Area 7 ss-2 Read online

  It was beyond cruel, this method of death, even for a

  man such as this.

  area 7

  Nevertheless, he tried to justify Subject One's grisly

  death in the light of what Subject One had done during his

  life. With a friend, Leon Roy Hailey had tortured nine

  women in the back of his van, laughing at them as they

  begged for mercy. The two men had recorded the girls' death

  throes on a video recorder for later gratification. The President had seen those tapes.

  He also knew that Leon Roy Hailey had been sentenced

  to four hundred and fifty-two years in prison for his crimes

  He was never to leave prison alive. And so, after five brute

  years in jail, he--like every other test subject at Area 7, all

  of them serving multiple life sentences--had elected to submit himself to scientific testing.

  "Subject Two," Botha said tonelessly, "has been given

  the vaccine in serum-hydrate form. Serum was mixed into

  a glass of water he drank exactly thirty minutes ago. Subject is

  a white, Caucasian male, six feet eight inches, two hundred

  and fifteen pounds, age thirty-two. Releasing the agent now.

  Again, the hissing came, followed by the sudden puff of

  mustard-yellow aerosol mist.

  The man in the second chamber saw the gas enter his

  booth, but unlike the first test subject, he didn't do anything

  in response. He was much bigger than the first man--broad

  chested, too, with bulging biceps, enormous fists and a small

  elliptical head that seemed way too tiny for his body.

  With his gas mask on and the yellow mist falling all

  around him, he just stared out through the one-way glass of

  the test chamber, as if a painful agonizing death didn't worry

  him in the slightest.

  No coughing. No spasming. With the gas mask on, the

  virus hadn't affected him yet.

  Botha flicked the intercom switch: "Take off your mask

  please."

  Subject Two obeyed Botha's command without objection,

  removed his mask.

  The President saw the man's face, and this time he

  caught his breath.

  It was a face he had seen many times before--on television,

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  Matthew Reilly

  in the newspapers. It was the evil tattooed face of Lucifer

  James Leary, the serial killer known across America as

  "the Surgeon of Phoenix."

  He was the man who had killed thirty-two hitchhikers,

  most of them young backpackers, whom he had picked up

  on the interstate between Las Vegas and Phoenix between

  1991 and 1998. In every case, Leary had left his trademark

  --a piece of the victim's jewelry, usually a ring or

  necklace, lying on the roadway at the spot where the victim

  had been abducted.

  A disgraced former medical student, Leary would take

  his victims to his home in Phoenix, amputate their limbs and

  then eat those limbs in front of them. The discovery of his

  house by FBI agents--complete with blood-smeared basement

  and two live but partially eaten victims--had horrified

  America.

  Even now, Lucifer Leary looked like the picture of evil.

  The entire left-hand side of his face was covered by a black

  tattoo depicting five vertical claw marks, as if Freddy

  Krueger himself had slashed his razor-tipped fingers viciously

  down Leary's cheek. The tattooed slash marks were

  impressive in their detail--torn ragged skin, imitation

  blood--designed to evoke maximum revulsion.

  At that moment, to the President's horror, Leary smiled at the observation window, revealing hideous yellow teeth.

  It was then that it hit the President.

  Even though his gas mask was off, Leary didn't seem to

  be affected by the airborne virus.

  "As you will see," Botha said proudly, "even when the

  virus is inhaled directly into the lungs from the air, an orally

  administered vaccine delivered in serum-hydrate form is effective

  in preventing infection. The vaccine neutralizes the

  invading virus by restricting the release of the protein diethylpropanase by the virus, a protein which attacks the pigmentation enzyme metahydrogenase and the blood group

  protein, DB--"

  "In English, please," the President said tersely.

  Botha said, "Mr. President, what you have just seen is a

  Area 7 65

  quantum leap forward in biotechnological warfare. It is the

  world's first genetically engineered biological weapon, a

  completely synthetic agent, so there are no natural cures.

  And it works with a degree of efficiency the likes of which I

  have never seen before. It is a purely constructed virus, and

  make no mistake, it has been constructed in a very particular

  way.

  "It is an ethnic bullet, designed to kill only certain races of people, people possessed of certain ethnically exclusive

  genes. In this case, it attacks only those people who

  are possessed of the enzyme metahydrogenase and DB

  blood protein. These are the enzymes which cause white

  skin pigmentation, the characteristic enzymes of Caucasian

  people.

  "Mr. President, the same enzyme that makes our skin

  white makes us susceptible to this virus. It is extraordinary. I

  don't know how the Chinese did it. My government in South

  Africa tried for years to develop a virus that it could put in

  the water supply which would make only black people sterile,

  but we never succeeded.

  "But from the look of this agent, it would not be difficult

  to adapt the genetic makeup of the virus so that it would

  also attack African Americans, since their pigmentation enzyme

  is a variant of metahydrogenase--"

  "Bottom line," the President said.

  "The bottom line is simple, Mr. President," Botha said.

  "The only people safe from this virus are people of Asian

  origin, because they do not possess these pigmentation enzymes at all. As such, they would be immune from the agent while Caucasians and African Americans everywhere would die.

  "Mr. President. Allow me to introduce you to the latest

  Chinese biological weapon. Meet the Sinovirus."

  "I'M TELLING YOU, THERE'S SOMETHING NOT RIGHT HERE,"

  Schofield said.

  "Bullshit, Captain." Ramrod Hagerty waved his hand

  dismissively. "You've been reading too many comic books."

  "What about Webster, then? I can't find him anywhere.

  He's not allowed to just disappear."

  "Probably in the John."

  "No, I checked there," Schofield said. "And Nighthawk

  Three? Where are they? Why hasn't Hendricks called in?"

  Hagerty just stared at him blankly.

  Schofield said, "Sir, with all due respect, if you would

  just look at where these 7th Squadron guys are standing ..."

  Hagerty turned in his chair. He, Schofield and Gant

  were in the southern office of the main hangar, with the

  small group of White House people. Hagerty casually

  looked out through the office's windows at the 7th Squadron

  commandos spaced around the hangar outside.

  "Looks like they're guarding every entrance." Hagerty

  shrugged. "To stop us going into areas we're not supposed

 
to."

  "No, sir, they're not. Look closely. The group to the

  north are guarding the regular elevator. The middle group

  are guarding the aircraft elevator. They're both fine. But look

  at the group over by the control building, the group in front

  of the door."

  "Yeah, so ..."

  "Sir, they're guarding a storage closet."

  Area 7

  67

  Hagerty looked from Schofield to the Air Force commandos.

  It was true. They were standing in front of a door

  marked "storage."

  "That's very nice, Captain. I'll put your observations in

  my report." Hagerty resumed his paperwork.

  "But sir ..."

  "I said, I'll put your observations in my report, Captain

  Schofield. That will be all."

  Schofield straightened.

  "With respect, sir, have you ever been in combat?" he said.

  Hagerty froze, looked up. "I'm not sure if I like your

  tone, Captain."

  "Have you ever been in combat?"

  "I was in Saudi during Desert Storm."

  "Fighting?"

  "No. Embassy staff."

  "Sir, if you'd ever been in combat, you'd know that those

  three groups of Air Force commandos are not standing in defensive

  positions. Those are offensive positions. More than

  that, those men are perfectly placed to rout these two offices--"

  "Rubbish."

  Schofield grabbed the sheet of paper Hagerty had been

  writing on and scribbled a quick map of the hangar:

  c=3<)

  c=>r--)

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  Matthew Reilly

  "This is where they are now," Schofield tapped the three

  big black dots on the diagram. "Twelve o'clock, ten o'clock

  and four o'clock. But when they move like this ..."

  Schofield added some arrows to his diagram:

  K

  C>

  "... we've got serious trouble. All the Marines and Secret

  Service people over in the northern office will face the

  full force of the attack, while the White House people here

  in the southern office will naturally run the other way--right

  into the third unit of 7th Squadron soldiers."

  Hagerty looked at Schofield's diagram for a long moment.

  Then he said, "That has got to be the stupidest thing I've

  ever heard, Captain. These are American servicemen."

  "For Christ's sake, just listen to me--"

  "No, you listen to me," Hagerty spat. "Don't think for a

  moment that I don't know who you are. I know all about

  Wilkes Ice Station. I know what happened there. But just because

  you were some kind of hero once doesn't give you a

  license to spout out fucking conspiracy theories and expect

  to be believed. I've been in this Corps for twenty-two years

  and I have risen to where I am by--"

  "--what? Pushing pencils?" Schofield said.

  Hagerty fell silent. His face grew beet root red.

  Area 7 69

  "That's it, Schofield. For the sake of the Corps, I won't

  make a scene here, but when we get back to Quantico, as

  soon as we touch down, you will be taken into custody and

  held for court martial on charges of gross insubordination.

  Now get the fuck out of my sight."

  Schofield just shook his head in exasperation and left.

  "AND THESE, SIR, ARE THE MEN WHO BROUGHT BACK THE

  Sinovirus," Colonel Harper said, guiding the President

  around the test booths on Level 4.

  A giant thirty-foot-long quarantine chamber stood before

  them. Through a small glass window set into the side of the

  reinforced chamber, the President saw four men, all seated

  on sofas watching a television and bathed in blue ultraviolet

  light. All of them, he noted, were of Asian extraction.

  As soon as they saw the President, two of the men inside

  the chamber rose to their feet and stood to attention.

  "Mr. President, meet Captain Robert Wu and Lieutenant

  Chet Li from the 7th Squadron--"

  Just then Harper's cell phone buzzed.

  The colonel excused himself and stepped away to take

  the call.

  "It's a pleasure to meet you both, gentlemen," the President

  said, stepping forward. "Your country owes you a debt

  of gratitude."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "Thank you."

  "How long do you have to stay in there for?" the President

  inquired, asking the obligatory personal question.

  "Another couple of hours, I think, sir," the one named

  Wu said. "We got back yesterday with the new strain, but we

  have to stay in here for twenty-four hours. The chamber is

  operated on a time lock. Can't be opened until 0900 hours.

  So they can be sure there are no other bugs on us."

  "Well, I won't be here come nine o'clock," the President

  said, "but rest assured, you'll be receiving something

  from me in the very near future."

  "Thank you, sir."

  jo Matthew Reilly

  "Thank you, sir."

  Having finished his call, Colonel Harper returned.

  "And that concludes our tour, Mr. President," he said.

  "Now, if you'll come this way, I have one last thing to show

  you."

  SCHOFIELD AND GANT STOOD INSIDE MARINE ONE, BEHIND

  Brainiac.

  Brainiac was seated at the helicopter's communications

  console, typing quickly on a keyboard.

  "Anything from Nighthawk Three or the two advance

  teams?" Schofield asked.

  "Nada from Nighthawk Three," Brainiac said. "And just

  the beacons from the Secret Service teams."

  Schofield thought for a moment. "Are we plugged into

  Area 7's local network?"

  "Yep. So the President can collect secure transmissions

  by the landline."

  "Okay then, can you bring up the complex's security

  camera system for me?"

  "Sure."

  the president was led up a set of stairs to level 3,

  the living quarters of Area 7.

  With his nine-man Secret Service Detail he was brought

  into a wide low-ceilinged common room--couches, coffee

  tables, kitchenette and, taking pride of place over by the

  wall, a big-screen Panasonic TV.

  "If you would just wait here for a moment, Mr. President,"

  Colonel Harper said, "I'll send someone down in a

  minute."

  And then he left the room, leaving the President and his

  Detail alone.

  A SERIES OF BLACK-AND-WHITE MONITORS FLICKERED TO LIFE in the communications bay of Marine One.

  Each monitor depicted a grid of views from the multitude

  of security cameras around Area 7.

  Area 7

  "We have contact," Brainiac said.

  From various angles, Schofield saw empty stairwells--

  the main hangar--something that looked like a subway

  station--the interiors of the glass-walled offices in the

  main hangar, one of them filled with Marines and Secret

  Service people, the other containing White House staff

  members--and, in grainy black-and-white, the inside of an

  elevator--

  Schofield froze at the final image.

  The elevator was packed with ten fully armed 7th

  Squadron commandos.

  And then suddenl
y movement from one of the other

  monitors caught his eye.

  It was the view from one of the stairwell cameras.

  A whole stream of armed 7th Squadron commandos was

  storming down the stairwell.

  "This is going to be very painful," he said flatly.

  schofield stepped out of marine one onto the hangar

  floor, Gant and Brainiac close behind him.

  Although nothing physical about it had changed, somehow

  the hangar now looked very different.

  Now it looked menacing.

  Dangerous.

  Schofield saw the three groups of 7th Squadron commandos

  arrayed around the enormous interior space--saw

  the commander of one of the groups touch his ear as he

  caught a radio transmission.

  "Stay here," Schofield said.

  "Okay," Brainiac said.

  "Hey," Gant said.

  "What?"

  "Try not to look so spooked."

  "I'll do my best," Schofield said as he stepped out from

  the cover of Marine One and started walking casually across

  the hangar floor, toward the northern glass-walled office.

  He was about halfway there when it happened.

  Loud and sudden.

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  Matthew Reilly

  Boom!

  Like a curtain falling at the end of a stage show, a giant

  piston-driven titanium door thundered down in front of the

  hangar's main doors. Its leading edge--lined with nasty

  looking toothlike protrusions--lodged firmly into the series

  of boxlike indentations that ran across the entry to the

  hangar.

  And with the falling of the massive armored door,

  Schofield gave up any pretense of trying to appear calm.

  He broke into a run just as the two nearest groups of 7th

  Squadron commandos--the ones at twelve o'clock and ten

  o'clock--raised their P-90's and the air around him became

  awash with sizzling bullets.

  IT HAD BEEN FIVE MINUTES NOW AND NOBODY HAD COME FOR

  them and the President of the United States was not accustomed

  to waiting.

  The President and his protective Detail just stood in the

  common room on Level 3, looking about themselves, waiting

  in the silence.