Teratorn: Special 80th Anniversary of King Kong Edition

By Ken Van Wagner

Teratorn is the story of Steven Carnes, a modern day paleontologist who has gained notoriety among his scientific peers for his unorthodox theories, most notably his belief that the long lost Skull Island, home of the monstrous ape King Kong once harbored prehistoric life. Carnes's mentor, a respected colleague has discovered a find in the Indian Ocean that may prove Carnes is right-the fossils of the largest flying creature to have ever existed. Following an invitation to help excavate what his friend has uncovered, Carnes and a group of researchers stumble across more than they bargained for-and find themselves in a struggle to survive on a long forgotten island. Finding danger at every turn, Carnes and company unwittingly unleash an ancient force of nature upon an unsuspecting world-a force that will ultimately collide head on with modern civilization in a spectacular battle through the streets and skies of New York. But a secret lies beneath the streets of the city-one that will revive a night of terror from over half a century ago as adversaries from a bygone age confront each other once again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ken Van Wagner
• Release date: Dec 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310216831

Ken Van Wagner

Ken Van Wagner is a native of the Jersey Shore, who grew up within eyesight of the Manhattan skyline. A lifelong interest in dinosaurs began as a child, when he made visits to the American Museum of Natural History. Exposed to Ray Harryhausen's animated dinosaurs in The Valley of Gwangi when that film was released spurred an obsession with movie special effects. However, it was a viewing of the original 1933 King Kong a few years later that really stimulated an interest not only in the groundbreaking effects of that film, but the people who were behind the scenes and their unique talents that brought the giant ape to life. Ken attended the School of Visual Arts in Manhattan, where he was a contributor to the award winning short, A Sticky Situation. Ken had the good fortune to meet with Ray Harryhausen on several occasions at the animator's home in London, where they discussed a possible film project based on Willis O'Brien's unfinished War Eagles project. What would ultimately become the basis of Teratorn was germinated in those discussions. Ken currently resides in Eastern North Carolina, and is working on his second Steve Carnes novel.

Book preview

Prologue

March 2, 1933

The drab, soot-stained building appeared dismal and forlorn in the weary hours of predawn darkness. Hours earlier, the headquarters of the 18th Precinct had been furious with activity; however an ominous silence now pervaded outside along the deserted street in front of the concrete facade. Within the old station house, the dimly lit corridors revealed barren walls with chipped and peeling paint. Years ago, they had once smartly stood out in a light blue, but the passage of time combined with the sooty remnants of innumerable cigarettes had long since faded them to a somber shade of ash, adding to the station’s overall feeling of exhaustion. Only a lone cockroach scurrying along the baseboards showed any real energy as it went about in its simple pursuits, oblivious to anything other than its own survival. The stagnant atmosphere inside the building reeked of sweat mixed with the smell of strong coffee, the source of which exuded from a battered and grimy metal pot perched on the dispatch desk. With the precinct wall clocks now showing 3:55 AM, the quiet was tempered with an unsettling sense of anticipation, keeping the already-frayed nerves of everyone in the building on edge while they waited…

To the consternation of the precinct’s veteran cops who had grown up in the city, nothing was more frustrating than the acknowledgement that the situation had escalated far beyond their control. Even with the assistance of the National Guard troops belatedly called up by the Governor and dispatched from Staten Island, scant headway had been made in restoring law and order. New York City, already reeling for the past three years from the Depression, was a metropolis in panic on the verge of hysteria.

Among those in the 18th that could only sit and wait in frustration as the evening wore on was Sergeant Patrick Moran, who had the unfortunate luck of pulling double duty as both the station operator as well as dispatcher for the night shift. Because of the unprecedented scale of the crisis which even now still gripped the city of New York, all of the precincts within the five boroughs but Manhattan in particular had been overwhelmed as they futilely attempted to control the terror-stricken mobs and keep the streets clear for fire and emergency vehicles.

Shortly after the crisis broke, riot squads were dispatched in a vain attempt to protect some of the larger shops and clothing stores in Midtown from looters who were taking advantage of the disaster. However, the squads soon found themselves fighting a losing battle against the hordes of the half-starved desperate souls who had been living on the handouts of breadlines and soup kitchens since the Crash of ‘29. Quickly grasping the futility of their position, the riot units abandoned their posts; a few retreated to secluded speakeasies known to cater to the cops who turned a blind eye to the Volstead Act; but most joined the regular beat cops in simply trying to keep some semblance of protection for those fleeing the source of the ever-widening panic.

The evident frustration that nothing could be done directly to stop the terror outside was plainly visible on the faces of the few cops still in the station, Moran included. A veteran of thirty-five years on the force with only a few months to go before he collected his pension, the gray-haired Irishman had been swamped by so many calls that by midnight he had unplugged the outside public lines from the switchboard. Moran’s normally spotless uniform was by now rumpled and coffee-stained. Hours of talking non-stop to squad cars, police call boxes as well as innumerable outside civilian calls had reduced his voice from its husky baritone to a hoarse whisper. He had long ago given up trying to keep the station call log updated.

Proper police procedures be dammed, he thought. He could only rub his temples as the strain of the evening’s events had left his head throbbing, recalling those who earlier that night had frantically begged for help-the fear in their voices palpable even through the battered earpiece of his candlestick phone. He shook his head at the recollection- A lot of those poor devils are beyond help now anyway, he thought, as his head drooped in defeat. Still, he could count one blessing; he was thankful he wasn’t walking a beat anymore, or he might have been caught in the crush of people that trampled to death two of the young rookies from the precinct in the first moments of panic, just after the escape…

Upstairs in the Captain’s office, the tension in the station was exacerbated by the two men in tuxedos pacing anxiously while three other officers and a handful of newspaper reporters sat in silent expectation. On a battered file cabinet over against the wall of the office, an old police radio stood as the center of attention; everyone present was waiting for the latest bulletins to broadcast from its ancient speaker. Of the two men who restlessly strode back and forth within the confines of the office, the taller of the two, a handsome rugged man in his late twenties was by far the more distraught; but then he had better reason to be than anyone in the entire city. The other, shorter and of stockier build, appeared to be in his early forties, and projected the intense personality of someone used to being in charge. Even though he was effectively powerless at the moment, he managed to maintain some measure of self-control, as if he were still playing the part of the steely-nerved filmmaker his reputation was based upon. Whether or not the thought occurred to him that he was directly responsible for the pandemonium outside was hidden by his expression, which was a strange mixture of self-confidence and frustration.

One tough bastard, Captain George MacQuarrie thought to himself; by now anyone else would be laying low or trying to skip town after what had happened. Even among the hard-boiled reporters sitting uncomfortably on the rickety wooden chairs there was still respect for this man whose exploits had until now made for great copy and even greater motion pictures. However, they knew and even he must have known that his larger-than-life reputation and career ended this night, and their job would be to aid in his destruction.

By the time all this is over, MacQuarrie mused, Carl Denham will be about as popular in New York as Herbert Hoover.

Without warning, the radio interrupted the Captain’s train of thought, as a monotoned, tinny voice issued the latest police bulletin. Everyone froze, hypnotized by the old wooden cased receiver. The report sounded detached and unemotional, even though the news it announced was beyond the imagination of anyone in the civilized world just a few weeks ago:

Attention all stations… Kong is going west. He is making for the Empire State Building… stand by for further reports.

Hearing this, the tall young man with Denham turned to the Captain. His non-stop pacing combined with his furrowed brow was an obvious indication of the heart-wrenching agony he was enduring; MacQuarrie could see the man was near the breaking point. The Captain had seen that look too many times to count in his station, but Jack Driscoll was in a unique situation; nobody else in the world could claim his fiancée was abducted from her hotel room by a 25-foot tall prehistoric gorilla…

Turning away from the radio towards MacQuarrie, Driscoll’s distress was plain, as he held out his arms in a hopeless gesture.

If he goes up there, what can we do?

We won’t be able to get near him, MacQuarrie declared.

Then, before anyone else could comment, the radio sounded again:

Kong is climbing the Empire State Building. He is still carrying Ann Darrow… that is all.

Hearing this, and finally showing a hint of defeat, Denham stopped in his tracks, his face grim.

That licks us.

After a moment’s pause however, a light suddenly seemed to shine in Driscoll’s eyes, and an idea came to him even as he spoke.

There’s one thing we haven’t thought of.

What? asked MacQuarrie, surprised at the change in Driscoll’s demeanor, which had transformed in a heartbeat from anxious to optimistic.

Driscoll’s answer turned the heads of everyone in the room.

Airplanes… if he should put Ann down, and they can fly close enough to pick him off without hitting her…

"You’re right! Planes! " MacQuarrie didn’t give Driscoll a chance to finish as he grasped the young man’s idea. Then, moving faster than most of the other cops in his office ever remembered seeing, MacQuarrie raced around his desk bolting towards the door, Driscoll leading the way, with Denham and the reporters in close pursuit. It was only a matter of minutes before the Captain was able to contact Police Commissioner James Bolan downtown at City Hall, where emergency headquarters had been set up to keep the mayor directly informed of any further updates about the giant ape’s path of destruction.

Mayor John P. O’Brien and the Commissioner, both products of the long-entrenched and corrupt Tammany Hall political machine had unfortunately been unable to come up with any feasible plan that could defeat the rampaging gorilla. Kong was cunning; the monster was too agile and ferocious to be brought down with a direct assault by small arms fire, and the heavier weapons brought in by the National Guard were too cumbersome to maneuver effectively in the narrow city streets. It was already painfully obvious to many of those in attendance at City Hall that this newest calamity to a town already devastated by the Depression was the death knell for the old political regime.

When asked by an aide what possible recourse did they have to stop the ape as the latest news was relayed of Kong’s ascent up the Empire State Building, the paunchy O’Brien sitting at his desk wearily dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and shrugged with slumped shoulders. Unlike his fellow Tammany Democrat and predecessor, the charismatic and quick-witted Jimmy Walker, John O’Brien was perceived as inept and ineffectual- an interim mayor some had derisively labeled. Even among the die-hard Tammany Democrats, the opinion was that he wasn’t likely to last out the year in office. However, O’Brien was prompted for once to make a quick decision when Commissioner Bolan burst into the mayor’s office and excitedly explained Driscoll’s plan.

"Get the Governor on the phone NOW!" O’Brien bellowed, his sudden outburst shocking his staff to action. In Albany, Governor Herbert H. Lehman, only recently elected and usually at odds with O’Brien, quickly agreed with the mayor on this occasion, wasting no time contacting the Naval Air commander at Floyd Bennett Field in Brooklyn. After a few minutes flight briefing with four pairs of astonished pilots and gunners, the Navy biplanes roared into the air with their orders to take out the giant ape once he reached the pinnacle of the building…

Doctor Aaron Gratzman was jarred awake by the phone buzzing next to his ear. Groggy and uncomfortable, he slowly remembered he had been sleeping on the well-worn cot he kept in his office. Years of working late into the night had made the inclusion of the cot a necessary piece of furniture; its government-issued appearance matched, rather than detracted from the Spartan décor of his work area. The insistent buzz of the phone motivated him to raise himself up and scrabble for the receiver as he adjusted his suspenders. He and a handful of his associates and staff had stayed at work later than usual for a Thursday evening, and were preparing to leave for that night; however the rapid approach of a mounted policeman on horseback roused their curiosity. Hailing the officer, Gratzman and his colleagues were startled by the warning the adrenaline-fueled patrolman blurted about the escape of Kong.

Better keep inside until this is over! the cop shouted before nudging his horse into a fast trot as he headed off uptown. Gratzman and the others took a moment to weigh their options. Their research facility was located in a secluded corner in the south end of Central Park, and thus fairly remote from danger. While all of them were concerned for their families and friends, they also realized that trying to leave the city safely would be next to impossible considering what they’d be facing once they left the park. Gratzman admitted though his scientific curiosity was aroused regarding Kong, he conceded it would be prudent to stay put within the building. He and his fellow scientists made the best of their situation by continuing to work throughout the night, though they often found themselves frequently distracted into discussions about what was occurring outside the park.

After numerous frustrating attempts, Gratzman managed to get a call through to his wife Elise at their brownstone home in Queens telling her he was safe. Even with his reassurances however, he could detect the worry in her voice. Glad now they had moved out of Manhattan some years ago, Gratzman shook his head at the thought of her alone in their old apartment on Third Avenue where they had first lived after emigrating from Holland. Living within the confines of the roach-infested tenement had always made him uneasy, and tonight he knew he would have attempted to reach her in spite of the danger had they still lived in Manhattan.

Throughout the long night they had been listening to the radio bulletins about Kong while they worked, but as the evening wore on the announcements came less and less frequently. Apparently it was presumed the ape had retreated to the rooftops beyond the scrutiny of observers, and was probably staying in one location out of the reach of either police or the military. Fatigue finally catching up to him at this point, Gratzman had decided to take a break and had just fallen asleep when the phone rudely knocked him back to consciousness.

Rubbing his swollen eyelids as he squinted to see the clock on the wall, he was surprised to discover it was now almost five in the morning. He shifted himself awkwardly as he reached for the phone, which was still buzzing incessantly. A twinge in his side reminded him that the cot, while adequate wasn’t the most comfortable choice of a bed, as he noticed a pen he hadn’t removed from his pants pocket laying next to him. The predawn twilight was just beginning to filter through the shuttered window of his office as he lifted the receiver.

Aaron Gratzman? a raspy voice asked.

It took a moment before he recognized the caller.

Oh Harry, it’s you. It’s been a while since we talked. Gratzman was surprised to hear his old friend Henry C. Raven, who was Curator of Comparative Zoology at the American Museum of Natural History just a few blocks uptown on 77th Street. Prior to accepting his current position, Gratzman had become acquainted with Raven while researching information on polar aquatic vertebrates at the museum. The two men had stayed in contact even after Gratzman’s work took him away from the museum, but a call at this hour was unusual, even considering the circumstances.

I took a guess you’d still be at your lab, Aaron, Raven began. I was working late here myself and decided to stick it out too, especially once the phone calls began.

Do you know what has been going on outside? Gratzman sleepily asked, stifling a yawn. Have you… heard any more news about the monster?

Aaron, listen to me, Raven asked. Gratzman took a moment’s pause to straighten up once he detected the note of urgency in the curator’s voice. I just got off the phone with Mayor O’Brien down at City Hall. You’ll probably be getting a call from him when we hang up.

What is this all about, Harry? asked Gratzman, his Dutch accent pronouncing what as vhat as his curiosity was now fully aroused. It sounds very important.

Aaron, as soon as I heard about the giant gorilla escaping, I called down to City Hall. I figured any information I could give them regarding the behavior of anthropoids might help them, even if Kong was above and beyond anything we’ve studied before.

It doesn’t sound like much of it worked, Gratzman said, and immediately regretted his comment. Sorry Harry, I know you would do anything to try to help.

Unfortunately little of my advice was heeded, Raven replied, his frustration obvious. They ignored my instructions and kept provoking Kong with searchlights and sirens, not to mention a few trigger-happy police officers. I suggested the best chance of recapturing him would be to herd or lure him toward Central Park where he would be out in the open. Gratzman nodded to himself as he thought the idea logical. Regrettably, Kong went in the other direction and now… Raven paused for effect, …it’s too late to capture him alive, he finished bitterly.

But Harry, what has this got to do with me? Gratzman asked; his mind still lethargic from lack of sleep as he tried to make sense of it all.

Your cold tissue research Aaron. How big is your main lab?

Not very big, just enough space for myself, three colleagues and two assistants, but our storage facility adjoining it is huge.

What would be your estimate? Raven asked.

Uhh… It measures approximately fifteen by fifteen meters with a five meter ceiling, thanks to your Army Corp of Engineers.

What about its temperature range?

Right now we keep it at a constant minus fifteen Centigrade, but it has been tested to minus forty. It is totally airtight too, with controlled humidity to help prevent desiccation of our samples, Gratzman said with a hint of pride.

However, Raven’s next query puzzled Gratzman, and the Dutch scientist absent-mindedly ran his fingers through his thinning salt and pepper hair as he listened.

How full is the facility, Aaron?

Not very full right now, Harry. We have been waiting on a shipment of fresh material for two weeks now. Gratzman was growing impatient. Harry Raven’s questions normally wouldn’t have bothered him, but this dawn interrogation was starting to become irksome.

Look Harry, what is this all about? Why should I expect a call from the Mayor?

Raven’s next words sent an unexpected chill down Gratzman’s spine, and the remnants of drowsiness instantly dissipated.

Aaron, the ape is climbing the Empire State Building. Mayor O’Brien informed me that the Navy is sending planes to shoot him down. He asked me if the museum had storage space, and I told him we didn’t have what was needed, but then I thought of you…

Gratzman continued to listen, but even as Raven continued, an idea took root in his mind, one that would go far beyond even what Raven was proposing.

Harry, thank you so much for thinking of me, Gratzman said gratefully. I think both of us will have a very busy day ahead.

After hanging up the phone, a fully-awake Gratzman felt a rush of adrenaline, knowing the incredible work that lay ahead of him in the days and weeks to follow. On impulse, he started to leave his office and head towards the lab-but pulled up short, remembering he needed to wait for the call from Mayor O’Brien. Instead, he opened his desk drawer and picked up his wire-framed glasses he’d placed there. Putting on the spectacles, he walked over to the window and pushed apart the blinds, involuntarily squinting as he looked out into the light of early dawn. Even though some of the taller buildings just south of the park obstructed his view, he could still make out the spire of the Empire State Building, a lone colossus dwarfing the surrounding buildings that would have overwhelmed in any other city. His eyes widened in astonishment as he witnessed the anachronistic battle taking place almost a quarter mile above the streets…

He again felt the sting of pain from nowhere, as though bitten by needle sharp teeth, as the strange flying things roared by him. He tried again and again to catch the noisy creatures and their puny riders, but they wouldn’t come back within his reach after he had caught one and sent it crashing down the side of his perch. The little one he was protecting was crouching in fear at his feet; the sight of which only served to madden him. These roaring flyers reminded him of his ancient enemies, which would sometimes attack in the night without warning, and once, long ago, had taken the life of another precious one…

Suddenly, a terrible pain erupted in his throat, as another one of the flyers passed close by. He felt weak and short of breath, something totally foreign to his experience. Looking down, he saw and felt the hot red staining his chest, a thing he had seen many times before in the infinite past, but almost never from his own body. He turned to look at his airborne enemies, then down at the little one. Seeing her, he managed to gather up his strength. No matter what, he had to protect his precious one from this strange place where everything was gray and cold, so different from his own home. The sights and sounds of the previous evening had been unlike anything in his world; yet he was unafraid, and had fought off every enemy that dared challenge him through the night.

The naked peak he was now on was the one thing that reminded him of his own world, but once he could see the surrounding country from this wondrous vantage, no sights were familiar. He looked up again for the flyers and saw them lined up, one flying almost above the other. When he saw one leave the group and dive towards him, he prepared himself for another onslaught, determined to fight to the finish…

The Curtiss O2C-2 Helldiver’s forward mounted Browning machine guns spat their lethal .30 caliber rounds at the maddened gorilla as Lieutenant Commander Bob Galloway led his three remaining crews in a final assault on the ape. He’d lost two men and one plane to the monster’s grasp already; he was determined not to lose any more, no matter how many passes it would take to finally shoot Kong off the building. His other concern was the woman; it would be all too easy for a stray bullet or ricochet to kill her. At least, he thought, she had sense enough to lie as low as she could on the ledge of the mooring mast, while Kong stood atop its very peak. At first it seemed their efforts were futile; Galloway found it incredible Kong could absorb so many rounds from their guns and still fight on, even managing to snatch his second-in-command’s Helldiver from the sky and send it plunging to the street. However, the Commander could now sense the gorilla was weakening; his movements were slowing, and Galloway clearly saw the blood flowing from the hundreds of rounds they had pumped into the giant body.

Suddenly, just after Galloway’s plane made its pass, Kong slumped off the pinnacle, barely retaining his grip on the mast.

Now we’ve got you, you son of a bitch, thought Galloway. However, the mighty creature somehow found the strength to get to his feet. With deliberate effort, he gently picked up the struggling Ann Darrow and held her a moment, wanting to caress that tiny form one last time. Galloway signaled his crews to hold off their attack while they observed the strange spectacle; he didn’t dare want anyone to strafe the monster while it held the girl. On the other hand he was horrified at Ann Darrow’s predicament; Kong in his weakened state might yet drop her to her death…

Slowly, as tenderly as possible, he set down his precious one, whom he had fought for and protected throughout the long night. This fragile creature had reawakened feelings in him that had been buried in his memory since before the dawn of time. Now he knew they had led him to his final defeat; the stillness that he knew followed those he had vanquished. His vision began to blur as he reached out and gently stroked the tiny form with his giant fingers, stained red. He grunted his affection to her one last time, but they were drowned out by the roar of his enemy as it dove towards him… but now he was beyond caring…

Gratzman was speaking to an aide from Mayor O’Brien’s office, trying to organize the details regarding his plan, when a sudden hush fell over the phone at the other end. Even as he waited for the man to reply, he instinctively looked out the window towards the Empire State Building. Startled, he realized that the mooring mast was now empty, with the three remaining biplanes slowly circling the tower. So, the drama is now over for New York, Gratzman thought to himself, but my work is just beginning. The aide excitedly got back on the line with the news Gratzman already knew; King Kong was dead. Gratzman realized time was now critical, so he hurriedly rushed his call, wanting to proceed with his ambitious project as quickly as possible. Banishing any thought of failure from his mind, he hurried out of his office, seeing this chance for his work to get full scientific recognition at last.

By the time Dr. Aaron Gratzman saw the great lifeless body of King Kong, the nightmare of the monster’s rampage was already becoming just another chapter in the history of New York. Although burned into the consciousness of millions, and capturing headlines around the world for days, the memory of the giant gorilla would soon be pushed aside by the daily reality of the continuing Depression, and finally all but forgotten by the threat of a new and even more threatening monster, Adolph Hitler.

Earlier that morning though, with the dazed populace still stunned by the unbelievable events of the previous evening, the great body lying on 34th Street still appeared awesome, even in death. However, among the teeming throng that milled about, only Kong’s captor seemed to have truly understood what had really happened that day as he spoke Kong’s epitaph to the crowd viewing the fallen giant:

Oh no, Carl Denham declared, it wasn’t the airplanes… It was Beauty killed the Beast.

Part I

Chapter 1

Late October 2001

The sleek L-1011 jet cruised at 32,000 feet through a darkening late afternoon sky over Ohio, heading east over the southern borders of Lake Erie. Passing through a murky bank of cirrostratus clouds however, there was little chance for the passengers aboard to sightsee as the view was all but obscured. Inside the aircraft, flight attendants made their way down the aisle serving with patented politeness, their fixed smiles doing little to conceal their alert observations of their fellow travelers as they offered a final round of drinks. On the last leg of this flight from Las Vegas to New York, most of the passengers were asleep or relaxing since the in flight movie had long since finished, and the cabin lights were dimmed as the plane raced headlong into twilight.

However, one man seated near the back of the first class section remained alert, his eyes shifting constantly to take in his surroundings, his ears listening for the slightest deviation from the normal sounds of the aircraft. Even the consumption of three in-flight vodka and tonics had done little to help him unwind since leaving Las Vegas. For a man just shy of his fortieth birthday, he looked 10 years younger; his face showing the merest of wrinkles, his full head of chestnut hair cropped close but not so short as to hide the curls that ran rampant in all directions. While not a fitness fanatic, there was no concealing his athletic build-he took pride on staying in reasonably good shape. His deep-set hazel eyes complemented his light complexion, as he continued to frequently glance around the cabin out of habit as he sipped his drink. He had always been observant of his surroundings, constantly taking mental notes, but with the attacks of September 11th only a month earlier, he found himself focusing more on details this trip than usual.

Noticing nothing out of the ordinary among his fellow passengers, he turned back to reading an article in the National Geographic magazine he’d bought in Las Vegas at the airport before his flight. He flipped through the pages until he came to the article with the annoying title New Digs for Old Bones. He smirked at the not-so-clever wordplay, but still proceeded to read through the piece. Hailing the ongoing renovations of dinosaur exhibits in museums around the world, the main focus of the National Geographic article was the recently completed fossil halls in New York’s famous American Museum of Natural History. He winced when he saw a picture of himself grinning as he stood beside a mounted skeleton of a dinosaur with the caption underneath reading, ‘Steven Carnes with a Stegosaurus in the renovated Hall of Ornithischian Dinosaurs,’ with him being quoted as stating, Fred Flintstone’s Dino aside, they'd have made lousy pets.

Oh god, he thought to himself, why did they have to pick the stupidest remark he had made during that interview to print? He stole a quick glance at the man seated next to him, a burly executive from some who-gives-a-crap.com company who had talked for the first hour about how his portfolio was going through the roof. Carnes relaxed when he saw the exec’s head was still lolled to the side, jaw slack and snoring softly. Still sleeping, thank god. Carnes had already caught enough flak from his peers at the scientific symposium in Vegas with his newest published article about post-Cretaceous survivals; the last thing he needed was to hear another cute comment about the National Geographic article or hear another layperson offer their opinion about why dinosaurs became extinct. It was bad enough living down the reputation he had been burdened with since he first made a name for himself in vertebrate paleontology ten years earlier. While he was on a dig in Morocco for Columbia University he was instrumental in locating several new and important Early Cretaceous fossils; however the Moroccan government never forgave him for ‘liberating’ the more important finds out of the country for study stateside. This caused a minor diplomatic incident when his papers on the expedition were officially published, the result of which led to his discreet withdrawal from Columbia, and ultimately blacklisting him from most academic sponsorship. At this stage of his career of course, the idea of getting permission to be allowed entry into any Third World country to go field collecting would be next to impossible; possibly even suicidal given his reputation. While few of his scientific peers in America openly supported his actions, Carnes had suspected at least some had done the same thing at some point in time, the reason being many museums located in developing nations didn’t have state-of-the-art facilities to properly examine or prepare specimens, resulting in much useful data being irretrievably lost. On occasion an entire season’s work would end up confiscated by unreliable government officials, where it would suffer the fate of either languishing in a warehouse unexamined, or worse from the point of view of the original discoverer, ineptly prepared and described by a rival who could make the most outlandish claims based upon shoddy evidence.

Carnes put down the magazine and continued to sip his drink as his thoughts drifted over the last five days. He had spent four of them in Flagstaff at Northern Arizona University, which had hosted the annual meeting of the Society of Vertebrate Paleontologists. Though it was a five day symposium, Carnes left a day early to head to Vegas, unwinding at the poker tables at the pyramidal Luxor, where he had made a modest profit, and spent the remaining two hours before his flight enjoying an excellent early dinner at a Japanese steak house.

After the verbal fusillade he received from some of his colleagues in Flagstaff, he was glad he decided to stop over in Vegas. He still had a bad taste in his mouth remembering the attacks on his latest paper on reputed dinosaur fossils from the Cretaceous-Tertiary boundary. He gritted his teeth as he recalled his most outspoken critic-George LeMay, a conservative French paleontologist who stubbornly attacked Carnes’s more progressive views. Rivalries among paleontologists weren’t uncommon, but the arguments that Carnes and LeMay had over the years had turned downright ugly recently.

God, you’d have thought I had made an insult about Charles De Gaul the way he carried on, Carnes thought to himself; we’re already labeled the Cope and Marsh of the twenty-first century thanks to him. Carnes eased back into his seat, a wry smile on his face as he thought of those nineteenth century pioneering paleontologists, and the decades-long feud between them. At least, he thought, the result of that feud led to hundreds of tons of fossils excavated from the old West while each sought to discover more species than the other, ultimately expanding our knowledge of the ancient world.

Letting his thoughts wander as he recalled that old rivalry that ultimately left both men broken and passed over by their scientific successors, Carnes sighed, grateful that he was returning to his work at the American Museum and could put LeMay and his latest controversy behind him. He shut his eyes as the vodka finally began to take the desired effect, and his mind emptied for the remainder of the flight.

Chapter 2

Behind a blocked off corner of the large exhibition hall, the huge darkened bones lay in neat order on several sturdy padded workbenches. While most of the massive skeleton lay dis-articulated, the huge backbone and ribcage were reassembled, looking more than anything else like the upside down stripped remains from a colossal turkey dinner. The two dinosaur halls in New York’s American Museum of Natural History had reopened with much fanfare six years earlier in the summer of 1995, after having been closed to the public for several years. During that time, a team of over twenty technicians, designers, and fossil preparators under Carnes’s supervision had worked to renovate the exhibits that had been world famous for almost a century.

Because of the new theories about dinosaurs that had gained scientific acceptance in the last three decades, the museum directors had planned over ten years earlier to renovate the halls and change the format of the fossil exhibits. This had been a fairly commonplace practice in the history of the museum, as new wings were built and exhibit specimens were added to the already enormous fossil collection. However, the last major overhaul of the exhibition halls had been in the 1950’s, and by now time had caught up to the displays. What made this latest renovation different from previous ones was that the fossils in each hall were now grouped by their evolutionary relationships, rather than their place in time.

What had once been the Halls of Early and Late Dinosaurs were now given the more accurate titles of Ornithischian, or bird hipped, and Saurischian, or lizard hipped Dinosaurs. The exhibit most recently opened was the Hall of Vertebrate Origins, which started with the early fossil fishes, then branched off to the archaic amphibians and primitive reptiles. In turn, these displays led to the flying pterosaurs and the sea reptiles of the Mesozoic at the exhibition hall’s exit, with the two dinosaur galleries just beyond. The true mammals and their reptilian therapsid ancestors followed the dinosaurs, and occupied the remaining two galleries on the floor. After spending nearly six years and fifty million dollars on the project, the museum’s directors were both delighted and relieved when public attendance hit an all time high after the last of the five renovated fossil halls reopened in 1996.

However, at the present moment Carnes was working with his chief technician Hank Scott, whom Carnes had personally recruited for the job when the renovation was still in the planning stage over seven years earlier.

Excellent Hank, Carnes complimented his wiry young assistant. Both men took turns examining Scott’s custom designed polymer supports that now held together the massive ribs and spine of the Hall of Saurischian Dinosaurs most famous resident, Tyrannosaurus rex, catalog number 5027. Henry Osborn would have loved to have had this technology a hundred years ago.

Probably, Scott replied. The youthful designer with his southern California looks had a knack for solving the complexities of mounting multi-ton fossils while showing as little of the supporting framework as possible. Although Scott had no prior experience mounting skeletons, Carnes knew the engineer was the man he was looking for from his reputation at designing load bearing supports for a new generation of suspension bridges while still a student at MIT. Reluctant to accept Carne’s offer at first, Scott was eventually won over by the paleontologist’s enthusiasm for the museum project, and soon found the renovation to be an engineering challenge worthy of his talents.

Are you kidding? Carnes beamed. When it came to praising Scott’s work, he was anything but at a loss for words. "Osborn wanted to mount this old boy in a fighting stance, but no one could devise a way to do it back then without severely damaging the fossils. Of course, no one thought of T.rex as anything but a lumbering monster then, so poor old 5027 ended up posed upright like the Minuteman statue in Concord for over eighty years. Carnes affectionately touched one of the stony ribs, running his fingers along a healed fracture scar which betrayed that even this mightiest of known land predators was not invulnerable to injury. Fortunately thanks to you, 5027 finally got his back straightened out without having to resort to the old pipe and plumbing framework."

The other great advantage of Scott’s mounts was the comparative ease that the massive skeletons could be disassembled. Though the rest of the hall was open to the public, one of the tasks that occasionally required dismantling the great skeletons was to cast molds of the bones, the molds then used to supply relatively inexpensive and far sturdier fiberglass replicas. Many of the Museum’s other exhibits, including the rearing sauropod dinosaur Barosaurus located two floors below in the Theodore Roosevelt entrance were entirely fiberglass casts. The real fossils were too heavy and fragmentary to mount in such a dynamic pose.

The Museo Nacional de Ciencias Naturales in Madrid had placed an order for a replica of the T.rex, and though most of his former staff had gone onto other projects, Carnes was still in temporary residence with the unofficial title of assistant curator. Until recently he had spent most of the past two years going through the almost unimaginable collection of unstudied fossil material stored in the museum, a veritable treasure trove to a paleontologist like himself.

With Hank Scott now working in the city as an independent mechanical engineer, Carnes had contacted his former coworker, persuading Scott to rejoin him in overseeing the dismantling, casting, and reassembling of the huge skeleton. Many of the major bones, including the enormous skull, had been replicated in fiberglass years ago, but the massive trunk, pelvis and hind limbs of the tyrannosaur still consisted of the original fossil material. It was for these heavy yet delicate bones that Scott had designed his custom polymer mounts.

The two men stepped back from the massive ribcage of the dinosaur as Carnes glanced beyond their partitioned corner to the rest of the hall. He shook his head as he took in the renovated gallery, which now was unrecognizable from its last overhaul. Carnes recalled the first visit he had made to this exhibit at the age of eleven; a windowless gloomy room with life-sized chalk drawings of dinosaurs etched on the walls above the actual fossils. It was antiquated, mysterious, and enthralling to the young Carnes. The new displays were a blend of modern glass and stainless steel, with interactive video terminals strategically located throughout the hall. At the same time, the room itself was remodeled back to its traditional turn of the century grandeur, with ornate hanging light fixtures, and windows offering a clear view of Central Park and the city.

Glancing at his boss, Scott sensed that once again Carnes was lost in his own thoughts. The young engineer always found himself marveling at how little the final design of the renovated halls differed from Carnes’s initial sketch conceptions, as though the paleontologist had measured everything in his head long before the museum-hired designers made the official drafts.

However, while Scott’s confidence in Carnes seldom wavered, he hesitated a moment to take a deep breath before he decided to broach the one subject Carnes was usually loath to discuss.

Steve, I hate to interrupt your thoughts, but while you were in Flagstaff, the Museum directors paid me several unannounced visits…

Let me guess, Carnes turned toward Scott, giving him his best bemused smirk, "the powers that be ‘mildly’ put the pressure on you to have the T.rex reassembled and ready for the public by end of next month, right?"

Close enough. I think they want it done by Thanksgiving, so it’ll be ready in time for the Japanese Prime Minister’s visit.

Carnes, publicly at least, kept his emotions in check; most casual acquaintances had the impression of a laid back, easygoing if somewhat shy man. A type ‘C’ personality Carnes himself had joked. His friends and closer associates however, knew his moods to be mercurial, so Scott mentally braced himself. Carnes began in an even tone, but shook his head; in Scott’s mind a definite warning sign.

Don’t they realize this is a delicate procedure? Carnes started. "Granted, your mounts make it simpler to take the bones apart, but we’re still talking about a pelvis that weighs over a ton, and the resin has to be mixed just so for the replicas to look authentic. Hell, if we pull a rush job just to impress a Prime Minister who probably can’t tell Tyrannosaurus from Allosaurus, they’ll really have a turkey to serve here on Thanksgiving." Scott just nodded silently, as Carnes continued in the same steady tone, now however dripping with sarcasm.

I can see where they’re coming from, Carnes continued, getting up and starting to stride around the reinforced workbench supporting the pelvic bones of the dinosaur. It doesn’t look good to have one of their most popular exhibits closed for two months, especially after all the hoopla surrounding the new hall meant to display this guy, Carnes said, patting the snout of the huge toothy skull resting on a pallet as though it were a pet retriever. Never mind the fact that until the last hall reopened and gave a better route for visitors to follow, some of the weekends were so packed that this place looked like Disney World. Nobody could come and spend time looking over the bones the way they could before… Carnes’s voice stayed even, but the volume rose perceptibly. "…Never mind that museums all over the world have been updating their displays for the last twenty years, while this one, he gestured with a sweeping motion, took until 1991 to put up the Barosaurus-Allosaurus display in the Teddy Roosevelt entrance. Never mind…" Carnes suddenly stopped, embarrassed as he realized some of the museum visitors passing behind their enclosed area overheard his last remarks.

Sorry Hank, he said in a low voice. I didn’t mean to get on my soapbox. I guess I should be happy I was able to work here at all.

Look Steve, the rational Scott replied calmly, waiting to continue once the spectators moved on. You know this renovation is a damn fine piece of work. With all the publicity about how great the dinosaur sections are now, we can both be pretty sure the directors can arrange it so the prime minister won’t feel cheated just because all of 5027 isn’t on display. Scott rose to his feet, taking a moment to stretch his legs, but also looking around to ensure no one else overheard their conversation. I’m also pretty sure they won’t want any bad publicity for the museum if they find they have to explain to Madrid why the replica we’re sending them won’t properly fit together because the molds weren’t allowed to set long enough. I think they’ll cut us some slack if you explain that. After all, you’ve been in on this project from the beginning. It was your money that helped…

"You mean bought my way in here, don’t you?" Carnes interrupted, raising one of his eyebrows in a fashion that always reminded Scott of Mr. Spock from Star Trek. "I know you’ve never said so out loud, but let’s face facts. The main reason I got this gig is because I was able to put up a tidy contribution out of my own pocket and work here gratis."

I’ve never held that against you, Scott countered, leaning on the worktable that supported one of the T.rex’s massive femurs. You and your work have been an inspiration for those college kids who might have been turned off from this field if they only had stuffy old farts barely eking out a living wage from the public sector to learn from. Scott began to smile. "Look at you. You took a scientific field that is usually underfunded and turned it into a capitalist entrepreneurship. You’re lucky to be one of those few who actually enjoys his work, and figured out a way to make money from it too. Not only are you giving a lot to science, but you’re helping the economy, he gave a sidelong glance, at least mine anyway."

Okay, okay, Carnes conceded with a chuckle, "but you have to admit that to more socialist colleagues, the fact that I have been able to tap the private and museum markets for fossils breaks one of paleontology’s commandments: ‘Thou shalt not collect specimens for personal gain.’ In most of their eyes, I’m no better than the thieves who plundered Egyptian tombs."

"That’s where they’ve got it wrong, Steve. The tomb robbers never took the time to study and publish their finds before they sold them, and then only to legitimate buyers. And, admit it, finished Scott with a grin, you know you’d bankrupt yourself putting up funds for this renovation if you had to as long as the Museum allowed you to be in charge. You love this place too much to let anyone else do this."

You’ve got me there, conceded Carnes. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid, and by now must know every contour of every bone on this guy, he said as he looked at the giant skull of the T.rex. I’d never forgive myself if I let somebody like that Über-conservative LeMay touch him. The man would probably have remounted 5027 sprawling like a croc.

Scott had to stifle a laugh.

Just how bad was it out in Flagstaff, if you don't mind me asking? Scott inquired. 

I overheard someone there saying wondering if we were channeling Richard Owen and Thomas Huxley, Carnes recalled. I don’t consider myself a radical, especially when guys like Bob Bakker and John Ostrom paved the way for new ideas to be accepted decades before I came on the scene, but LeMay seems to consider me some sort of paleontological anarchist.

"What happened, Steve? I mean did he stand on a table and scream blasphemer, or just