Dinosaur Thunder Read Free Page A

Paulson said. “Please collect as much of the black material as you can. From now on, that is the only mission priority.”
    “Yes, sir,” Watson said.
    “What about the dinosaur?” Chandra asked.
    “I say we leave it,” Maven said. “The Russian women’s hockey team will be along soon, and they can deal with it.”

 
    2
    Pest Control
    I did find a statistically significant increase in the number of unlicensed dinosaurs appearing outside of ranges and licensed habitats (see attached). I have not been able to identify the source of these dinosaurs, or a pattern, but I will work on it again next summer if I receive another internship.
    —Chad Barrett, university intern, memo, Department of Dinosaur Control
    Present time
Hillsdale, Florida
    Carson Wills turned his van down the access road, driving through an open security gate onto fresh blacktop. A sign over the entrance read MILLS RANCH . “Ranch” was a grandiose term for a weekend farm owned by yuppies. Ahead, a large two-story “farmhouse” sat on the highest point on the property, where the masters could look out on their estate. A large deck on the second story overlooked the pool below and the shallow valley beyond. Carson pictured young executives, girlfriends and trophy wives standing on the deck, drinks in hand, admiring the view of what had once been a productive farm—tomatoes and lettuce, Carson guessed by the look of the fields.
    From the deck, visitors would see land that generations of farmers had fought nature for, taming the lush subtropical forest piece by piece, making a living for their families and feeding the state and the nation with year-round crops. The crops, livestock, and sense of purpose were gone, replaced by pastures for horses, llamas, or the newest fad, domesticated dinosaurs. Apatosaurs were the most popular, but only for the very rich. These massive animals with their long necks and tails took more acreage than the Mills Ranch could offer. Smaller sauropods were common on ranches like the Mills Ranch, and even armored dinosaurs like Monoclonius, triceratops, or smaller ankylosaurs. Managing beasts like triceratops was difficult, however, and took a professional staff. Carson guessed these paddocks would hold small sauropods or maybe a hadrosaur, probably a duck-billed hadrosaur.
    Carson pulled into the circular drive, parking his cream-colored GMC van next to a red Audi. The decal on the side of his van showed a cowboy lassoing a T. rex . Above the image was painted DINOSAUR WRANGLER , the name of Carson’s company. The same cowboy logo was embroidered on the chest of his yellow cotton shirt. For a five-hundred-dollar minimum, plus expenses, Carson or one of his employees would come on call and deal with dinosaurs that had escaped from preserves or broken through fences. Despite the decal, Carson had never encountered a tyrannosaur and never would, since carnivores were strictly regulated. There were only a few in Florida, all federally owned and managed. Private ownership of carnivores was a felony, and there were only two ranges in the United States where they roamed free. The only carnivores roaming free in Florida preserves were small scavengers like the seven-pound Bambiraptor .
    Ignoring the brass knockers, Carson rapped on the front door with a knuckle. Marty Mills opened the door, wearing Levi’s and a long-sleeved denim shirt. He was clean-shaven, with dark hair trimmed neat, blue eyes, and a genuine smile that showed off his bright-white teeth.
    “Hey, Fanny, the dinosaur guy’s here,” Marty called over his shoulder. “Thanks for coming.”
    Marty Mills took Carson’s hand, shaking it and pulling him in at the same time. The entry was walnut hardwood. A staircase led to the second floor, a spacious living room opened to the right, and on the other side, a set of French doors led to a library.
    “I’m so glad you’re here,” Fanny Mills said as she came down the stairs. “We called the preserve, but they