Area 7 ss-2 Read online

  Others still--perhaps inspired by the launch of a Chinese

  space shuttle two days previously--suggested that

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  Matthew Reilly

  Area 8 housed the X-38, a sleek 747-launched offensive

  space shuttle. A black project run by the Ak Force in association

  with NASA, the X-38 was reputedly the world's first

  fight-capable space vehicle, an attack shuttle.

  Schofield ignored their speculation.

  He didn't have to guess that Area 8 had something to do

  with top-secret airplane development, probably space

  based. He could tell it from one simple fact.

  Although the Ak Force engineers had concealed it well,

  the regulation-size black bitumen runway of Area 8 actually extended another thousand yards in both directions--as a

  pale concrete landing strip hidden beneath a thin layer of

  sand and carefully placed tumbleweeds.

  It was an elongated runway, designed to launch and receive

  aircraft that needed an extra-long landing strip, which

  meant aircraft like space shuttles or--

  And then suddenly the President had emerged from the

  main hangar and they were on the move again.

  Originally, the Boss had intended to fly to Area 7 on Air

  Force One. It would be faster than Marine One, even though

  the distance was short

  But there had been a problem on Air Force One. An unexpected

  leak in the left wing's fuel tank.

  And so the Boss had taken Marine One--always on

  stand-by for precisely this situation.

  Which was why Schofield was now gazing at Area 7, lit

  up like a Christmas tree in the dim morning light.

  As he peered at the distant hangar complex, however,

  Schofield had a strange thought. Curiously, none of his colleagues

  on HMX-1 knew any stories about Area 7, not even

  wild unsubstantiated rumors.

  No one, it seemed, knew what went on at Area 7.

  LIFE IN THE IMMEDIATE VICINITY OF THE PRESIDENT OF THE

  United States was a world unto itself.

  It was at the same time both thrilling and frightening,

  Schofield thought.

  Thrilling because you were so close to one with so

  much power, and frightening because that man was surrounded

  by a great number of people who claimed his influence

  as their own.

  Indeed, even in his short time on board Marine One,

  Schofield had observed that at any one time, there were at

  least three competing power clusters vying for the President's

  attention.

  First was the President's own staff, those people ... largely self-important Harvard types ...whom the President

  had appointed to aid him on a range of matters: from national

  security and domestic policy, to the management of

  the press corps or the management of his political life.

  No matter what their field of expertise, at least insofar

  as Schofield could see, each of the President's personal staff

  seemed to have one all-encompassing goal: to get the President

  outside, onto the streets, and into the public eye.

  In direct contrast to this objective—indeed, in direct opposition

  to it—was the second group vying for the President's

  ear: his protectors, the United States Secret Service.

  Led by the stoic, no-nonsense and completely impassive

  Special Agent Francis X. Cutler, the Presidential Detail

  was constantly at loggerheads with the White House staff.

  Cutler—officially known as "Chief of the Detail," but

  known to the President merely as Frank—was renowned for

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  Matthew Reilly

  his coolness under pressure and his complete intransigence

  to pleas from political ass-kissers. With his narrow gray eyes

  and matching crew-cut hair, Frank Cutler could stare down

  any member of the President's staff and rebuff them with a

  single word, "No."

  The third and last group pressing for presidential attention

  was the crew of Marine One itself.

  Not only were they also subjected to the inflated egos of

  the presidential staff--Schofield would never forget his first

  flight on Marine One, when the President's Domestic Policy

  Adviser, a pompous twenty-nine-year-old lawyer from New

  York, had ordered Schofield to get him a double latte, and to

  "make it quick"--they were also often at odds with the Secret

  Service.

  Securing the President's safety may have been the job

  of the Secret Service, but when he was on HMX-1, so the

  Marine Corps reasoned, the Boss had at least six United

  States Marines on board with him at any given time.

  An uneasy truce had been brokered.

  While on board Marine One, the President's safety

  would be in Marine hands. As such, only key members of

  his Secret Service Detail--Frank Cutler and a few others-- would fly with him. The rest of his personal Detail would fly

  in the two chase helicopters.

  As soon as the President stepped off Marine One, however,

  his well-being was once again the exclusive responsibility

  of the United States Secret Service.

  gunman grier spoke into his helmet mike. "nighthawk

  Three, this is Nighthawk One. Go and check on Advance

  Team Two for me. This radio sphere is screwing up our long

  range comms. I'm picking up their All-Clear beacon, but I

  can't get any voice contact. They should be over at the exit

  vent. And if you get close enough, see if you can raise Area

  8 again. Find out what's happening with Air Force One."

  "Copy that, Nighthawk One," a voice replied over the

  short-wave. "On our way."

  Area 7 27

  From his position behind Grier and Dallas, Schofield

  saw the Super Stallion to their right peel away from the

  group and head off over the desert.

  The two remaining choppers of Marine Helicopter

  Squadron-1 continued on their way.

  IN A DARKENED ROOM SOMEWHERE, A BLUE-UNIFORMED MAN wearing a radio headset and seated in front of an illuminated

  computer display spoke quietly into his wraparound

  microphone.

  "--Initiating primary satellite signal test ... now--"

  He pressed a button on his console.

  "what the hell--?" dallas said, touching her earpiece.

  "What is it?" Gunman Grier asked.

  "I don't know," Dallas said, swiveling in her seat. "I just

  picked up a spike on the microwave band."

  She looked at the microwave display screen--it depicted

  a series of jagged spikes and troughs--then shook her

  head. "Strange. Looks like an incoming microwave signal

  just hit us and then bounced away."

  "Antibugging was done this morning," Grier said.

  "Twice."

  Comprehensive sweeps for listening devices planted on

  Marine One--and her passengers--were done with rigorous

  regularity. It was nigh on impossible to plant a transmitting

  or receiving device on the President's helicopter.

  Dallas peered at her screen, shrugging. "The signal's

  too small to be a location beacon. Ditto, speech or computer

  data. It didn't send or take any information--it's as if it was

  just, well, checking to see if we were here." She turne
d to

  Grier questioningly.

  The Presidential Helicopter Pilot frowned. "Most probably

  it's just a surge in the radiosphere, a deflected microwave

  signal. But let's not take any chances." He turned to

  Schofield. "Captain, if you wouldn't mind, would you please

  do a sweep of the aircraft with the magic wand?"

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  Matthew Reilly

  "--return signal received," the console operator in

  the darkened room said. "Primary signal test successful. The

  device is operational. Repeat. The device is operational. Switching back to dormant mode. All right. Commencing

  test of secondary signal--"

  SCHOFIELD STEPPED INTO THE MAIN CABIN OF MARINE ONE,

  waving an AXS-9 digital spectrum analyzer over the walls,

  seats, ceiling and floor, searching for anything that was

  emitting an outgoing signal.

  As one would expect of the President's helicopter, the

  interior of Ml was plush. Indeed, with its deep maroon carpet

  and widely spaced seats, it looked more like the first

  class section of a commercial airliner than the hold of a

  military aircraft.

  Twelve beige leather seats took up most of the main

  cabin. Each seat had the Seal of the President of the United

  States embroidered on it, as did the oversized armrests that

  adjoined each chair and the scotch glasses and coffee mugs,

  just in case anyone forgot in whose presence they were

  traveling.

  At the rear of the central area, guarded at all times by a

  Marine in full dress uniform, was a polished mahogany door

  that led to the aft-most section of the helicopter.

  It was the President's private office.

  Small but elegantly appointed--and featuring an amazingly

  compact arrangement of phones, faxes, computers and

  televisions--Marine One's office allowed the Boss to monitor

  the nation's business wherever he happened to be.

  At the very rear of the President's office, behind a small

  pressure-sealed door, was one final feature of Marine One

  which was reserved for use in only the most dire of circumstances

  --a small one-man ejection unit, the Presidential escape

  pod.

  Schofield waved his spectrum analyzer over the seats in

  the first-class section, searching for bugs.

  Area 7 29

  Seated there were Frank Cutler and five of his Secret

  Service people. They peered out the windows, ignoring

  Schofield as he did his sweep around them.

  Also there were a couple of the President's advisers--

  his Deputy Chief of Staff, his Communications Director--

  both of whom flicked through thick manila folders.

  Standing above them, manning the two exit doors at either

  end of the main cabin, were a pair of straight-backed

  United States Marines.

  There was one more person seated in the main cabin.

  A stocky no-necked man dressed in an olive U.S. Army

  uniform, sitting quietly at the back of the cabin, in the first

  class seat closest to the President's office.

  To look at him, with his carrot-red hair and bushy orange

  mustache, he didn't seem like anyone special, and truth

  be told, he wasn't anyone special.

  He was an Army warrant officer named Carl Webster,

  and he followed the President wherever he went--not because

  of any special expertise or knowledge he possessed,

  but because of the extremely important object handcuffed to

  his right wrist: a stainless-steel briefcase that contained the

  codes and the activation switches to America's nuclear arsenal,

  a briefcase known as "the Football."

  Schofield finished his sweep, including a short "excuse me" check of the President's office.

  Nothing.

  There was not a single bug to be found on the helicopter.

  He returned to the cockpit, just in time to hear Gunman

  Grier say into his mike: "Copy that, Nighthawk Three, thank

  you. Continue on to the vent."

  Grier turned to his copilot. "Air Force One's back on

  deck. It was just a valve leak. It'll stay at Area 8. We'll bring

  the Boss back after our little visit to Area 7. Scarecrow?"

  "Nothing," Schofield said. "The helicopter's clean."

  Grier shrugged. "Must have been the radiosphere.

  Thanks, Scarecrow."

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  Matthew Reilly

  Suddenly Grier touched his helmet as another message

  came through.

  He sighed wearily as the voice at the other end nattered

  into his ear.

  "We'll do our best, Colonel," he said, "but I make no

  promises." Grier switched off his mike and shook his head.

  "Fucking Ramrod."

  He turned to Schofield and Dallas. "Ladies and gentlemen,

  our esteemed White House Liaison Officer has asked

  us to pick up the pace a little. Apparently, the Boss has an afternoon tea with the Washington Ladies' Auxiliary to get to,

  and Liaison Officer Hagerty thinks we're not going fast

  enough to meet his schedule."

  Dallas snuffed a laugh. "Good ol' Ramrod."

  When it came to the use of Marine One, all White

  House-Marine Corps correspondence went through a Marine

  colonel called the White House Liaison Officer, a position

  which for the last three years had been held by Colonel

  Rodney Hagerty, USMC.

  Unfortunately, Hagerty, forty-one years old, tall and

  lanky, with a pencil-thin mustache and a far too proper manner,

  was regarded by many in HMX-1 as the worst kind of

  soldier--a ladder climber, but also a ruthless expert in office

  politics, someone more interested in getting stars on his

  shoulders than actually being a United States Marine. But as

  so often happens, the upper echelons of the Corps didn't see

  this and kept promoting him nonetheless.

  Even Schofield disliked him. Hagerty was a bureaucrat--a bureaucrat who had obviously come to enjoy his proximity

  to power. Although his official call-sign was "Hot Rod," his

  rigid adherence to procedure and protocol, even when it was

  patently impractical, had earned him an alternate call-sign

  among the troops: "Ramrod."

  AT THAT VERY SAME MOMENT, THE LONE SUPER STALLION chopper that was Nighthawk Three was landing in a cloud of

  dust on the sandy desert plain. About half a mile to the west

  stood the low rocky mountain that housed Area 7.

  Area 7 31

  As the big chopper's tires hit the ground, four Marines

  dressed in full combat attire leaped out from it and ran over

  to a small trench carved into the rock-hard desert floor.

  The trench housed Area 7's EEV--Emergency Escape Vent--the well-concealed exit point of a long underground

  tunnel that provided emergency egress from Area 7. Today it

  was the primary escape route from the complex, in the unlikely

  event that the President encountered any trouble there.

  The lead Marine, a lieutenant named Corbin "Colt"

  Hendricks, approached the dusty earthen hole, accompanied

  by his three subordinates, MP-5/10--sometimes called the

  MP-10, they were 10 mm versions of the Heckler & Koch

  MP-5--in hand.

  A steady beep-pause-beep warbled in Hendricks's earpi
ece:

  Advance Team 2's All-Clear beacon. The A-C beacon

  couldn't transmit voice messages, but its powerful digital

  signal still provided a worthwhile service: if Advance Team

  2 encountered any kind of ambush or disturbance, its lead

  agent simply flicked off the All-Clear beacon and everyone

  else in the presidential entourage would know that danger

  was afoot. Its presence now was reassuring.

  Hendricks and his squad came to the edge of the trench

  and looked down into it.

  "Oh shit ..." Hendricks breathed.

  the other two presidential helicopters raced toward

  Restricted Area 7.

  "Hey, Scarecrow?" Gunman Grier turned in his seat to

  face Schofield. "Where's your harem?"

  Through his reflective silver sunglasses, Schofield offered

  a crooked smile to the Presidential helicopter pilot.

  "They're over on Nighthawk Two today, sir," he said.

  Grier was referring to the two female members of

  Schofield's former unit who had joined him on his tour on

  board Marine Helicopter Squadron-1 ... Staff Sergeant Elizabeth "Fox" Gant and Gunnery Sergeant Gena "Mother" Newman.

  As a former commander of a Marine Force Reconnaissance

  Unit, Schofield was something of a rarity on board

  Marine One.

  Owing to the largely ceremonial duties associated with

  working on the President's helicopter and to the fact that

  time spent on board the helicopter is not counted as "active

  deployed airtime," many Marines choose to avoid HMX-1

  duty. Indeed, with few exceptions, most of the troops assigned

  to HMX-1 are relatively junior soldiers who won't

  miss any promotional opportunities.

  So to have a former Recon commander on board was

  highly unusual, but something which Gunman Grier welcomed.

  He liked Schofield. He'd heard on the grapevine that he

  was a gifted field commander—a man who looked out for

  his men, and as a result, got the very best out of them.

  Grier had also heard about what had happened to

  Area 7 33

  Schofield on his last mission and he respected the young

  captain for it.

  He also liked both Mother and Gant--admired their attitudes