Jurassic Park: Execution

Disclaimer: I don't own it. I wish I did, but I don't.

Chapter Two: Badlands Utopia Disturbed

"Contrary to popular belief," the man in front of the news camera began, his tone expressing how truly perturbed he was, "pteranodons are not dinosaurs. They are prehistoric flying reptiles. And, while yesterday's attack in Tennessee was nothing short of horrific, it is just what you should expect from these creatures. These are not authentic pteranodons, but, rather, as I have said many times in the past, genetically-engineered theme park monsters. Genuine pteranodons had no teeth; InGen's did. See my point, or do I need to elaborate further?" He was becoming sarcastic as he continued, with each word sounding as if he was closer and closer to losing complete control of his temper. "Do I need to tell you about how I was chased and nearly eaten by what was presumed to have been mostly a fish eater? Should I explain how a dinosaur that should have never been able to defeat a Tyrannosaurus rex did so right in front of me? Or are the vicious pteranodons with teeth enough proof for you?"

Dr. Alan Grant was quickly growing weary of the reporters gathered at his dig site. They had arrived around four o'clock that morning, before even he had awakened, and they were still there over two hours later, still asking the same questions, repeating their inquiries like broken records by different performers, each stuck on the same line in the same unbearably irritating song. And they were multiplying! More news vans were driving toward the site and his trailer as he tried to answer the questions he was being bombarded with. As a result, he was developing a migraine headache that he was certain would not fade away easily.

The disturbance was a shame, too. The morning air over the dig was cool, and a soft breeze was blowing, sending puffs of the dusty ground into the air. It was peaceful, and, on mornings like that, Grant enjoyed sitting outside of his trailer with a cup of coffee and thinking. Not today, unfortunately. The journalists surrounded him like a group of hungry and pesky ants, bent on driving him insane.

Dr. Grant was a moderately tall, slightly thin, middle-aged paleontologist and was the supervisor of a Montana dinosaur dig, where various media employees were gathered to receive his response to the previous day's pteranodon attack. With his faded, worn blue jeans, faded flannel shirt, and light brown hat, he gave the impression of the American everyman, not an eminent scientist that had spent most of his young life in New Zealand, although his voice had more than a hint of an accent and his overall demeanor expressed his intelligence. His skin was tanned from his outdoor work, and he had light brown hair and eyes that shifted between blue or green, depending on the light. Usually, he was calm, but, today, his temper was flaring from his annoyance. If he knew that he would not be arrested, he probably would have punched at least one, if not all, of the intruders with the cameras.

To him, the worst part of the interview was that the reporters simply did not listen. Another reporter, this one a young redheaded woman, instead of the blonde he had just corrected moments before, asked, "Do you think the flying dinosaurs will attack again somewhere else?"

He gritted his teeth, trying to bite back an angry retort, but he failed and snapped in reply, "For the last time, pteranodons are not dinosaurs! They are flying reptiles! Now, I would greatly appreciate it if you would actually listen when I am correcting you. Is that clear?"

None of them replied to his statement. Instead, they all began asking him countless questions at once, none of which could be clearly understood. Deciding he did not want to deal with them anymore, he sighed and pushed his way out of the crowd. When he walked away, none of the reporters seemed to notice.

Once free of the journalists, he entered his trailer and saw Dr. Billy Brennan, one of the other paleontologists and a friend of his, hanging up the telephone, a small, gray, cordless model that Grant had almost no clue how to operate.

Billy had started working for Grant as a student, then surprised his supervisor by continuing to pursue paleontology after he nearly lost his life on Isla Sorna. After he recovered, Dr. Brennan remained with Grant's team and had become the resident "Funding Getter Guy," a term coined by some of the students and volunteers due to his innate ability to persuade people to help earn donations for the research. His youth and physical attractiveness appealed to female audiences, and his amazing talent for knowing exactly what to say, how to say it, and when to day it made people more convinced that their money was going to have a profound influence on the future of science.

Physically, William Brennan, Jr., was about the same height as Grant, possibly a few inches taller. He had short, curly, brown hair, dark eyes, and had a tan similar in color to Grant's. He was attractive, especially to the women at the dig, and he was well-liked by everybody. His knack for dealing with people made him a valuable asset to the team, particularly since, over the years, Grant had gradually been becoming less willing to deal with people, preferring instead to stick to digging up fossils.

"You okay?" Brennan asked.

Grant sighed wearily. "I swear, if murder was legal, there would be a few less living reporters at the moment."

Brennan nodded understandingly, then hesitantly asked, "So, I suppose now wouldn't be a good time to tell you that I just got off the phone with Ian Malcolm, would it?"

Grant raised an eyebrow. "Ian Malcolm? What on earth did he want?"

"Honestly, I'm actually not sure," the younger man replied. "He seemed to be in a hurry and worried about something, and it was kind of hard to pay attention, since he was mostly rambling. From what I could tell, though, it had something to do with the FBI, Richard Levine, and Thomas Juttson."

Grant sighed. Thinking of Malcolm was bad enough, but when Levine and Juttson were added to the mix, things were a lot worse.

No matter how hard he tried, Grant could never take Levine seriously in their chosen field. While he knew that Levine was a highly talented paleontologist, he considered the younger man to be what he called a "teacup dinosaur hunter"—someone who was more interested in working in a classroom or a lab than out in the field searching through dust and rock for fossils like a treasure hunter seeking gold and other riches. He had only met Levine twice, and, each time, Levine's "teacup dinosaur hunter" status was painfully apparent. His perfectly pressed attire, smug mannerisms, and outlandish spending habits were a sharp contrast to Grant's worn, dirt-covered, casual wardrobe, approachable personality, and penny-pinching.

Thomas Juttson was a whole other matter. Even though Grant had been partially responsible for Juttson's inspiration to become a paleontologist, the two had been long-time rivals. They first encountered each other during Grant's first year in charge of a dig. At that time, Juttson had been only a volunteer, a wealthy medical student with a promising surgical career ahead of him, a long-time interest in dinosaurs, and a plethora of unorthodox theories that frequently conflicted with Grant's. In fact, Grant could not remember a time where he had a conversation with Juttson that did not turn into a heated debate over velociraptor intelligence or whether the Tyrannosaurus rex was a predator or a scavenger or some other equally controversial dispute. Sometimes, Juttson would argue with him over well-known facts, apparently just for the sake of arguing. He had grown sick of the irritating young man and eventually kicked Juttson off the team, and soon afterward he learned that the man had quit medical school for a career in paleontology.

Since he kicked him off the team, Grant knew very little about what Juttson had done through the years, and he did not care to know, either. He did, however, know that Juttson had published a book that contradicted almost every theory presented in Grant's own The Dinosaurs of Montana and that he had also written the foreword for the first of Ian Malcolm's two books about the Jurassic Park and Site B disasters, using it as the perfect opportunity to insult Grant's work.

"FBI, Richard Levine, and Thomas Juttson," Grant repeated, shaking his head.

"Yeah," Brennan replied.

"Three things that shouldn't be together in the same sentence. What could the FBI possibly want with those two, or Ian Malcolm, for that matter?"

Brennan shrugged. "Probably nothing that involves you. Maybe those three went on some nationwide crime spree or something, and maybe they incriminated you along with them."

Grant chuckled. "That is a possibility. To be honest, I wouldn't be surprised if Juttson did just that."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, that's simple. One, he despises me, and two, he craves attention. Juttson would probably sell his own mother to the devil if it meant getting his name mentioned somewhere."

Brennan laughed. "I've heard that a lot."

"I learned it the hard way. He was a volunteer here years ago, and he never—"

Grant was interrupted by the metallic rattle of somebody knocking on the trailer door. Assuming the person outside was a reporter, he harshly yelled, "Go away!"

"I'm afraid I can't do that, sir," a male voice replied, his deep voice carrying a strictly-business tone. "FBI."

Grant turned and looked at Brennan. "What were you saying about 'nothing that involves me,' Billy?"

Brennan shrugged. "Wishful thinking, I guess."

Grant nodded and walked toward the door. As he twisted the matte gray knob, the gold paint on it long worn away, he grumbled, "This is clearly not my day."