Matthew Reilly - Area 7

you know, has a blast radius of sixteen miles and a detonation

yield of ninety megatons. All are armed."

IN THE COMMON ROOM ON LEVEL 3, EVERYONE WAS SILENT.

"The only thing that will stop the detonation of these

warheads, Mr. President," Charles Russell said with a smile,

"is the continued beating of your heart."

russell went on.

"All the devices at the airports are patched in to a single

satellite in geosynchronous orbit above this base. That satellite,

Mr. President, emits a high-powered microwave signal

which is picked up and bounced back to it by the transmitter

placed on your heart.

"But the radio transmitter on your heart, once started, is

kinetically operated. If your heart should stop beating, the

transmitter will cease to operate, and the satellite's signal

will not be bounced back to it—in which case, the satellite

will instruct the bombs in the airports to detonate.

"Mr. President. If your heart should stop, America as

we know it dies. If your heart keeps beating, America lives.

"You are the symbol of a bankrupt culture, sir: a politician,

a man who seeks power for power's sake, but, like the

people you represent, one who lives safe in the knowledge

that he will never ever be called upon to stand up and fight

for the system that gives him that power.

"Well, you have lived safely for too long, Mr. President.

Now you have been called to account. Now you have been

called to fight.

"I, on the other hand, am a warrior. I have spilled my

blood for this country. What blood have you spilled? What

sacrifices have you made? None. Coward.

"But like an honest patriot, I will give you and the system

you represent a final chance to prove your worth. For

the people of this country need proof. They need to see you

flounder—see you fall—see you sell them out to save your

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skin. They elected you to represent them. Now you shall do

that--literally. If you die, they die with you.

"This facility has been completely sealed. It is designed

to withstand the full force of a nuclear blast, so there is no

way out of it. Inside it with you is a fifty-man detachment of

the best ground force this country has to offer, the 7th Special

Operations Squadron. These men have orders to kill

you, Mr. President.

"With your Secret Service Detail, you will face them in

a fight to the death. Whoever wins, gets the country. Whoever

loses, dies.

"Of course, the American people must be kept apprised

of the score in this challenge," Caesar said. "Therefore,

every hour on the hour, I shall address them via the Emergency

Broadcast System and give them an update on the

pursuit."

The President looked up at the nearest security camera.

"This is ridiculous! You couldn't possibly have put a--"

"Jeremiah K. Woolf, Mr. President," Caesar Russell

said from the TV screen. The President immediately fell

silent.

No one else spoke.

"I will assume from your silence that you have seen the

FBI file."

Of course the President had seen the file--the peculiarities

of the ex-senator's death had demanded it.

At the exact moment that Jeremiah Woolf had died in

Alaska, his home in Washington, D.C., had exploded. No

culprit--for either incident--had ever been found. It was a

coincidence too bizarre to ignore, but in the absence of any

evidence to explain it, to the mass media it had remained

simply that, a tragic coincidence.

As the President knew, however, one particular aspect

of the ex-senator's death had never been made public:

namely, the elevated levels of red blood cell production in

his bloodstream, plus extremely low alveolar and arterial

phosphate pressures. All of these symptoms indicated a

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Matthew Reilly

prolonged period of hyperventilation before Woolf had been

shot--a period during which the ex-senator had experienced

a heightened state of "fight or flight" physiology.

In other words, the ex-senator had been running from

someone when he'd been shot. He had been hunted.

And now it made sense.

Woolf had been implanted with a transmitter ...

... and then in Alaska he had been hunted and shot,

and when, finally, his heart had stopped, his home on the

other side of the country had been destroyed.

Caesar Russell's voice invaded his thoughts. "Former

Senator Woolf's unexpected retirement from government

left me with an extra transmitting device. And so he became

a guinea pig, a test run. A test run for today."

The President exchanged a look with Frank Cutler.

Caesar said, "Oh, and just in case you're harboring ambitions

of escaping this facility ..." He lifted an object into

view.

It was a stainless steel briefcase.

Warrant Officer Carl Webster's steel briefcase.

The case's handle still had the pair of handcuffs attached

to it--only now the open-ended cuff was no longer

attached to anything. It was splattered all over with blood.

It was the Football.

And it was open.

The President saw the briefcase's flat-glass palm-print

analyzer and keypad. The palm-print analyzer was an identification

feature programmed to recognize the President's

palm print, so that only he could activate--and deactivate--

America's thermonuclear arsenal.

Somehow, though, Russell had managed to falsify the

President's palm print and enter the arming codes. But how

could he have gotten a copy of the President's hand print?

"In addition to the transmitter on your heart, Mr. President,"

Russell said, "all the devices in the airports have been

networked to a recycling timer of exactly ninety minutes, as

is shown on the Football's display screen. Only the application

of your palm print to the analyzer--once every ninety

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minutes--will reset that timer and stop the plasma warheads

from going off, so don't think of leaving. The Football, for

your information, will be kept up here in the main hangar.

"This is a great day in the history of the nation, Mr.

President, a day of reckoning. Come the dawn of tomorrow,

the glorious Fourth of July, we shall see if we all awake in a

new, reborn America. Good luck, Mr. President, and may

God have mercy on your soul."

At that moment, as if right on cue, the main doors to the

common room burst open and a team of 7th Squadron commandos

--led by Major Kurt Logan and wearing their fearsome

ERG-6 gas masks--rushed into the room, their

devastating P-90 machine guns blazing.

The challenge had begun.

SECOND CONFRONTATION

3 July/ 0700 Hours

UNITED STATES AIR FORCE

SPECIAL AREA (RESTRICTED) NO.7

0700 HOURS

GROUND LEVEL: Main Hangar

LEVEL 1: Hangar Bay

LEVEL 2: Hangar Bay

LEVEL 3: Living Quarters

LEVEL 4: Laboratories

LEVEL 5 gafinsflien

LEVEL 6: X-rail platform

THE MAIN HANGAR HAD BECOME A BATTLEFIELD.

Bullet holes raked the floor at Shane Schofield's feet as

he raced for the doorway to the northern glass-walled office.

He poked his head around the doorway: "Marines!

Scatter!"

But that was all he could say before the window next to

him shattered into a thousand fragments and he dived away,

crawling for the cover of the two Presidential helicopters

and their towing vehicles.

He looked back just in time to see a couple of full dress-uniformed

Marines burst out through the windows of

the office a moment before the small structure was hit by a