Area 7 ss-2 Read online

  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.

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  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 smoking.

  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

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  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

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  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.

  At 3:40 p.m., three minutes later, Lieutenant General

  Charles Samson Russell was declared dead by the Terre Haute county coroner.

  since the general had no living relatives, his body was

  taken from the prison by members of the United States Air

  Force for immediate cremation.

  At 3:52 p.m.--twelve minutes after he had been declared

  officially dead--as his body was being rushed

  through the streets of Terre Haute, Indiana, in the back of an

  Air Force ambulance, two electroshock defibrillator paddles

  were applied to the dead General's chest and charged.

  "Clear!" one of the Air Force medical personnel yelled.

  The General's body convulsed violently as a wave of

  raw electric current shot through his vascular system.

  It happened on the third application of the paddles.

  On the electrocardiogram monitor on the wall, a small

  spike appeared.

  The General's heartbeat had resumed.

  Within moments, it was pulsing at a regular rhythm.

  As General Russell well knew, death occurs when the

  heart is no longer able to deliver oxygen to the body. The act

  of respiration--breathing--oxygenates a person's blood,

  and then the person's heart delivers that oxygenated blood to

  the body.

  It was the supply of re
oxygenated blood coursing

  through Russell's arteries that had kept him alive for that

  crucial twelve minutes--blood that had been biogenetically

  crammed with oxygen-rich red cells; blood which during

  that twelve-minute period had continued to supply Russell's

  brain and vital organs with oxygen, even though his heart

  had stopped beating--blood which had been supplied to the

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  General during the two transfusions that had been required

  after his unfortunate beatings at Leavenworth.

  The military tribunal had said that he would never leave

  federal custody alive.

  They had been right.

  while all this was happening, in a stark empty cell in

  the Departure Lounge at Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary,

  the rickety old television remained on.

  On it, the newly crowned President--smiling, ecstatic,

  elated--waved to the cheering crowds.

  O'Hare International Airport,

  Chicago, Illinois

  3 July (Six months later)

  they found the first one at o'hare in chicago, sitting

  inside an empty hangar at the farthest reaches of the airfield.

  A regulation early morning sweep with an electromagnetic

  reader had revealed a weak magnetic signal emanating

  from the suspect hangar.

  The hangar had been completely deserted, except for

  the warhead standing in the exact center of the cavernous interior

  space.

  From a distance, it looked like a large silver cone about

  five feet tall mounted on a cargo pallet. Up close, one would

  recognize it more easily as a conical warhead designed to be

  inserted into a cruise missile.

  Wires sprang out from its sides, connecting the warhead

  to a small upwardly pointed satellite dish. Through a clear

  rectangular window set into the warhead's side, there could

  be seen a luminous purple liquid.

  Plasma.

  Type-240 blast plasma. An extremely volatile quasi

  nuclear liquid explosive.

  Enough to level a city.

  Further investigations revealed that the magnetic signal

  that had been detected inside the hangar was part of a

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  complex proximity sensor array surrounding the warhead. If

  anyone stepped within fifty feet of the bomb, a red warning

  light began to flash, indicating that the device had been

  armed.

  Lease records revealed that the empty hangar belonged

  to the United States Air Force.

  Then it was discovered that according to the airfield's

  log books, no Air Force personnel had set foot inside that

  hangar for at least six weeks.

  A call was made to USAF Transportation Command at

  Scott Air Force Base.

  The Air Force was vague, noncommittal. It knew nothing

  about any plasma-based warheads at its civilian hangars.

  It would check with its people and get back to O'Hare

  ASAP.

  It was then that reports came flooding in from around

  the country.

  Identical warheads--all of them surrounded by magnetic

  proximity sensors; all with fold-out satellite dishes

  pointing up into the sky--had been found inside empty Air

  Force hangars at all three of New York's major airports:

  JFK, La Guardia and Newark.

  And then Dulles in Washington called.

  Then LAX.

  San Francisco. San Diego.

  Boston. Philadelphia.

  St. Louis. Denver.

  Seattle. Detroit.

  Fourteen devices in all, at fourteen airports across the

  country.

  All armed. All set. All ready to go off.

  All they were waiting for now was the signal.

  FIRST CONFRONTATION

  3 July/ 0600 Hours

  THE THREE HELICOPTERS THUNDERED OVER THE ARID DESERT

  plain, booming through the early morning silence.

  They flew in tight formation—like they always did

  ... shooting low over the tumbleweeds, kicking up a tornado of

  sand behind them, their freshly waxed sides glinting in the

  dawn light.

  The giant Sikorsky VH-60N flew out in front—again,

  like it always did—flanked on either side by two menacing

  CH-53E Super Stallions.

  With its pristine white roof and hand-polished dark-green

  flanks, the VH-60N is unique among American military helicopters.

  It is built for the United States government in a high

  security "caged" section at the Sikorsky Aircraft plant in Connecticut.

  It is non-deployable—meaning that it is never used

  in any operational capacity by the United States Marine

  Corps, the branch of the military charged with its upkeep.

  It is used for one thing, and one thing only. And it has

  no replicas on active duty—and for good reason, for no one

  but a few highly cleared Marine engineers and executives at

  Sikorsky can know all of its special features.

  Paradoxically, for all this secrecy, the VH-60N is without

  a doubt the most recognized helicopter in the Western

  world.

  On air traffic control displays, it is designated "HMX-1,"

  Marine Helicopter Squadron One, and its official radio call sign

  is "Nighthawk." But over the years, the helicopter that

  ferries the President of the United States over short-tomedium

  distances has come to be known by a simpler

  name—Marine One.

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  Known as "Ml" to those who fly in it, it is rarely observed

  in flight, and when it is, it is usually in the most demure

  of circumstances--taking off from the manicured

  South Lawn of the White House or arriving at Camp David.

  But not today.

  Today it roared over the desert, transporting its famous

  passenger between two remote Air Force bases located in

  the barren Utah landscape.

  Captain Shane M. Schofield, USMC, dressed in his full

  blue dress "A" uniform--white peaked hat; navy-blue coat

  with gold buttons; medium-blue trousers with red stripe;

  spit-polished boots; white patent leather belt with matching

  white holster, inside of which resided an ornamental nickel

  plated M9 pistol--stood in the cockpit of the Presidential

  helicopter, behind its two pilots, peering out through the

  chopper's reinforced forward windshield.

  At five-ten, Schofield was lean and muscular, with a

  handsome narrow face and spiky black hair. And although

  they were not standard attire for Marines in full dress uniform,

  he also wore sunglasses--a pair of wraparound anti

  flash glasses with reflective silver lenses.

  The glasses covered a pair of prominent vertical scars

  that cut down across both of Schofield's eyes. They were wounds from a previous mission and the reason for his operationatcall-sign,

  "Scarecrow."

  The flat desert plain stretched out before him, dull yellow

  against the morning sky. The dusty desert floor rushed

  by beneath the bow of the speeding helicopter.

  In the near distance, Schofield saw a low mountain--

  their destination.

  A cluster of buildings lay nestled at the base of ther />
  rocky hill, at the end of a long concrete runway, their tiny

  lights just visible in the early light. The main building of the

  complex appeared to be a large airplane hangar, half-buried

  in the side of the mountain.

  It was United States Air Force Special Area (Restricted)

  7, the second Air Force base they were to visit that day.

  "Advance Team Two, this is Nighthawk One, we are on

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  final approach to Area 7. Please confirm venue status," the

  pilot of Ml, Marine Colonel Michael "Gunman" Grier said

  into his helmet mike.

  There was no reply.

  "I say again, Advance Team Two. Report."

  Still no reply.

  "It's the jamming system," Grier's copilot, Lieutenant

  Colonel Michelle Dallas, said. "The radio guys at 8 said to

  expect it. These bases are all Level-7 classified, so they're

  covered at all times by a satellite-generated radio sphere.

  Short-range transmissions only, to stop anybody transmitting

  information out."

  Earlier that morning, the President had visited Area 8, a

  similarly isolated Air Force base about twenty miles to the

  east of Area 7. There, accompanied by his nine-man Secret

  Service Detail, he had been taken on a brief tour of the facility,

  to inspect some new aircraft stationed in its hangars.

  While he had done so, Schofield and the other thirteen

  Marines stationed aboard Marine One and its two escort

  choppers had waited outside, twiddling their thumbs underneath

  Air Force One, the President's massive Boeing 747.

  arguing over why they hadn't been allowed inside the main

  hangar of Area 8. The general consensus--based solely on

  wild unsubstantiated gossip--had been that it was because

  the facility housed some of the Air Force's top-secret new

  airplanes.

  One soldier, a big-smiling, loud-talking AfricanAmerican

  sergeant named Wendall "Elvis" Haynes, said that

  he'd heard they had the Aurora in there, the legendary low

  orbit spy plane capable of speeds over Mach 9. The current

  fastest plane in the world, the SR-71 Blackbird, could only

  reach Mach 3.

  Others had proffered that a whole squadron of F-44's--

  ultra-nimble, wedge-shaped fighters based on the flying

  wing shape of the B-2 stealth bomber--were stationed there.