Area 7 ss-2 Read online

  In a not-so-subtle division of management and labor, all

  the White House people who had remained up in the hangar

  either sat in the other glass-walled office on the southern

  side of the hangar or worked inside their helicopters, which,

  they said, were more suited to their rank than the spartan Air

  Force offices.

  They also—so Nicholas Tate had said to Gant when he

  had invited her to stay on Marine One with him—had better

  coffee, plunger stuff.

  Gant went with Schofield and the others.

  Ramrod Hagerty, on the other hand, sat over with the

  White House people.

  "No way, man," a small bespectacled corporal named

  Gus Gorman said. "The superbomb doesn't exist."

  Gorman was a thin, nerdy looking individual, with thick

  glasses, a big nose and a narrow scrawny neck. Not even full

  dress uniform could make him look sexy. Popular with the

  other troops for his almost-photographic memory and sharp

  wit, his call-sign "Brainiac" was a compliment, not an insult.

  "Bullshit," Elvis said, "DARPA made it in the nineties,

  in conjunction with the Navy ..."

  "But they could never make it work. Thing depended on

  54

  Matthew Reilly

  some element only found in meteorites and they could never

  find a live specimen of it"

  "You guys'll believe anything," a softly spoken voice

  said from the other side of the office.

  Everybody turned, Schofield included.

  The speaker was a new sergeant to the unit--an intense

  young man with a heavy-browed face, pug nose and deep

  brown eyes. He didn't talk much, so when he did it was

  something of a special occasion for the team. At first, it had

  been a trait which some had mistaken for contempt. But

  soon it was discovered that Sergeant Buck Riley Jr. just

  didn't like to talk unnecessarily.

  Riley Jr. was the son of a highly regarded Marine staff

  sergeant. His father, Buck Riley Sr., had also been a man

  Shane Schofield had known better than most.

  They had met under fire--back when Schofield had

  been in a god-almighty mess in Bosnia and Riley Sr. had

  been on the rescue team. They had become good friends and

  Riley Sr. had become Schofield's loyal staff sergeant. Sadly,

  he had also been on that fateful mission to Antarctica-- where he had been murdered in the most brutal fashion by

  an enemy whose name Schofield had been forbidden to

  mention by the Official Secrets Act.

  Sergeant Buck Riley Jr.--silent, intense and serious-- bore his father's call-sign with pride. He was known

  throughout the unit simply as "Book II"

  Book II looked at Elvis and Brainiac. "Do you guys seriously

  believe that DARPA has built a bomb that can destroy

  a third of the earth's mass?"

  "Yes," Elvis said.

  "No," Brainiac said.

  "Well, they haven't The superbomb is an urban

  myth," Book II said, "designed to keep the conspiracy theorists

  on the Internet and the gossipy old women in the

  United States Marine Corps happy. Want me to give you a

  couple more examples? That the FBI sends agents into

  prisons as deep cover operatives. That the United States

  Area 7 55

  Air Force has nuclear bombers stationed in commercial

  hangars at every major airport in the United States for use

  in the event of a sudden outbreak of war. That USAMRIID

  has developed a cure for AIDS but hasn't been allowed to

  release it. That the Air Force has developed a magnetic

  propulsion system that allows vehicles to float on air. That

  the losing tenderer in the bid to build the stealth bomber

  proposed a supersonic plane that could attain complete invisibility

  through the use of nuclear-powered air refraction

  --and built the plane anyway, even after they lost the

  bid. Heard any of those?"

  "No," Elvis said, "but they're way cool"

  "What about you, Captain?" Book II turned to

  Schofield. "You heard any of those before?"

  Schofield held the young sergeant's gaze. "I've heard

  about the last one, but not the others."

  He turned away from the debate, scanning the office

  around him.

  He frowned. Someone was missing.

  And then it hit him.

  "Hey, where's Warrant Officer Webster?" he said.

  the president of the united states stared out through

  the slanted observation windows, his mouth agape.

  Through the windows, in the middle of a high

  ceilinged, hall-like room, he saw a large freestanding cube made of a clear glasslike substance.

  It just sat there in the middle of the hall, not quite reaching

  the ceiling, not quite reaching the walls, a glass cube the

  size of a large living room, bounded on two sides by the elevated

  L-shaped observation structure.

  It was what lay inside the glass cube, however, that

  seized the President's attention.

  Indeed, he couldn't take his eyes off it.

  "The cube is made of high-tensile polyfiber, and has its

  own separate oxygen supply. It is completely airtight,"

  Colonel Harper said. "Should its structural integrity be compromised,

  56

  Matthew Reilly

  the cube's internal air pressure is automatically

  raised, so that no contagions can enter it."

  Harper gestured to one of the three scientists who had

  been up on the tarmac earlier. "Mr. President, I'd like you to

  meet Dr. Gunther Botha, the guiding force behind Project

  Fortune."

  The President shook Botha's hand. Botha was a fat,

  wide-faced, balding man of fifty-eight, and he spoke with a

  guttural South African accent. "It's a pleasure to meet you,

  Mr. President."

  "Dr. Botha is from--"

  "I know where Dr. Botha is from," the President said, a

  trace of disapproval in his voice. "I saw his file yesterday."

  Gunther Botha was a former member of the South

  African Defense Force's notorious Medical Battalion.

  Though not widely known, throughout the 1980's South

  Africa was second only to the Soviet Union in the creation

  and stockpiling of biological weapons, principally for use

  against the black majority. "

  But with the fall of the apartheid regime, Gunther Botha

  quickly found himself out of a job and directly in the firing

  line of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission. His clandestine

  hiring by the United States government in 1996 was

  not unlike its harboring of Nazi scientists after World War II.

  Specialists in Botha's chosen field of expertise were exceedingly

  hard to come by.

  The President turned back to look out through the observation

  windows. "So this is the vaccine ..." he said, gazing

  down at the clear fiberglass cube.

  "Yes, sir, it is," Botha said.

  "Tested?" The President didn't turn as he spoke.

  "Yes."

  "In serum-hydrate form?"

  "Yes."

  "Against the latest strain?"

  "We tested it against 9.1 yesterday afternoon, as soon as

  it arrived."

  Area 7 57
/>
  "Mr. President," Colonel Harper said, "if you'd like, we

  can give you a demonstration."

  A pause.

  "All right," the President said. "Do so."

  "where did he go?" schofield asked as he stood in the

  middle of the wide main hangar of Area 7 with Libby Gant.

  Warrant Officer Carl Webster--the man in charge of the

  Football--wasn't in either of the two Presidential helicopters,

  nor was he in the hangar's two offices. And a quick

  check with the Secret Service people had revealed that he

  hadn't gone with the President on the tour of the facility.

  Warrant Officer Webster was nowhere to be found.

  It was cause for concern because there were strict rules

  of protocol as to Webster's movements. If he wasn't with the

  President, he was supposed to stay close to Marine One at

  all times.

  "Take a look at the welcoming committee, the famous

  7th Squadron," Gant said, eyeing the three groups of P-90

  armed commandos stationed at various points around the

  hangar bay. The crack Air Force troops just watched

  Schofield and Gant impassively.

  "They look pretty mean to me," Schofield said.

  "They're jacked up," Gant said.

  "What?"

  "Yellow tinges to their eyes."

  "Steroids?"

  "Uh-huh," Gant said.

  "No wonder they look so edgy," Schofield said.

  "Elvis doesn't like them," Gant said. "Says he heard

  somewhere that they're, quote, 'unofficially racist.' You'll

  notice that there are no black members in these squads."

  It was true. Apart from a couple of AsianAmerican

  members scattered among them, the 7th Squadron units in

  the hangar were absolutely lily-white.

  "Yes, I've heard those rumors, too," Schofield said. Although

  no one liked to admit it, in some sections of the

  58

  Matthew Reilly

  armed forces, racism--particularly against black soldiers--

  was still a problem. And with their brutal selection courses,

  special forces units like the 7th Squadron could easily wield

  subtle discriminatory powers.

  Schofield nodded at the leaders of the three ten-man

  groups, distinguished from the others by the fact that they

  didn't have to hold their P-90's in their hands. Their machine

  guns were secured behind their shoulder blades, in back

  mounted holsters. "You know what they call the five 7th

  Squadron unit commanders at exercises?"

  "What?"

  "The Five Snakes. As the overall squadron leader, Kurt

  Logan commands one ten-man team, the first one, Alpha

  Unit. The other four units are run by four captains--McConnell,

  Willis, Stone and Carney. And they're good. When

  they've cared to show up at the interservice combat exercises

  at Bragg, they've always come in at number one. One

  time, a lone 7th Squadron unit took out three SEAL defensive

  teams all by itself--and that was without Logan."

  "Why do they call them the Five Snakes?" Gant asked.

  "It started out as a jealous joke among the other field

  commanders. Three reasons. One, because tactically they

  resemble snakes: they strike quickly and with maximum

  force, and with a total lack of mercy. Two, because, personally,

  they're all very cold individuals. They would never mix

  with their counterparts in the other services. Always stuck

  together."

  "And the third reason?"

  "Because each of their call-signs is a variety of aggressive

  snake."

  "Nice," Gant said wryly.

  They kept walking. Gant changed the subject: "You

  know, I had a good time last Saturday night."

  "You did?" Schofield turned to face her.

  "Yeah. Did you?"

  "Oh, yeah."

  Gant said, "I was just wondering, you know, because,

  well, you didn't ..."

  Area 7 59

  "Wait a second," Schofield said suddenly. "Something's

  wrong here."

  "What?"

  Schofield looked at the three 7th Squadron units stationed

  around the hangar again.

  One squad stood guard over by the regular elevator. The

  second group of ten men stood beside the wide aircraft elevator

  shaft. The third unit stood on the southeastern side of

  the hangar, over by a door that led into the two-story control

  building.

  It was at that moment that Schofield saw the sign on the

  door behind the third group of 7th Squadron men.

  And then, in his mind's eye, he saw it.

  "Come on," he said, heading back toward the offices.

  "Quickly."

  'THE ARMING CODES HAVE BEEN ENTERED, SIR," LOGAN SAID.

  "The Football is ready. Warrant Officer Webster was

  most ... forthcoming."

  The radio operators inside the control room continued

  their verbal updates:

  "--emergency sealing system ready--"

  "--self-contained oxygen supply ready--"

  "Major Logan," one of them said, "I'm still picking up

  those trace heat signatures in sector nine outside, out by the

  EEV."

  "Size?"

  "Same as before. Between twelve and seventeen inches.

  I'm not sure, sir, but I'd swear they've moved closer to the

  vent since the last time I looked."

  Logan looked at the satellite image. A zoomed-in black

  and-white shot of the desert to the east of the main complex

  showed about twenty-four rod-shaped white blobs arrayed

  in a wide three-hundred-yard circle around the Emergency

  Escape Vent.

  "Twelve to seventeen inches." Logan peered closely at

  the image. "Too small to be men. Probably just a pack of

  60

  Matthew Reilly

  desert rats. Get an enhanced image from the satellite, just to

  be sure. Keep an eye on them."

  The shadowy figure turned to face Logan. "Where is the

  President now?"

  "He's down in the testing lab on Level 4."

  "Contact Harper. Give him the green light. Tell him

  we're ready. Tell him the mission is go."

  "SUBJECT ONE HAS NOT BEEN IMMUNIZED WITH THE VACCINE,"

  Dr. Gunther Botha said in a neutral scientific voice.

  The President now stood in near darkness, in another

  area of Level 4, facing two brightly lit test chambers.

  Inside each chamber stood a completely naked man.

  Both men, in perverse contrast to their nakedness, wore gas

  masks and a series of electrodes attached to their chests.

  "Subject One is a white, Caucasian male, five foot

  seven inches, one hundred and sixty pounds, age thirty-six.

  Subject is wearing a standard-issue anti-contagion gas

  mask. Releasing the agent now."

  There was a soft hissing sound as a light mist of

  mustard-yellow aerosol particles was released into the first

  man's chamber. He was a thin man, gangly. He looked about

  himself fearfully as the gas entered his airtight room.

  The President said, "Where did you get the virus?"

  "Changchun," Botha said.

  The President nodded.

  Changchun was a remote town in northern Manchuria.

  Although the Chinese government denied it
, Changchun

  was the Chinese Army's chief biological weapons testing facility.

  It was said that political prisoners and captured foreign

  spies were sent there and used as guinea pigs for virus

  and nerve agent testing.

  The naked man in the gas chamber was still standing,

  still looking nervously about himself.

  "Secondary infection occurs via indirect ingestion

  through dermatological orifices—hair follicles in the skin,

  open cuts," Botha said blandly. "Without administration of

  62

  Matthew Reilly

  an effective vaccine, death will occur approximately thirty

  minutes after contact. For indirectly ingested nerve agents,

  this is a relatively fast kill rate.

  "But," Botha held up a finger, "when compared with the

  effects of direct inhalation of this agent, it is highly efficient."

  He pressed an intercom switch and addressed the man

  in the chamber. "Would you please remove your mask."

  In response, the man gave Botha the finger--firmly.

  Botha just sighed and pressed a button on a nearby console.

  Subject One received a severe shock through his chest

  electrodes.

  "I said, would you please remove your gas mask."

  Subject One slowly took off his mask.

  And immediately--violently--the virus took effect.

  The man clutched his stomach and coughed a deep,

  hacking cough.

  "As I said, far more efficient," Botha said.

  The man doubled over, started wheezing.

  "Gastrointestinal irritation begins within approximately

  ten seconds of onset."

  The man vomited explosively, splatting brown-green

  vomit all over the test booth's floor.

  "Stomach liquefication within thirty seconds ..."

  The man dropped to his knees, gasping for air. A

  chunky liquid dribbled down his chin. He clutched at the

  booth's glass wall, right in front of Botha.

  "Liver and kidney liquefication within a minute ..."

  The subject puked a bloody black sludge all over the

  window. Then he fell to the ground, shuddering and shivering.

  "Total organ failure within ninety seconds. Death

  within two minutes."

  Soon, the naked man inside the chamber--coiled in the

  fetal position--lay still.

  The President watched, trying to hide his revulsion.