The Rise and Fall of the Dinosaurs Page 15

  Even though they were not directly ancestral to T. rex, Yutyrannus and Sinotyrannus are far from unimportant. These early Cretaceous species do show that tyrannosaurs had the capability to become big fairly early in their evolution. Yutyrannus and Sinotyrannus were, as far as we know, the largest predators in their ecosystems. They were at the top of the food chain, the lords of a lush forest—humid in the summer, liable to be buried by snow in the winter—that clung to the sides of steep volcanoes, alive with the chirps of primitive birds and raptor dinosaurs with feathers. They had their choice of prey: corpulent long-necked sauropods if they were feeling particularly hungry, or a bounty of sheep-size, beaked plant-eaters called Psittacosaurus, primitive cousins of Triceratops, which 60 million years later would battle T. rex itself on the floodplains of western North America.

  In other places, separated in time and space from the forests of Early Cretaceous China, where the species of tyrannosaurs were small or medium-size, they were dwarfed by larger predators. Sinraptor towered over Guanlong in the Middle Jurassic of China. Allosaurus outmuscled the mule-size tyrannosaur Stokesosaurus in the later Jurassic of North America. The carcharodontosaur Neovenator held down Eotyrannus in the Early Cretaceous of England. And there are many more examples. It seems tyrannosaurs could get big if they had the opportunity, but only if there were no larger predators around.

  THE QUESTION REMAINS: how did T. rex and its closest relatives shoot up to such mind-boggling sizes? We need to look into the fossil record to see when the very first truly huge tyrannosaurs with the classic T. rex body plan emerged. By this, I mean tyrannosaurs that were over thirty-five feet long and one and a half tons in weight, with the big deep skulls, muscular jaws, banana-size teeth, pathetic arms, and bulky leg muscles that define T. rex.

  This type of tyrannosaur—true giants, undoubted top predators of record size—made their first appearance in western North America about 84 to 80 million years ago. Once they began to appear, they started turning up everywhere, both in North America and Asia. Clearly an explosive diversification had occurred.

  We know that the big switch happened some time in the middle part of the Cretaceous, between about 110 and 84 million years ago. Before this time, there were many small to midsize tyrannosaurs living all over the world, with only a few random bigger species like Yutyrannus. After this time, enormous tyrannosaurs reigned throughout North America and Asia, but only those continents, and no species smaller than a minibus remained. This was a dramatic change, one of the biggest in the entire history of dinosaurs. Frustratingly, very few fossils record what was going on. The middle Cretaceous is something of a dark period in dinosaur evolution. By pure bad luck, very few fossils from this entire 25-million-year time span have been found. So we’re left scratching our heads, like a detective tasked with solving a crime when the crime scene preserves no fingerprints, DNA data, or tangible evidence of any kind.

  What we can say, based on our growing understanding of what the Earth was like during the middle Cretaceous, is that this was probably not a great time to be a dinosaur. About 94 million years ago, between the Cenomanian and Turonian subdivisions of the Cretaceous Period, there was a spasm of environmental change. Temperatures spiked, sea levels violently oscillated, and the deep oceans were starved of oxygen. We don’t yet know why this happened, but one of the leading theories is that a surge of volcanic activity belched enormous quantities of carbon dioxide and other noxious gases into the atmosphere, causing a runaway greenhouse effect and poisoning the planet. Whatever their causes, these environmental changes triggered a mass extinction. It wasn’t as big as the extinctions at the ends of the Permian and Triassic periods, which helped dinosaurs rise to dominance, but something more akin to what happened across the Jurassic-Cretaceous boundary. Still, it was one of the worst mass die-offs during the Age of Dinosaurs. Many ocean-living invertebrates disappeared for good, as did various types of reptiles.

  The extremely poor middle Cretaceous fossil record has made it difficult to know how these environmental dramas affected dinosaurs. However, paleontologists have recently managed to pry important new specimens from this gap. A pattern is clearly coming into focus: none of the large predators from this 25-million-year time window are tyrannosaurs. All of them belong to other groups of big carnivores like the ceratosaurs, spinosaurs, and especially the carcharodontosaurs. This latter group of ultrapredators, which (as we saw in the previous chapter) utterly dominated the Early Cretaceous, continued their reign deep into the middle Cretaceous. The thirty-five-foot-long carcharodontosaur Siats was the top predator in western North America about 98.5 million years ago. In Asia, the nearly T. rex–size Chilantaisaurus and the smaller Shaochilong were the top guns about 92 million years ago, and in South America, carcharodontosaurs like Aerosteon reigned about 85 million years ago.

  The tyrannosaurs that lived alongside these carcharodontosaurs, on the other hand, still weren’t very special, at least in their outward appearance. We don’t have many of their fossils, but some have started to turn up recently. The best of them come from Uzbekistan, where Sasha Averianov and his colleague Hans-Dieter Sues—a German-born paleontologist with an ever-present smile and infectious laugh, who is now a senior researcher at the Smithsonian Institution—worked for over a decade, in the barren Kyzylkum Desert.

  That Soviet-era box that Sasha carefully handed over to me a few years ago contained some of these bones. The reason I took them back to Edinburgh to CAT-scan was because two of these specimens were braincases—the puzzle of fused bones at the back of the skull that surrounded the brain and ear. If you want to see inside these braincases, into the cavities that housed the brain and sense organs, you could cut open the braincase with a saw, which is what Osborn did with the first T. rex skull, damaging it forever in the name of science. Nowadays we can use the CAT scanner and its high-powered X-rays, and we don’t have to damage a thing. When we scanned the Uzbek braincases, we confirmed that they belonged to a tyrannosaur, as they had the same architecture of bones surrounding the spinal cord and the same long tube-shaped brain cavity of T. rex, Albertosaurus, and other tyrannosaurs. They even had a middle ear with a very long cochlea, another signature tyrannosaur feature, which allowed these predators to better hear low-frequency sounds. However, the Uzbek tyrannosaur was still a Mini-Me, just about the size of a horse.

  In spring 2016, Sasha, Hans, and I gave the Uzbek tyrannosaur a formal scientific name, Timurlengia euotica. The name honors Timur, also known as Tamerlane, the infamous Central Asian warlord who ruled over Uzbekistan and many of the surrounding lands in the fourteenth century. It’s a fitting name for a tyrannosaur, even a midsize one that was still a few rungs below the top of the food ladder. Although not a colossus, Timurlengia was developing a larger brain and more sophisticated senses—heightened smell, vision, and hearing—than other meat-eating dinosaurs, adaptations that would eventually turn out to be handy predatory weapons for the huge tyrannosaurs that came later. Tyrannosaurs were becoming smart before they got big, but no matter how clever they were, Timurlengia and its comrades were still living under the thumb of the real warlords of the middle Cretaceous, the carcharodontosaurs.

  Then, when the clock struck 84 million years ago and the fossil record became rich again, the carcharodontosaurs were gone in North America and Asia, replaced by monstrous tyrannosaurs. A major evolutionary turnover had occurred. Was this due to the lingering effects of the temperature and sea-level changes that occurred at the Cenomanian-Turonian boundary? Was it sudden or gradual? Did tyrannosaurs actively outcompete the carcharodontosaurs, muscling them into extinction or outsmarting them with their big brains and keenly developed senses? Or did environmental changes cause these other large predators to go extinct but spare tyrannosaurs, which then opportunistically took over the large predator role? We just don’t have enough evidence to know for certain, but whatever the answer, there is no denying that by the dawn of the Campanian subinterval of the latest Cretaceous, beginning about 84 milli
on years ago, tyrannosaurs had risen to the top of the food pyramid.

  During the final 20 million years of the Cretaceous, tyrannosaurs flourished, ruling the river valleys, lakeshores, floodplains, forests, and deserts of North America and Asia. There is no mistaking their signature look: huge head, athletic body, sad arms, muscular legs, long tail. They bit so hard that they crunched through the bones of their prey; they grew so fast that they put on about five pounds every day during their teenage years; and they lived so hard that we have yet to find an individual that was more than thirty years old when it died. And they were impressively diverse: we have found nearly twenty species of these big-boned tyrannosaurs from the latest Cretaceous, and there are surely many more out there waiting to be discovered. The Pinocchio-nosed Qianzhousaurus, so fortuitously discovered by that still-anonymous backhoe operator at the Chinese construction site, is one of the latest examples. Just as Brown and Osborn grasped over a hundred years ago, when they were the first humans to set eyes on a tyrannosaur, T. rex and its brethren really were the kings of the dinosaur world.

  The world they lorded over was very different from the planet in which tyrannosaurs grew up. Back when Kileskus, Guanlong, and Yutyrannus were stalking prey, the supercontinent Pangea had only recently begun to split, so tyrannosaurs could migrate easily across the Earth. By the latest Cretaceous, however, the continents had drifted much farther apart, reaching positions similar to the ones they occupy today. A map from this time would have looked quite a bit like today’s globe. There were, however, some major differences. Due to sea-level rise in the Late Cretaceous, North America was bisected by a seaway stretching from the Arctic to the Gulf of Mexico, and a flooded Europe was reduced to a smattering of small islands. T. rex’s Earth was a fragmented planet, with different groups of dinosaurs living in separate areas. As a result, champions in one region might not be able to conquer another for one simple reason: they couldn’t get there. Colossal tyrannosaurs never seemed to gain a foothold in Europe or the southern continents, where other groups of large predators prospered, but in North America and Asia, tyrannosaurs were unrivaled. They had become the transcendent terrors that fire our imaginations.

  6

  The King of the Dinosaurs

  Tyrannosaurus rex

  Chapter Title art by Todd Marshall

  THE TRICERATOPS WAS SAFE. It was across the river, separated by impassable rapids from the danger brewing on the opposite bank. But it could see what was about to happen and was powerless to stop it.

  No more than fifty feet away, on a spike of sand and mud that jutted into the other side of the water, a group of three Edmontosauruses lingered. Their sharp ducklike bills plucked leaves from the flowery shrubs clinging to the shore. Their cheeks—heavy with nourishment—rocked side to side in a chewing motion. The late evening sun shimmered across the currents, and the whistles of birds high in the trees radiated peace and calm.

  But all was not OK. On the far shore, the Triceratops noticed something the Edmontosaurus herd could not—another creature, hiding in the taller trees at the edge of the jungle where it met the sand bar, its green scaly skin almost perfectly camouflaged. Its eyes gave it away: two bulbous spheres, sparkling with anticipation. They darted from left to right, in split-second intervals, surveying the three unaware plant-munchers. Waiting for the right moment.

  And then it came, in a burst of violence.

  The red-eyed, green-skinned monster pounced out of the brush and into the path of the plant-eaters. It was a terrifying sight: the lurking predator was longer than a city bus. It reached forty feet (thirteen meters) long and weighed at least five tons. Fluff stuck out of the scales of its neck and back—a mangy, hairy fuzz. Its tail was long and muscular, its legs stocky, its arms laughably tiny, dangling to the side as it lunged toward the Edmontosaurus pack headfirst, jaws agape.

  When it opened its mouth, there were about fifty pointy teeth inside, each the size of a railroad spike. They clamped down on the tail of one of the Edmontosauruses, the cacophony of crunching bone and shrieking anguish echoing through the forest.

  Desperate, the assaulted Edmontosaurus wrestled itself free and waddled off into the trees, its severed tail dangling behind it, carrying a broken tooth from the predator as a battle scar. Would it survive or succumb to its injuries in the hidden depths of the forest? The Triceratops would never know.

  Annoyed by its failed attack, the beast turned its attention to the smallest of the duckbills, but the youth was racing away into the woods, dodging trunks and bushes at a sprinter’s speed. The bulky carnivore realized it had no hope of catching it and emitted a deep-throated wail in frustration.

  There was still one Edmontosaurus left, cornered on the sandbar: water on one side, the meat-lusting monster on the other. As the predator turned its head back toward the river, the two of them locked eyes. Escape was impossible, and then the inevitable happened.

  The head darted forward. Teeth met flesh. Bones shattered as the neck of the herbivore was ripped apart, blood spilling into the water and mixing with the white foam currents, the broken teeth of the predator raining through the sky as it tore at its victim.

  Then, from back in the forest, there was a rustling noise. Branches snapped and leaves flew about. The Triceratops watched in awe as four other big-headed, spike-toothed green brutes—nearly identical in size and shape to the first one—bounded onto the riverbank. They were a pack; the attacker was their leader, and now the underlings got to share in its victory. The five hungry creatures snorted and snarled, nipping at each other and biting each other’s faces as they jockeyed for the best cuts of meat.

  From the comfort of the opposite shore, the Triceratops knew exactly what it was seeing. For it had been there before—it had once escaped the jaws of one of these voracious killers, goring it with one of its horns until the beast released its grip. This feared predator was known to all Triceratops. It was their great rival, the terror that would rush like a ghost from the trees and mow down entire herds. It was Tyrannosaurus rex—the King of the Dinosaurs, the largest predator that has ever lived on land in the 4.5-billion-year history of Earth.

  T. REX IS a celebrity character—the nightmare haunter—but it was also a real animal. Paleontologists know quite a lot about it: what it looked like, how it moved and breathed and sensed its world, what it ate, how it grew, and why it was able to get so big. In part, that’s because we have a lot of fossils: over fifty skeletons, some nearly complete, more than for almost any other dinosaur. But more than anything, it’s because so many scientists are impulsively drawn to the majesty that is the King, the way so many people are obsessed with movie stars and athletes. When scientists get infatuated with something, we start playing around with every instrument, experiment, or other type of analysis at our disposal. We’ve thrown the whole toolbox at T. rex: CAT scans to look into its brain and sense organs, computer animations to understand its posture and locomotion, engineering software to model how it ate, microscopic study of its bones to see how it grew, and the list goes on. As a result, we know more about this Cretaceous dinosaur than we do about many living animals.

  What was T. rex like as a living, breathing, feeding, moving, growing animal? Let me indulge you with an unauthorized biography of the King of Dinosaurs.

  Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton at the American Museum of Natural History in New York.

  Photo courtesy of the author

  Let’s start with the vital stats.

  It goes without saying, but T. rex was huge: adults were about forty-two feet (thirteen meters) long and weighed in the ballpark of seven or eight tons, based on those equations from a few chapters ago, which calculate body weight from the thickness of the thighbone. These proportions are off the charts for carnivorous dinosaurs. The rulers of the Jurassic—the Butcher Allosaurus, Torvosaurus, and their kin—got up to about thirty-three feet (ten meters) long and a few tons—monsters to be sure, but they had nothing on Rex. After temperature and sea-level changes ushered in
the Cretaceous, some of the carcharodontosaurs from Africa and South America got even bigger than their Jurassic predecessors. Giganotosaurus, for example, was about as long as T. rex and may have reached about six tons. But that’s still a good ton or two lighter than Rex, so the King stands alone as the biggest purely meat-eating animal that lived on land during the time of dinosaurs, or indeed at any time in the history of our planet.

  Show a picture of T. rex to kindergartners and they’ll immediately know what it is. It has a signature style, a unique physique, or in scientific parlance, a distinctive body plan. The head was enormous, perched on a neck short and stout like a bodybuilder’s. Balancing the oversize noggin was a long, tapering tail that stuck out horizontally like a seesaw. Rex stood only on its hind legs, its muscular thighs and calves powering its movements. Like a ballerina, it balanced on the tips of its feet, the arch or sole rarely touching the ground, all of its weight held by its massive three toes. The forelimbs looked useless: puny things with two stubby fingers, comically out of proportion to the rest of the body. And the body itself: not fat like one of the long-necked sauropods, but not the skinny frame of a fast-running Velociraptor either. Its very own body type.

  The seat of Rex’s power was its head. It was a killing machine, a torture chamber for its prey, and an evil mask all in one. At around five feet long from snout to ear, the skull was nearly the length of an average person. More than fifty knife-sharp teeth made for a sinister smile. There were little nipping teeth at the front of the snout and a row of serrated spikes the size and shape of bananas running along the sides of the upper and lower jaws. Muscles to open and close those jaws bulged out of the back of the head near the bottle-cap-size hole that served as the ear. Each eyeball was the size of a grapefruit. In front of it, but covered in skin, was a massive sinus system that helped to lighten the head, and then big fleshy horns at the tip of the snout. Small horns protruded in front of and behind each eye, and another stuck downwards from each cheek—gnarly knobs of bone covered in keratin, the same stuff that makes up our fingernails. Imagine this hideous visage as your last memory before the teeth came crushing down, breaking your bones. Many a dinosaur met its end that way.