whoever else is controlling this ape army—is somewhere on Hell Island.”
He stood, putting his silver anti-flash glasses back on, now looking more lethal than ever.
“Knowledge is a wonderful thing. Now that we’ve figured some of this out, it’s time to turn the tables.”
S CHOFIELD WAITED till dusk to leave the
Nimitz
.
If he was going to take on the island, the cover of darkness would be necessary. It also gave him a chance to do some research.
He dispatched Mother and Astro to find any maps of Hell Island. They found some in a stateroom, ever aware of the howls of the gorillas searching the ship for them.
When they returned, Schofield and his team pored over the maps. The most helpful one showed a network of underground tunnels running throughout the island:
“This used to be called Grant Island,” Schofield said. “Until we stormed it in 1943 and removed it from all maps, so it could be used as a secret staging post. The fighting here was some of the fiercest of the war, almost as bad as Okinawa and Iwo Jima. Two thousand Japanese defenders fought to the very end on Grant, not giving a single inch—not wanting to give up its airfield. We lost eight hundred Marines taking it. Thing was, we almost lost a lot more.”
“What do you mean?” Mother asked.
“Like Okinawa and Iwo Jima, Hell Island was honeycombed with tunnels—concrete tunnels that the Japanese built over two years, connecting all its gun emplacements, pillboxes, and ammo dumps. The Japanesecould move around the island unseen, popping up from hidden holes and firing at point-blank range before disappearing again.
“But the tunnels on Hell Island had one extra purpose. They had a feature not seen anywhere else in the Pacific war: a flooding valve system.”
“What was that?”
“It was the ultimate suicide ploy. If the island was taken, the last remaining Japanese officers were to retreat to the lowest underground ammunition chamber—presumably followed by the American forces. From that chamber, the Japanese could seal off the entire tunnel system and then open two huge ocean gates—floodgates built into the walls of the system that could let the ocean in. The system would flood, killing both the Japanese and all the Americans now trapped inside. Kind of like a final ‘Screw you’ to the victorious American force.”
“Did the Japs use those gates in ’43?” Sanchez asked.
“They did. But a small team of special-mission Marines braved the rising waters and using primitive breathing apparatus managed to close the ocean gates, saving five hundred Marines.”
“How do you know this?” Bigfoot asked.
Schofield smiled weakly. “My grandfather was a member of that special team. His name was Lieutenant Michael Schofield. He led the team that held back the ocean.”
Schofield leaned back, staring at the map.
“The ammunition chambers . . .” he said. “If they’re like other World War II-era chambers, they’re big, hall-sized caverns. If we could lure the apes into one of them, we could seal them
all
inside and—hmmm . . .”
“What about finding the Buck and whoever else is behind this?” Sanchez said.
“Too risky. They could be anywhere on the island. They
are
also currently trying to kill us. No. We’ve been on the back foot all day. It’s time we got proactive, it’s time
we
set the agenda. And the way I see it, if we can pull this off,” Schofield said, “maybe they’ll find us. So what do you say, folks. Want to become gorilla bait?”
A T EXACTLY six p.m., the five Marines exited the
Nimitz
via the submarine docking door, swam over to the nearby shore and for the first time that day, set foot on Hell Island. The
Nimitz
loomed above them in the darkness, a dark shadow against the evening sky.
Schofield and his team quickly found an entrance to the underground tunnel system—a sixty-year-old cracked concrete archway that stank of decay, dust and the fearful sweat of soldiers long gone.
Inky
He stood, putting his silver anti-flash glasses back on, now looking more lethal than ever.
“Knowledge is a wonderful thing. Now that we’ve figured some of this out, it’s time to turn the tables.”
S CHOFIELD WAITED till dusk to leave the
Nimitz
.
If he was going to take on the island, the cover of darkness would be necessary. It also gave him a chance to do some research.
He dispatched Mother and Astro to find any maps of Hell Island. They found some in a stateroom, ever aware of the howls of the gorillas searching the ship for them.
When they returned, Schofield and his team pored over the maps. The most helpful one showed a network of underground tunnels running throughout the island:
“This used to be called Grant Island,” Schofield said. “Until we stormed it in 1943 and removed it from all maps, so it could be used as a secret staging post. The fighting here was some of the fiercest of the war, almost as bad as Okinawa and Iwo Jima. Two thousand Japanese defenders fought to the very end on Grant, not giving a single inch—not wanting to give up its airfield. We lost eight hundred Marines taking it. Thing was, we almost lost a lot more.”
“What do you mean?” Mother asked.
“Like Okinawa and Iwo Jima, Hell Island was honeycombed with tunnels—concrete tunnels that the Japanese built over two years, connecting all its gun emplacements, pillboxes, and ammo dumps. The Japanesecould move around the island unseen, popping up from hidden holes and firing at point-blank range before disappearing again.
“But the tunnels on Hell Island had one extra purpose. They had a feature not seen anywhere else in the Pacific war: a flooding valve system.”
“What was that?”
“It was the ultimate suicide ploy. If the island was taken, the last remaining Japanese officers were to retreat to the lowest underground ammunition chamber—presumably followed by the American forces. From that chamber, the Japanese could seal off the entire tunnel system and then open two huge ocean gates—floodgates built into the walls of the system that could let the ocean in. The system would flood, killing both the Japanese and all the Americans now trapped inside. Kind of like a final ‘Screw you’ to the victorious American force.”
“Did the Japs use those gates in ’43?” Sanchez asked.
“They did. But a small team of special-mission Marines braved the rising waters and using primitive breathing apparatus managed to close the ocean gates, saving five hundred Marines.”
“How do you know this?” Bigfoot asked.
Schofield smiled weakly. “My grandfather was a member of that special team. His name was Lieutenant Michael Schofield. He led the team that held back the ocean.”
Schofield leaned back, staring at the map.
“The ammunition chambers . . .” he said. “If they’re like other World War II-era chambers, they’re big, hall-sized caverns. If we could lure the apes into one of them, we could seal them
all
inside and—hmmm . . .”
“What about finding the Buck and whoever else is behind this?” Sanchez said.
“Too risky. They could be anywhere on the island. They
are
also currently trying to kill us. No. We’ve been on the back foot all day. It’s time we got proactive, it’s time
we
set the agenda. And the way I see it, if we can pull this off,” Schofield said, “maybe they’ll find us. So what do you say, folks. Want to become gorilla bait?”
A T EXACTLY six p.m., the five Marines exited the
Nimitz
via the submarine docking door, swam over to the nearby shore and for the first time that day, set foot on Hell Island. The
Nimitz
loomed above them in the darkness, a dark shadow against the evening sky.
Schofield and his team quickly found an entrance to the underground tunnel system—a sixty-year-old cracked concrete archway that stank of decay, dust and the fearful sweat of soldiers long gone.
Inky
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