Matthew Reilly - Area 7

"Twice."

Comprehensive sweeps for listening devices planted on

Marine One--and her passengers--were done with rigorous

regularity. It was nigh on impossible to plant a transmitting

or receiving device on the President's helicopter.

Dallas peered at her screen, shrugging. "The signal's

too small to be a location beacon. Ditto, speech or computer

data. It didn't send or take any information--it's as if it was

just, well, checking to see if we were here." She turned to

Grier questioningly.

The Presidential Helicopter Pilot frowned. "Most probably

it's just a surge in the radiosphere, a deflected microwave

signal. But let's not take any chances." He turned to

Schofield. "Captain, if you wouldn't mind, would you please

do a sweep of the aircraft with the magic wand?"

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Matthew Reilly

"--return signal received," the console operator in

the darkened room said. "Primary signal test successful. The

device is operational. Repeat. The device is operational. Switching back to dormant mode. All right. Commencing

test of secondary signal--"

SCHOFIELD STEPPED INTO THE MAIN CABIN OF MARINE ONE,

waving an AXS-9 digital spectrum analyzer over the walls,

seats, ceiling and floor, searching for anything that was

emitting an outgoing signal.

As one would expect of the President's helicopter, the

interior of Ml was plush. Indeed, with its deep maroon carpet

and widely spaced seats, it looked more like the first

class section of a commercial airliner than the hold of a

military aircraft.

Twelve beige leather seats took up most of the main

cabin. Each seat had the Seal of the President of the United

States embroidered on it, as did the oversized armrests that

adjoined each chair and the scotch glasses and coffee mugs,

just in case anyone forgot in whose presence they were

traveling.

At the rear of the central area, guarded at all times by a

Marine in full dress uniform, was a polished mahogany door

that led to the aft-most section of the helicopter.

It was the President's private office.

Small but elegantly appointed--and featuring an amazingly

compact arrangement of phones, faxes, computers and

televisions--Marine One's office allowed the Boss to monitor

the nation's business wherever he happened to be.

At the very rear of the President's office, behind a small

pressure-sealed door, was one final feature of Marine One

which was reserved for use in only the most dire of circumstances

--a small one-man ejection unit, the Presidential escape

pod.

Schofield waved his spectrum analyzer over the seats in

the first-class section, searching for bugs.

Area 7 29

Seated there were Frank Cutler and five of his Secret

Service people. They peered out the windows, ignoring

Schofield as he did his sweep around them.

Also there were a couple of the President's advisers--

his Deputy Chief of Staff, his Communications Director--

both of whom flicked through thick manila folders.

Standing above them, manning the two exit doors at either

end of the main cabin, were a pair of straight-backed

United States Marines.

There was one more person seated in the main cabin.

A stocky no-necked man dressed in an olive U.S. Army

uniform, sitting quietly at the back of the cabin, in the first

class seat closest to the President's office.

To look at him, with his carrot-red hair and bushy orange

mustache, he didn't seem like anyone special, and truth

be told, he wasn't anyone special.

He was an Army warrant officer named Carl Webster,

and he followed the President wherever he went--not because

of any special expertise or knowledge he possessed,

but because of the extremely important object handcuffed to

his right wrist: a stainless-steel briefcase that contained the

codes and the activation switches to America's nuclear arsenal,

a briefcase known as "the Football."

Schofield finished his sweep, including a short "excuse me" check of the President's office.

Nothing.

There was not a single bug to be found on the helicopter.

He returned to the cockpit, just in time to hear Gunman

Grier say into his mike: "Copy that, Nighthawk Three, thank

you. Continue on to the vent."

Grier turned to his copilot. "Air Force One's back on

deck. It was just a valve leak. It'll stay at Area 8. We'll bring

the Boss back after our little visit to Area 7. Scarecrow?"

"Nothing," Schofield said. "The helicopter's clean."

Grier shrugged. "Must have been the radiosphere.

Thanks, Scarecrow."

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Matthew Reilly

Suddenly Grier touched his helmet as another message

came through.

He sighed wearily as the voice at the other end nattered

into his ear.

"We'll do our best, Colonel," he said, "but I make no

promises." Grier switched off his mike and shook his head.

"Fucking Ramrod."

He turned to Schofield and Dallas. "Ladies and gentlemen,

our esteemed White House Liaison Officer has asked

us to pick up the pace a little. Apparently, the Boss has an afternoon tea with the Washington Ladies' Auxiliary to get to,

and Liaison Officer Hagerty thinks we're not going fast

enough to meet his schedule."

Dallas snuffed a laugh. "Good ol' Ramrod."

When it came to the use of Marine One, all White

House-Marine Corps correspondence went through a Marine

colonel called the White House Liaison Officer, a position

which for the last three years had been held by Colonel

Rodney Hagerty, USMC.

Unfortunately, Hagerty, forty-one years old, tall and

lanky, with a pencil-thin mustache and a far too proper manner,

was regarded by many in HMX-1 as the worst kind of

soldier--a ladder climber, but also a ruthless expert in office

politics, someone more interested in getting stars on his

shoulders than actually being a United States Marine. But as

so often happens, the upper echelons of the Corps didn't see

this and kept promoting him nonetheless.

Even Schofield disliked him. Hagerty was a bureaucrat--a bureaucrat who had obviously come to enjoy his proximity

to power. Although his official call-sign was "Hot Rod," his

rigid adherence to procedure and protocol, even when it was

patently impractical, had earned him an alternate call-sign

among the troops: "Ramrod."

AT THAT VERY SAME MOMENT, THE LONE SUPER STALLION chopper that was Nighthawk Three was landing in a cloud of

dust on the sandy desert plain. About half a mile to the west

stood the low rocky mountain that housed Area 7.

Area 7 31

As the big chopper's tires hit the ground, four Marines

dressed in full combat attire leaped out from it and ran over

to a small trench carved into the rock-hard desert floor.

The trench housed Area 7's EEV--Emergency Escape Vent--the well-concealed exit point of a long underground

tunnel that provided emergency egress from Area 7. Today it

was the primary escape route from the complex, in the unlikely

event that the President encountered any trouble there.

The lead Marine, a lieutenant named Corbin "Colt"

Hendricks, approached the dusty earthen hole, accompanied

by his three subordinates, MP-5/10--sometimes called the

MP-10, they were 10 mm versions of the Heckler & Koch

MP-5--in hand.

A steady beep-pause-beep warbled in Hendricks's earpiece:

Advance Team 2's All-Clear beacon. The A-C beacon

couldn't transmit voice messages, but its powerful digital

signal still provided a worthwhile service: if Advance Team