Area 7 Read online

  Area 7

  by

  Matthew Reilly

  For John Schrooten, my friend.

  I'll try to be quick. Sincere thanks once again to:

  Natalie Freer - who gets to see (and put up with) my creative eccentricities up close. Her patience and generosity know no bounds.

  My brother, Stephen Reilly - tortured writer, constructive and creative critic, and good friend; and to his wife, Rebecca Ryan, because they come as a package.

  My wonderful parents - Ray and Denise Reilly - for encouraging me to build miniature movie sets for my Star Wars action figures when I was a kid; my creativity comes directly from them.

  My good friends John Schrooten, Nik and Simon Kozlina, the whole Kay clan (notably Don, who made me shrink the size of the cats in Temple), and to Paul Whyte for accompanying me on an extraordinary trip to Utah while researching this book.

  A special mention to two American friends – Captain Paul M. Woods, U.S. Army, and Gunnery Sergeant Kris Hankinson, USMC (retired), who generously gave of their time and assisted me with the military details of this book. Any mistakes are mine, and were made over their objections.

  And finally, once again, thanks to everyone at Pan Macmillan and Thomas Dunne Books. This is our fourth outing together and it still rocks. Thanks to Gate Paterson, Jane Novak, Sarina Rowell, Paul Kenny, and Pete Wolverton. And, of course, as always, to the sales reps for the countless hours they spend on the road between bookstores.

  To anyone who knows a writer, never underestimate the power of your encouragement.

  All right! Now on with the show...

  The single greatest fear that America faces today is that its military forces no longer tolerate the continuing incompetence of its civilian leadership.

  Mr. George K. Suskind,

  Defense Intelligence Agency,

  Evidence given before the House

  Sub-committee on the Armed Forces,

  22 July 1996

  The difference between a republic and an empire is the loyalty of one's army.

  Julius Caesar

  INTRODUCTION

  From: Katz, Caleb

  The C.B. Powell Memorial Address: "The Presidency"

  (Speech delivered at the School of Politics, Harvard University, 26 February 1999)

  There is no other institution in the world quite like the President of the United States.

  All at once, the person who holds this title becomes the leader of the fourth most populous nation on earth, the commander-in-chief of its armed forces, and the chief executive officer of what Harry Truman called "the largest going concern in the world."

  The use of the term "chief executive" has made comparisons with company structures inevitable, and to a certain extent, they are appropriate - although, what other corporate leaders in the world have 2-trillion-dollar budgets at their fingertips, a license to use the 82nd Airborne Division to enforce their will, and briefcases at their sides that can unleash an arsenal of thermonuclear devastation against their competitors?

  Among modern political systems, however, the American President is unique - for the simple reason that he is both head of government and head of state.

  Most nations separate these two functions. In the United Kingdom, for instance, the head of state is the Queen; the head of government is the Prime Minister. It is a separation born out of a history of tyrants - kings who wore the crown, but who also governed at their often erratic pleasure.

  But in the U.S., the man who runs the country is also the symbol of the country. In his words and his deeds, the President's every act is a barometer for the glory of the nation. For his strength is the people's strength.

  John F. Kennedy staring down the Soviets over Cuba in 1962.

  Harry Truman's nerves-of-steel decision to drop the atomic bomb on Japan in 1945.

  Or Ronald Reagan's confident smile.

  His strength is the people's strength.

  But there are dangers in this arrangement of things. For if the President is the embodiment of America, what happens when things go wrong?

  The assassination of John F. Kennedy.

  The resignation of Richard Nixon.

  The humiliation of William Jefferson Clinton.

  The death of Kennedy was the death of America's innocence. Nixon's resignation drove a knife into the heart of America's optimism. And the humiliation of Clinton was the global humiliation of America - at peace summits and press conferences around the world, the first question asked of Clinton was invariably directed at his sexcapades in a study adjoining the Oval Office.

  Be it in death or disgrace, decisiveness or courage, the President of the United States is more than just a man. He is an institution - a symbol - the walking, talking embodiment of a nation. On his back ride the hopes and dreams of 276 million people... [pp. 1-2]

  From: Farmer, J. T.

  "Coincidence or Co-ordinated Murder?

  The Death of Senator Jeremiah Woolf

  Article from: The Conspiracy Theorist Monthly [circulation: 152 copies]

  (Delva Press, April issue, 2001)

  ...The body was found in the woods surrounding the senator's isolated hunting cabin in the Kuskokwim Mountains in Alaska.

  Truth be told, at the time of his death Jerry Woolf was no longer a senator, having retired abruptly from Congress only ten months earlier, surprising all the pundits, citing family reasons for the unexpected move.

  He was still alive when they found him - no mean feat considering the high-velocity hunting bullet lodged in his chest. Woolf was immediately taken by helicopter to Elaine County Hospital, one hundred and fifty miles away, where emergency residents tried in vain to stem the blood flow.

  But the damage was too severe. After forty-five minutes of emergency treatment, former United States Senator Jeremiah K. Woolf died.

  Sounds simple, doesn't it? A terrible hunting accident. Like so many others that happen every year in this country.

  That's what your government would have you believe.

  Consider this: Blaine County Hospital records show that a patient named Jeremiah K. Woolf was declared dead in the emergency ward at 4:35 p.m. on the afternoon of February 6, 2001.

  That is the only record of the incident that exists. All other records of Woolf's examination at the hospital were confiscated by the FBI.

  Now consider this: on that very same day - February 6, 2001 - on the other side of the country, at exactly 9:35 p.m., Jeremiah Woolf's Washington townhouse was destroyed in an explosion, an explosion that killed his wife and only daughter. Investigators would later claim that this blast was caused by a gas leak.

  The FBI believes Woolf - previously a vibrant young senator, crusader against organized crime, and potential presidential candidate - was the victim of an extortion racket: leave us alone, or we'll kill your family.

  This is, without a doubt, a government smokescreen.

  If Woolf was being blackmailed, well, one has to ask: why? He had retired from the Senate ten months previously.

  And if he was killed in a routine hunting accident, why were the records of his emergency room procedures at Elaine County Hospital taken by the FBI?

  What really happened to Jerry Woolf? At the moment, we just don't know.

  But consider this final point: owing to the time difference, 9:35 p.m. in Washington, D.C., is 4:35 p.m. in Alaska.

  So at the end of the day, after all the talk of hunting accidents and Mafia blackmail and faulty gas valves is cast aside, one fact remains: at the exact same moment that former United States Senator Jerry Woolf's heart stopped beating in an emergency room in Alaska, his home on the other side of the country exploded in a gigantic ball of flames...

  PROLOGUE

  Protected Inmates' Wing,

  Leavenworth Federal P
enitentiary,

  Leavenworth, Kansas,

  20 January, 12:00 p.m.

  It had been his last request.

  To watch the inauguration ceremony on television.

  Sure, it had delayed the trip to Terre Haute by an hour, but then - so the powers-that-be at Leavenworth had reckoned – if the condemned man's last request was reasonable, who were they to refuse him?

  The television threw a flickering strobelike glow onto the concrete walls of the holding cell. Tinny voices came from its speakers:

  "...do solemnly swear..."

  "...do solemnly swear..."

  "...that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States..."

  "...that I will faithfully execute the office of President of the United States..."

  The condemned prisoner watched the television intently.

  And then - despite the fact that he had less than two hours to live - a smile began to spread across his face.

  The number on his prison shirt read: "T-77."

  He was an older man, fifty-nine, with a round, weather beaten face and slicked-down black hair. Despite his age, he was a big man, powerfully built - with a bull neck and broad shoulders. His eyes were a bottomless unreadable black and they glistened with intelligence. He'd been born in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and when he spoke, his accent was strong.

  Until recently, he had been a resident of T-Wing – that section of Leavenworth devoted to inmates who are not safe among the general prison population.

  Two weeks ago, however, he had been moved from T-Wing to Pre-Transit - otherwise known as the Departure Lounge - another special wing where those awaiting execution stayed before they were flown out to Terre Haute Federal Penitentiary in Indiana for execution by lethal injection.

  A former civil war fort, Leavenworth is a maximum security federal prison. This means it receives only those offenders who break federal laws - a class of individuals that variously includes violent criminals, foreign spies or terrorists, organized crime bosses, and members of the U.S. armed forces who sell secrets, commit crimes or desert.

  It is also perhaps the most brutal penitentiary in America.

  But in that peculiar way of prisons the world over, its inhabitants - men who have themselves killed or raped - have, over the years, developed a strange sense of justice.

  Serial rapists are themselves violated on a daily basis. Army deserters are beaten regularly, or worse, branded on their foreheads with the letter "D." Foreign spies, such as the four Middle Eastern terrorists convicted of the World Trade Center bombing in 1993, have been known to lose body parts.

  But by far the most ferocious treatment of all is reserved for one particular class of prisoner: traitors.

  It seems that despite all their own crimes, all their own atrocities, the American inmates of Leavenworth - many of them disgraced soldiers - still profess a deep love of their country. Traitors are usually killed within their first three days in the pen.

  William Anson Cole, the former CIA analyst who sold information to the Chinese government about an impending Navy SEAL mission to the Xichang Launch Center, the epicentre of China's space operations - information which led to the capture, torture and death of all six SEAL team members - was found dead in his cell two days after he had arrived at the prison. His rectum had been torn from repeated violations with a pool cue and he had been strangled, hog-style, with a bed leg tied across his throat – a crude simulation of the Chinese torture method of strangulation by bamboo pole.

  Ostensibly, prisoner T-77 was in Leavenworth for murder - or more precisely, for ordering the murder of two senior Navy officers - a crime which in the U.S. military carried the death sentence. However, the fact that the two Navy officers he'd had killed had been advisers to the Joint Chiefs of Staff elevated his crime to treason. High treason.

  That - and his own previous high ranking - had earned him a place in T-Wing.

  But even in T-Wing a man isn't entirely safe. T-77 had been beaten several times during his short residency there - on two occasions, so severely that he'd required blood transfusions.

  In his former life, his name had been Charles Samson Russell and he had been a three-star Lieutenant General in the United States Air Force. Call-sign: Caesar.

  He had a certified IQ of 182, genius level, and as such he had been a brilliant officer. Methodical and razor-sharp, he'd been the ultimate commander, hence his call-sign.

  But most of all... patient, Caesar thought now as he watched the flickering television screen in front of him.

  The two men on the screen - the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the President-Elect - were finishing their duet. They stood in gray, wintry sunshine, on the West Portico of the Capitol Building. The new President had his hand on a Bible.

  "...and will to the best of my ability…"

  "...and will to the best of my ability..."

  "...preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God."

  "...preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States, so help me God."

  Fifteen years, Caesar thought.

  Fifteen years, he had waited.

  And now, at last, it had happened.

  It hadn't been easy. There had been several false starts - including one who had made it to the election as a vice-presidential candidate, only to lose in a landslide. Four others had made it to the New Hampshire primary, but then failed to secure their parties' candidacy.

  And of course, you always had some - like that Woolf fellow - who would quit politics before they had even begun to truly explore their presidential potential. It was an extra expense, but no matter. Even Senator Woolf had served a useful purpose.

  But now...

  Now, it was different...

  Now, he had one...

  His theory had been born out of a very simple fact.

  For the last forty years, every American president bar two has hailed from two very elite clubs: state governors and federal senators.

  Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon were all senators before they became President. Carter, Reagan, and Clinton were all state governors. The only exceptions were George Bush Sr. and Gerald Ford. Bush was a member of the House of Representatives, not the Senate, and Ford's rise to the Presidency stands in a category of its own.

  But, as General Charles Russell had also discovered, men of influence were also men of extremely unpredictable health.

  The ravages of their political lifestyles - high stress, constant travel, chronic lack of exercise - often took a great toll on their bodies.

  And while getting the transmitter onto the heart of a sitting President was nigh on impossible, given the narrow source of American Presidents - senators and governors - getting it onto a man's coronary muscle before he became President wasn't out of the question.

  Because, after all, a man is just a man before he becomes President.

  The statistics for the next fifteen years spoke for themselves.

  Forty-two percent of U.S. senators had had gallbladder surgery during their time in office, gallstones being a common problem for overweight middle-aged men.

  Of the remaining fifty-eight percent, only four would avoid some sort of surgical procedure during their political careers.

  Kidney and liver operations were very common. Several heart bypasses - they were the easiest operations during which to plant the device - and not a few prostate problems.

  And then there had been this one.

  Halfway through his second term as governor of a large southwestern state, he had complained of chest pains and labored breathing. An exploratory procedure performed by a staff surgeon at the Air Force base just outside Houston had revealed an obstruction in the Governor's left lung, detritus from excessive smoking.

  Through a deft procedure involving state-of-the-art fiber-optic cameras and ultra-small wire controlled surgical instruments called nanotechnology, the obstruction was removed and the Governor told to quit smo
king.

  What the Governor did not know, however, was that during that operation the Air Force surgeon had attached a second piece of nanotechnology - a microscopic radio transmitter the size of a pin-head - to the outer wall of the Governor's heart.

  Constructed of evanescent plastic - a semiorganic material which, over time, would partially dissolve into the outer tissue of the Governor's heart - the transmitter would ultimately take on a distorted shape, giving it the appearance of a harmless blood clot, thus masking it from discovery by any observation techniques such as X-rays. Anything larger or more regularly shaped would be detected on an incoming President's first physical, and that just couldn't be allowed to happen.

  As a final precaution, it was inserted into the Governor's body "cold" - unactivated. The White House's AXS-7 antibugging system would detect an unauthorized radio signal in an instant.

  No.

  Activation would occur later, when the time was right.

  As usual, at the end of the procedure, one final operation was performed: a fine-grained plaster mold of the Governor's right hand was made.

  It would also be necessary, when the time came.

  The guards came for him ten minutes later.

  Cuffed and chained, General Charles "Caesar" Russell was escorted from his cell and taken to the waiting plane.

  The trip to Indiana passed without incident, as did the somber walk to the injection room.

  The record would later show that as he lay spread eagled on the injection table like a horizontal Christ, his arms and legs bound with worn leather straps, the prisoner refused to take the last rites. He had no last words, no final expression of remorse for his crimes. In fact, throughout the whole pre-injection ritual, he never said a word at all. This was consistent with Russell's post-trial actions - indeed, his execution had been fast-tracked because he had lodged no appeals of any kind.

  The military tribunal that had sentenced him to death had said that so heinous was his crime, he could never be allowed to leave federal custody alive.

  They had been right.

  At 3:37 p.m. on 20 January, the grim procedure took place. Fifty milligrams of sodium thiopental - to induce unconsciousness - was followed by ten of pancuronium bromide - to stop respiration - and then, finally, twenty milligrams of potassium chloride to stop Russell's heart.