The next day, the demonstration of Hodges’ field equipment was performed off-site. Dianna and I drove there together. I was surprised when we saw “Lacerto” Leo’s truck in the parking lot. We walked to a dirt lot where the dusting was to occur. Then we saw the technological apparition that was being tested. I stared. Dianna stifled a shriek.

The “equipment” was a combat exoskeleton—in essence, a mechanized suit of armor. It had a distinctly angular look, like faceted gems assembled into the shape of a man. An outer layer of padding softened the angles somewhat. The helmet, which looked like a five-sided pyramid, was grimy and bettered compared to the rest of the suit. At some point, someone had attached a crown of steel rods, now rusted and bent with age. Two bulky radiators hung from the back like vestigial wings. The man in the suit moved toward us, moving just as quickly as an ordinary man. “Greetings, Mr. and soon-to-be-Mrs. Flockman!” he said cheerfully. He removed the wedge-shaped face mask. “Lovely day for a field test, isn’t it?”

“Exactly what kind of research do you intend to do?” Di asked, a little bemused. Behind the bemusement, I sensed a lingering fear. I then recalled the figure in her dream.
“The up-close kind,” Schwartz said. “Mr. Hodges shall explain the details.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that suit before,” I said. “Who makes it?”

“It is a Russian 311A combat exoskeleton, the heaviest one ever fielded in combat,” he said. “Variants of the 300 exoskeleton are used by civilian and military forces all over the world. This variant is made of alternating layers of titanium alloy and ballistic fiber glass, with an outer layer of Kevlar and shock-absorbing foam. The chest plate is 50 mm thick, but because of the multiple angles and the sophistication of the materials, the protection it offers is equivalent to 800 millimeters of steel armor. In combat conditions, it has been proven to withstand anything short of an anti-tank missile—and those can easily be defeated with countermeasures.”

“What’s the gross weight of the suit?” I asked.
“With me in it, about 200 kilograms,” he said. I was startled when the twins walked over in their own suits, minus helmets. “It is considerably less for my sons.”
“How many suits do you have?”

“In theory, we could assemble 18 essentially exoskeletons,” said the elder Schwartz. “But in practice, we will only be deploying four. The rest of the components will be held back either as spare parts—exotroopers in the field commonly require enough spares to build two suits- or for unarmored ‘high-mobility’ rigs. Our support staff will need the high-mobility suits to keep up with us. They, in turn, will be supported by light tractors. The system may seem cumbersome, but it is essential for keeping exotroopers mobile.”

“Fascinating,” Dianna said. “I’ve heard about things like this, but I’d never thought about the logistics of it. Were you in the military?”
“No,” Albert said. “I learned how to use an exoskeleton as a hazardous materials handler in the civilian sector. There are actually many more civilian exoskeleton operators than military exotroopers. In fact, one of the earliest modern exoskeletons was designed for bear research.”
“How well will the suit hold up against a dinosaur?” I asked.
“That is what we are here to see,” Albert answered.

The trials were held with Dr. Ling and his aids standing by. The twins also stood by, ready to help repair their father’s suit or pull him out of danger. I helped in a number of them. In the first test, I tried to ram him with a Thing. He jumped out of the way twice before I hit him. The result was a very serious dent in the hood. Schwartz, who was thrown for over ten feet, got up without a scratch. Then he overturned the Thing. In the second test, I shot the detached chest plate and helmet three times with an Eliminator from 100 meters. (Schwartz wanted me to shoot while he was in the armor, but I refused.) Not one of the rounds penetrated. However, I did knock the helmet off. “That is the most common cause of exotrooper casualties,” Schwartz said, “but rarely a cause of serious injury. Of course, it would be very bad for one if the enemy closed in for a coup de grace, but that is why no exotrooper works alone.”

In the next few tests, we subjected the suits to attacks from devices built to simulate dinosaur attacks. A miniature wrecking ball knocked him down, but Schwartz immediately got up. A pile driver with a sharpened point knocked him for ten meters and left him unconscious, but failed to inflict anything worse than bruises. Finally, we attacked the suit and its components with “Jaws”, a light construction vehicle fitted with a claw apparatus to simulate animal bites. All components tested well. Even what seemed like the most vulnerable part, a hydraulic line connecting the engines to the lower body, failed to rupture under the bite pressure of a hyena. In the final “Jaws” test, I used the claw to pick up the whole suit with Schwartz in it, applied half a ton of pressure to the torso, and then tossed him ten feet. Schwartz got up immediately and dusted himself off.

In the final test, Schwartz faced my old acquaintance, Old Rip the crocodile. “I put in his good teeth for this!” the trainer cackled. Albert faced the same test I did. A dummy, this time dubbed “Kenny”, was thrown to the crocodile, and he had to rescue it. Schwartz literally leaped into action, flying over two meters and landing between the dummy and the crocodile. When Old Rip took a snap at him, Schwartz stepped on his snout, forcing the jaws shut and pinning the head to the concrete floor. “Henni! Heidi! Come!” he shouted. His sons rushed in and carried away the dummy. “Now, reptile, we shall see which of us is the stronger,” he said.

When he raised his foot, the first thing Old Rip did was turn around and try to hit him with its tail. Schwartz jumped over the swinging tail, and landed astride it. A taser shot out from a pod in his right arm, shocking the crocodile. Old Rip tried to retreat, but Schwartz held onto him by the tail. The crocodile lashed his tail mightily, and finally knocked him over. Rip turned around and caught Schwartz by the arm, then tried to drag him to his pool. Retractable climbing claws shot out from Schwartz’s fingers and his feet, and he dug into the concrete with them. With great effort, Rip pulled him a foot further. The reptile was clearly wearing out, and finally stopped and lay there, with Schwartz’s forearm still in his mouth. In a seemingly effortless maneuver, Schwartz thrust his free hand into Old Rip’s mouth and pushed the jaws away. The old croc slunk meekly into his pool.

The trainer was fuming. “That was the most dangerous, outrageous, contemptuous performance I’ve ever seen!” he yelled to me. “That joker could have hurt my crocodile! And he was lucky not to get hurt himself.”
The elder Schwartz laughed. “I showed him enough respect to test myself to the fullest. Is that not better than going against wild animals with unproven equipment?”
Hodges gave his usual double nod and said, “Excellent, excellent. As expected, the exoskeleton is a complete success. Now we shell test the other equipment.”

I gaped when I saw what else he planned to send into the past. Where the exoskeleton was the height of sophistication, the weapons and vehicles were themselves relics of another era. “I am a corporate sponsor of the World War 2 Re-enactors’ Society,” Hodges said. “Rather than buy new equipment, with all the expense and red tape that entails, I used surplus historical gear. These, in particular, are mainly left over from last year’s reenactment of the Battle of Moscow. Did you know that that is generally considered the decisive battle of World War 2?” I nodded absent-mindedly, concerned principally with examining the equipment. It consisted mainly of replica World War 2 Soviet vehicles and weaponry. There were 7 vehicles: 3 Soviet half-ton GAZ trucks, a larger ZIL truck, a Russian artillery tractor, and 2 weird German vehicles called kettenkrads (essentially a motorcycle with tank treads in the rear). In addition, there were 3 German demolition drones: two small Goliaths, and a vehicle called Borgward big enough for a man to ride in.

I rapped on the hulls, and found them to be made of fiberglass. “Of course, they aren’t exactly the same as the originals,” Hodges said, a little apologetically. “We had to replace the hull with ballistic composite plastic to meet safety regulations, and the engines were made diesel electric to meet modern emission standards. Just as well, for the present purposes: With those few modifications, these are almost as light, safe and fuel-efficient as modern ones. The demolition vehicles aren’t as close as the others to originals. In reenactments, they carry reloadable pyrotechnic devices rather than demolition charges. We intend to use them for carrying cargo. The Goliaths can carry up to 100 kilos, and the Borgward carries 500.”

The weaponry was a mixture of vintage Soviet and German equipment. The collection was dominated by 7.62 mm automatic weapons. I was leery of the large array of pistols and submachine guns. “It’s not a good idea to hunt dinosaurs with pistol rounds, let alone ones this small,” I said.

“Do not underestimate their performance,” Hodges said. “In terms of range and accuracy, these are the best weapons of their kind ever built. All of them fire a 7.63 x 25 mm round, first developed for these Mauser C96 pistols. The earliest C96s had sights that were good to a thousand meters, and with a long-barreled variant fitted with a stock, and a sturdier breech to accept cartridges loaded with modern propellants, a skilled marksman can indeed perform to that range. The same round was adopted by the Soviets for these Ppsh41 submachine guns—testimony to how effective they were. Of course, we would not attempt to use them on game larger than man. That is what our larger weapons are for.”

This brought us to the heavy weapons. The smallest of these were a pair of 7.62 mm DP machine guns. The rest were genuine anti-vehicle weapons. There was a 14.5 mm single-shot PTRD anti-tank rifle, four bazookas, and two grenade-launching Kampfpistoles. There were also a 20 mm quick fire cannon and a few mortars. “The PTRD rifle and the cannon are modified to fire modern ‘air-burst’ shells,” Hodges said. “If you look carefully, you will notice that they are equipped with modern electronic sights. They make them small enough now that they can be fitted to a vintage weapon like this without spoiling the illusion. The mortars will be used primarily for launching research rockets.”

I stated the obvious: “All this is a bit much, even for hunting dinosaurs. What can you really do with a bazooka that you couldn’t do with a good rifle?”

“I do not want to kill dinosaurs,” Hodges said. “It is my hope to capture them alive. For that purpose, a rocket-propelled grenade filled with gas or liquid tranquilizers will be better than a tranquilizer dart. We also have a compressed-air cannon for launching nets.”

My mind boggled at the idea. “Could you really take a dinosaur back to the present with what you have?” I asked.

“Our largest truck can carry up to four tons,” Hodges said. “We could certainly transport a relatively small dinosaur.”

I was not convinced. “That may seem good on paper, but remember, you’ll be off-road,” I reminded him.

He laughed. “The GAZ and ZIS trucks were practically off-road vehicles to begin with,” he said. “They had to be, to navigate what passed for roads in mid-20th-century Russia. Our trucks can handle any terrain.”

I oversaw a weapons drill for Hodges’ men. There were thirty of them, from a remarkably diverse range of nations. 5 were Chinese or Japanese, 3 were Chechens, and 10 were from Germany. A one-armed technician introduced as Omar was from Kazakhstan. The remainders were stocky, quasi-Asiatic people like Schwartz’s twins. What they all had in common was that they handled weapons well. I was used to dealing with clients whose knowledge of firearms seemed to be limited to which end the bullet came out of. But Hodges’ team showed professional marksmanship. The elder Schwartz showed off his skills and the strength endowed by the suit by firing the anti-tank rifle from the hip with only one hand. What I found even more impressive was the degree of coordination they showed. In group drills, I had seen even expert marksman fail. The underlying problem is that people who pursue shooting as a solo activity tend to be unprepared for coordinated fire, sometimes even less so than people with no prior firearms experience. But these people seemed not even to require instruction. They covered each other commendably, providing overlapping fields of fire without wasting too many shots on a single target. I quickly decided that my instructions were entirely redundant.

A few weeks later, the day of departure arrived. The day, as it would prove, of disaster…
When it all started, Lou and I were at the gun shed, supervising the loading of Hodges’ weapons. It was almost 7:00 PM, and we had been working since 7:00 in the morning. The ZIS truck was already loaded and aboard the time bell. One GAZ truck was at each of the major storage locations: the gun shed, the hazardous materials shed, and the hangar. Albert Schwartz used his exoskeleton to load huge crates onto the truck. His sons were assisting in the loading at the other locations. I loaded the last crate, just to feel useful, and the vehicle drove for the time bell. There was still just enough light to see the truck driving down the runway. Then there was a muffled thump, followed moments later by a continuous burst of similar explosions. Translucent objects started falling lazily out of the sky. The first one hit the runway and flattened.

“Aerial deployment mines!” said the elder Schwartz. The GAZ truck roared forward, swerving around the mines. Several of the projectiles visibly changed course to follow it. Schwartz fired a double-barreled grenade launcher into the sky. It released a thick cloud of smoke, streaked with brilliant streaks of light. A dense haze quickly descended upon the parking lot. Outside, shots rang out, a rocket shrieked, and two mines exploded. There were shots, screams, and dull splats from bullets striking exotrooper armor, with an occasional clang when a bullet reached the first layer of metal, which soon gave way to the sound of heavy blows and the occasional patter of flechettes.

Albert advanced into the haze. Lou prepared to follow. He looked over his shoulder and told me, “Stay in the shed. It’s not safe out here.”
“My bride,” I said, pointing toward the hangar, “is out there.”
“Very well. Follow me. It may behoove you to bring a weapon.”

I grabbed a Tactical rifle. I turned on the Tactical’s night scope, hoping to see what was happening in the parking lot. The asphalt glowed with dissipating heat. The countermeasures prove to glitter in the infrared spectrum, diffusing heat radiation into a sparkling mist. The cloud revealed streaks of light that could only be the lasers and infrared beams of our attackers. Lou emptied his .45 along one of these beams, which went dead. Schwartz showed as a dark shape, a silhouette within the landscape of heat. He marched across the pavement, while Lou scurried along behind him. There was a furious volley of gunfire from the hazardous materials shed, and the roar of a truck’s engine. A mine went off, and the truck swerved off the road with a flat tire, stopping in a ditch just a few meters away. A shredded canvas door dropped open, and one of the stocky Asiatics fell out, apparently in shock. The better part of one arm was missing. I almost went to help him but Lou urged me onward: “He’ll get help in moments. Now come on, or you will have to make it the rest of the way alone!”

Looking forward again, I saw three glowing white figures running across the luminous field of the asphalt, shooting at the truck with .50 assault rifles. The walls of the hazardous materials shed behind them were veritable constellations of hot bullet hits and fresh blood. Suddenly, the rearmost of the figures was ravaged by a spray of flechettes. As I watched, a constellation of spattered blood and impact points detached itself from the surrounding ruin and arranged itself into the form of another exotrooper. The other two looked over their shoulders in terror. The leader fired wildly, killing his hapless companion while scoring only one or two hits on the exotrooper. That was when the elder Schwartz struck, charging with his crowned head down like a bull. The gunman probably never knew what hit him.

More mines were falling out of the sky. A group of men jumped out of the disabled truck to fix it. The elder Schwartz shouted a command to his son (I heard the name Heidi), who ran out to assist them. A crew of three stocky men emerged from the hangar, carrying a capture net canister. They fired a shot that scoured the asphalt, detonating several mines. One of these mines fired a secondary charge into the air. If it had detonated in midair, as it was undoubtedly intended to, it would have killed the crew, but instead, it hit the ground and exploded. One of the men lost both legs. His companions, totally unphased, reloaded the launcher and fired another net. Shots were still being fired from the direction of the south fence. Lou loaded another clip into his .45 and shot back.

As we approached the hangar, I saw a crouching figure with a familiar briefcase. “Dr. Ling!” I shouted involuntarily. He turned, revealing a machine pistol in one hand. He fired a 4-gauge grenade that knocked over Albert. Before he could shoot at anyone else, Lou was upon him. There was no theatrical volley of fast and fancy moves, but only a weird tableau of two professionals trying to kill each other in the quickest and most efficient fashion possible. Lou kicked the machine pistol from Ling’s hand and got him in a headlock. He then attempted a slow but sure procedure for dislocating his neck, while Ling tried to drive the briefcase into his kidneys. I fired a warning shot from the Tactical. This broke their concentration, and Ling made the most of it. He broke Lou’s hold and threw him over his shoulder, then snatched up his machine pistol. That was when the elder Schwartz sat up. Ling fired a burst into the exotrooper’s face mask, and then retreated around the building.

Schwartz sprang to his feet and ran for the hangar. I followed. Then the exotrooper froze. I stopped, and looking past him, saw what had made him stop. Di lay on the asphalt, just inside the hangar. There were no obvious wounds, but I knew at a glance that something was grievously wrong. I dropped the Tactical and rushed for her, but the exotrooper stepped in my path and held me back with one raised arm. I wanted to pound against the unyielding armor. But my grief was too great. All I could do was lean against him and cry.