Matthew Reilly - Area 7

Lake Powell.

Schofield and Book saw a wide flat awning, a small

glass-windowed office, and a wide garage door. And underneath the awning: two old-style petrol pumps.

It was a gas station.

An underwater gas station.

IT WAS NESTLED UP AGAINST THE BASE OF THE CLIFF, AT THE

point where the enormous circular crater containing the

small mesa met a wide canyon stretching westward, right on

the corner.

It was then that Schofield remembered what this gas

station was.

It was the rest-stop petrol station that had been flooded

over when Lake Powell had been created in 1963 by the

damming of the Colorado River--the old 1950's-era gas station

that had been built on the site of an old trading post.

"Let's move," he said. "Before we use up all the oxygen

in here."

"To where?" Book II asked incredulously. "The gas

station?"

"Yep," Schofield said, looking at his watch.

It was 9:26.

Thirty-four minutes to get the Football back to the

President.

"Gas stations have air pumps," he said, "for inflating

tires. Air that we can breathe until those Penetrators go

away. Maybe when the government compensated him, the

guy who owned this station just upped and left everything

behind."

"That's your magic escape plan? Any air left in those

pumps will be forty years old. It could be rancid, or contaminated

by God-only-knows what."

"If it's air-sealed," Schofield said, "then some of it may

still be good. And right now, we don't have any other options.

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I'll go first. If I find a hose, I'll signal you to come over."

"And if you don't?"

Schofield unclipped the Football from his webbing and

handed it to Book II. "Then you'll have to come up with

a magic plan of your own."

the super stallion lay on the bottom of the lake, surrounded by the silent underwater world.

Abruptly, a finger of bubbles issued out from its open

rear section--trailing the figure of Shane Schofield, still dressed in his black 7th Squadron battle uniform, as he entered the water from within the sunken helicopter.

Schofield hovered in the void for a moment, looked

about himself, saw the gas station, but then suddenly he saw

something else.

Something resting on the lakebed directly beneath him

about three feet away.

It was a small silver Samsonite container--heavy duty

obviously designed to protect its contents from strong impacts; about the size of two videocassettes placed side by side. It sat on the silty lake floor, perfectly still, weighed

down by a small anchor.

It was the object Gunther Botha had tossed over the side

of his bipod when Schofield and Book had interrupted him.

Schofield swam down to it, cut away the anchor with a

knife, and then attached the silver container's handle to the

clip on his combat webbing.

He'd look at its contents later.

Right now he had other things to do.

He headed for the underwater gas station, pulling himself through the water with long powerful strokes. He covered the distance between the Super Stallion and the gas

station quickly, and soon found himself hovering in front of

the ghostlike submerged structure.

His lungs began to ache. He had to find an air hose

soon--

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Matthew Reilly

There.

Beside the open doorway of the gas station's office.

A black hose, connected to a large pressurized drum.

Schofield swam for it.

He came to the hose, grabbed it and pressed down on its

release valve.

The hose's nozzle sputtered to life, spewing out some

pathetically small bubbles.

Not a good sign, Schofield thought.

And then, in a sudden billowing rush, a wash of big fat

bubbles came bursting out of the hose.

Schofield quickly put his mouth over it and, without a

second thought, breathed in the forty-year-old air.

At first, he gagged, and coughed awfully. It tasted bitter

and stale, foul. But then it got cleaner and he began to

breathe it in normally. The air was okay--just.

He waved to Book in the helicopter, gave him the

thumbs-up.

As Book swam over with the Football, Schofield pulled

the air hose into the gas station's little office, so that any

stray bubbles got trapped against the office's ceiling rather

than rising to the lake's surface and alerting the Penetrators

to their new air source.

While he did so, he looked at the submerged gas station

all around him.

He was still thinking about Botha.

The South African scientist's escape plan couldn't have

involved just coming to this sunken petrol station. It had to

be something more than that ...

Schofield looked around the gas station's office and the

garage adjoining it. The whole structure was nestled up

against the base of the sunken cliff.

Just then, however, through the rear window of the little

office, Schofield saw something built into the base of the

cliff behind the gas station.

A wide boarded-up doorway.

It was constructed of thick wooden beams, and it appeared

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to burrow into the cliff face. A pair of mine-car

tracks disappeared underneath the planks that sealed its entrance.

A mine.

Botha's plan was beginning to make more sense.

Thirty seconds later, Book II joined him inside the office and gulped in some air from the hose.

Another minute and Schofield leaned outside the office

and saw the blurred rippling outlines of the Air Force Penetrators above the surface wheel around in the air and depart

heading back for Area 7.

As soon as they were gone, he got Book's attention and

pointed at the mine entrance behind the gas station, signalling, I'm going there. You wait here.

Book nodded.

Schofield then flicked on the small barrel-mounted

flashlight on his Desert Eagle pistol and swam out through

the rear window of the office, heading for the mine entrance

at the base of the cliff.

HE CAME TO THE BOARDED-UP MINE, AND FOUND THAT SOME

of its rotting planks had been removed--possibly recently.

He swam inside.

Darkness met him. Impenetrable underwater darkness.

The narrow beam of his flashlight revealed rough rocky

walls, submerged support beams, and the pair of mine-car

tracks on the floor, disappearing into the shadows.

Schofield swam quickly through the mine tunnel,

guided by the beam of his flashlight.

He had to keep track of how far he had gone. There

would come a time very soon when he would have to make a

choice: go back to Book and get some more air from the

hose, or keep going, and hope he made it to a part of the

mine that wasn't filled with water.

The only thing that convinced him that he would find

such an air source was Botha. The South African scientist

wouldn't have come here if he couldn't--

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Matthew Reilly

Suddenly Schofield saw a narrow vertical shaft branching

off his tunnel. A rung ladder ran up its length.

He swam over to the shaft, pointed his flashlight up into

it. The shaft went both up and down, disappearing into

blackness in both directions. It was an access shaft of some

sort, allowing quick and easy movement to all levels of the

mine.

Schofield was running out of air.

He did the math.

The lake was about ninety feet deep here. Hence, ninety

feet up that rung ladder, the water should level out.

Screw it.

It was the only option.

He turned back to get Book.

TWO MINUTES LATER, HE RETURNED TO THE MINE TUNNEL, THIS

time with Book II--and the Football--beside him, plus a