moment, Schofield brought the rear loading ramp back up, closing it,
trapping
the fifty-odd apes that had gone inside.
It was then that Bigfoot saw what Schofield had done at the
front
of the chopper: via a tie-down chain, Schofield had attached the helicopter to the carrier’s No. 1 launch catapult.
“You have got to be kidding . . .” Bigfoot said.
“Uh, now please, Bigfoot. They’re about to break down the cockpit door.”
“Right.”
Bigfoot hit a switch on the launch console, igniting Catapult No. 1.
The Super Stallion hurtled down the length of the runway at a speed no helicopter had gone before.
The steam-driven catapult slingshot it down the tarmac at an astonishing 160 km/h!
The great chopper’s landing wheels snapped offafter about ninety feet and the CH-53
slid
the rest of the way,
on its belly,
sparks flying everywhere, the ear-piercing shriek of metal scraping against the flight deck filling the air.
And then . . .
shoom . . .
the Super Stallion shot off the bow of the
Nimitz,
soaring out horizontally from the flight deck for a full 150 feet, hanging in the air for a moment before it arced downward, falling toward the sea.
A second before it hit the ocean, a human figure could be seen leaping from one of its cockpit windows, jumping clear of the falling helicopter, hitting the water at the same time it did, but safely alongside it.
The helicopter came down with a massive splash and as the splash subsided, it could be seen bobbing slowly in the water.
And then it began to sink.
Shrieks could be heard from within it—the cries of the trapped gorillas.
Ten seconds later, the Super Stallion went under, with its cargo of murderous apes, never to rise again.
Shane Schofield trod water for a few moments, staring at what he’d just done. Then he started swimming back toward the ship, heading for the bow.
Once there, he pulled a Pony bottle from his combat webbing—a compact bottle-sized SCUBA tank fitted with a mouthpiece. He jammed it into his mouth and went underwater.
Within a minute, he arrived at a little-known entrance to the carrier, one located fifty feet below the waterline: a submarine docking door.
Designed to recover long-range reconnaissance troops—read spies—returning to the
Nimitz
via small submarines, for a long time Marines had referred to it as the spooks’ door. Over time, “spook” had become “ghost” and then ghost had become “Casper,” as in the friendly one.
This was Casper’s door.
Schofield knocked loudly on it—in Morse code, punching out: “Mother. You there?”
At first there was no reply and Schofield’s heart began to beat a little faster, before suddenly there came a muffled answering knock from the other side:
“As always.”
THIRD ASSAULT
HELL ISLAND
1745 HOURS
1 AUGUST
S CHOFIELD’S TEAM sat in a grim silent circle beside the airlock that was Casper’s door, deep within the bowels of the carrier.
There were only five of them now.
Schofield, Mother, Sanchez, Bigfoot and Astro.
Schofield sat on his own a short distance from the other four, head bowed, deep in thought . . . and dripping wet. He’d taken his anti-flash glasses off and was rubbing his scar-cut eyes.
“What the hell are we gonna do?” Sanchez moaned. “We’re on an island in the middle of the biggest ocean in the world, with three hundred of those
things
hunting us down. We’re completely, utterly, abso-fuckin-lutely screwed.”
Astro shook his head. “There’s just too many of them. It’s only a matter of time.”
Mother looked over at Schofield—still sitting with his head bent, thinking.
The others followed her gaze, as if waiting for him to say something.
Sanchez misunderstood Schofield’s silence for fear.“Aw, great! He’s
frozen up!
Man, I wish I coulda stayed in the Buck’s unit.”
“Hey!”
Mother barked. “I’ve had a gutful of your griping, Sanchez. You doubt the Scarecrow one more time and I’ll perform my own court martial on you
trapping
the fifty-odd apes that had gone inside.
It was then that Bigfoot saw what Schofield had done at the
front
of the chopper: via a tie-down chain, Schofield had attached the helicopter to the carrier’s No. 1 launch catapult.
“You have got to be kidding . . .” Bigfoot said.
“Uh, now please, Bigfoot. They’re about to break down the cockpit door.”
“Right.”
Bigfoot hit a switch on the launch console, igniting Catapult No. 1.
The Super Stallion hurtled down the length of the runway at a speed no helicopter had gone before.
The steam-driven catapult slingshot it down the tarmac at an astonishing 160 km/h!
The great chopper’s landing wheels snapped offafter about ninety feet and the CH-53
slid
the rest of the way,
on its belly,
sparks flying everywhere, the ear-piercing shriek of metal scraping against the flight deck filling the air.
And then . . .
shoom . . .
the Super Stallion shot off the bow of the
Nimitz,
soaring out horizontally from the flight deck for a full 150 feet, hanging in the air for a moment before it arced downward, falling toward the sea.
A second before it hit the ocean, a human figure could be seen leaping from one of its cockpit windows, jumping clear of the falling helicopter, hitting the water at the same time it did, but safely alongside it.
The helicopter came down with a massive splash and as the splash subsided, it could be seen bobbing slowly in the water.
And then it began to sink.
Shrieks could be heard from within it—the cries of the trapped gorillas.
Ten seconds later, the Super Stallion went under, with its cargo of murderous apes, never to rise again.
Shane Schofield trod water for a few moments, staring at what he’d just done. Then he started swimming back toward the ship, heading for the bow.
Once there, he pulled a Pony bottle from his combat webbing—a compact bottle-sized SCUBA tank fitted with a mouthpiece. He jammed it into his mouth and went underwater.
Within a minute, he arrived at a little-known entrance to the carrier, one located fifty feet below the waterline: a submarine docking door.
Designed to recover long-range reconnaissance troops—read spies—returning to the
Nimitz
via small submarines, for a long time Marines had referred to it as the spooks’ door. Over time, “spook” had become “ghost” and then ghost had become “Casper,” as in the friendly one.
This was Casper’s door.
Schofield knocked loudly on it—in Morse code, punching out: “Mother. You there?”
At first there was no reply and Schofield’s heart began to beat a little faster, before suddenly there came a muffled answering knock from the other side:
“As always.”
THIRD ASSAULT
HELL ISLAND
1745 HOURS
1 AUGUST
S CHOFIELD’S TEAM sat in a grim silent circle beside the airlock that was Casper’s door, deep within the bowels of the carrier.
There were only five of them now.
Schofield, Mother, Sanchez, Bigfoot and Astro.
Schofield sat on his own a short distance from the other four, head bowed, deep in thought . . . and dripping wet. He’d taken his anti-flash glasses off and was rubbing his scar-cut eyes.
“What the hell are we gonna do?” Sanchez moaned. “We’re on an island in the middle of the biggest ocean in the world, with three hundred of those
things
hunting us down. We’re completely, utterly, abso-fuckin-lutely screwed.”
Astro shook his head. “There’s just too many of them. It’s only a matter of time.”
Mother looked over at Schofield—still sitting with his head bent, thinking.
The others followed her gaze, as if waiting for him to say something.
Sanchez misunderstood Schofield’s silence for fear.“Aw, great! He’s
frozen up!
Man, I wish I coulda stayed in the Buck’s unit.”
“Hey!”
Mother barked. “I’ve had a gutful of your griping, Sanchez. You doubt the Scarecrow one more time and I’ll perform my own court martial on you
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