Matthew Reilly - Area 7

2 encountered any kind of ambush or disturbance, its lead

agent simply flicked off the All-Clear beacon and everyone

else in the presidential entourage would know that danger

was afoot. Its presence now was reassuring.

Hendricks and his squad came to the edge of the trench

and looked down into it.

"Oh shit ..." Hendricks breathed.

the other two presidential helicopters raced toward

Restricted Area 7.

"Hey, Scarecrow?" Gunman Grier turned in his seat to

face Schofield. "Where's your harem?"

Through his reflective silver sunglasses, Schofield offered

a crooked smile to the Presidential helicopter pilot.

"They're over on Nighthawk Two today, sir," he said.

Grier was referring to the two female members of

Schofield's former unit who had joined him on his tour on

board Marine Helicopter Squadron-1 ... Staff Sergeant Elizabeth "Fox" Gant and Gunnery Sergeant Gena "Mother" Newman.

As a former commander of a Marine Force Reconnaissance

Unit, Schofield was something of a rarity on board

Marine One.

Owing to the largely ceremonial duties associated with

working on the President's helicopter and to the fact that

time spent on board the helicopter is not counted as "active

deployed airtime," many Marines choose to avoid HMX-1

duty. Indeed, with few exceptions, most of the troops assigned

to HMX-1 are relatively junior soldiers who won't

miss any promotional opportunities.

So to have a former Recon commander on board was

highly unusual, but something which Gunman Grier welcomed.

He liked Schofield. He'd heard on the grapevine that he

was a gifted field commander—a man who looked out for

his men, and as a result, got the very best out of them.

Grier had also heard about what had happened to

Area 7 33

Schofield on his last mission and he respected the young

captain for it.

He also liked both Mother and Gant--admired their attitudes

to their work and their fierce loyalty to their former

commander--and his labeling of them as Schofield's

"harem" was a sign of affection from a man who rarely

showed it.

Schofield, however, was used to being considered unusual.

Indeed, that was why he was stationed aboard Marine One.

About eighteen months previously, as a lieutenant, he'd

been in command of a Marine Reconnaissance Unit that had

been sent to a remote ice station in Antarctica, to investigate

the discovery of a possible alien spacecraft.

In a word, the mission had gone to hell on an express

elevator.

Including himself, only four of his twelve Marines had

survived the nightmare, during which they had been forced

to defend the station against two foreign military forces and

infiltrators from within their own unit. To top it off,

Schofield himself had been declared dead by some corrupt

members of the Marine Corps hierarchy, men who had been

prepared to make that lie a reality.

His eventual return to America--alive and well--had

sparked a media frenzy.

His face appeared on every major newspaper in the nation.

Wherever he went, even after the initial frenzy, tabloid

journalists and photographers tried to snap his picture or

coax information out of him. After all, he was a walking

talking monument to the corruption of the United States

military--the good soldier who had been targeted for extermination

by the faceless generals of his own military leadership.

Which left the Marine Corps with a serious problem: where to put him?

In the end, the answer had been rather inventive.

The safest place to hide Schofield was right in front of

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the world's media, but in the one place where they wouldn't

be able to touch him.

He would be assigned to Marine One.

The chopper was based at the Marine Corps Air Facility

at Quantico, Virginia, so Schofield could live on the base,

making access to him all but impossible. And he would work

on board the President's VH-60N, which was only really

ever seen landing at the White House, and even then, always

at a safe distance from the press.

When the transfer was made, Mother and Gant had

elected to go with Schofield. The fourth survivor of their

Antarctic disaster, a private named Rebound Simmons, had

decided to leave the Marine Corps after their ill-fated mission.

That had been a year ago.

In that time, Schofield--quiet at the best of times and

not given to small talk--had made only a handful of friends

in the White House: mainly people among the Secret Service

and the domestic staff; the ordinary people. With his reflective

silver antiflash glasses, however, he was popular

with the President's playful grandkids. As such, to their delight,

he was nearly always assigned to guard them whenever

they visited. And yet, despite this, he had never actually

spoken conversationally with the President.

Area 7 loomed large in front of Marine One. Schofield

could see the massive doors of the complex's enormous

hangar slowly opening, revealing bright electric lighting inside.

Grier spoke into his helmet mike: "Nighthawk Two, this

is Nighthawk One, beginning descent now."

IN THE BELLY OF NIGHTHAWK TWO, SERGEANT ELIZABETH

"Fox" Gant sat hunched in a canvas jumpseat, trying vainly

to read from a folder perched on her knees.

Unlike Marine One, the rotor noise inside Nighthawk

Two was absolutely deafening. And since it never carried the

President, its interior decor was about a thousand times

Area 7 35

more utilitarian. No upholstered seats or embroidered armrests

here.

Now a staff sergeant, Libby Gant was twenty-eight

years old, well, as of six hours ago.

Compact and fit, she had short blonde hair and sky-blue

eyes, and in regular battle dress--fatigues, body armor and

MP-10--she cut a smart figure. In full dress uniform--

peaked hat, dress coat and trousers--she looked spectacular.

Since they were flying in restricted Air Force airspace,

the mood on board Nighthawk Two was relaxed. The usual

tensions of coordinating Marine One's flight path with those

of civilian air traffic weren't an issue, so Gant--studying

part-time for entry into Officer Candidate School--took the

opportunity to brush up on some of her notes.

She was just getting to Course 9405, Advanced Tactical

Command, when a soft voice invaded her consciousness.

"Happy birthday to you ...

Happy birthday to you ...

Happy birthday, dear Staff Sergeant Ga-ant ...

Happy birthday to you."

She looked up from her work and sighed.

Sliding into the empty seat beside her was Nicholas

Tate III, the President's Domestic Policy Adviser. Tate was

handsome in a European sort of way--with dark eyebrows,

olive skin and a male model's jawline--and confident in the

extreme. Today he wore a three-thousand-dollar Armani suit

and matching Armani cologne. Apparently it was the latest

thing.

Tate held out a small neatly wrapped package for Gant

to take.

"Twenty-eight, if I'm not mistaken," he said.

"That's right, sir," Gant said.

"Please, call me Nick." He nodded at the gift. "Well, go

on. Open it."

Reluctantly, Gant unwrapped the small package, unveiling

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Matthew Reilly

an aqua-green box. She popped the lid, revealing an absolutely

gorgeous silver necklace.

Small and thin, it looked like a length of the finest silver

thread, its polished surface sparkling. A small but stylish diamond