Atlantis: chapter 1

Congrats anyone who made it to this site! That means you're actually smart enough to figure out how to type! Yay! Now, here's the prologue and the first chapter:

Please note this is a work in progress and the authors reserve the right to edit and/or re-format the book

Prologue: Shades of Grey

The Velociraptor sniffed the air suspiciously. It's lower lip curled into a menacing snarl, and Master noticed. "Easy girl, you'll have your chance. Easy, Easy..." Oh, how she longed to charge through the forest at the oppressive odor. She had been trained to attack that scent. No questions involved. But she was being prevented. No worries - her wish would be granted soon.

Looking around, she noticed scores of her human comrades bustling about the camp, taking down tents, packing things away, honing their blades, and above all, checking their 'guns' as they called them. She didn't know how they worked, but she knew that they instilled pain if operated. She had learned to fear and hate those things with a fiery passion, and the only thing stopping her from ripping the 'guns' from their hands was that the guns were their only chance. Beside her, Master's assistants were fitting her out in her battle armor: pads of a flexible, fabric-looking material they called 'Kevlar' attached to leather bands that went around her chest, her thighs, and her belly. Her back and tail were left bare, and a 'mask' of Kevlar covered her head, leaving her lower jaw and eyes untouched. They also put her in her harness, buckling the straps tight. For a final touch, they smeared on red war paint, giving a unique look.

"Alright, old friend. Everything nice and tight?" Master asked. She growled the affirmative. Master called for his weapons: A long, wicked-looking double pointed lance, an longsword made out of her master's special metal, and a 'gun'. She hummed discontentedly, showing her disapproval.

"It's okay, dear, I know you don't like them, but they are necessary." Master answered in response to her uneasiness. The gun looked dirty and rugged, with a long extension Master called the 'barrel'. On one side, the guns had human words printed on it: 'Kalashnikov AK-74'. Master tossed it on over the longsword on his back.

A loudspeaker in camp warned that they would be departing in fifteen minutes, and anyone not packed up and ready in fifteen minutes would be left behind to be swallowed by the depths of the jungle.

A flash of light streaked the sky, followed by a clap of thunder. Rain. That would only make their job easier. Master climbed onto her back, strapping himself in. There was going to be a fight.

Minutes later, she was at the front of a mass of men in strange metal vehicles and others of her race. Seeded throughout the horde were enormous T-Rex's, each with four soldiers and an officer on their back. She almost laughed. Or at least, a Raptor's version of a laugh. The Americans wouldn't stand a chance.

The army started to split up into regiments, then into squadrons, and from there into teams. Master guided her into a clearing where about fifteen other Velociraptors were gathered around a Utah Raptor. She stepped into the clearing and bowed deeply, Master crossing his arm over his chest and leaning forward. Utah Raptors are some of the most dangerous creatures on Earth, she thought But not the smartest, which was an opinion she held privately to herself. The Utah Raptor glanced at her briefly, then jerked his head toward the sky and gave a tumultuous roar that shook the earth itself. He was joined a moment later by the other Raptors in the clearing. One by one they took up the call, "Rowwrr!!"

From behind the trees, they could hear the rest of the army howl with bloodlust. The Officer on top of the Utah Raptor ordered, "Follow my lead!" over the noise. The Raptors trotted off after the Utah Raptor, clearing a path through the underbrush.

Finally, they slowed at the American's first line of defense. A string of bunkers about 10 feet high with lots of guns sticking out of them.

Quietly, a dozen of her master's human allies crept forward. They clutched more of those 'guns' against their chests, these with a bloated spike each loaded into the 'barrel'. The spikes were wide on one end, long and tapered at the other. She knew from experience that these would blow up on contact with an object.

The humans silently took up firing positions. And let loose.

Dozens of explosions rocked the noisy jungle, causing torrents of mud to kick up. The rain was to their advantage, as it cast a haze over the battlefield, concealing the attackers as they reloaded. Normally the vapor trails from their weapons would've given them away, but now everything was that color.

Through the mist, she could see the bunkers. They were unharmed! How!?

No matter. This wasn't her battle. She was to charge through the American lines while the others attacked.

Master gave her the signal. She dashed out, followed quickly by the others in her squad. Rope bridges spanned across and above her path, but she ignored them and the men on them. She ran with all her heart, eventually building up to her maximum speed of about 70 miles an hour. Master bounced up and down, and he was tossed like salad in a salad bowl.

A Raptor running right next to her had the misfortune of stepping right in front of an American's line of sight, and he was gunned down. Another from her squad was taken by sniper fire, and three more succumbed to the thirsty bite of a rocket as it exploded in front of them.

Then they were through, leaving the bunkers behind.

She slowed so the rest of the squad could catch up; she had always been a fast runner.

Master took a mouthpiece from his jaws and slipped it back in his pocket.

Then they were trotting towards the main American base, not sparing a second's thought to their comrades behind them.

An hour or so later the Utah Raptor stopped in a hushed silence. Master ordered her to keep still.

A moment later, four men that had been riding slightly ahead of them on Coelysophis dismounted. They were carrying more of those 'guns'. She noted that the 'guns' had weird, cylindrical tubes screwed onto the 'barrel'. She wondered what they were for.

She watched as they crept up to the edge of a massive clearing. Peering through the branches, she saw a gargantuan stone wall 100 yards into the clearing. The men who had dismounted were lying down on their stomachs, propping their guns on rocks and branches. Then they just waited.

Master told her a moment later, "This is it!" in a hushed whisper. The four men on the ground pulled the 'triggers' on the guns, and she almost ducked, expecting a roar and flash as usual when someone pulled the trigger. She was disappointed, instead being greeted with an almost silent shudder as the gun spat out a bullet and no flash at all. The men were using silencers on the guns.

The men fired again and again, firing one shot per pull, and every other shot or so a flicker of movement could be seen at the top of the wall, and a moment later a muffled crash as men fell to the ground. At least ten men fell from the wall, and an eleventh would have no doubt followed, except for a piercing wail, followed by flashes of red light.

The men on the ground blanched, jerking backwards, and a moment later a series of bangs permeated the stormy air, and a line of jumping mud followed a moment later where they had just been. The Raptors in the clearing hissed, eager to charge forward and attack. Master held her at bay, tugging on his strap. She obeyed reluctantly.

Suddenly shots rang out all over the place, sending mud flying everywhere as the bullets shot into the soft, mushy ground. She just stood there, behind the trees, letting the rain wash over her. It was good rain. It was warm and concealing. Just what they needed.

BANG! A shot sounded so close to her she jerked back. BANG! BANG BANG! three more shots followed the first. Master was firing back now, randomly spraying through the forest. A line of mud jumped up next to them, and she jerked to the side. They had lots of guns. It would be harder than she expected.

What was she to do? She could obey Master and stay here, or she could run out against orders fight. The greyness of the rain washed over the entire scene, casting a weird half-light between the trees.

Whatever she was going to do, she should decide quickly. But why wait? She made her choice.

Chapter I: The Power

They were ready. Major Thomas Lane gripped his M9 carbine tightly. Dressed in his Mk. III Tactical Battle Armor, he waited anxiously for the doors of the deployment bay to open. He ran a quick equipment check, starting from head to toe:

Helmet. Integrated hands-free comm unit with a video feed linked up to his visor, displaying tactical data taken from the Predator UAV's circling overhead, info from the Intelligence sector, and, most importantly, his other team members. He initiated a squad-wide test call, beaming all the members of his unit.

"Marines, this is Lane, initiating test call equipment check, over."

Ten acknowledgment lights winked into existence on his visor's heads-up display, next to the video feed. They could all hear him.

His helmet was good and the straps were tight. Check.

Torso shell; snug and warm, the hydrostatic gel layers forming to fit his muscled body. Shoulder armor good. Gauntlets secure. Check.

Legs fine. Knee guards in place, and combat boots laced up.

M9 tactical carbine with 50 round extended magazine tight up against his chest, and six spare clips in his cargo pockets. Glock 18 semi-automatic, 20 round handgun 'locked and loaded', as the saying went, holstered on his thigh. Combat knife strapped to the side of his shin in it's sheath.

The rest of the squad finished their checks as well and began a buddy check on whoever happened to be standing next to them in their own private, cozy little deployment bay. Hoewin, the team's skilled and esteemed sniper, checked over Chaumers, the Heavy-Ordnance-Anti-Vehicular soldier of the team, and vice versa. The Nelson twins, the valuable machine gunners, checked over each other. The team medic, Dyke, checked over buddy Sanders, who was the communications and technology expert. All the members of Tom's squad were like brothers, due to countless dangerous situations they had pulled through, but Dyke and Sanders were especially close. Trippe and Shama, the new recruits, checked each other until Reilly barged in, pointing out that a more experienced soldier should supervise in case of flaws. Reilly doubled as the team's Dino expert, while Shama was the team scout. Trippe was merely a soldier waiting to fight. Reilly finished checking Trippe and turned to Shama, while West, the second-in-command came up to Tom.

"You think they're ready?" West asked quietly, nodding over to Trippe and Shama as he checked and re-checked Tom's gear.

"They're as ready as they're ever gonna be." Tom said. West finished his check and Tom returned the favor.

"I dunno. The DB's reported a pretty big mess. If that army got past those bunkers, the minefields, and the sniper posts while being harassed by the sorties..."

"Exactly." Tom pointed out. "They'll be sufficiently weakened and so no problem at all for the base. Remember, they've still got to get past the solid concrete wall, not to mention all the artillery and MG fire. Plus, we'll be out there. What could get past that?"

West exhaled in a forced chuckle. "Yeah. I just hope this doesn't go sour."

"Come on, this'll be a milk run. What could go wrong?" Tom asked with his customary forced optimism.

West later came to laugh hysterically at Tom as he ate those words.

Suddenly the bay door slid open, signaling that it was time to move.

Tom cautiously glided out the bay, the solid sheets of purple rain tapping his helmet, his visor automatically compensating for the increase in lighting. He and his team found themselves in the main, frontal courtyard of the facility, and a NAV marker on his HUD (heads-up display) pointed him over to one side.

Tom ran up to the gates, his men right behind him. Armored Stryker tanks were waiting to take companies of men outside. The Strykers were highly advanced modern tanks that could seat twenty men, not including the crew, as well as have the capability to fire the 120mm cannon and .50 cal on top. Tom and his team piled into one of these beasts of destruction, grateful to be out of the driving rain. At least it wasn't cold in the tropics. They sat down in the seats, not bothering to strap themselves in for the short ride to the trenches just outside the wall. Another squad clambered in next to them.

With capacity filled to the brim along with the extra two officers, the Stryker pulled up to a secondary, smaller vehicle deployment door. The things were dotted down the circumference of the wall, and each was just a section in the concrete that could be pulled aside with an extra sliding door in front, just like the big gate.

Overhead, multiple Orca-squadron hovercraft armed to the teeth with chain guns, mortars, rockets, and flamethrowers soared high over the walls, their complements of fifteen men making each of them considerable foes. Tom also spotted three Huey gunships hovering menacingly above the gate; the Guardian Angels. They looked sinister in the grey half-light of the thunderstorm, and stood out in relief against the sodden ground every lightning flash. If the Atlantians and their Iraqi allies were planning on beating the U.S. and Great Britain, they were in for a serious disappointment. Sorties of F-35 Joint Strike Fighter pairs had been moving all day, giving a little activity to the enemy Anti Air batteries. They were battling the rain as much as anything else.

The doors opened, first the small, thin emergency sliding door that came apart extremely fast, then the big, re-inforced concrete blast doors slid apart like lethargic stone monsters, then the emergency sliding door on the other side.

The Stryker rolled through the mud, bullets pinging off its thick armor plating. The driver expertly turned the craft so that it presented the smallest possible target to any explosive infantry while it moved. As it rumbled on to its destination, it fired shots from its cannon, causing large explosions throughout the landscape.

Flashes of light jumped around everywhere as the native and Iraqi forces fired upon the guards and autoguns on the wall, and the Americans returned fire. Explosions dotted the field, and it was filled with the screaming of men dying. War was so bloody for so little a point. All the time, soldier's lives were undervalued, and spent on so hopeless and whimsical a case.

Tom pointed the driver over to a clump of rocks just inside the trench that would provide cover while the men jumped out of the tank and into the trench. The driver consented, and soon they were hurtling at 30 miles an hour over the short, 100 foot stretch to the trenches. Overhead, the skies were cloudy, blocking any view of the bright, sparkling tropical sun behind bloated, dark and ugly thunderheads. In addition, sheets and sheets of rain cut down visibility to a bare 30 meters, soaking the already sodden ground and making ever increasing pools of mud.

The Stryker stopped with the back exit doors directly behind the rock spree. The big marines piled out of the vehicle, Tom being the last one to leave.

As the men rushed out, the tank's turret, which was just barely peeking over the boulders, fired off a suppressive shot that sent two of the pickup trucks that the Iraqis called transports flying through the air, the men who had until recently been manning the attached .50 cal both looking like a Superman dressed in rags.

As soon as the last man was out, not including the crew, the Stryker took off towards a bridge in the trench, leaving Tom and his team to fend for themselves.

"Hoewin! Do your stuff!" Tom shouted above the noise and explosions. Hoewin dropped up behind the squad and found a nice mud hummock to hide behind. The team's sniper had already donned a specialized sniper camouflage Ghillie suit, and he was virtually invisible as he crawled around and lay prone at the top.

Tom rushed into the trench, not bothering to find an entrance, instead just dropping into the chest-high depression in the tropical mud that was splattered everywhere. The others were right on top of him, coming out from behind the rocks firing.

One of the Nelson brothers, James, stayed behind the rocks along with Hoewin to give the rest of the crew some covering fire. The sharp crack of Hoewin's sniper seemed to compliment the pounding of James's LMG.

Tom peeked over the top of the trench, looking for a target.

He nearly had a bullet in his face as one glanced off the slippery rock in front of him and shot up towards his head. Luckily his helmet sent the bullet grazing off and in the opposite direction. Ducking back down, one of his men opened up a few rounds for covering fire.

Now, Tom didn't know how scared he should be from this near death experience, but the battle lust seemed to dump the shock aside for now. He'd feel that later.

Tom popped back up and sprayed three round bursts around wildly. However, there was a method to his madness of wasting more than half a clip of ammunition for as little as two actual hits, maybe less. The trick was to get the enemy to duck and therefore stop shooting at you, while your squadmate pops up next to you and fires off accurate shots with the intention of death. Death to the enemy.

Sure enough, West felt his jibe and cautiously poked his head up, then fired off a single round into the distance. Tom realized he was using his infrared function on his visor. He immediately sent out the squad wide signal, but only Trippe and Shama hadn't switched yet. As well as him.

He immediately switched to that function and watched as the haze turned red and lifted out of his sight. Now he could actually see. See to shoot. See to kill.

Tom fired off a few more rounds. His clip ran dry and he loaded in the next. Simple. Methodical.

West ducked down as his clip ran dry as well. Tom was forced to duck as a wall of bullets came at him. Even James's Squad Automatic Weapon, more colloquially known as the SAW, silenced as a rocket detonated next to their position, and by extension, Hoewin's sniper.

The Guardian Angles continued to hover over the gate, making sure nothing got near it. Meanwhile, an Orca hovercraft landed behind an enemy entrenchment, and it offloaded all its men excepting the gunners and pilot. The highly trained marines scattered under wild return fire, diving away from the hot zone. A pair of them even jumped into an enemy trench, and they got up amidst a wave of beating, kicking, and smacking. Hoewin evened the odds by one, and the Iraqi pummeling one of the Marines dropped, missing a vital article of his body. The distraction allowed the Marines to recover and draw their combat knives, soon turning the tide of the melee.

Grabbing his radio, Tom called for an artillery barrage from the wall to the open span of land where the Iraqis were huddled, spraying tons of rounds from their AK-74's.

The artillery was already up and firing, but they shot scattered. Tom coordinated with the gunners to hit a nice, clumped target. The giant 105mm shells from the wall cannons pounded the ground, sending rocks and mud flying everywhere but doing surprisingly little damage. This kind of attack was meant to make the enemy cringe and falter, unable to see while you dashed to find a better position.

Tom saw at least three bodies fly up, arms flailing, rifles twisting as they plummeted back to Earth, unable to escape gravity for more than a few seconds.

Tom scrambled up the side of the trench, dashing out, making for a large boulder just ahead.

Bullets sung close at his heels as he sprinted to the rocks, his men belatedly following. Finally they were out, able to shoot accurately again. Just as Tom was about to pop some Iraqis who were ignorantly not standing behind cover, three sniper shots came in quick succession, causing the Iraqis' heads to burst in a violent spray of gore. Jeez, can't Hoewin let me take a few? Tom thought.

The Nelson brothers flanked to either side, laying down suppressive fire for Hoewin, who was finding higher ground to snipe from. Chaumers hefted his Javelin explosive-grade, missile-delivery system, took aim, and fired at a clump of Raptors; the high-heat missile sent them yelping away in retreat as it came from above.

Tom continued to take peeking shots, leaving almost none of his body exposed as he did. West was right beside him, working his way to the front as he fired. He liked to be in the thick of the action.

One of the Iraqi's T-86 light attack tanks loomed out of the mist, and Chaumers let loose a anti-tank missile from his Javelin.

Trippe took a bullet in the shoulder and went down, arms flailing. Tom loosed a torrent of curses. No new recruit should have to take that.

Maddened at the sight of the poor wretch lying on the ground in so much pain, Tom popped up like a hyperactive bunny and sprayed the rest of the clip from his M9 carbine, eliciting cries of agony from the enemy.

Tom tried to fire another burst, but the clip was empty. Bullets sailed close over his head; he could practically feel them. Cursing, he pulled out his sidearm and emptied the clip as he dove behind a larger clump of boulders, expecting at any second to feel the fiery sting of a bullet impale him.

He made it to safety without feeling anything even remotely resembling stinging or pain. Instead he felt the cold muck sloshing through his fingers and splattering his chest, and the heavy, driving rain pounding down his back. The handgun was empty and he tossed it aside.

Crouching, he reloaded his rifle, fumbling with the clip from adrenaline. He finally fit it into the slot. As he did so, he glanced at Trippe. West had flagged down a medic, and now he was giving Trippe a shot of morphine as well as cleaning and bandaging the wound. He was going to be okay. Twisting around into a hunched stand, he nearly fell back in surprise. Stumbling back, his eyes registered an enormous, terrifying Velociraptor bending over the rocks he was using as cover. Red war paint was smeared over it's face, giving it a terrible, vicious appearance. Tom dropped the rifle into a pool of mud, but he didn't dare bend over to get it.

The Raptor, a she, gazed at him with contempt obvious on its face, rainwater drizzling down its muzzle in streams. And all Tom could do was stab his pathetic knife into it, and he had about as much chance of that as he had becoming president. All it had to do was open its jaws, lean forward, and snap them up, then Tom would be done. Done. Done for good. No waking up. No nothing. Although he had always believed in Heaven...

Now wasn't the time for a religious debate with himself.

In a last, desperate attempt at survival, Tom twisted and ran. Ran like the old man with the scythe was after him, which he had been, for some time now. He yanked the knife out of it's sheath even though it would do no good. It was a comfort thing.

The Raptor bounded after him, raking its claw down his back. Tom cried out in agony. Raising its killing claw, it charged. Right as the claw was an inch from Tom's back, he dove to the side. The claw planted itself into the dirt.

The Raptor landed with it, snarling angrily. It had missed for the first time in its life. It turned at Tom and growled, a fierce challenge to the enemy. Her rider twisted around, an AK-74 assault rifle cradled in his arms, pointing at Tom. He stood no chance.

Tom flung the knife at the Raptor's rider with all his strength. The tiny metallic missile caught the man between his eyes, hilt first, momentarily stunning him and knocking him off balance, making him slouch in the saddle. The Raptor cried out in alarm: her Master was hurt.

Tom took advantage of the momentary confusion to dive behind a rock, hopefully to safety, but instead onto a fallen body.

Oh, so gross. Tom gagged, then stopped. He realized something: fallen soldiers had fallen weapons, which wouldn't have fallen so far from the body.

Scrambling frantically through the mud, his fear-numbed hands grasped at a bit of cold plastic material. Yanking it up from the suction-like mud, he brought it into view: a handgun. What type he didn't care, he whirled above the rock, aimed, and fired. The first bullet hit the Raptor's shoulder, causing it to whirl around, snarling in pain. The second bullet took the rider in the chest.

The rider was thrown off the beast with a violent twisting motion, coming down to earth and face planting in the mud. He didn't stir.

The alarmed Raptor snorted in fear. That fear was soon replaced by rage as the beast charged after Tom. Tom didn't move an inch, but stubbornly pounded the rest of his pistol rounds into the Raptor's mighty jaw, penetrating the brain. The Raptor gave a last weak roar and desperately dove for Tom. It seemed as if the thing would bite Tom's head off, but at that moment it met its end as Hoewin had finally reached the summit of a small hill, and taking notice of Tom's distress, cracked off a shot at the beast. For a short moment Tom was standing in shock at the wreck of blood and guts resting next to him.

As soon as the moment had begun, it had ended. Tom sprang into action. Trying not to scream in frustration, Tom sprinted back to his fallen assault rifle, checking to make sure it wasn't damaged by the rain or mud, when he heard the cry. On the other side of the group of rocks, West was in danger.

“Help! Help!!!” The shrill cry of pain chilled Tom's already freezing blood. An enormous Velociraptor was hanging over the man, and Tom saw Shama face down in a puddle of reddish mud. The rest of the team was similarly engaged. Without stopping to think, he brought around his rifle and fired. The Raptor fell to the ground amidst a flurry of lead. Riley took a swipe across the face just as Hoewin saved another life, and Dyke popped up and tackled Riley's assailant.

Mental note. Tom thought. Pay raise to Hoewin, on the basis of saving too many people for his current salary. Better yet, give him a commission. Pay raise to Dyke, on the basis of tackling a prehistoric monster to save a friend's life. Oo, and winning it looks like. He thought all this even as he emptied his clip, saving another few soldiers. Then the counter clicked to zero. And still two more pe- one more person to save. Time to see if Tom could measure up to Dyke's insanity.

Yelling bloody murder at the top of his lungs, Tom dove onto the Raptor. Without the assurance of a knife, as Dyke had. Oops.

The Raptor yelled in surprise, but it had just witnessed its friends dying around it and a similar tactic employed on one of them, so it figured it had something similar coming. Tom was shaken around violently as his considerable mass was tossed side to side, up and down. He wrapped his hands around the Raptor's neck and pulled. Apparently he was pretty strong because the Raptor started bucking harder, already wild at its ever increasing lack of oxygen.

Tom held on. The other option was death.

Hoewin attempted a cautious shot, but it went too wide as the Raptor bucked out of his line of sight.

West, from the ground, somehow managed to grab a rifle and fired it one handed at the Raptor.

He would have been disappointed with the spread if he could've seen his handiwork, but just then the rain cut him off. The first few rounds went completely wide, a fourth even hit Tom on his back. But the fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth rounds hit the Raptor. One got under it's jawbone, where the armor didn't cover, and it dropped like a stone weight.

“Uhhg, thanks.” West gasped as Tom hurried over. “I think I broke my leg.”

“Ok, just take it easy, and wait for the meds.” Tom said. West dragged himself off the ground, and Tom called for a field ambulance to pick him up. If West's leg was broken, it would be suicide to order him to keep fighting, unlike Trippe, who could still move. After about thirty seconds, a vehicle came by. West hopped in the specially adapted ambulance, and they went screeching off to the next soldier.

Meanwhile, Dyke, Sanders, and Trippe had gotten to their feet,and Riley was blinking stupidly, staring up at a beleaguered Tuck Nelson as he dragged him to cover while firing his 8 pound machine gun in one hand. Tom glanced through the mist at another company of soldiers, who were tending to two men with clenched jaws, sitting against boulders with large red streaks on them. Tom forced himself to turn his attention back to his own squad, peering at the stricken tropical landscape. Almost immediately he spotted muzzle flashes here and there, and he raised the rifle to his shoulder, pearing through the scope. He emptied the entire clip on three of the Raptors. They fell, and Tom narrowly dodged an arrow. He stabbed a knife vaguely in the direction of the native who had attacked him. He dropped another native with his bayonet, then smacked another with the butt of his gun.

A Raptor came up, and Tom reloaded and fired hurriedly. It didn't go down, but was severely wounded, and Dyke finished him off. “Thanks,” Tom said, glancing at the man. They were all tired and breathing heavy. The soldiers were highly trained, heavily armed, and just simply the best of the best, but how much blood could you see in one day?

A giant T-Rex was wreaking havoc in the front lines, and needed to be dealt with fast. Yes, fifteen years ago it would have been a large tank or vehicle making the ruckus. Now it was a living, breathing tank with teeth. Tom sighed. He missed the good old days. He shouted into his radio, “I need aerial support! Requesting Cobra gunship engagement of Rex 1. Target will be marked.”

“Roger, require clearance code omega five."

Tom gave the requested clearance code.

"Roger, dispatching aerial support. Clear the engagement area.” A calm and serene voice broke the panic and confusion of battle.

“All forward units, withdraw! Clear the area for air strike!” Tom ordered. As if he needed to. The soldiers were giving the beast a wide berth. Tom chucked a couple canisters of red smoke as a target for the gunners. Dyke and Reiley flanked to the sides, throwing each another canister of signal smoke and pinpointing the Rex in their laser sights. The Rex howled with rage as the acrid smell of the chemicals reached his sensitive nostrils. He stomped in a rampage, oblivious to all else, which was an added bonus.

Chaumers fired another high-heat flare, and the Rex stomped angrily.

It was almost impossible not to watch, even though he was supposed to be kicking enemy butt. A few moments later, an air-to-ground missile zipped over the tree line, to then crash into the poor Dinosaur's narrow head in an explosion of flames, hot metal, and a newly developed poisonous gas which was supposed to put the Dino asleep if it came into contact with it's head. All it did was make it madder. No matter, the actual gunship was already appearing over the tropical giants of trees. It pummeled the creature's side in a hail of hot bullets and smaller, non-poison missiles. The Rex gave a low moan of pain and fury as the Cobra helicopter whipped by overhead. The Cobra was relentlessly pummeling it in a hail of machine gun fire. It circled 3 times before the Rex finally gave up, the men on its back being long dead from the bullets. It collapsed in a cloud of dirt, blood was oozing from multiple wounds; it couldn't survive much longer. A ragged cheer emanated from the soldiers, while the natives and Iraqis moaned with despair. It gave a final cry of pain as the soldiers added their own slightly smaller bullet wounds to its body, then slumped to the ground, dead. Tom sprinted forward, sliding out a plastic sampler and tube as he ran.

Biological samples were invaluable, and a dead specimen was nearly as good as a live. He cut off a piece of it's skin, and then took a sample of muscle tissue from beneath. He capped the lid shut after storing them both carefully inside the tube.

Cheering erupted from the crowd of men as they rushed forward in order to take cover against it's protective flank, as the skin on it's back and sides are so hard, it is bullet proof. The belly and head are a different story. More of the soldiers began taking samples, and one was so intent on getting a good piece of organ, he cut away too much skin and gasped in surprise as a bullet spat out of it's body moments later, as some dumb Iraqi had been emptying clips and clips into the fallen Dino with naive hope of hitting something. The soldier continued on even though he had taken a nasty wound in his shoulder. Tom launched himself back into the frenzy of Raptors, eager for a smaller opponent to exploit.

The Cobra hovered menacingly over the fallen Rex, as if daring the Iraqis or natives to do something about it. Because of it, the space immediately around it was devoid of any enemy presence. After a few moments of consultation, the Cobra opened fire from its two mounted chain guns and smaller, less powerful 10mm nose gun at nothing in particular. The bullets sent pools of mud plopping up like Mexican jumping beans. Tom was sure that something was being hit, but he couldn't tell in the haze.

After thirty seconds of sustained fire, the helicopter launched its final three missiles at different spots on the ground. The helicopter radioed to Tom. "Commander Lane, we are out of munition, returning to base to re-arm and re-fuel, will radio when clear, over," a slick voice announced in the high-tech hands-free comm link in Tom's helmet visor.

The statement needed no response, and almost immediately the Cobra turned away slowly, almost reluctantly. Tom didn't need it anymore, and it had to refuel.

The other squads were adding their bullets to the fray as well. The Iraqis were being driven back to the rainforest.

Elation seeped through Tom as he realized that they were winning, bit by bit, piece by piece.

Darting from cover to cover, rock to fragment of a tank, Tom and his team were only able to take fleeting snapshots from their guns. But it was better than standing around in the middle of the battlefield waiting to get mown down by a machine gun like all the Iraqis.

Motioning for his men to cover him, he knelt to examine a piece of Dinosaur feces. Again, he slid out another sampler tube and took a sample of the feces. He pocketed it, then looked up in surprise.

Something whipped across his face, creating a dull, excruciating pain. He was thrown to the ground, blood gushing from his nose. He looked up, and an native officer was sneering at him, mere inches away from his face. His team was on the other side of a spur of rocks: they couldn't see him. The officer seemed to think that Tom was done for. But Tom knew something he didn't.

Off to one side, West had noticed Tom's plight and was quietly sneaking around to the back of the Atlantian. He wanted to take the man alive.

Tom was distracted by a string of words: “You not have business here!" The Atlantian screamed in broken English. The Atlantian's own base language was similar to English, so it wasn't hard for them to learn.

The Atlantian was right. What rights did an American army have on a peaceful island like theirs?

Just then, West jumped forward, taking the man full on. Tom scrambled back as the Atlantian was beaten to the ground. Although West had the advantage of size, Atlantians had been trained from the age of seven to fight. Especially in melee. Just like Sparta, from Ancient Greece.

Tom grabbed a weapon off the ground and advanced on the pair of struggling soldiers; one in an American's highly sophisticated combat armor, the other in what looked like a variation of the full Greek battle armor. The metal looked unusual. As well as it might: Atlantis was the only spot on Earth where it could be found. What was it? Solinium? Tom didn't remember. It was light and valuable and stronger than steel. It might even stop a small caliber bullet. Of course, all the Atlantians wore thin suits under their armor now. Completely bullet proof, and more cushioning should a bullet actually hit. But all that armor could only do so much against a blunt swing to the head with the stock of an assault rifle.

Tom heard the air rushing out of the way of his makeshift cudgel as it smashed into the Atlantian's helmet. The metal crumpled slightly inward. Tom was extremely strong for his age of 18, and he was pretty tall, even if he wasn't the bulkiest. He was also extremely young to be a Major. But thats how good he was. Or at least, so people said.

Tom got up and brushed himself off. The battle was almost over. Just another 3,000 guys to go. Then the horns sounded.

The battlefield stilled as the natives and Velociraptors bowed, and the soldiers looked up in fear. It had arrived.

It being the most ferocious, bloodthirsty giant of a Tyrannosaurus Rex there ever was.

“RRRRRROOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRR!!!!!!!!!!!” The world came to again as all the soldiers turned and fled.

“Retreat!” RETREAT!!!” Tom yelled unnecessarily. He and his team turned tail and fled without a seconds thought to everyone else behind them.

Everyone was sprinting full out to the base, and the rear was still being picked off by the Raptors and Atlantians. Tom cried out as he was thrown to the ground, an incredible pain in his shoulder. He had been shot. Tom sucked in a shaky breath. The bullet hadn't penetrated, but it still hurt like heck. Unhhh. Tom groaned. Its not like in the movies. Someone picked him up and threw him forward. His team had been separated. Not that it mattered, as long as they all got to the base.

Tom glanced over his un-injured shoulder and found himself at the near back of the horde. He ran forward, and he barely made it to the gates before they shut.

The men at the rear were still being picked off by the Raptors. To add to the confusion, the natives were throwing javelins and shooting flaming arrows into the crowd, and the Iraqis were picking off the rear lines with AK-74s.

The last of the men dove through the main gate, just as their was less than a body's width of space between the two great slabs of reinforced concrete. Tom was able to breath again as the doors shut. Only three Raptors and an Atlantian had made it through, and the Atlantian had gotten stuck in the door, his foot still being squeezed into the concrete. The remaining soldiers made quick work of them.

Tom could now hear the reassuring thud of the machine guns, the whistling howl of the mortars, and the sharp crack of the snipers. Battle was chaos. Inside the 12 foot thick, 50 ft high reinforced concrete walls, he felt safe.

But it wasn't over. The Rex was still charging, and no one could stop it. Except maybe, him. But there was no way Tom could climb the steps up to the wall now. Then he felt it. An excited, bubbling energy as something inside him rebelled the inevitable failure.

He was rising suddenly, and he looked down. He was 15 ft in the air. 20, 30ft, 40, now 50 feet! He was at the top of the wall! He catapulted a few feet above the wall, then came back down with his arms flailing. Tom bent over and grabbed a ZEUS missile launcher from a fallen soldier. But a single missile wasn't enough. He could still feel the energy, boiling, scorching, and unbearable. He had to release it, or die. It was that simple.

He stood straight and raised the launcher, suddenly confident, injury forgotten. He knew what he had to do. He manually locked the sights on the Rex, the launcher beeped to indicate it was locked, and Tom fired. Then he threw it away. Focusing hard, he released the energy in one compact sapphire ball. It surrounded the missile, and together they drove into the Rex's skull, along with half a dozen rounds from the 60mm artillery cannon dotted around the wall. BOOOOOOOOOMMMM!!!!! The Earth shook tremendously. The Rex was terribly wounded. It thrashed around madly in pain, crushing many of it's own men. With a final cry of blood lust, it escaped into the jungle, followed quickly by her allies.

A ragged cheer began on the ground, and became more steady as more and more joined the shout.

By the end, Tom's name was echoing throughout the entire facility joyously. He was a hero. He had saved the day.

He was so tired. Never before had he been tired like this. He seemed to be drained. Drained of willpower and life. He barely had the energy to keep standing. He knew why.

The sapphire ball had been a ball of energy, pure energy, his energy. He had sent his last reserves careening towards that stupid Dinosaur. Now he just needed to sleep...

He collapsed on the top of the wall. About a minute later, he was aware of soft hands gently pulling him to his feet, swinging his arms around their shoulders. He didn't know who it was. He didn't care. They brought him to the ground where he was placed on a stretcher, and from there carted into an infirmary. Just as he was rolled through the double doors, he fell into merciful, deep sleep.