesque angles above his head. Vomit and bile ran from his mouth.
"Godammit, Mikey!" Covere hissed as he cut the rope, allowing the man to fall heavily to the floor. "You always was a messy little shit!"
With wire cutters he snipped the bonds at Nerri's wrists, then lugged him to the table. He bent him over one end, face down. Nerri's arms flopped about like the broken wings of a chicken. The sound of bone grating against bone was clearly audible.
Nerri's body was so loose from the drug he kept sliding toward the floor. Covere solved the problem by driving a large nail through the back of each of Nerri's hands and into the tabletop.
"There!" Covere said as he threw down the hammer. "That should hold yas while I have some fun. I always wanted to do this, Mikey. Ya got a nice ass for a guy."
Bent over the table as he was, Nerri was positioned facing Jackson. The Indian could see the pitiful, pleading look in Nerri's painfilled, unblinking eyes.
"Mind if I join in the fun?" asked a throaty voice off to Jackson's left.
"Go ahead, Rosa," Covere said with a jerk of his head toward Jackson. "Try out the Injun there. See if your mouth can overcome the affects of the drug."
Covere stripped off Nerri's pants and underwear, then lowered his own. He stepped up behind the man, slapping him on the buttocks. After applying something from a jar which he snatched up from the table, he grinned and rammed himself into Nerri. The man grunted at the brutal entrance of Covere. More fluids ran from his mouth.
The woman moved to stand before Jackson, thankfully cutting off his view of Nerri's rape. She was slender, with close-cropped black hair and dark eyes. Her pale skin contrasted sharply with the black pants and blouse she wore. She cocked her head to one side, smiling at Jackson.
"Hi, soldier," she whispered. "Want to have a good time?"
She slowly unbuttoned her blouse to reveal small breasts with dark nipples. Leaning forward, she kissed Jackson, ramming her tongue into his mouth while her fingers unzipped his pants.
"Ohhhh..." she sighed. "You're big all over."
She knelt between his outstretched legs. He could not lower his head to see, but felt her mouth engulf him.
It seemed to go on forever, with the girl between Jackson's legs, her head bobbing up and down. Covere accompanied her, his stomach slapping against Nerri in time with her movements. In spite of the drug, Jackson felt himself grow hard in the woman's mouth. His stomach churned. He wanted desperately to close his eyes, but even those muscles were out of his control.
It all ended at once. Jackson felt himself spasm, the girl sucking and swallowing. Covere moaned, bending over Nerri.
After that, Covere's 'entertainment' became violent and grisly. He tortured Nerri for what seemed like hours, finally soaking the man's hair with lighter fluid, then setting it afire. He stepped back to watch, like a painter inspecting a masterpiece.
Because he could not blink, Jackson's eyes began to dry out. His vision mercifully blurred so he did not clearly see all the events.
Finally a blood-spattered Covere knelt before Jackson to pour the contents of a whiskey bottle over him. He forced a bloody knife into Jackson's hand, then sat back on his heels and stared, his eyes hard and cruel.
"You made a bad mistake, Injun, when you started goin' through Army files lookin' for me. Like your little doctor friend, you asked too many questions!"
"I'm protected," he said simply. "Seaton Mistakola and the National Security Agency take care of me 'cause of the special work I do for them. And now I'm takin' care of you."
Covere stood and moved to one side. Jackson could see Nerri's body lying on its back atop the table. The handle of a knife protruded upwards from the area of the man's right eye. Blood spattered the walls and lay in thick puddles upon the floor.
"The M.P.s will be here in a little while," Covere informed him. "Me an' Rosa will see to that. They'll find a drunk Injun and a dead Nerri, and ya know what happens after that. Oh, an' they won't find any trace of the drug from the dart gun in you or poor Mikey there. It disappears after a couple hours. So you'll just be another redskin what couldn't hold his liquor and went on the war path. You lose again, Injun!"
Covere's demonic laughter echoed through the building.
          *          *          *          *

The court martial was swift and efficient, producing evidence against Jackson which was damning and overwhelming. His stoic silence throughout the affair served only to infuriate the tribunal.
Covere and Rosa occupied front row seats at the trial, accompanied by several men in civilian suits who were obviously high ranking members of the NSA. 
The court sentenced Jackson to death by lethal injection.  In the absence of any appeal by him, the date for execution was set for a mere three weeks later. Covere and Rosa walked from the courtroom arm in arm, laughing.
The Army had no facilities for complying with such a verdict. The execution was to be carried out at the federal penitentiary in Aberdeen, North Dakota. It was during the transfer that Jackson escaped.
He was in handcuffs and leg irons, seated between two burly M.P.s in the rear of an army sedan. Once they were well away from the SAC base, Jackson calmly dislocated his left thumb, folding it into his palm as Tusek had taught him. He slipped his hand from the cuff, then slammed his elbow into the throat of the guard on that side. He chopped the other guard across the Adams's apple with his right hand, then slid down in the seat. Whipping his legs over the head of the driver, he strangled him with the chain connecting his ankles.
The car careened across the road through a ditch and into an open field, where it died. Jackson was able to restart it after he dumped out the bodies. He drove straight back to Minot, hiding right under the Army’s' collective nose, on the base itself. M.P.s searched the countryside for thirty miles in all directions. Several nights later he broke into a storage area, taking weapons, ammo, food, and cold weather clothing. From a civilian parking lot, he helped himself to a four-wheel-drive truck. In a matter of hours he was across the border into Canada.
He spent the winter in the wilderness, sleeping in caves, abandoned miners' camps and deserted resort cabins. Several times he slipped into semi-isolated communities on the edge of the great Canadian forest. It was during those times he learned of the war's escalation, the nuclear bombings, the collapse of the American government, and the formation of the new country under a Prime Minister.
He soon realized the military was far more concerned with the country's survival than with trying to capture an escapee. He became bolder, drifting down toward the SAC base in North Dakota once again. There he first saw the leaflets with his own likeness on them.
The invitation of the Prime Minister intrigued Jackson. So did the words 'amnesty' and 'official government pardon'. He suspected they had a need for someone who had nothing to lose.
After several days of careful consideration, Jackson decided to investigate. Again he broke into the military base, this time taking a new dress uniform and forging a set of orders. Within forty-eight hours he was delivered, via military transport, to the city of Toronto, the seat of the new North American Government.
He waited several more days, blending in with the crowds, stealing new clothing and weapons. Then he paid a nocturnal visit to Prime Minister Edsel Thurran. 




CHAPTER XIX

COLORADO

65,000,000 BC

DAY 31

Ronnie Sinclair lay with her head on Tucker Jackson's shoulder, fingers of her right hand trailing gently over his stomach and thighs.
She sighed, pressing her naked body against him, her nipples rubbing against his skin.
"My God, Tucker, what a depressing story," she said when he finished telling her about himself. "No wonder you've done the things you've done. And now this asshole Covere is here, somewhere, with us!?” What happens if he finds out you and I are lovers? We are lovers, aren't we? I mean like on a sort of permanent basis? I hate one night stands."
"We are," he assured her. "And if Covere finds out he'll probably kill you."
"Ohhh, great! You have a way of making a girl feel so secure."	She reached between his legs, gently stroking his length. "That means we'll have to use every opportunity we get, doesn't it?"
"I don't know about you," he said slowly, "but right now I'm more hungry than...."
"Well damn!" she said, slapping his chest playfully. "I have more presents for you. I forgot all about them."
She walked to their packs and rooted among them, withdrawing wrapped parcels which she placed on the sleeping bag next to him. When he opened them, he was surprised to find they contained food, real food; cheese, bread, sliced meats, even a small bottle of wine.
"Lassiter had this sent through, just for us," she explained. "He thought we could use a small diversion from work. 'An intimate dinner, a bottle of wine, and some sweaty, gratuitous sex' was the good doctor's exact prescription."
They sat naked on the floor of the cave feeding each other small bites.  When they finished, they washed in the pool, then returned to their original positions on the sleeping bag. 
"This has been nice," Jackson sighed. "But it's probably time for us to get our minds back on business."
"Fuck business!" Sinclair answered immediately. She squirmed atop him, kissing him hard, her tongue probing his mouth.
He rolled her onto her back, kissing his way down her naked body. He paid particular attention to her ears, the hollow of her throat, her firm breasts with their hard nipples, and her flat belly. When he went even further, down she spread her legs eagerly, moaning with delight. She ran her fingers through his hair, pulling his face against herself.
Twice she squirmed and shuddered in climax while his tongue worked over her. Then he rolled her over onto all fours to take her from behind. She growled like a wild thing, thrusting back against him, reaching between her legs to feel where they were joined. He cupped her breasts as he plunged into her. They climaxed together and collapsed, his warm length still filling her.
          *          *          *          *
They walked in silence through the forest, now and then reaching out to touch each other. The late afternoon sun filtered down through the gigantic trees in thin yellow shafts.
Less than a hundred yards from the edge of the grassy plain, Jackson suddenly stopped. Ronnie Sinclair immediately turned around, pressing her back to his, rifle ready, peering intently among the trees.
"It's here again," he whispered to her after a moment.
"What is?"
Jackson gently pulled her around by the arm until they were facing the same direction. 
"He is."
The dinosaur stepped out from between two trees, advancing timidly, staring at them through its huge eyes. It was the same creature which had confronted them once before with its eerie, human-like movements. It halted some twenty feet away, as if waiting for something.
"Well, hello Einstein," Jackson said softly. "What's on your little mind today, provided you even have one."
In spite of his comment Jackson had no doubt the creature was considerably more than just a dumb lizard. He made a great show of handing his rifle to Sinclair, then walked slowly toward the animal until its tail began to twitch. It shuffled backward one step. Jackson stopped, squatting down on his haunches to wait.
The dinosaur stood there fidgeting, as if attempting to make up its mind about something. Finally it extended one of its arms,  dropping a small object to the ground. It looked at Jackson, then turned and darted off among the trees.
"Shit!" Sinclair barked. "I don't like that thing, Tucker! It chills my blood! Every time I see it my instincts scream at me to kill it!"
"A woman's instincts are often correct," he admitted. "But Einstein wants to be friends for some reason."
"Yeah," Sinclair growled. "So it can lure us home for dinner!"
Jackson merely grunted. He picked up the object dropped by the creature. It was a jagged piece of lightweight metal two inches square and a quarter inch thick.  He showed it to Sinclair.
"Something it picked up from around our camp?" the woman asked.
Jackson shook his head, running his finger along one ragged edge of the metal.
"This was done by an explosion or crash. We haven't had either of those. Doesn't feel like part of a grenade either."
"Then where the hell would it get metal like that?" Sinclair demanded. "Never mind. I don't want to know. This is getting freaky again, Tucker. I feel like I'm starring in a science fiction movie!"
"Whatever this is, there's a reason it was given to us," Jackson told her. "C'mon. Let's get back to camp."
          *          *          *          *
DAY 36
11:04 AM
Tucker Jackson squatted, Indian fashion, on the crest of a small rise a hundred and fifty yards from the camp. His buttocks touched his heels. His arms were folded across his knees. He stared intently at a herd of three-horned triceratops browsing contentedly in the grass a hundred yards below.
Ronnie Sinclair knelt down next to him, leaning on her rifle. She had removed the sleeves of her uniform shirt so that the garment was more like a vest. Beneath it, her full breasts bounced freely. Their movement usually earned her a long, appreciative look from Jackson. This morning he did not even turn his head at her approach.
"Well, good morning, Cochise. What's happening?"
"Geronimo was my ancestor," Jackson corrected gruffly. "Cochise was a wimp."
"Excuse the hell outa' me!" she snapped. "My, aren't we testy this morning! That's probably because your juices are all backed up again. We need another little session in the cave, lover. It's been five long days and nights. This living in separate tents is hell on my hormones."
 "We got trouble this morning," he said. "Go get Lassiter, slowly, quietly, and bring him here."
Sinclair left at once, never questioning his orders. She returned a few minutes later with Hugo Lassiter in tow.
"I've been meaning to talk to you, Tucker-my-lad," the scientist said as he seated himself on the ground. "Tell me about this piece of metal you gave Dr. Hensberg. Where did it come from?"
"We found it."
"You found it? Here? Is this some sort of bad practical joke? One does not simply find machined metal in 65,000,000 BC!"
"Okay, we didn't find it. Someone gave it to us."
"Who, for God's sake?"
"Einstein."
"You are fucking impossible this morning!" Lassiter snorted. He looked up at Sinclair. "You're his woman. Can you tell me what the hell he's talking about?"
She told him of their meetings in the forest with the strange creature. Lassiter listened raptly.
"An intelligent dinosaur!" he sighed. "Yes, that's been speculated upon a few times. What I wouldn't give to meet it, and talk to it. But wait! Where would it get this metal? We don't have anything like this. Hensberg can't analyze it, doesn't have the slightest idea what it is. Where....?"
Jackson turned his head toward Lassiter, then slowly raised his eyes to the sky. The scientist gasped.
"Oh my god! The video tape... the reflection in the sky! Then there is someone or something here with us. With access to metal and flying machines! We must find them! What a project! We only have a whole planet to search... on foot!"
"You won't have to search," Jackson told him. "I think they're here already. Sit down!"
Lassiter leaped to his feet at the prospect of meeting the mysterious visitors. He sat down again after Jackson's warning.
"At the briefing, before we went through the Portal, you introduced yourself as a 'doctor of old bones'," Jackson recalled. "You ever study any live animals?"
"Well, of course! One studies the habits and anatomy of living creatures so that when one finds the bones of the dead one can make an educated guess as to how those bones should go together. What does this...?"
"Tell me about animals that travel in herds," Jackson interrupted. "Why do they do that?"
"The herding instinct," Lassiter said with an exasperated sigh, "is probably as old as animals themselves. It's a gathering for mutual protection. The females, the young, and the very old remain in the center of the herd while the larger animals, usually the bulls, defend the perimeter. Surely you know all this already. Now will you get to the..."
"Look down there," Jackson interrupted again, nodding at the herd of triceratops, "...and tell me exactly what you see."
Lassiter gritted his teeth in frustration but studied the herd for several minutes.
"I see... twenty-seven beasts of various sizes and, presumably, sexes," he reported. "With... with the largest single animal in the center of the herd!?"
"You win the prize, Hugo," Jackson said. "Why is the largest animal hiding in the middle of all the others? And why doesn't it eat? It lowers its head now and then but it never takes a bite of grass! And I'll tell you something else," he said, tapping the patch over his eye. "It gives off a strange heat signature."
Sinclair was the first to grasp the significance of his remarks.
"Is that a machine, Tucker... a mechanical dinosaur?"
"I think so."
"Ohh, shit!" Lassiter yelled. "They're using it to spy on us!"
"I think so," Jackson repeated.
"What do we do now?" asked Sinclair. "I suppose we could wander down there, tap it lightly on the beak and see if anyone lets us in."
"We could, but we have another problem right now. How many officers are we supposed to have with us?"
Sinclair pulled out her notebook and paged through it.
"We came through the Portal originally with two lieutenants; Perkins, who was killed when we were cleaning out the caves, and Jackie Mikawa, whom Hugo has taken a special interest in of late."
"She's a delightful little thing," Lassiter admitted with a blush.
"When the second group came through," Sinclair continued, "there were two lieutenants; Clarke and Haskill. So we should have three right now."
"There are four in our camp," Jackson informed her. Again she caught the implications immediately.
"Someone has infiltrated, to spy on us. One of Covere's friends from the NSA?"
"Probably," said Jackson. "The name tag on his uniform says 'Jandro'. He's taken a special interest in a lot of things, including this dinosaur herd."
"It's a little dumb to send him in as an officer," Sinclair observed. 
"It might have been the only way they could be sure he'd have the complete freedom of the camp," was Jackson's opinion. "As an enlisted man he'd be more inconspicuous but there's also the possibility he'd get stuck pulling all sorts of details that would interfere with his real mission."
"What are we going to do about all this?" Lassiter demanded.
"For now I think we just wait," Jackson told him. "We let them watch us, we watch them, and we see who's the first to lose their nerve or make a mistake."
          *          *          *          *
DAY 36
6:17 PM

Jackson and Sinclair marched into Hugo Lassiter's tent, catching him in bed with Lt. Jackie Mikawa.
Hugo was lying on his back on his field cot with the woman straddling him. Her hands were on his shoulders as she moved slowly up and down. When Jackson and Sinclair burst in unannounced both Lassiter and the woman froze in an acutely embarrassed immobility.
"Well... shit... just come right in!" Lassiter sputtered, his hands still cupping the woman's breasts.
"We did, Hugo. Thank you," Jackson replied as he seated himself on the opposite cot. Sinclair reached out, gently touching Jackie Mikawa on the shoulder.
"Don't be embarrassed, Jackie. Tucker and I have already done this same thing... several times. It was wonderful!"
"But did you invite spectators?" Lassiter demanded.
"We're leaving," Jackson announced.
"Good!" Lassiter shouted. "Hurry!"
"I mean we're leaving the camp."
Only then did Lassiter noticed their new fatigue uniforms and the green and brown grease paint covering their arms and faces.
"The dinosaur herd is about to wander off to where ever it  spends the night, the mechanical one with it," Jackson said. "Jandro looks like he's getting ready to follow, so we'll follow them both. From here on, Hugo, things could happen very fast. Be careful. Don't get caught with your pants down by anyone else. It could be fatal. If you have a gun, start carrying it. If you don't have one, get one."
"You're in charge," Sinclair told Mikawa. "Keep everything running like it has been, but double all the guards. If we're not back in four days..." She shrugged, then bent down to pat Lassiter's bearded cheek. "...if we're not back, take good care of him and use your own judgment."
As they made their way to the entrance of the tent they heard Lassiter whisper to the woman.
"Well, my dear, after that rude and untimely interruption, I'm afraid that I've shriveled down to nothing. You'll have to get it up for me again if you wish to continue."
"It will be my pleasure," Mikawa murmured as she burrowed beneath the blanket.
When they were outside, Sinclair elbowed Jackson in the ribs.
"See? They get to do it in a tent!"
"Business, woman! Only business!" he warned with a shake of his finger.
          *          *          *          *
Jackson and Sinclair waded through the chest-high grass, walking to either side of the wide path trampled by the dinosaur herd. The half moon bathed the landscape in an eerie silver-white light, making it appear as if they were walking through ice and snow. They stopped frequently to rest, listening for both those they followed and whatever might decide to follow them.
The trail of the herd led them around the marsh, then north between the forest and the shore of the lake. For two and a half hours they followed the trail, as well as the man called Jandro. He gave no indication he was aware of his pursuers. Jackson kept the man in sight with his infra-red vision, following the orange outline of his body through the tough, wiry grass.
Well to the north of the lake a lone animal detached itself from the herd. Veering left, it headed toward a natural indentation in the forest wall. It entered the clearing and stopped, remaining in a rigid, unnatural stance.
Jackson and Sinclair stopped as well some seventy five yards out in the grass. Jandro kept walking until he disappeared around the curve of the tree line.
"What do we do now?" Sinclair asked as Jackson knelt beside her. "Our boy Jandro seems to have suddenly lost interest."
"Maybe... and maybe not. I think we stay with them," he said, nodding at the dinosaur shape in the clearing. He cocked his head to one side.
"Can you hear it?" he asked her.
Sinclair shook her head. Jackson again nodded toward the clearing.
"A humming noise, like an electric motor." He pulled gently on his right earlobe. "Sometimes, with this ear, I can hear things no one else can."
They crawled through the grass to the edge of the forest,  working their way to the clearing among the trees. As they approached, a soft light suddenly blossomed from within the area. Shadows moved back and forth. Crouching at the edge of the tree line, Jackson and Sinclair parted the leaves of a giant fern.  
The 'dinosaur' stood silently, its entire head tilted back at an unnatural angle like the raised hood of an automobile. A large, round opening in the throat area of the machine emitted a greenish light. On the ground near its left front leg was a glowing object similar to a lantern, illuminating most of the clearing with an orange-white light.
Two figures were visible near the up-tilted head of the 'animal'. Both were human in appearance, dressed in tan colored garments with coverings for the hands and feet. Only their heads were exposed. A third figure was visible only from the waist down, as it leaned into the throat cavity of the 'dinosaur'.  As Jackson and Sinclair watched, the two beings outside held an animated discussion, then separated, one walking around to the far side of the machine, the other stepping closer to the light.
A half dozen staccato coughing sounds erupted from the opposite tree line. The figure nearest the light dropped as if struck by a hammer. The individual leaning into the machine yelled and fell, clutching a leg, then jerked in time to three more of the coughing noises and lay still.
"Silencers!" Jackson hissed. "Son of a bitch they killed them! Wait!"
He gripped Sinclair's shoulder as she raised her rifle. Another figure appeared from near the hind quarters of the 'dinosaur', wearing army fatigues. It moved cautiously, both hands extended as if gripping a weapon. The figure stood over one of the prone bodies, pointing its hands downward. There was another coughing sound and the body twitched.
"Take him!" Jackson snarled. At the same time he fired on the opposite tree line.
Sinclair cut loose with a five-round burst that lifted the unknown killer off his feet, slamming him back against the 'dinosaur'. Then she also directed her fire into the opposite tree line.
When their weapons were empty they both rammed in fresh magazines, then retreated into the forest where they waited, listening to the sounds of dripping moisture and the distant honks of creatures disturbed by the gunfire.
"Did you see something on the other side of the clearing?" Sinclair whispered.
"I'm not sure," Jackson answered. "Everything holds in so much heat from the day. Mostly what I see is just a dull orange wall. But I thought I spotted two darker shapes that could have been men."
"Or a man and a woman," she suggested. "Maybe Covere and Rosa?"
"Maybe," he agreed. "If so, they won't be scared off by just two people with rifles, not for very long. We better do something. Let's take a chance and go into the clearing."
They advanced a few yards at a time, listening intently, then sprinted across the open area to the side of the 'dinosaur', crouching between its legs. When no shots were forthcoming they went to examine the body of the man Sinclair had brought down.
His chest was shredded, covered with blood, but the name 'Jandro' was still faintly legible on his uniform. On the ground next to him lay an automatic pistol with a long silencer protruding from the end of the barrel. Jackson scooped up the weapon and stuck it in his belt.
"Let's check the others and then this machine," he suggested. "If nothing else maybe we can sort of borrow it and drive it home."
Together they brought all the bodies in close to the glowing light. Sinclair shivered when she saw them clearly.
"Aliens!" she whispered.
The beings were short and well built, with close-cropped reddish-gold hair. Their ears were small, as if only half formed, while their eyes were a silver-gray color with dark pupils that ran vertically like those of a feline. Their blood, soaking through the paper-like garments, had a strange copper hue.
"Look at this!" Sinclair hissed. She raised the limp arm of one of the bodies. Jackson saw that all four of the fingers on the hand were of equal length.
"What a waste!" he said with a shake of his head. "It would have been interesting to talk to them. See if you can find something to cover them with while I check the machine."
He crawled cautiously into the neck of the dinosaur. Inside, the machine was a maze of small, glowing, blinking lights with accompanying banks of switches and dials. Thick padding adhered to the walls. Three tan-colored chairs were anchored to the floor, one close to the 'head', two others farther back in the 'body'.
"Hey! Hey Tucker!" Sinclair called urgently from outside. "You better come here. I think this one's still alive!"
Jackson scrambled outside to join Sinclair as she knelt over the body of the smallest alien.
"I can't find a pulse anywhere," she reported, then held her hand over the nose and mouth of the alien. "...but it's breathing!"
Jackson bent down to examine the body more closely. He wiped some of the blood off the face. A deep gouge from a bullet ran along the left side of the alien's head from the forehead to just above the ear. There were no other visible injuries.
"Let's get it inside and take it with us," he suggested.
When Sinclair gave him a long, doubtful look he shrugged.
"Well we can't just leave it here. Either Covere will come back and kill it or the dinosaurs will eat it. Now help me get it inside."
Together they lifted the body through the opening and into the machine, stretching it out on the padded floor in the rear. Jackson seated himself in the forward most chair, grunting in surprise when a lighted panel slid into position across his lap.
"Think you can drive this thing?" Sinclair asked over his shoulder.
"Dunno," he answered. "I've been inside tanks a couple of times, but this... well... I'm going to assume these are the controls, since they presented themselves to me. This looks like a joystick. These symbols are almost like a picture language... this one with a dinosaur and an arrow pointing ahead should mean forward, and an arrow to the rear should be reverse...."
"How do you know that it isn't the one makes it take a dump?" Sinclair asked. "You push that and maybe it just farts us right outa here."
"You really are a crude witch sometimes!"
"Only when I'm scared."
"Well, I am too," he admitted. "But we have to do something. We've been here too long. It's time to move before those bodies outside start attracting scavengers or Covere finds us. You keep your eye on our passenger while I see if I can chauffeur us home."
As Sinclair scrambled toward the rear of the machine Jackson took a deep breath and pressed the symbol that appeared to control the raising and lowering of the head. With a high pitched whining sound the front came down, locking into position. Rumbling noises from the rear increased slightly in volume.
Taking another deep breath, Jackson moved the joystick back slightly. The machine hesitantly began to move in that direction. At the same time several small viewing screens came to life on a bulkhead directly in front of the command chair. They afforded views in all directions outside in a medium which appeared similar to television. Another screen presented a view resembling his own infra-red sight.
"Hot damn! I think we got something here!" he announced to Sinclair.
With great care he backed the machine from the clearing, leaving the bodies lying in the glow of the lantern.
Once clear of the trees, Jackson nudged the controller to the left. The machine began a gradual turn in that direction, lifting and setting down its legs with a surprising agility. The turn completed, Jackson pushed the stick forward. The machine marched ahead through the tall grass, carrying them back toward their camp.




CHAPTER XX

COLORADO

65,000,000 BC

DAY 37

4:38 A.M.

"Tucker! Hey, Tucker! You need to come look at this!"
Jackson eased back on the joystick. The mechanical dinosaur rumbled to a halt, standing stiffly amidst the tall grass of the plain. He pushed the control console aside, then made his way back to where Ronnie Sinclair sat on the floor in the rear of the machine.
"Thank God you stopped!" she said. "I was getting seasick!"
They had traveled for over an hour, following the trail of crushed grass made earlier by the dinosaur herd. The ambling, rolling gait of the mechanical beast had taken its toll on Jackson as well.
"This must be close to what it's like riding a camel," he said, stretching his cramped muscles. "And my back knows those seats were definitely not designed for humans to sit in for extended periods. What have you got?"
Sinclair pointed to the alien lying on the floor. "I washed away most of the blood," she reported. "The wound doesn't look serious, but... no change in its condition. I hope like hell I didn't infect it with something from our water. But I did find out how to open the coverall thing it's wearing."
She touched a spot on the neck of the garment. The material parted from the left shoulder across the torso to the right hip. Jackson grunted in surprise.
"A female!"
The alien woman had small, rounded breasts with rich, dark nipples. Her belly was flat. She had no navel, nor was there any hair between her legs, only soft folds of moist flesh.
"Interesting," Jackson said.
"Well, don't get any ideas, buster!" Sinclair warned as she closed the woman's clothing. Then she glanced up at him, a look of serious doubt on her face.
"What happens, Tucker, if her friends catch us driving this thing? What if they have some kind of tracking device installed in here? We're driving a stolen car with a body in the trunk..."
"We'd have some powerful explaining to do, wouldn't we?" said Jackson.
"Yeah, if they were in the mood to listen, and if they could even understand us," she pointed out.
"It's a chance we'll have to take," he said as he made his way back to the command chair.
Once again he set the mechanical dinosaur in motion. It plodded relentlessly across the plain. As the first rays of the rising sun touched the earth, he wedged the machine into a small opening between two huge trees at the edge of the forest. They carried the unconscious alien woman outside. After cutting saplings and constructing a crude stretcher, they carried her through the forest to the sanctuary of the caves.
It was nearly noon before Jackson made his way to the camp and then returned to the cave with Hugo Lassiter and the expedition's doctor. A short, gray-haired individual named Fenton, he performed a thorough examination of the alien female, then stood up and grunted.
"Well?" asked Jackson impatiently.
"Well what?" Fenton snapped.
"Can you fix her?"
"I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian!"
Jackson grabbed the front of Fenton's shirt, but the good doctor was not easily intimidated.
"Well, just look at her!" he yelled "We don't know if she even approaches anything we would consider human. She has silver eyes, for God's sake. Just giving her an aspirin might kill her!"
Jackson relented, releasing the doctor's shirt. The man sighed loudly.
"You've put me in a terrible position," Fenton explained. "I want desperately to help, but I don't know if I dare. I can only go by what I know about human medicine. If she's had no vomiting or bleeding from the nose or ears, then I suspect nothing worse than a mild concussion. Her breathing seems to have become deeper and more regular. That could indicate she's passing from unconsciousness into sleep, which is what most people do after being knocked out, even boxers. I'd suggest you just watch her, let her sleep it off and come out of it on her own, if she's going to."
"I'll stay here with her," Sinclair volunteered.
"Good idea," agreed Fenton. "If and when she comes out of it, keep her under observation for at least twenty four hours. Watch her eyes, particularly, and make sure they're both focusing... if you can tell. Notify me immediately if her condition worsens. We'll have to do something then, even if it's wrong!"
"And let me know the minute you think she's capable of communicating with us!" Lassiter insisted.
"Easy, Hugo," Jackson warned as he escorted the men from the cave. "She may not be very friendly when she wakes up. Two of her people were murdered, and for all she knows we're the ones responsible. Besides, you don't know anything about her or what she's capable of. She may be able to kill us with just a look or a wave of her hand."
"I realize that, but still... an alien! My God, the secrets we could learn!"
"Or she could learn from us!" Jackson muttered under his breath.
          *          *          *          *
DAY 40
8:36 A.M.
Tucker Jackson drifted through the forest like a wraith, pausing now and then with his back to the trunk of a tree to listen and sniff the wind.
The early morning fog clung to the ground with its usual persistence, making it appear as if Jackson was wading through a waist-deep lake of silver-white water. Tree stumps, moss-covered boulders, and giant ferns sprouted from the thick mist like islands in an ocean. The early morning sun speared the forest with shafts of golden light.
Jackson was tired and hungry, his nerves on edge. There was a tension in the camp, an upsetting current running through all the members of the expedition. It was an expectation of disaster for which Jackson could find no logical explanation. The possibility of an attack by Covere was partly responsible. It had everyone armed and on guard.
Yet the foreboding atmosphere ran deeper than that, deeper even than the stress of the day-to-day struggle for survival. Something was about to happen.
Since his return to the camp he'd spent most of the intervening days and nights on guard, either near the mechanical dinosaur or the caves.
The presence of both the female and the machine worried him. He doubted the wisdom of his decision to commandeer either of them.
What if, as Sinclair suggested, the machine contained some sort of built-in homing device which would allow the aliens to plot its exact location? He had visions of a horde of angry aliens, armed with ray guns and other indefensible weapons, appearing to repossess their property and perhaps extract a measure of revenge.
So he 'staked out' either the machine or the cave containing the alien female every night. His efforts were rewarded with nothing more than a loss of sleep.
Only Jackson, Sinclair, and Lassiter knew of the existence of the machine. Only they, along with Dr. Fenton, were aware of the presence of the alien female. Exactly why Jackson felt it necessary to keep the information secret he could not say. His instincts insisted upon it. The others all agreed.
He and Lassiter spent several hours investigating the machine, but learned nothing beyond what little was already known. Whatever instruments or devices were concealed behind the thing's lights and switches remained a mystery.
The alien female remained just as much of a mystery. Jackson had not seen her since her 'rescue', but received a message from Sinclair, through Dr. Fenton, informing him the woman was awake. He wondered if he was guarding the woman or keeping her prisoner, and if it was necessary to do either.
Jackson emerged from the forest at the entrance of the cave,  glancing around cautiously before entering. He followed the narrow passage in to the main cavern and stopped short.
In the dim light filtering down through the hole in the ceiling he could just make out Ronnie Sinclair and the alien woman. They were both naked, lying on the sleeping bag at the edge of the pool, their arms and legs entwined. He could plainly hear their heavy breathing and their soft, moaning sounds. For several seconds he merely stood there while a mixture of emotions ran through him.
He felt terribly guilty for intruding upon what should have been a very private moment. At the same time he felt a small sense of anger and betrayal, almost jealousy. And a sense of excitement.
Both of the women sensed his presence at the same time, turning to look at him. He backed out of the cave, then took a seat on a moss-covered boulder, cradling his rifle.
Twenty minutes later Ronnie Sinclair emerged, buttoning her shirt. She stopped a few feet in front of him, unable to look him in the eye.
"I suppose... now... you're angry with me," she whispered.
"As I recall, I said make friends, not make love!"
She turned her back, walking a few feet away, her hands in her pockets. When she finally spoke her voice was throaty and choked with emotion.
"I've never ever done anything like that before, Tucker," she said with a sigh. "But... I was cooped up with her in that cave for four days. We were close, very close. I don't know which one of us started it, but it just seemed like the natural thing to do."
Jackson leaned his rifle against the rock and stepped up behind her. He turned her to face him, gently lifting her chin. Tears welled in her almond eyes and she bit her lip.
"I don't necessarily consider it bad or unnatural," he said softly.
"You don't!?"
A tear rolled down her cheek. He gently brushed it away with his finger.
"No. You just... took me by surprise."
"Me too!" she said.
"Actually, it was kind of... exciting," he admitted. "And you may have done the one thing that needed to be done. If she'll trust anyone now, it should be you."
She pushed him away, looking down at the ground, suddenly embarrassed.
"Would you be... really angry... if I did it again?'
"No," he answered after a moment. "As long as I don't have to compete with her for you."
"You won't. I promise!" She hugged him tightly. "Tucker, you're a gem!" Then she took his hand and led him toward the cave.
"C'mon, I'll introduce you. Her name, as near as I can make out, is Keema, or something close to that. I'm trying to teach her sign language."
When Jackson gave her a strange look, Sinclair merely shrugged.
"My brother was born deaf. The whole family had to learn sign language in order to talk to him."
Inside the cave, the alien woman knelt at the edge of the pool. She had pulled her coverall up over her legs but was naked to the waist. Jackson noticed her short, copper-colored hair covered the back of her neck. It grew down her back out of the area covering her spine like a mane, narrowing to a point just above her taut buttocks. She made no effort to cover herself when he approached, merely folded her hands in her lap, then cocked her head to one side and stared up at him.
It was a look that sent chills down Jackson's spine, not from any overt hostility as much as from pure alieness. Her eyes were the color of mercury, with violet pupils running vertically. Once again he had the impression he was being watched by a cat.
It was impossible to tell her age. Jackson guesses she was young. Her nose was very small, contrasting with high, sharp cheekbones, while her teeth were unnaturally white. Her neck and shoulders were delicate, her breasts small but perfectly formed. He detected a warm, spicy scent about her. She was, he decided, very pretty in spite of, or perhaps because of, her feline appearance. He suddenly found himself drawn to her.
He shook himself and the feeling passed. He squatted on the cave floor before her. When Sinclair introduced him the girl nodded once, slowly, but made no sound at all.
"Does she understand us?" he asked.
"I suspect she understands a lot more than she lets on, but its hard to tell for sure," Sinclair answered. "Mostly what I get from her is the same look she's giving you now."
"Does she talk at all?"
"Only one word so far... Keema... which I took to be her name since she pointed at herself when she said it. I suppose it could also be the name of her race."
Sinclair extended her hand. The alien girl enfolded it lovingly in her own.
"I tried to explain to her what happened when she was shot," Sinclair said. "And I told her there were others who wanted to catch or kill her. I don't know if she understood any of it, but she hasn't been in any great hurry to leave here."
Jackson spoke to the woman slowly, softly, asking about where she came from, her age, and if she could understand him. He was rewarded with the same piercing stare he’d received since he'd entered the cave. He grunted impatiently.
"Well, we appear to have made real progress. We'll have to talk like this again soon."
The alien girl abruptly turned her attention back to her bathing, drying herself with a borrowed towel. Once finished she slipped her coverall over her upper body and fastened it. She sat in one corner of the cave, her arms wrapped around her knees, inspecting Jackson and Sinclair with her curious stare.
"She doesn't seem to be afraid of us, but she's not all that sociable either," was Sinclair's assessment.
"Looks like she's recovered pretty well," Jackson said. "If she's still here in the morning we'll take her out to meet Hugo and his people."
"And if she decides she wants to leave before then?"
"Let her go," Jackson answered with a shrug. "It's not fair to hold her here against her will, even if we are trying to protect her."
"I hope you know what you're doing."
"I haven't the slightest idea," he admitted. "It all just seems to fit right in with the rest of the weird shit we've experienced on this little trip."
          *          *          *          *
DAY 41
2:53 A.M.
Tucker Jackson dozed fitfully on the floor of the cave. Ronnie Sinclair's warm naked body was pressed tightly against his, her breasts rising and falling in time with her gentle breathing. Pale moonlight entered the cave through the vent in the ceiling. From far off came the honking of some nocturnal beast.
Sinclair stirred, lifting herself on one elbow, and moaned softly. Jackson felt her slide from the sleeping bag. He drifted off to sleep again, then awoke some time later when the sounds disturbed him.
He heard them together, Ronnie and the alien girl Keema. He heard their soft, wet sounds, their gentle moans, the rustle of the fabric of their sleeping bag as they twisted and writhed. One of them cried out, then the other. A heat began to build in Jackson's loins. He felt himself grow hard listening to their panting and sighing.
Then there was movement in the cave again. Ronnie slid back into the sleeping bag to press herself against him. When she felt his hard length against the soft skin of her belly she growled deep in her throat. Burrowing beneath the blanket, she found and engulfed him with her mouth. He ran his fingers through her hair and thrust upward. She moaned, opening her mouth wider to accept more of him.
With another little growl she threw back the blanket. She moved up to straddled his waist, ramming herself down onto him. He slid into her warm wetness easily. She cried out, arching her back. When he reached up to cup her breasts and thumb the nipples she shuddered. Then she leaned forward, panting into his ear.
"I need you... I need you..." she whispered. "Being with her makes me so horny for you..."
"She's awake... watching us...," he told her.
"I don't care... don't care..." she chanted in time with her thrusts down onto him. "Just do me... hard... harder... more... ahhhhh...."
          *          *          *          *
DAY 41
8:06 A.M.
They waded through the stiff grass of the plain. Jackson walked in the lead, senses alert as the rising sun burned off the morning mist. Behind him walked Ronnie Sinclair and Keema, side by side.
The morning had been difficult. They had awakened, dressed and eaten in an awkward silence. Keema stared at them with her wide eyes, while Sinclair avoided Jackson's gaze altogether. They  set out for the camp immediately thereafter, with Keema showing no reluctance to follow.
Sinclair suddenly increased her pace, moving to walk next to Jackson, her head down. The silence between became them almost tangible.
"You're embarrassed about last night," he said before she could make any comment. She looked at him sharply, then nodded.
"Well, don't be," he told her. "It was... rather interesting."
"I don't like to loose control that way, Tucker. It frightens me. But... it's like I can't stop myself! I have to be with her!"
She abruptly reached out and gripped his arm.
"Damn! You don't suppose she causes it, somehow? Could she be giving off a scent or chemical that makes me... you know...?"
"That turns you into a wanton woman?" Jackson finished the question and Sinclair blushed. "I had the same thought exactly," he admitted. "In fact, I think she tried to do it to me the first time you introduced us in the cave. They're called pheromones, as I recall. Most animals either use them or can detect them.  Whatever it is that's causing this, it doesn't seem to have any harmful side affect, except for possible exhaustion."
They both laughed, then Jackson became serious.
"If she's responsible, she's doing it for a reason, so let's try to find out what it is. Just go with it and see what happens. And enjoy yourself."
"Thanks, love," she whispered. "Thanks for understanding."
          *          *          *          *

DAY 41
2:30 P.M.
"Goddammit!" Hugo Lassiter shouted as he paced up and down in front of the tent. He flapped his arms, kicking at the clumps of grass. Tucker Jackson squatted nearby, watching the emotional display.
Inside the canvas shelter Ronnie Sinclair and Keema were surrounded by two dozen scientists, all scribbling notes and shouting questions.
The alien woman had caused quite a stir with her appearance in the camp. The good doctors had descended upon her like vultures on a carcass. Jackson had made it very clear they could  look but not touch, not without Keema's permission. At one point he was afraid he would have to resort to physical violence in order to save her from immediate dissection. The already strained atmosphere in the camp was now close to the breaking point.
"Goddammit!" Lassiter repeated, pointing toward the tent. "Do you have any idea how fucking frustrating this is? Here we have a veritable universe of information, the answers to all our questions, all our wildest dreams. And all that creature does is stare at us like some goddamn Cheshire cat!"
"Calm down, Hugo, before you have a hemorrhage," Jackson warned. "I told you, she's a guest, not a prisoner. We can't force her to do anything. If you suddenly found yourself surrounded by a hundred yelling aliens how much would you be willing to tell?"
"Not a lot," Lassiter admitted. "Point well taken, but still..."
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of gunfire coming across the plain from the direction of the Portal. Jackson snatched up his rifle, then climbed atop the nearest truck to get a better view. Sinclair was only seconds behind him, carrying a set of binoculars. She was followed by a puffing Lassiter.
Visible on the plain in front of the position of the Portal were half a dozen jeeps, two large military trucks, and a semi-tractor-trailer rig. All were painted olive drab and bristled with armed men and machine guns. They remained motionless while several figures dismounted from the lead vehicle to inspect the camp through glasses.
"We expecting visitors?" Jackson grunted as he snatched the binoculars from Sinclair. 
"Absolutely not!" replied an anxious Lassiter. Jackson handed him the glasses.
"The tall man by the lead jeep, the one with a face like a skull... ?"
Lassiter focused the glasses and stared hard, then let out a hissing sigh.
"Seaton Mistakola! No mistaking that face. What does that bastard want here?"
"I don't like the feel of this, Tucker," Sinclair said.
"Neither do I. Let's get 'em all started toward the caves...right now!"
Sinclair jumped down from the truck and began shouting orders. The camp exploded into a frenzy of activity. Jackson clamped Lassiter's arm in a painful grip.
"Tell your people to gather up whatever they can carry, food and medicine first, and get to the caves. No vehicles! They leave to big a trail."
"But all our equipment, our notes...?"
"Save your ass first! We'll come back for the rest if there's time!"
The camp immediately took on the appearance of an ant hill stirred with a stick. Soldiers and civilians ran everywhere, snatching up weapons, equipment, and supplies. Sinclair climbed back up onto the cab of the truck to kneel next to Jackson.
"I just got a report from a sentry. Mistakola and perhaps a hundred men drove through the gate, shot the guards on our side and probably did the same to those on the other side. Now they're just standing around, like they're waiting for something."
"Where's Keema?"
"With Jackie Mikawa... headed toward the caves."
"We can't let anything happen to her. I think she's the key to all this."
They watched silently from their vantage point as Mistakola's group suddenly started their vehicles and drove off, heading north toward the volcano.
"What now?" asked Sinclair. "Do we stop the evacuation?"
"No!" Jackson told her. "This isn't over yet."
Within a few minutes Mistakola's task force was nearly out of sight. The camp was well on its way to being deserted. A few civilian stragglers struggled through the grass with arm loads of supplies, guarded by Sinclair's Marines. The remainder of her platoon she spread out in a skirmish line between the Portal and the camp. Jackson and two other Marines moved up to within two hundred yards of the position of the time gate.
Suddenly a stream of vehicles of all sizes and types poured through the Portal. Civilian cars, jeeps, military trucks, even a bright yellow fork lift shot through the gate onto the plain. Most immediately stopped, or milled about aimlessly. Then pedestrians began to appear as well, running wildly in all directions.
"What the hell...?" Jackson grunted.
"Something's chasing them!" Sinclair shouted as she joined Jackson.
 "Round up as many as you can and get them headed for the caves," he told her.
The last vehicle through the Portal was a dark blue sedan. It was followed at once by soldiers, all armed and firing steadily back through the Portal. The sedan roared out some fifty yards onto the plain before a wicked, whistling sound split the air. A sharp explosion reduced the car to flaming junk. Soldiers began to scream and fall as they backed away from the Portal in what was obviously a desperate rear-guard action. Another explosion threw up clods of earth farther out on the plain. With a clanking, snarling roar a tank rumbled through the Portal. It was followed immediately by another, then a third, all with machine guns firing and whip antennas sporting red flags.
Close on the heels of the tanks came infantry, pouring through in waves. The khaki-uniformed troops in dark pith helmets were urged on by sword-yielding officers and the tinny blare of bugles.
"Oh, fuck!" Sinclair screamed. "Chinese troops! Open fire!"
From their concealed positions in the grass the Marines poured a withering fire into the Chinese, shredding their ranks. But small arms fire could not stop the tanks. The machines turned, their armored hulls half hidden in the grass. They began to shell the camp, at the same time slowing to allow the infantry to take cover behind them.
Sinclair's men and women fought coolly and valiantly, dropping back in an orderly retreat against the inexorable advance of the tanks. They kept the infantry pinned behind the vehicles, buying valuable time for those escaping to the forest. Whistling shells flew overhead to explode among the tents and vehicles of the camp. More tanks and infantry continued to emerge from the Portal.
The retreating line of Marines moved on and the enemy approached. Jackson sprinted through the remains of the camp, searching for stragglers among the flaming tents. He caught sight of a familiar figure darting through the smoke and veered in that direction.
Hugo Lassiter ducked into a burning tent, then emerged a few seconds later, stuffing something into the thigh pocket of his pants. By then slugs from the heavy machine guns of the tanks were finding the range, ripping through the air and churning up the earth.
Jackson heard the unmistakable smack of a bullet striking flesh. Lassiter clutched his thigh, then crumbled to the ground. Jackson ran to the man and knelt over him.
"You stupid fool! What are you doing here?"
"I'm saving your life!" Lassiter grunted. "Look out!"
A Chinese soldier charged out of the smoke, the gleaming blade of his bayonet aimed at Jackson's chest. Jackson put six rounds into the man from his own rifle, blowing him over backwards. A second Chinese appeared. Jackson put two bullets through his pith helmet into his skull.
"Shouldn't we be going now?" Lassiter yelled above the din. "It's becoming rather uncomfortable here."
"Can you walk?"
"I'd rather run!"
With his arm across Jackson's shoulders for support, Lassiter heaved himself to his feet. They staggered toward the forest, the scientist limping and grunting against the pain. They did not stop for breath until they were well away from the camp, finally turning to survey the devastation.
"Oh, God..." Lassiter sighed. "What do we do now?"
"We try our best to survive," Jackson told him. "What the hell were you doing in that camp?"
"I told you, I was trying to save your life, but I'm afraid I failed."
He pointed down at his shredded pant leg with the dark stain.
"That's not blood," he informed Jackson. "It's antidote!"
Gingerly he opened the pocket, pulling out the mangled black leather case containing the remains of the syringes and broken vials of liquid.
"It's the antidote to the poison, the serum you must have in order to live. The only supply we had. And now... the only way to get more is through them!"
He pointed in the direction of the Chinese soldiers.
"Through the Portal they now control!"




CHAPTER XXI

COLORADO

65,000,000 BC

DAY 41

8:43 P.M.

Bedlam reigned inside the caves. The press of bodies was nearly suffocating. Single individuals scurried about, roughly shoving their way through the crowd, intent on obviously important errands. Others milled about aimlessly, dazed by the swift, savage events. Small groups gathered wherever they found room to stand, arguing, shouting, waving their arms. The wounded moaned, sometimes screamed. Orange light flickered from torches jammed into cracks in the cave walls. The smoky fumes added to the overall congestion.
Inside the central cave, Jackson pushed his way through the throng to stand beside Sinclair. The woman was tired and haggard, with shadows beneath her eyes. Soot streaked her face. Her hair was a tangled mess. A jagged rip along the right side of her shirt and a thin line of blood marked the passage of a Chinese bullet during the retreat from the plain.
"Have you got a count?" Jackson asked her.
"Yeah," she said with a weary nod. "One hundred eighty six scientists, technicians and civilians now, including all those who made their escape through the Portal. That about doubles our number. Thirty one are wounded, eleven seriously. Most of them got hurt falling over each other in their panic.
"We have a hundred four military personnel, including you and me. Only about a third are really combat troops. Twenty-eight are wounded. Some of those will probably die. I think we lost about a dozen in the fight. We didn't gain much in the way of supplies. There wasn't time to gather up a lot."
"What's it like outside?"
"Sentries posted at the forest edge," she reported. "More between there and the caves. I set them out in pairs, to keep the animals from picking them off. No lights visible from the caves. I checked on that myself. The Chinese are holding their position on the plain around the Portal. More of them pouring through all the time. It doesn't look like they're ready to follow us into the forest."
Gradually Jackson and Sinclair were able to restore a semblance of order. The wounded were tended by the harried Dr. Fenton, then placed in the largest caves. Sinclair divided up the rest of the survivors, assigning tasks and quarters in the other caverns. From them they got bits and pieces of information , enough to form a rough picture of what had happened.
 The Chinese had launched a huge fleet of aircraft; fighters, bombers, and long range transports, specifically aimed at Colorado. Civilians told of hearing radio reports of amphibious assaults northward from the Gulf of Mexico and the Sea of Cortez. There were dark, ugly rumors of traitors and conspiracies.
          *          *          *          *
The council of war was held just after midnight, presided over by Hugo Lassiter. He sat on a flat boulder beneath a guttering torch, his wounded leg stretched out stiffly.
The bullet which struck his thigh had been deflected by the leather kit in his pocket, leaving him with only a massive purple bruise and minor injuries from bits of glass and metal.
Jackson and Sinclair sat next to Lassiter, with the surviving officers and non-coms gathered around. The more prominent scientists of the original expedition attended as well, to interview the 'refugees', and to formulate a plan of action.
"The Chinese knew right where to come, no doubt about it!"
A tall, thin individual named Turgil spat out the words. His dark blue coverall displayed the NASA logo just above the breast pocket, indicating he'd been part of the technical team tending the machinery of the Portal.
"They swarmed over the compound like hornets," he told them. "Parachutes filled the sky, thousands of them. They blocked out the sun. Tanks came up the road, shooting at everything. The Prime Minister tried to organize some resistance..."
"Thurran was still there?" Lassiter asked.
"Oh, yes. He loved this project, made regular visits. The first few days after you left, he would sit in front of the Portal for hours, just watching. He was killed, assassinated, right in front of the Doorway."
"Edsel Thurran was killed?" Jackson's voice was a low growl. Several people backed away in fear. "By who?"
"Some civilian. I'm not sure of his name. I'd seen the man once or twice, but was never introduced. He walked up and shot Thurran in the head just as the Chinese started to fight their way into the compound. Then he ran through the Portal. I haven't seen him since."
"Edsel Thurran was a friend," Jackson said softly. "Someone will pay for this."
Lassiter nodded in grim agreement. He turned to Ronnie Sinclair.
"What is our tactical situation here?"
"Not bad considering the circumstances," she answered. "Since we moved half our supplies in here secretly we'll be able to eat for a while. We have shelter, water, limited medical supplies, and ammunition. We'll have to ration everything carefully."
Lassiter nodded again, addressing his next question to Jackson.
"Tucker, you are the resident expert in wilderness matters. Can we survive here? If so, for how long?"
"The first thing we need to do is find another place to live," he recommended. "These caves were a good idea for escaping from the dinosaurs or hiding from a few dozen men. But the Chinese are probably bringing in thousands. Just their weight of numbers will eventually crowd them off the plain and into the forest. We're much too close. We need some distance between them and us."
"Perhaps I can help with that."
A man stepped forward from within the group, introducing himself as Richard Stonby. 
"I'm a geologist," he stated. "These caves are located in a pressure ridge, formed by something striking the Earth, or being forced up from below. Picture, if you will, the waves on a pond that radiate out when you throw a rock into the water. There should be a whole series of ridges. They will probably all have caves."
"It's worth a try," Jackson  said to Sinclair. "At first light we better send some people out to look around. We need shelter and a secure water supply. If there really is a whole series of these ridges, we probably ought to move back three or four rows at least. And tell our people to look for food, too. There should be fruits, nuts, or berries in the forest somewhere. Watch what the dinosaurs eat."
"What else can we do?" asked Lassiter.
"The most important thing after that," Jackson answered slowly, "is to stop any more Chinese from coming through the Portal."
"And how do we do that?"
"We destroy it!"
The idea was greeted with an immediate and violent protest from nearly all present.
"You can't be serious about this," Stonby objected when order was restored. "We'd be trapped here... forever!"
"Would you rather be trapped here, alive, or be prisoners of the Chinese back there, probably tortured or executed?" Jackson asked. "You can't use the Portal as long as they control it. The more troops they send in here the better their chances of hunting us down. I don't see where we have any other choice.
"They built one Portal," he said, pointing to the man from NASA. "They can build another to come look for us. But we have to be alive and free in order to be rescued!"
"Build another? That could take years!"
"It is a moot point, ladies and gentlemen."
The interrupting voice belonged to Professor Zanghurst, one of the original scientific group. Most considered him overbearing and obnoxious. He quarreled openly with Lassiter about leadership of the expedition. Jackson and most of the others simply ignored him. He came forward, backed by a handful of dour, determined scientists.
"We have formulated a reasonable plan to deal with the situation, which you will implement immediately," Zanghurst announced. "You will send a delegation to treat with our Chinese brothers, demanding from them our rights as specified under the Geneva Convention. We are, after all, men of science and reason..."
"You are, after all, ignorant assholes if you think the Chinese are in any mood to listen to you," Jackson informed him. "If they cared at all whether you lived or died, why did they attack the camp? You go out there now and they'll chop you into little pieces. We can't afford to let you give away our strength or position."
"In view of the present emergency, I am eminently more qualified to lead this group," Zanghurst announced. "I will..."
Jackson snatched him up by the front of his shirt, slapping him hard across the face.
"You won't do shit!" he snarled at Zanghurst. "I damn sure won't allow you to sacrifice any of these people to save your own pompous ass. You'll stay here and do exactly what you're told! Ronnie, put these idiots under guard somewhere. If even one of them tries to leave, shoot 'em all!"
Zanghurst and his group were escorted from the cave under heavy guard. At the same time two Marines entered somewhat breathlessly, supporting a third individual between them. They made their way to Jackson and Sinclair.
"We found this guy stumbling around in the forest," one of the Marines reported. "He says we are all under his command and he demanded to be brought here."
"That's him!" Turgil shouted, pointing his finger. "That's the man who killed the Prime Minister!"
Herbert Colson glanced suspiciously about the cave with eyes as wild as those of a snared rabbit. His hands and face were encrusted with dirt, scratched by branches and sharp grass. His expensive suit hung in tattered rags. He bared his teeth when Jackson approached him. There was an ominous silence within the cave.
"You killed Thurran?" Jackson asked. "Why? Did you and Mistakola make a deal with the Chinese? What happened back there, Colson?"
"Thurran!" Colson spat out the word as if it were poison. "That degenerate little pussy! He actually thought he ran the country! Ha!"
Flecks of foam spotted Colson's lips. He jerked nervously, backing away from Jackson.
"Thurran!" Colson spat again. "The burden of leadership is not the destiny of little men like him. Thurran was nothing! It was mine, you see, mine!... and I was betrayed! But here I will start anew. You will all follow my orders... you must! I will lead us to greatness..."
Hugo Lassiter sprang up from his seat on the rock, drawing a pistol from behind his back. He lurched forward three steps, aimed, and shot Colson squarely between the eyes.
Colson's head snapped back. A fine mist of blood sprayed the cave wall behind him. His mouth gaped open. A thin wisp of smoke drifted from the round, reddish-black hole in his forehead. Then his eyes crossed. Blood gushed from his mouth as he fell face down.
"Nice shot, Hugo," Jackson said softly.
Lassiter looked down at the gun held gingerly in his hand. "You told me to get one of these... and to use it if I had to. I took you at your word..."
"I wish you'd let him answer a few more questions," Sinclair said.
"Sorry," Lassiter replied. "Edsel Thurran was my friend, too. I couldn't stand to listen to any more of Colson's ravings."
He gripped the gun firmly, turning to face the rest of the group. "Are there any more questions from anyone? No? Then this meeting is adjourned. Let's get to work." He pointed down at Colson's body. "Some of you carry this piece of shit out of here!"
When the cave was empty save for Jackson, Sinclair, and Lassiter, the scientist abruptly dropped the pistol. He sat down heavily on a rock, his whole body shaking.
"You did good, Hugo," Sinclair told him.
"I am going to be very sick," he said through clenched teeth.
"No you're not! You're going to suck it up and be a leader!" Jackson announced. He retrieved the pistol, placing it firmly in Lassiter's shaking hand. "You definitely got their attention. They'll listen to you now."
"Perhaps," Lassiter agreed, regaining some of his self confidence. "But Zanghurst and his cronies will continue to be a problem."
"Only if you let them," Jackson said, tapping the gun. "I don't understand why the most intelligent ones always want to do the dumbest things. You have the power to keep him in line. Don't be afraid to use it."
Sinclair leaned her rifle against the wall of the cave, then sat next to Lassiter.
"My God!" she sighed. "Gingrich, Smith, Thurran, Colson... how many more deaths were there that we don't even know about? What the hell went on back there?"
Jackson rummaged in a corner of the cave among boxes and bags of supplies.
"I agree with Turgil," he said over his shoulder. "The Chinese knew exactly where to come. They wanted this project specifically. To me that indicates a traitor of some kind. Right now Seaton Mistakola is a prime candidate. Colson was probably convinced he'd be made Prime Minister if he went along. We may never know how deep the whole thing ran. Somebody sold out."
He pulled a black nylon bag from beneath the pile and carried it to the center of the cave.
"I still believe all of this is centered around Keema and her people," he said. "Gingrich probably didn't know the whole story either. He had one video tape. There may have been others, showing a lot more. There is something here, in this time, that men are willing to kill for. I think Keema's people brought it, or have it."
"I agree," said Lassiter. "And we may have to find it first just to protect ourselves. Can you sneak in there and blow up the Portal, Tucker?"
"Maybe," Jackson replied. He began to pull shadow-gray clothing from the nylon bag. "It's a hell of a long way to go, with nothing for cover except grass and a few rocks. The controls for the Portal are on the other side, so I'll need some kind of bomb to throw in there."
"We've got explosives," Sinclair said. "Hand grenades and some C-5. We could rig up something..."
"Something with a real short fuse, Ronnie," Jackson told her. "I don't want them to have time to throw it back out into my lap. I'll start tonight... now... as soon as you can put the thing together. It's a long way. I expect I'll have to crawl over most of it. I figure it will take me the rest of tonight, all day tomorrow, and most of tomorrow night. Let's plan on an attack at dawn that next morning, if the Chinese don't catch me or some animal doesn't swallow me for a snack. You might think about working that mechanical dinosaur in close to create a diversion. If nothing else, get the weather guesser to pray real loud for one of those nasty storms."
"To be marooned here..." Lassiter whispered, "...possibly forever..." He shuddered, then let out a long sigh. "Yet... like you... I see no other alternative."
He heaved himself to his feet, hobbling forward to put a hand on Jackson's shoulder.
"Do what you can, Tucker. Do what you must. Good luck. I will leave you two alone now... to say your good-byes."
Lassiter limped from the cave as Jackson stripped off his uniform and began to pull on the gray clothing. Sinclair sat quietly, a worried look on her face.
"Can you do it, Tucker?" she finally asked.
"I think so."
She stood up and walked to him, slipping her arms around him.
"Let me rephrase the question, love. Can you do it and survive? I don't want this to be some stupid suicide mission. The idea of being marooned here scares me as much as it does Lassiter. I can handle it if you're with me."
"I plan on coming back here to you, or wherever you are," Jackson assured her. "I'll find you, I promise. Just get these people moved to a safer place, and take care of yourself."
He held her tightly, kissing her hard on the mouth. Then he smiled and swatted her playfully on the bottom.
"Now git, woman! Go build me a bomb... and hurry! It's already past my bed time. It's gonna be a long night."
          *          *          *          *
DAY 43
5:46 A.M.
Tucker Jackson lay hidden between a double row of supply crates at the far edge of the Chinese camp. Rows of canvas tents lined the plain behind him. To his left, heavy trucks and armored vehicles glistened under their layer of pre-dawn mist. Directly ahead of him, two hundred yards distant, was the Portal, illuminated by generator-powered flood lights. It was guarded by more than thirty Chinese troops.
Jackson drew in a deep breath, squirming to ease his cramped position among the crates. The two nights and a day it had taken him to reach his present position were some of the most grueling he could remember. His arms and hands were raw and bleeding from pulling himself over the ground, literally inches at a time, while dragging behind him the forty pound pack carrying the explosives. His clothing, like his own flesh, was ripped and torn by the sharp grass.
At night, he'd been able to make considerable progress. After listening intently and scanning the area with his infra-red vision, he would dart forward in a back-breaking crouch or crawl on his hands and knees. He had to be constantly alert for the roving sentries the Chinese had liberally sprinkled over the plain. Some walked pre-set posts. Others wandered randomly. Still others kept watch from pits dug into the earth, all but invisible from ground level.
He could have killed many of them, and wanted to. But their bodies would have alerted the Chinese to an intruder. So he'd been forced to employ the more exhausting, time consuming method of simply avoiding them. His path toward the Portal had been a circuitous one, involving one detour after another.
Neither the weather nor the wildlife assisted him in any way. The sky remained cloudless and the moon full. At times he felt as if he were walking under street lights, exposed and vulnerable.
No large animals made an appearance on the plain during the nights. The smaller creatures hunting in the grass were plentiful, their dispositions all equally aggressive. He was especially vulnerable because the stealth necessary to avoid the Chinese also brought him suddenly face to face with many creatures asleep in the grass. They displayed their annoyance with lashing tails, angry hisses, and sharp teeth. He had no exact recollection of how many he'd killed, either with his cross bow or knife. He'd sustained two vicious bites, one to his right calf, another to his left side. Fortunately they were not serious and he carried with him a specially prepared medical kit, with ample doses of antibiotics. But the bites remained painful, irritated by sweat and dirt.
By day his progress had been in mere feet or inches. The Chinese were very active, with patrols everywhere. He'd been forced to avoid them as well as the larger animals wandering the area.
He carried with him an assortment of weapons, including two knives, the automatic pistol with the silencer recovered from Jandro, four hand grenades, his cross bow, and an automatic rifle which he'd slung across his back. This latter weapon and its ammunition were bulky, slowing his progress even further, but he needed it to aid his eventual escape. His route out of the camp would depend entirely on the reaction of the Chinese, so he could not leave the weapon at any predetermined pick-up point.
The influx of Chinese troops swelled the scientific camp to four times its original size. It had been hastily ringed with more barbed wire, sharpened stakes, even a sprinkling of land mines. Their wire detonating prongs protruded slightly from the ground and had to be carefully avoided.
Inside the camp, the rows of tents competed for space with mountains of supply crates. The growling exhaust of tanks and trucks could be heard at all hours. Jeeps crisscrossed the entire area.
Cautiously, yard by yard, Jackson made his way into the camp near the Portal. His luck finally ran out when he suddenly came face to face with a guard between a row of trucks. He had no choice but to kill the man, driving the heel of his right hand sharply up under the guard's nose, sending the cartilage into his brain. He'd snapped the soldier's neck, as well, just to be certain, then stuffed the body up under a truck, hoping it would not be discovered until he'd made it all the way to the Portal. Afterwards, he hid himself among the supply crates.
Now, his senses detected a change. The wind was beginning to blow, coming in fitful gusts from the north. The rose-colored light of dawn illuminated clouds over the volcano. He sniffed the air, detecting the increasing ozone, and smiled. Apparently the weather-guesser had prayed just loud enough. 
The wind increased in velocity, whipping the grass, causing the ropes and cords of the tents to vibrate. Jackson gathered his strength, checking the straps and fuses on the explosive charge. The rumble of thunder drifted across the plain. The camp began to come alive, with sleepy officers shouting orders to half naked soldiers attempting to secure bindings and canvas.
'You ain't seen nuthin' yet!' Jackson thought, watching the frantic efforts of the soldiers. Static electricity built up rapidly. The bluish glow of St. Elmo's fire appeared on antennas and the cabs of vehicles.
The wind ceased abruptly, leaving in its wake an eerie, ominous stillness. Then the storm rolled in, unleashing its shrieking violence.
A wall of clouds, darker than the pre-dawn sky, rolled overhead. Bolts of lightning cracked and sizzled, striking in half a dozen places at once. The rain fell in sheets. Tents were seized by the wind in bunches, ripped up and whipped across the camp. Boxes and crates flew through the air. Heavy vehicles rocked on their springs.
Jackson scrambled from his hiding place seconds before the wind blew over the wall of crates. Bent nearly double, all but blinded by the rain, he fought his way toward the Portal.
Amid the chaos of the storm Jackson was ignored by the Chinese, but his progress was slow. Twice he was knocked off his feet by lightning strikes which blasted the earth like artillery shells. Flying crates and pieces of equipment forced him to duck and crawl. Hailstones battered his body. 
By the time he reached the Portal he was bloody, panting, fighting the storm with every ounce of strength. A yelling mob of Chinese rushed in the same direction, apparently hoping to escape the storm by retreating back through the Portal. Several were shot down by screaming officers attempting to stall the exodus.
A bolt of lightning struck in the center of the milling mob, blasting charred bodies across the plain. Jackson was knocked to the ground. His ears rang from the booming crash. 
On hands and knees he crawled to where the location of the Portal was marked by the body of a Chinese soldier. The man's legs were visible but his upper body lay across the threshold of the Portal and could not be seen. He appeared to have been severed by some giant blade. Just to make sure he was at the correct location Jackson grabbed the body by an ankle and pulled. More of the body became visible as he jerked it back through the Portal.
Moving to one side, Jackson knelt on the soggy ground to arm the bomb. With a silent prayer that the thing would work in spite of the rain, he grasped the bag with both hands and pitched it through the Portal.
The fuse was set for five seconds. They passed like an eternity. Jackson remained at the side of the Portal in case the bomb was somehow ejected. He wondered if the explosion would kill him, as well, or if he would even know when it went off.
 An orange sheet of flame vomited from the Portal, lasting  only a fraction of a second before the explosion destroyed the machinery on the other side, shutting down the opening.
In the blink of an eye, it was over. The only real evidence Jackson had to prove his success was the one brief belch of flame.
The destruction of the Portal went unnoticed by the milling Chinese, who were concerned only with surviving the storm. Jackson unlimbered his rifle. Turning his back to the wind, he allowed the storm to push him along toward the south. Hundreds of Chinese were pushed in that direction, as well. They took no notice of him.
He was at the southern perimeter of the camp when the wind suddenly slackened. The rain turned from a downpour to a steady drizzle. A Chinese officer, backed by a rifle squad, was herding dazed, drifting soldiers back toward the camp. He spotted Jackson and rushed forward, waving his sword. Jackson cut him down with three heavy slugs from his rifle. He fired on the others, blasting a path through them, sending the survivors fleeing for cover. When he crawled over and through the protective wire its barbs ripped his clothing and skin. Bullets zipped through the air around him.
Then he was running through the grass, dodging from side to side to avoid the shots fired by the pursuing Chinese. A bullet burned a furrow across the back of his left shoulder, the sudden pain urging him on to greater effort. The Chinese fell behind, either by choice or necessity, and eventually stopped shooting. Jackson did not stop running until the grass suddenly gave way to hard packed sand and scrub brush. 
          *          *          *          *
 				DAY 43
11:06 P.M.
The silver moonlight gave the sand a metallic sheen, reflecting from the thorny branches and small leaves of the desert palms. It also reflected from the eyes and scaly skin of the two squat, hissing, lizard-like creatures who followed Jackson across the sand.
The Chinese did not follow him into the desert, but the creatures picked up his scent almost immediately. They dogged him persistently, day and night, hissing and growling, waddling along on their stumpy legs, their dorsal spines erect. They never attacked. There had been three of the animals, all about the size of alligators. Jackson killed one and ate parts of it. The meat was stringy, with a fishy taste, but not unpleasant. The death of one of their number did nothing to diminish the persistence of the other two.
In the moonlight, he walked steadily until the wall of the forest loomed out of the darkness. How far the forest stretched to north and south, he could not tell. It seemed to go on forever, like a vast green curtain dividing the land. The desert simply stopped and the forest began. 
The hissing creatures behind him apparently sensed his intention. They snarled their dismay as he approached the tree line, but made no move to follow. Instead they scuttled back and forth, venting their frustration in long, growling moans, which ceased abruptly when he entered the trees.
          *          *          *          *

DAY 45
1:31 P.M.
 A persistent and irritating presence followed Jackson continuously as he made his way through the forest. It was not bold and aggressive as the lizards had been, but furtive and shy. Only once did he actually see it. 
Jackson paralleled the edge of the forest as he traveled north, skirting the desert, the plain, and the Chinese camp. The presence paralleled his path a hundred yards deeper in among the trees. It stayed with him tenaciously, slowing when he slowed, stopping when he stopped, remaining stationary when he slept in the comparative safety of the upper tree branches.
He doubled back twice, trying to surprise it. The thing was too wily and cunning. He finally sprinted ahead, running recklessly through the trees, then threw himself down behind a moss covered boulder and waited. He heard the thing charging forward to catch up, and jumped from his hiding place, finally catching a glimpse of it. He immediately wished he hadn't.
It was tall, ape-like, covered with short brown fur. It walked upright on two legs, without a tail, swinging its long arms as it moved. He had time to see its pointed skull and sloping brow before it caught sight of him and ran through the forest in apparent panic. Thereafter, it followed him at a much greater distance, until he reached the forest ridge and the caves which had been the shelter for the expedition. Then it disappeared.
Jackson continued on alone, scaling two more ridge lines, finally reaching the new set of caves where the expedition had taken up residence. He wanted to throw himself down inside one of the caves and sleep for a week, but could see from the looks on the faces of those who came to greet him he would not be allowed any respite.
 Lassiter gave him the news immediately. Ronnie Sinclair had been shot, and Keema, the alien girl, taken captive.




CHAPTER XXII

COLORADO

DAY 45

2:31 P.M.

"Hello, love"
Sinclair smiled up at Jackson from her pallet on the floor of the cave. The thick wad of bloodstained bandages on her left shoulder contrasted sharply with her tan arms and face.
"Nice to see you again," she whispered, "even though you look like shit. Better not let the good doctor catch sight of you. He'll claim you're contaminating me and throw you out."
Jackson glanced down at his ragged clothing and grimy skin, then merely shrugged. He had rushed to find the woman without waiting to eat or clean up. He knew he would be leaving again almost immediately.
"It was Covere, I think," Sinclair said in response to his question. "Along with his girlfriend Rosa and four or five others. They hit us about three this morning. How the hell did he know where to find us?"
She smiled, then gripped his hand hard.
"I took care of that Rosa bitch for you," she said. "Her body's in the next cave. We killed all of them except Covere. But we lost eight, and he took Keema."
"I'll get her back," he promised. "You just rest."
Once Dr. Fenton had assured him Sinclair's wound was not fatal, Jackson went in search of Hugo Lassiter and Irene Mikawa. They escorted him to one of the smaller caves used as a morgue. Twelve bodies were laid out there; eight of the expedition's marines and civilians. Four from Covere's group, including Rosa.
Jackson pulled the tarp away from her face. She was thinner and paler than he remembered, but he recognized her immediately. She'd been shot three times, twice in the chest, once in the mouth. He made a mental note never to piss-off Ronnie Sinclair.
"We have a traitor in our group," he warned Lassiter and Mikawa. "Someone told Covere about Keema, and how to find her. Whoever it is, they probably report directly to Mistakola. He may arrange another attack, so be ready. I'm going to try to catch up with Covere. He has almost a twelve hour head start, but maybe I'll get lucky."
"You made not need as much luck as you think," Mikawa told him. "I'm pretty sure I shot Covere. At least I hit the man who was dragging Keema away. C'mon, I'll show you where."
She led him to a spot along the northeast edge of the cliff. Jackson examined the area for several minutes, collecting empty shell casings and leaves with dark spots on them.
"Someone was losing blood," he said. "Was there anyone else with him?"
"No," Mikawa replied. "He was the only one I saw make it out alive. He staggered when I fired, then turned and damn near blew my head off. He had one arm around the girl's throat by then, so I couldn't risk another shot. One more thing you should know, Tucker. One of his wounded friends said something before he died. It doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me. He said 'the dragon betrayed us'."
"The dragon? Ummm..." Lassiter grunted. "A code name for an operative or spy perhaps?"
"We Orientals have always been associated with dragons," Mikawa said. "Maybe it refers to the Chinese."
"Or to a living creature," Jackson suggested. "A long time ago a friend of mine gave me a warning. She said 'Beware of the Dragon that Walks as a Man'."
"Einstein?" Lassiter asked with raised eyebrows. "Your intelligent dinosaur?"
"Who knows, Hugo? It could be any one of those possibilities, or 'none of the above'. I just hope we find out before it's too late."
Lassiter followed as Jackson went to another cave to pack food and ammunition, then accompanied him into the forest where Covere's trail began.
"You be careful, Tucker. This Covere person seems to be your personal nemesis. Yes, Major Sinclair related most of the story to me. I'd hate for him to hurt you again. Come back to us. We need you."
          *          *          *          *
The trail led north, deep into the forest, well away from the marsh, the lake, and the grassy plain swarming with Chinese. The forest was dense, silent and eerie, with little sunlight penetrating the thick canopy of leaves. Jagged rocks sprouted from the earth between the huge tree trunks. The ground was covered with a thick, mushy carpet of rotting vegetation.
Jackson followed the trail, using all his skill, instinct, and intuition. A half a mile into the forest, he found a place where Covere and Keema had stopped. Beyond that, there was no more blood. He’d expected it. Covere's first concern would be to stop the bleeding which weakened him and gave away his location.
Covere's mistake was in going deeper into the forest, where there was no moss to conceal his footprints nor sunlight to dry the earth and erase the marks of his passage. Scuff marks and footprints in the soggy humus remained fresh and clear. It soon became evident to Jackson that either the girl was resisting Covere or deliberately dragging her feet to leave a trail.
By nightfall Jackson estimated he was only a few hours behind Covere. But with the darkness came new dangers. Strange  creatures emerged from subterranean dens, hissing and snapping. Silent, glowing-eyed things sat hunched on branches, apparently waiting for him to pass beneath.
At first he thought he would loose the trail completely in the night, but once again the deep forest worked to his advantage. The rotting vegetation gave off heat, especially from layers farther down. His infra-red sight picked up the trail where the forest carpet was scuffed and disturbed by the feet of Covere and Keema. He followed it as easily as a chalk line on a blackboard.
All through the night he stalked Covere, using his special sight to keep from bashing into trees or pitching headlong into the steep ravines running through the forest with increasing frequency. He knew the treacherous landscape would either slow Covere considerably or stop him altogether.
As he drew closer to Covere, Jackson felt more uneasy and anxious. His palms were sweaty, his mouth dry. He admitted to himself he was afraid. Had Lassiter been correct? Was Covere his own personal demon, destined to taunt, harass, and best him throughout his life? Twice Covere had emerged from their confrontations the victor, each time with tragic and fatal results. Would it happen again? Jackson wondered. Would he die here in this primeval forest, alone, with no one to witness his passing save the dinosaurs who would devour his flesh and scatter his bones?
By dawn he was so close he could 'feel' the presence of Covere. He was also close to the limit of his own endurance. The nights and days of crawling through the grass dragging the explosives, the storm, the escape from the Chinese, the lack of proper food and sleep had all taken their toll. His body was bruised and battered, his muscles weak and aching.
He pushed on, calling upon his years of training, forcing his mind to ignore his protesting body. Just before noon his senses warned him to stop. The tracks in the earth were very fresh, only minutes old. Covere was close, and waiting.
Jackson worked his way up the slope of a forest bluff, slinking between the trees, listening, sniffing the wind. At the summit, he looked down upon the treeless slope of a crater. In its center was a huge nest.
Keema was tied to a tree across the rim of the crater. Her hands were behind her back, her chin resting on her chest. Her coverall had been ripped open to the waist, exposing her breasts. She appeared unconscious, but as he watched she slowly raised her head enough to look directly at him. How she was aware of his presence he did not know. Her eyes locked onto his for a moment, then slowly shifted to her right, as if to look in that direction. Then she lowered her head and made no other movement.
Jackson assumed, hoped, the girl was trying to indicate Covere's position. He also hoped Covere had not seen the signal. He was about to move higher up into the forest to try and outflank the man when the dinosaur returned to the nest.
The creature emerged from the forest along the lower side of the crater, snorting and hissing. Jackson recognized it immediately, its name coming to mind unbidden from one of Lassiter's lectures. It was a Dimetrodon, a four-legged crawling creature three times the size of a crocodile, with a spiny dorsal fin like that of a marlin. Its blue-scaled hide was covered with knobby growths, its beak-shaped mouth filled with an array of vicious fangs from which a yellow saliva dripped.
The creature sniffed the air and bellowed. There was an immediate answer from within the nest. It began to crawl purposefully around the edge of the crater, its malevolent, lidless eyes fixed firmly upon Keema.
Jackson swore under his breath. Covere had chosen his killing ground carefully. If he tried to save the girl, Covere would shoot him down. If he went after the man, the dinosaur would attack Keema.
He had only one course of action somewhere between the two alternatives, an action calling for noise, timing, and balance. He gripped his knife with his left hand, his rifle in his right. Taking a deep breath, he burst from the cover of the forest, running at full speed.
Charging along the crater rim, Jackson fired a ten round burst in the direction he thought Covere was hiding, hoping to pin the man down for a few seconds at least. Then he shifted his aim, sending the last ten rounds of the magazine in the direction of the creature still advancing toward Keema.
The ripping explosions and the stinging dirt thrown up by the bullets had the desired effect on the dinosaur. It scuttled backwards, honking, retreating to the lower edge of the crater.
The tactic did not work on Covere. The man answered with a full volley of shots, ripping up the ground near Jackson's feet. Jackson ran as hard as his ravaged body would allow, praying he would not lose his footing on the loose earth and roll down the crater into the dinosaur nest.
A bullet slammed into his right leg and staggered him. He twisted to maintain his balance, then hobbled on, straight past Keema. As he passed, he whipped his left arm to the side. The blade of his knife thunked into the tree trunk just inches below her bound hands. He hurled himself to cover over the rim of the crater.
 For a few seconds he lay there panting, then raised his head cautiously above the ridge of dirt. Keema frantically sawed at her bonds against the blade of the knife. Covere screamed in frustration, snapping a shot at the woman that sent bark splinters flying near her face. Then she was free, diving for cover in the forest.
After reloading his rifle Jackson inspected his leg. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of his thigh, leaving a bloody, painful wound. He ripped a bandage from his first-aid kit, tying it tightly around his leg. Then he crawled toward Covere. He was sweating, shaking, his vision blurred, his heart pounding.
For some thirty minutes there was no sound in the forest except for the intermittent hissing of the angry dinosaur at the edge of its nest. Jackson crawled on hands and knees toward Covere's position, certain Covere was stalking him also. After a time he discarded the rifle as too cumbersome, drawing the automatic pistol from his belt. Of Keema there was no sign. He could only hope Covere had not caught her again.
Jackson detected a sound from his left and edged that way, winding his body around tree trunks like a snake. The sound came again. Jackson crawled on, until he rounded a tree and saw them.
Keema lay on her stomach on the forest floor, as if she had been crawling as well. Ten feet to her right knelt Nicholas Covere, cradling an automatic rifle in his arms, smiling down at the woman. He was dressed in a ragged jungle suit of mottled green and black. A bloodstained bandage was visible against his ribs beneath his shirt.
Jackson extended his right arm and fired. Covere heard or sensed the movement, twisting away with amazing speed. The bullet aimed at his chest smashed into his rifle, ripping it from his hands. He swore aloud, grabbing frantically for a pistol at his hip. Jackson rolled to his right, fired, then rolled again as three bullets from Covere's pistol plowed up the earth where he had been. There was a prolonged silence, then Jackson heard Covere laugh.
"All right, Injun. That's enough of this shit. I got the little Martian broad, an' I'm fixin' ta put a bullet up her snatch 'less you drop your gun and come out."
Jackson's heart sank in his chest. He bit his lip until he tasted blood. 'Not again!' his mind screamed. 'Not a third time!' He knew as soon as he showed himself Covere would shoot.
"Do it now, Injun!" Covere screamed. "I ain't got time to fuck with you!"
Jackson gritted his teeth and slowly stepped out from behind a tree. Covere stood twenty feet away, his arm around Keema's throat, right hand holding a pistol against her temple.
"Drop the fuckin' gun, Injun!" Covere demanded.
Jackson let the gun fall from his hand, bracing himself for the impact of the bullets as Covere laughed and extended his hand to take aim.
Keema half turned in Covere's grasp, raising her left hand even with his eyes and hissing like a cat.
Covere screamed in pain. He dropped his gun, clawing at his eyes. Keema dropped to the ground just as Jackson sprinted forward. He launched himself into the air, flying over the woman to slam into Covere's chest with a body block that knocked the wind from both men and sent them sprawling.
They both regained their feet at the same time, circling each other, hands extended. Covere darted in with a feint at Jackson's face, then swung his leg to deliver a vicious kick to the knee. Jackson blocked the blow, and Covere launched another attack almost instantaneously. 
A warm, invigorating peace settled over Jackson's mind and body. There was no more fear, no burning hatred to distract his senses and dull his reflexes. He was, at last, face to face with his enemy, and knew he would destroy him.
Covere lunged in again, screaming, swinging his right arm. Jackson snapped his own right arm across his body to slap Covere's blow aside, countering with a back fist to Covere's temple which staggered him. Before he could recover, Jackson pivoted, driving the heel of his left hand into Covere's ribs. The sharp snapping of bone was clearly audible. Covere wheezed in pain. Jackson pivoted in the opposite direction, lashing out with his right leg. The side of his foot smashed against Covere's knee. More bones snapped. Covere dropped to the ground screaming in pain, spittle flying from his mouth.
Snarling in rage and agony, Covere struggled to his feet, balancing on his good leg. He pulled a knife from his boot top. Jackson grabbed him by the wrist, twisted, then rammed his hand against the back of Covere's elbow, dislocating the joint. Still holding the arm, he turned and smashed Covere's other knee with a kick. The man collapsed.
Jackson kicked the knife away, then grabbed Covere by the collar, turning him face up. Covere spit at him, shouting a string of obscenities. Jackson leaned in closer and stared. Save for the bruise at his temple from Jackson's back fist blow, there were no marks near Covere's eyes or anywhere else on his face.
"Lousy scum suckin' Injun!" Covere snarled through clinched teeth. "I shoulda kilt your worthless red ass when I had the chance. I fucked your momma, after I cut her throat! Fucked your little doctor friend in the ass! Ahhh...."
Covere twisted on the ground, trying to grab Jackson with his one good hand.
"You gonna kill me now, Injun? You better! Better not leave me like this, mutherfucker!"
Jackson stared down at Covere. He felt nothing, no emotion at all. It was as if a great weight had been lifted from him. Nothing the man could say would affect him. It was over. He had won.
"No, Covere," he answered slowly. "I won't kill you."
He reached down to grab the back of Covere's shirt, dragging him toward the crater. Covere screamed, yelled, and twisted, but he was powerless to stop what he knew was about to happen.
With a final grunt of effort, Jackson hurled Covere over the edge of the crater, watching him roll helplessly down the dirt slope into the dinosaur nest. The impact of his body sent three hissing young Dimetrodons scrambling into the open. Their mother charged over the crater rim with an enraged growl.
Sobbing, clawing at the dirt, Covere attempted to pull his crippled body away from the angry animals.
The youngsters attacked him first, one of them darting forward to rip a chunk of flesh from his thigh. Blood spurted. Covere howled in pain, kicking at the beasts with his shattered legs. A second animal lunged forward. It fastened its jaws on Covere's wounded side, gouging away shirt, bandage, and flesh.
When the adult creature lumbered forward, Covere shrieked in panic. The dinosaur clamped its jaws over his face. For a final few seconds Covere's insane screams were audible even through the leathery skin of the animal's mouth. Then the powerful jaws squeezed shut, crushing his skull.
Jackson turned his back and walked away, finally leaning against a tree for support. His entire body trembled. A hand on his arm startled him. He turned to look into the face of Keema. She smiled and held out his pistol, butt first. Jackson slipped the weapon into his belt.
"What did you do to him?" he asked her. "What did you do to make him think, and feel, his eyes were hurt?"
Her only answer was the same knowing, irritating stare she had given him before. He swore aloud, shaking his head, then set about collecting his other weapons and equipment.
"I'm going back," he told her. "Back to the caves and Ronnie Sinclair. Are you coming?"
She did not answer, but as he started off through the forest, she fell in step beside him.


THE END