Matthew Reilly - Area 7

"Brainiac?"

"That's right, sir," Brainiac hesitated. "Sir, if you don't

mind, I was wondering, if it wasn't too much trouble, if I

could ask you a question."

"Why not?" the President said.

"Okay, then. Okay. Well, you being' President and all,

you'd know certain things, right?"

area 7 153

"Yes ..."

"Right. Cool. Because what I always wanted to know

was this: is Puerto Rico a United States protectorate because

it has the highest number of UFO sightings in the world per

annum?"

"What?"

"Well, think about it, why the hell else would we want

to hold on to Puerto-fucking-Rico, there ain't nothing

there--"

"Brainiac," Schofield said from across the room.

"Leave the President alone. Mr. President, you better come

and see this. It's almost eight o'clock and Caesar will be giving

his hourly update any second."

The President went over to join Schofield--but not before

he gave Brainiac a strange look.

AT THE TICK OF EIGHT O'CLOCK, CAESAR RUSSELL'S FACE APpeared

on every television set in Area 7.

"My fellow Americans," he boomed, "after one hour's

play, the President is still alive. His cause, however, is not

looking good.

"His personal Secret Service Detail has been decimated,

with eight of its nine members already confirmed

dead. Two more Secret Service units--advance teams, one

stationed down in the lowest floor of this facility, another at

one of the exterior exits, consisting of nine men each--were

also eliminated, bringing the total of presidential losses to

twenty-six men. On both occasions, no losses were sustained

by my 7th Squadron men.

"That said, some knights in shining armor have arrived

on the scene. A small band of United States Marines-- members of the President's ornamental helicopter crew,

looking very pretty in their dress uniforms--have come to

his defen--"

Just then, completely without warning, the television

sets throughout Area 7 abruptly died, their screens shrinking

to black.

At the same moment, all the lights in the complex

blinked out, plunging Area 7 into darkness.

Inside the lab on Level 4, everybody looked up at the

sudden loss of power.

"Uh-oh ..." Gant said, eyeing the ceiling.

Then, a second later, the lights whirred back to life and

the TV system rebooted, Caesar's face still looming large,

still talking.

area 7 155

"--which leaves us with five 7th Squadron units versus

a handful of United States Marines. Such is the state of play

at eight o'clock. I shall see you again for another update at

0900 hours."

The TV screens cut to black.

"liar," juliet janson said. 'that son of a bitch is Distorting

the truth. The advance team down on Level 6 was already

dead when we got there. They were killed before all

this started."

"He also lied about his losses," Brainiac said. "Sneaky

bastard."

"So what do we do?" Gant asked Schofield. "They have

us outnumbered, outflanked and outgunned. Plus, this is

their turf."

Schofield was wondering exactly the same thing.

The 7th Squadron had them completely on the run.

They had all the leverage, and more importantly, he thought,

looking down at his formal full dress uniform, they had

come prepared to fight.

"Okay," he said, thinking aloud. "Know your enemy."

"What?"

"First principles. We have to even things up, but to do

that, we need knowledge. Rule Number One: know your enemy.

Okay. So who are they?"

Janson shrugged. "The 7th Squadron. The Air Force's

crack ground unit. The best in the country. Well trained, well

armed--"

"And on steroids," Gant added.

"More than just steroids," another voice said.

Everyone turned.

It was the scientist, Herbert Franklin.

"Who are you?" Schofield said.

The little man shuffled nervously. "My name is Herbie

Franklin. Until this morning, I was an immunologist on

Project Fortune. But they locked me up just before you all arrived."

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Matthew Reilly

Schofield said, "What did you mean, 'more than just

steroids'?"

"Well, what I meant was that the 7th Squadron men at

this base have been ... augmented... for want of a better

word."

"Augmented?"

"Enhanced. Improved for better performance. Ever wondered

why the 7th Squadron does so well at interservice battle

competitions? Ever wondered why they can keep fighting

while everyone else is falling over with exhaustion?"

"Yes ..."

Franklin spoke quickly: "Anabolic steroids to enhance

muscle and fitness levels. Artificial erythropoietin injections

for increased blood oxygenation."

"Artificial erythropoietin?" Gant repeated.

"EPO for short," Herbie said. "It's a hormone that stimulates

production of red blood cells by the bone marrow,

thus increasing the supply of oxygen in the bloodstream. Endurance

athletes, mainly cyclists, have been using it for

years.

"The 7th Squadron are stronger than you, and they can

run all day long," Herbie said. "Hell, Captain, these men

were tough when they got here, but since their arrival they

have been augmented by the latest pharmacological technology

to fight harder, better and longer than anybody else."

"Okay, okay," Schofield said, "I think we get the picture."

He was thinking, however, of a small boy named Kevin,

living fifty feet away, inside a glass cube. "So is that what

you do here? Is that what this base is all about? Enhancing

elite soldiers?"

"No ..." Herbie said, casting a wary glance over at the

President. "The augmentation of the 7th Squadron troopers

is only performed as an ancillary task, since they guard the

base."

"So what the hell is this place?"

Again Herbie looked at the President. Then he took a

deep breath before answering--

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It was another voice, however, that spoke.

"This base houses the most important vaccine ever developed

in the history of America," it said.

Schofield spun.

It was the President.

Schofield appraised him. The President was still wearing

his charcoal colored suit and tie. With his neatly combed

light-gray hair and familiar wrinkled face, he looked like a

middle-aged country businessman--albeit a businessman

who had been sweating hard for the last hour.

"A vaccine?" Schofield said.

"Yes. A vaccine against the latest Chinese genetic virus.

A virus that targets Caucasian people by way of their pigmentation

DNA. An agent known as the Sinovirus."

"And the source of this vaccine ... ?" Schofield said.

"... is a genetically constructed human being," the

President said.

"A what?"

"A person, Captain Schofield, who since the embryonic

stage of his existence has been purpose-built to withstand

the Sinovirus, whose very blood can be harvested to produce

antibodies for the rest of the American population. A human

vaccine. The world's first genetically tailored human being,

Captain, a boy named Kevin."

SCHOFIELD'S EYES NARROWED.

It explained a lot—the tight security surrounding the

complex, the presidential visit, and a boy living inside a

glass cube. He was also struck by one other aspect of what

the President had just said: the president knew his name.

"You created a boy to use as a vaccine?" Schofield said.

"With respect, sir, but doesn't that bother you?"

The President grimaced. "My job is not made up of

black and whites, Captain. Just gray, infinite gray. And in