“No,” Peterson said. “We’re taking you with us.”
Then a bullet dinged off the lieutenant’s helmet. He flatted on the ground and checked for the source. Another bullet pinged on his steel pot.
Neither shot was a direct hit and didn’t penetrate the steel.
Elliot was reloading. The shot had come from the enemy soldier on the right. Peterson aimed at the man with his Colt .45, M1911 pistol.
The gun cracked and the kick knocked his hand up.
And the next shot hit the back of his hand, causing him to drop the weapon.
Peterson scrambled back for deeper cover and fished around for bandages to treat the wound. The bullet had smacked the back of his hand and traveled through the flesh, exiting from his palm. It then struck the Colt’s pistol grip, and it ricocheted into the dirt.
A straight through-and-through, he’d definitely survive, but wouldn’t be much use.
With the enemy hunkered down behind protective cover, and the Raiders keeping low, the skirmish unfolded into a standoff. The combatants exchanged gunfire without exacting any further casualties.
Eventually, the battle fell quiet as the marines reloaded and the Japanese soldiers ceased firing. Peterson lifted his head and scanned the area. Sure enough, the enemy was making a move. A palm frond whapped back and forth, signaling encroachment from the shooter on their right flank. He was closing in to finish them off, but the marines were ready for an advance.
Tomko unleashed a fury of machinegun fire into the bush.
Wavering palm fronds were riddled with holes. A cry resounded from the jungle, then a thud reverberated off the ground. Someone had taken a hit.
Elliot and Chandler shifted into a stepped-echelon position, and they used the opportunity to direct the firepower at the rear. The remaining marines shot at the Imperial commander’s position. But he didn’t shoot back.
They continued to receive fire from the back door.
Peterson didn’t like the stillness from the left, an enemy position, which now lay not far away from him. The enemy commander was devious and on the move.
The enemy soldier from the rear was the only one returning fire. And his shooting became erratic, having been overwhelmed by the 7.62 caliber Browning automatic rifles. Elliot and Chandler rose into crouched positions to further thwart the soldier.
A crack sounded from beside Peterson’s head. His right ear rang, and his hearing became muffled. The bullet punched into Elliot’s back and he keeled over. Another shot struck Chandler’s shoulder. He spun to return fire.
But he couldn’t shoot.
The enemy soldier used Peterson for cover.
A moment’s hesitation was too much.
The Browning that offered so much firepower couldn’t be used to sharp shoot in a delicate situation. Chandler frowned at the disadvantage.
Crack!
And a bullet struck Chandler’s chest.
He collapsed, possibly dead.
Peterson used the opportunity to spring to his feet. His legs were fine, and he’d regained his wind while resting under cover.
The movement caught the enemy non-commissioned officer by surprise.
Unable to get a shot off, the soldier holstered the pistol and contemplated his options.
Peterson was upon him, both hands finding purchase on the corporal’s throat. The soldier gasped for breath, and the two men wrestled with vigor.
The lieutenant’s right hand throbbed in pain, but he managed to press his thumb into the soldier’s windpipe. Peterson used his left hand to squeeze the man’s throat.
A thickly muscled individual, the choking didn’t have the desired effect.
The corporal struggled with Peterson, grabbing both forearms, trying to break loose of the death knell. He seemed surprised at the lanky officer’s grip.
He coughed and gasped for air.
Strength began to slacken, and his legs wobbled.
The corporal couldn’t breathe.
Peterson continued to strangle the man, who writhed in panic, unable to break the hold on his neck. And then, a calm registered in the corporal’s eyes, and he completely let go of Peterson’s arms, as though accepting that he’d succumb to death.
This didn’t cause Peterson to let up. He continued to choke the man.
Serenity registered in the corporal, like he was honoring his ancestors, welcoming a death that his nation would respect, a true warrior. But that wasn’t the case.
The realization of his mistake came with movement down the corporal’s right side.
He was reaching for his pistol.
Peterson gasped and the corporal flashed a sardonic grin.
A moment was all it took, and the gunmetal reflected in the dim light. Rain danced over the barrel, as the weapon moved upward.
The lieutenant let go of the man’s neck.
He took a moment to inhale.
The corporal grimaced from the pain in his throat, but he kept raising the gun.
Peterson dove to the right as the pistol reached firing position.
A crack resonated from the weapon, and a bullet whizzed by his cheek, like a bug flying through the air at breakneck speed.
He hit the deck and rolled, keeping an eye on the shooter.
The enemy commander trained the gun on him, as he rolled on the ground in futility. Another crack and a bullet struck Peterson’s rib cage. He winced in pain, but he didn’t lose his breath. The round hadn’t punctured a lung or hit a vital organ.
Despite some burning pain, he didn’t suffer much; it wasn’t a mortal wound.
The next shot would finish him off.
Peterson lay with his back on the deck, facing the corporal, who had his weapon aimed directly at the lieutenant’s heart. “Help!”
A cacophony of gunfire erupted from behind him.
Peterson expected the commander to take a hit, but he stood in place and stared in amazement, focused on the source of the commotion.
Japanese reinforcements, Peterson concluded.
The lieutenant turned his head and found a melee unfolding, but it wasn’t Imperial troops that had barged onto the scene. He registered the stench of rotten meat about the same time he spotted Tomko wrestling with a dinosaur.
A Velociraptor had the stout marine pinned to the ground, while he held up the Thompson for protection, gripping the barrel and the stock with each hand. The Raptor bit into the machinegun repeatedly, then snorted in frustration. It bared its fangs, demonstrating a fierce intent to kill. Saliva dripped onto the marine’s face and chest.
Confusion prevented the beast from ripping Tomko’s guts open with its sickle-shaped rear claw. Both hind feet were rooted to the ground, while the dinosaur straddled the marine, snapping and biting repeatedly at a metal weapon. Tomko wouldn’t be able to fend the creature off for much longer. He’d grow tired and the thing would tear into his neck.
Peterson felt helpless. He didn’t have a weapon.
More chaos broke out alongside the struggle between man and beast. Elliot rose and trained his Browning towards the tree line not far from where Tomko vied for his life.
Something moved through the brush with agility.
Another Raptor meant to prey upon them. But the one attacking Tomko was the immediate threat. “Shoot at the other one!” Peterson commanded.
Elliot didn’t respond. He couldn’t hear the lieutenant over the commotion.
The private continued shooting into the jungle, lighting it up with heavy automatic machinegun fire. Everything was blasted to shreds, with bullets riddling holes in the leafy overgrowth and snapping branches, which dangled or broke loose from trees.
Finally, he came around enough to pick up the fracas between marine and beast. Elliot let off the trigger and took a step towards the Raptor. Steam rose from the barrel of the big weapon and rain danced over his helmet. He released a magazine. It dropped to the ground and he reloaded with a new one. A pause was all he took, drinking in the moment, allowing his muscles to invigorate.