Jurassic Park: Execution
Disclaimer: Sadly, they still don't belong to me.
Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay in updating. I've been bus . . . real life interv . . . writer's block got . . . Aw, who am I kidding? I've been procrastinating. It's a problem of mine that I really should work on, huh? But, if you really want toblame the delay on someone, blame it on Steven Spielberg. He's the one that directed the movie that provided the distraction when I was thisclose to finishing this chapter (War of the Worlds, in case you're wondering; great movie, by the way. My mind was occupied by it after both times I saw it).
One last thing: Thank you, everyone, for the reviews. I appreciate 'em. Hopefully new ones will help me get my tail in gear.
Chapter Three: Communicate
Inside the office of Special Agent Nolan Sullivan, a cloud of gray tobacco smoke hung in the air over the polished mahogany desk, giving the room a forbidding aura. On top of the antique piece of furniture were six stacks of papers, each arranged neatly and perfectly into three piles on the left and right sides, the ones on the right pressing against the edge of a modern-looking, fully-featured cordless telephone. Between the documents was an orange and white laptop computer, unfolded and looking oddly out of place amongst the other, much older-appearing items in the room. The technological item seemed even more unusual when one considered its user, a gruff-looking, middle-aged, physically disabled federal agent.
Behind the desk, the agent sat, puffing on a cigar while reading an e-mail. His steely gray eyes, behind a large pair of blue bifocal glasses, were narrowed pensively, carefully reading each of the lines of onscreen text. His wrinkled, slightly tanned face was scrunched thoughtfully as he mentally digested the information, occasionally shaking his head to move the locks of his salt and pepper, mostly salt, hair out of his line of vision.
Smoking in the J. Edgar Hoover Building, the headquarters for the Federal Bureau of Investigation, had been banned for several years, but nobody dared mention that to Sullivan. He was one of the few remaining agents that still did whatever he wanted whether others approved of the action or not, and, if some unfortunate person told him not to do something, such as smoke his cigars, the wheelchair-bound veteran agent would, as one of his colleagues so eloquently put it, "rip 'em a new one." Nobody dared contradict any of his actions or orders. While he may have lost his career as a field agent to a bullet in his spine, he had not lost the menacing and managerial edge that made others fear and respect him. The bureau kept him on the staff to organize the particularly dangerous missions.
A heavy knocking against the office door broke his concentration, and he closed the computer. "Enter!" he barked loudly.
The doorknob squeaked quietly as Special Agent Phillip Carpenter opened the door and entered the office. "Good morning, sir," the deep-voiced African American stated, closing the door.
"Have a seat, Carpenter," Sullivan ordered, and Carpenter obediently sat in the gray metal folding chair in front of the desk. Then, to be polite, the elder man asked, "How are you this morning?"
"I'm fine, sir," Carpenter replied. "And you?"
"I'm doing quite well, thank you." He paused for a moment, then asked, "Did your agents get them all?"
Carpenter nodded. "Yes, sir, with the exception of Dr. Ellie Sattler-Degler, who is expecting her third child, and Dr. Sarah Harding, who's recovering from a dislocated shoulder acquired during a hiking accident last week."
"I see." Sullivan pondered this for a moment, considering the implications. After deducing that there were none that were significant, he inquired, "When will the others be arriving?"
"Last time I checked, the plane with Dr. Malcolm and Dr. Juttson on board had almost reached Montana, so I'd estimate that the scientists will be here late this afternoon, early this evening, sometime in that range, possibly later."
The older man nodded. "Good. And, is your team prepared for what they have to do?"
"Yes, sir," Carpenter replied confidently.
"Good." He paused for a moment. "You do realize, this is not going to be like any other expedition you or any of them have been involved in, don't you? This is not going to be a simple game of dodge-ball with bullets like you usually deal with While the human dangers are highly risky, the animals are going to be worse. You and your team are going to be dealing with living, breathing monsters from a long-gone era, expert predators that died out millions of years ago, only to be resurrected by modern technology. And these animals will not hesitate to kill you or one of your team members. They do not care about the security of the United States of America or the sanctity of human life. Their minds are only on one thing: survival. And, if that means that one or more of the members of the team ends up in one of their bellies, their only concern will be digesting that tasty, homo sapien meal. Is that clear?"
Carpenter nodded. "Yes. I know what I'm dealing with. My son and I both love dinosaurs, so I'm very well informed about them."
"But is your team?" Carpenter did not answer, so Sullivan said, "Special Agent Carpenter, your team is going to be dealing with dangerous animals from another time; they need to know what they are up against." He sighed, then turned his attention back to his laptop. "Make sure your group is thoroughly informed before leaving tomorrow. And make sure that they are willing to listen to the scientists–those four gentlemen know more about the dinosaurs than any of our agents will."
"Yes, sir." Carpenter stood and walked to the door.
Before the younger agent left, Sullivan looked up from his computer and said, "One more thing." Carpenter stopped, and Sullivan continued. "Have you spoken with either of our insiders recently, and have either of them mentioned a problem on the island?"
"Uh, no," Carpenter replied, wincing slightly as he prepared for the berating that was sure to follow.
Sullivan raised an eyebrow. "And, is there any specific reason for this?"
"No, not really, sir. Uh, I'll try to talk to them on their sat phones as soon as possible."
Using his left hand, Sullivan gestured to the telephone and gruffly ordered, "Do it now."
Carpenter nodded obediently, then stepped forward. He lifted the phone, then dialed a number. He pressed the device to his ear and was greeted with the inhuman female monotone of a computerized error message. He shook his head, then pressed another series of buttons, only to once again receive same mechanical statement.
"No answer?"
"No, sir, their phones seem to be out of service. They might've turned them off to save the batteries."
"I thought you told Levine and Andrews not to turn off their phones under any circumstances. Or, at least, that's what I told you to tell them."
"I did, sir."
Sullivan sighed, then rolled his wheelchair closer to the desk. "Get the other agents together, and have them prepared to go to Isla Sorna immediately after I brief the scientists."
"But, sir," Carpenter began, only to be stopped mid-sentence by his superior.
"Just do it."
The younger man replied, "Yes, sir," then quickly left the office.