Matthew Reilly - Area 7

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 suddenly 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.

"Frank," the President said to the Chief of the Detail,

"see what's going on--"

The big-screen television came on.

The President and his Detail whirled around.

"What the fuck ..." somebody said.

On the screen, large and bold, was the bright yellow insignia

of the Emergency Broadcast System--the special all

spectrum broadcast network that was capable of cutting off

regular broadcasting in the event of a national emergency.

Then, abruptly, the BBS symbol disappeared, and a face

appeared in its place.

"What the hell ..." this time it was the President who

spoke.

The face on the screen was that of a dead man.

It was the face of Lieutenant General Charles Samson

Russell, USAF, call-sign: "Caesar."

ON EVERY TELEVISION SCREEN IN AREA 7--AND, IT APPEARED,

every television in the United States--the round, heavy

browed face of Charles Russell began to speak.

"Mr. President. People of America. Welcome to Area 7.

My name is General Charles Russell, United States Air

Force. For too long, I have watched this country eat itself. I

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Matthew Reilly

will do so no longer." His tone was measured, his Louisiana

accent thick.

"Our representatives at both federal and state levels are

incapable of genuine leadership. Our free press is no longer

the tool for controlling government that it was intended to

be. To every man who has ever fought or died for this country,

this state of affairs is a disgrace. It can no longer be allowed

to continue."

IN THE COMMON ROOM, THE PRESIDENT JUST STARED AT THE

big-screen television.

"And so I propose a challenge, Mr. President--both to

you and to the system you represent.

"Implanted on your heart is a radio device. It was attached

to the outer tissue of your cardiac muscle during an

operation on your left lung four years ago."

Frank Cutler spun to face the President, a look of horror

spreading across his face.

"I will initiate its signal now," Caesar said. He pressed

some buttons on a small red unit that he held in his hand.

The compact unit had a black stub antenna sticking out from

its top.

Frank Cutler pulled a debugging wand from his coat--a spectrum analyzer used to detect any signal-emitting device-- and waved it over the President's body.

Feet and legs ... okay.

Waist and stomach... okay.

Chest ...

The wand went crazy.

"MY CHALLENGE TO YOU, MR. PRESIDENT, IS SIMPLE." Russell's voice echoed throughout the underground base.

"As you well know, at every major airport in the United

States there are at least three hangars devoted to the storage

of United States Air Force bombers, fighters and ordnance.

"Right now, inside fourteen of those hangars, sit fourteen

Type-240 blast plasma warheads. The airports include

John F. Kennedy, Newark and La Guardia in New York,

Area 7 75

Dulles in Washington, O'Hare in Chicago, LAX in Los Angeles,

and airports in San Francisco, San Diego, Seattle,

Boston, Philadelphia and Detroit. Each plasma warhead, as