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
26
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
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