Hell Island - Matthew Reilly [10]
‘That’s right,’ Pennebaker said. ‘When an outside agent uses a grafted microchip to control the subject.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Mother sighed. ‘Poindexter, you musta read a million books in college filled with words I couldn’t even understand, but didn’t you just once think about reading Frankenstein?’
Pennebaker responded, ‘You have to believe me. The results were astonishing, at least at the start. The apes were perfectly obedient and shockingly effective. We taught them how to use weapons. We even created modified M-4 assault rifles for them, to accommodate their bigger hands. But even when they lost their guns, they were still hyper-effective—they could crush a man’s head with their bare hands or bite his whole face off.’
As Pennebaker spoke, Schofield stole a glance at his four men guarding the north–south catwalk. None of them had moved.
He keyed his UHF channel: ‘Astro? Hulk? Any contacts?’
‘Not a thing from the north, sir.’
‘Ditto the south, sir. It’s too quiet here.
’Schofield turned back to Pennebaker. ‘You’re saying you tested these things against human troops?’
Pennebaker bowed his head. ‘Yes. Against three companies of Marines that we had brought here from Okinawa. What are you guys?’
‘Marines,’ Mother growled.
Pennebaker swallowed. ‘The apes annihilated them. Down on the battlefield and also on the island proper. Five hundred gorillas versus 600 Marines. It was a hell of a fight. The gorillas lost heaps in the opening exchange, but they just weathered the losses without a backward step. The chips in their heads don’t allow for ineffective emotions like fear. So the apes just kept coming, climbing over the piles of their dead, until the Marines were toast.’
Mother pushed her face—and pistol—into Pennebaker’s. ‘You call a Marine toast again, fucknut, and I’ll waste you right now.’
Schofield said softly, ‘And fear is not an ineffective emotion, Mr Pennebaker.’
Pennebaker shrugged. ‘Whatever. You see, it was then the apes started doing . . . unexpected . . . things. Independent strategic thinking; killing their own wounded. And then there were the more unseemly things, like cutting the hands off their vanquished enemies and piling them up.’
‘Yeah, heard about that,’ Mother said. ‘Charming.’
‘And then they turned on you,’ Schofield said.
‘And then they turned on us. The most unexpected thing of all. While we were looking the other way, observing the exercise, they sent a subteam to take this tower. Took us by surprise. They’re smart, tactical. They outthought us and now they own this ship and the island. Marines, welcome to the end of your lives.’
‘We’re not dead yet,’ Schofield said.
‘Oh, yes you are. You’re completely screwed,’ Pennebaker said. ‘You have to understand: you can’t beat these things. They are stronger than you are. They are faster. Christ, they’ve been bred to fight for longer, to stay awake for ninety-six hours at a time—four days—so if they don’t kill you straight away, they’ll just wait you out and get you later, like they did with the last few regular Marines. Add to that, their technological advantages—Signet-5 radio-locaters, surgically-implanted digital headsets—and your headstones are practically engraved. These things are the evolution of the modern soldier, Captain, and they’re so damned good, even their makers couldn’t control them.’
Mother shook her head. ‘How do you geniuses manage to keep doing things like this—?’
Without warning, a voice exploded in Schofield’s earpiece: Astro’s voice.
‘Oh God no, we missed them! Shit! Captain! Duck!’
Standing with his back to the main hangar, Schofield didn’t turn to verify Astro’s warning.
He just obeyed, trusting his man, and dived to the floor—a bare instant before a black mansized creature came swooping in over his head and slammed to the floor right where he’d been standing.
Had Schofield remained standing for even a