Matthew Reilly - Area 7

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,

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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

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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