Matthew Reilly - Area 7

meager supply of guns, Gant did manage to hide her

Maghook on their short ride up the shaft. It now lay clinging

magnetically to the underside of the detachable mini

elevator.

Unfortunately, when the little platform had arrived up in

the ground-level hangar--rising up through the matching

square hole in the corner of the main platform--Gant had

still had the black box from the AWACS plane in her possession.

But she hadn't wanted to alert any of the prisoners to its

significance, so she'd placed it on the floor of the mini

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elevator, and as soon as the platform had come flush against

the floor of the main hangar, she'd "accidentally" kicked it

clear, sending it tumbling out onto the hangar floor, a short

way from the elevator shaft.

With the hunt in the pit now over, the prisoners gathered around the aircraft elevator shaft turned their attention to the

President and his guardians.

An older prisoner stepped out of the larger group of inmates,

a shotgun held lazily in his hand.

He was a very distinctive-looking individual.

He appeared to be about fifty, and judging from the confidence

of his stride, he clearly had the respect of the group.

Although the top of his head was bald, long gray-black hair flowed down from its sides, growing past his shoulders. A

narrow angular nose, pale white skin, and hollow bloodless

cheeks completed his very Gothic appearance.

"Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly," the

long-haired man said as he stepped in front of the President.

He had a soft silky voice, menacing in its slow articulation.

"Good morning, Mr. President," he said pleasantly.

"How nice of you to join us. Remember me?"

The President said nothing.

"But of course you do," the prisoner said. "I'm an

18-84. In one way or another, you've met all nine of the

people who during your presidency have been convicted under

Title 18, Part I, Chapter 84 of the United States Code.

It's that part of the Code that prohibits ordinary Americans

from attempting to assassinate their President.

"Grimshaw, Seth Grimshaw," the long-haired prisoner

said, offering his hand. "We met in February, just a couple of

weeks after you -became President, as you were leaving the

Bonaventure Hotel in LA viaits underground kitchen. I was

the one who tried to put a bullet in your skull."

The President said nothing.

And he didn't take Grimshaw's proffered hand.

"You managed to keep that whole incident quiet,"

Grimshaw said. "Very impressive. Especially since all

someone like me really wants is publicity. And besides, it's

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not wise to scare the nation, is it? Better to keep the ignorant

masses unaware of these troublesome little attempts on your

life. As they say, ignorance is bliss."

The President said nothing.

Grimshaw looked him up and down, cast a bemused eye

over the black combat clothing that the Chief Executive now

wore. The President, Juliet and Schofield were all still

dressed in their black 7th Squadron combat attire. Gant and

Mother, on the other hand, still wore their formal--but now

very dirty--Marine dress uniforms.

Grimshaw smiled, a thin, satisfied smile.

Then he strolled over to the inmate holding the Football

and took the silver briefcase from him. He opened it, then

glanced from its countdown display screen to the President.

"It would appear that my recently liberated associates

and I have intruded upon something rather interesting. A

game of cat-and-mouse, it would seem, judging by your

clothes and the way you unceremoniously scampered

through my cell block earlier." He clucked his tongue reproachfully.

"Really, Mr. President, I must say, this is not at

all presidential. Not at all."

Grimshaw's eyes narrowed.

"But who am I to stop such an imaginative spectacle?

The President and his loyal bodyguards versus the treacherous

military-industrial complex." Grimshaw turned. "Goliath.

Bring the other captives over here."

At that moment, an extraordinarily large prisoner--Goliath, Schofield guessed--stepped out from behind Grimshaw and headed off in the direction of the hangar's internal building. He was an absolute giant of a man, with massive tree-trunk-sized biceps and a squared-off head reminiscent of Frankenstein's monster. He even had a flat square

bulge that protruded from his forehead--the signature mark,

Schofield knew, of someone who'd had a steel plate inserted

in his skull. Goliath carried a P-90 assault rifle in one massive

fist and Schofield's Maghook in the other.

He returned moments later.

Behind him came the seven Air Force men who--along

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with the four unfortunate radio operators--had been captured

inside the control room earlier:

Colonel Jerome T. Harper.

Boa McConnell and his four Bravo Unit men, two of

whom were badly wounded.

And the lone individual who had been observing the

morning's events from the shadows of Caesar Russell's control

room.

Schofield recognized him instantly.

So did the President.

"Webster ..." he said softly.

Warrant Officer Carl Webster, the official guardian of

the Football, stood with the Air Force people, looking very uncomfortable. Beneath his thick hairy eyebrows, his eyes

darted left and right, as if searching for an escape.

"You cocksucking little bastard," Mother said. "You gave the Football to Russell. You sold out the President."

Webster said nothing.

Schofield watched him. He had wondered whether

Webster had been abducted by the 7th Squadron earlier that

morning. More than anything else, Caesar Russell had

needed the Football to carry out his presidential challenge,

and Schofield had speculated as to how he had obtained it

from Webster.

Quite clearly, force hadn't been necessary--the blood

on the Football's handcuffs had obviously been a ruse. Webster,

it seemed, had been bought long before the President

had arrived at Area 7.

"Now, now, children," Seth Grimshaw said, waving the

Football in his hand. "Save your strength. You'll be able to

settle all your scores in a moment. But first"--he turned to

the Air Force colonel, Harper--"I have a question that needs

answering. The exit to this facility. Where is it?"

"There is no exit," Harper lied. "The facility is in lock down. You can't get out."

Grimshaw raised his shotgun, pointed it at Harper's

face, shucked the pump action. "Perhaps I'm not being specific

enough."

area 7

He then turned and fired two booming shots into the

two injured Bravo Unit men standing next to Harper. They

were blasted off their feet.

Grimshaw turned the gun back to Harper, raised his

eyebrows expectantly.

Harper's face went white. He nodded over at the regular

elevator: "There's a door that branches off the personnel elevator shaft. We call it the top door. It leads outside. Keypad code is 5564771."

"Thank you, Colonel, you really are too kind,

Grimshaw said. "Now then, we must let you children finish

what you've started. As I'm sure you'll understand, once we

depart this dreadful place, we can't allow any of you to leave

it alive. But as a final gesture of good will, I am going to offer you all one last favor--albeit one that is more for my entertainment than yours.

"I am going to give you all one last chance to kill each

other. Five against five. In the killing pit. So at least the winner will die knowing who won your impromptu civil war."