Area 7 ss-2

by Matthew Reilly

  pilots fumbling to launch another missile, but it was too late.

  Schofield's tracer bullets rammed into the canopy of the Penetrator--one after the other after the other--pummeling it, pounding it, causing the entire attack helicopter to recoil

  helplessly in the air.

  Schofield's relentless stream of bullets must have gone

  right through the Penetrator's cockpit, because an instant

  later, one of the chopper's fuel tanks ignited and the whole

  attack helicopter spontaneously exploded, bursting into a

  billowing ball of flames before the entire flaming chopper

  just dropped out of the sky and crashed into the water below.

  with the penetrator out of the way, schofield gunned

  his Super Stallion down the western canyonway, heading for

  the narrow slot canyon into which the rogue bipod had disappeared.

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  "What the hell did you do back there?" Book II asked.

  "Huh?"

  "I didn't know you could shoot down a missile with

  tracer bullets."

  "Only Sidewinders," Schofield said. "Sidewinders are

  heat-seekers--they use an infrared system to lock in on their

  targets. But to accomplish that, the forward seeker dome on

  the missile has to allow infrared radiation to pass through it.

  That means using a material other than plate steel. The

  seeker dome of a Sidewinder is actually made of a very fragile

  transparent plastic. It's a weak point on the missile."

  "You shot it at its weak point?"

  "I did."

  "Pretty risky strategy."

  "I saw it coming. Not many people get to see a

  Sidewinder from head-on. It was worth taking the chance."

  "Are you always this risky?" Book II asked evenly.

  Schofield turned at the question.

  He paused before answering, appraised the young sergeant

  beside him.

  "I try not to be," he said. "But sometimes ... it's unavoidable."

  They came to the narrow slot canyon into which the

  South African bipod had fled.

  The little canyon was cloaked in shadow, and it was a

  lot narrower than Schofield thought it would be. His Super

  Stallion's whizzing rotor blades only just fitted between its

  high rock walls.

  The giant helicopter roared along the narrow canyon,

  moving through the shadows, before abruptly it burst out

  into brilliant sunshine, out into a wide craterlike lake

  bounded by three-hundred-foot-high vertical rock walls and

  with a small mesa at its northern end.

  As with the other crater, the sandstorm up above the

  canyon system invaded this open stretch of water. The wind-hurled sand fell like rain, in slanting wavelike sheets. It assaulted

  Schofield's windshield, drummed against it.

  area 7

  "You see anything?" Schofield yelled.

  "Over there!" Book II pointed off to their left, at the vertical outer wall of the crater opposite the mesa, at a point where a particularly wide canyon branched westward, away

  from the circular mini-lake.

  There, Schofield saw a tiny rivercraft sitting on the water's surface, bucking with the medium-sized waves generated by the sandstorm.

  It was the rogue South African bipod.

  And it was alone.

  schofield's super stallion zoomed over the water filled desert crater, flying low and fast, its rotors thumping.

  Schofield stared at the bipod as they came closer.

  It appeared to be stationary, as if it were lying at anchor

  about twenty yards out from where the sheer rock wall of the

  crater plunged down into the water.

  Schofield swung the Super Stallion to a halt thirty yards

  away from the bipod, kept it in a hovering pattern ten feet

  above the choppy surface of the water. Wind-hurled sand pelted the windshield.

  He looked at the bipod more closely--a rope of some sort stretched down into the water beneath it.

  The bipod was at anchor ...

  And then suddenly he saw movement.

  On the bipod.

  Through the veil of flying sand, he saw a pudgy-looking, bald-headed man in shirtsleeves get to his feet inside the left-hand pod, the driver's pod.

  Gunther Botha.

  Botha had been bent over in his pod, doing something when Schofield's chopper had arrived under the cover of the roaring sandstorm.

  In the right-hand section of the bipod, however,

  Schofield saw someone else.

  It was the tiny figure of Kevin, looking very small and

  out of place in the fearsomely equipped gunner's pod.

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  Schofield felt relief wash over his body.

  They'd found him.

  schofield's voice boomed out from the exterior speakers of the Super Stallion: "Dr. Gunther Botha, we are United States Marines! You are now under arrest! Hand over the boy, and give yourself up now!"

  Botha didn't seem to care. He just hurriedly tossed

  something square and metallic over the side of his bipod. It

  splashed into the water and sank, disappearing.

  What the hell is he doing? Schofield thought.

  Inside the Super Stallion's cockpit, he turned to Book.

  "Open the loading ramp. Then bring us around, rear-end

  first."

  The Super Stallion turned laterally, rotating in midair as

  its rear loading ramp folded down, opening.

  The giant chopper's rear end came round toward the stationary

  bipod, hovering ten feet above the water. Schofield

  stood on the now-open loading ramp, his Desert Eagle pistol

  in his hand, a hand mike in the other, windblown sand flying

  wildly all around him.

  He raised the microphone to his lips.

  "The boy, Botha," his amplified voice boomed.

  Still Botha didn't seem to care.

  Kevin, however, turned in his seat and saw Schofield,

  standing in the hold of the Super Stallion. A broad smile appeared

  across the little boy's face. He waved--a child's

  wave, his arm swatting rapidly from side to side.

  Schofield waved back briefly.

  At the moment, he was more concerned with what

  Botha was up to, for now he could see the fat South African

  virologist much more clearly.

  Botha had a scuba tank strapped to his back, over his

  white shirtsleeves. He hurriedly threw a full-face diving

  mask to Kevin and gesticulated for the little boy to put it on.

  Schofield frowned. Scuba gear?

  Whatever Botha was doing, it was time to stop him.

  area 7

  Schofield raised his gun and was about to fire across

  Botha's bow to get his attention, when suddenly there came

  a loud whumping noise from somewhere close above him and completely without warning, he saw the tail rotor of his Super Stallion blast out into a million pieces and separate completely from the rest of the chopper!

  Like a tree branch snapping, the Super Stallion's tail

  boom broke free of the chopper's main body and dropped

  down into the water, causing the entire helicopter to spin

  wildly and veer away from the bipod.

  With its tail rotor gone, the Super Stallion spun out of

  control--and wheeled down toward the water's surface below.

  Book II wrestled with the chopper's control stick, but

  the Super Stallion was beyond salvation. It rolled sharply in

  the air, heading nose-first for the wa
ter.

  In the rear cargo bay, Schofield was hurled against the

  side wall, somehow managed to get a grip on a canvas seat there.

  The Super Stallion hit the lake.

  Water flew everywhere, a gigantic Whitewater splash.

  The big helicopter's nose drove down into the water,

  going under for a full ten seconds before its buoyancy

  righted it again, and the massive chopper bobbed slowly on

  the surface.

  Book II hit the kill switch and the chopper's engines

  died instantly. Its rotor blades began to slow.

  Water rushed into the cargo hold.

  It didn't come in through the open rear loading ramp

  just yet--since the ramp was designed to rest just above the

  water's surface in the event of a water landing--but rather it

  entered the crashed helicopter via the small access hatch that

  Schofield and Book II had used to enter it earlier.

  A Super Stallion is built to stay afloat for a short while

  in a water crash, but since Schofield and Book had discarded

  the chopper's floor access hatch when they'd entered it, this

  Super Stallion wasn't even going to do that.

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  It was sinking. Fast.

  Schofield ran into the cockpit. "What the hell was that?

  Something hit us!"

  "I know," Book II said. He nodded out through the

  windshield. "I think it was them."

  Schofield peered out through the forward windshield.

  Hovering above the water in front of their sinking helicopter,

  partially obscured by the veil of wind-hurled sand--and flanking the anchored South African bipod--were the two remaining Air Force Penetrators.

  the super stallion sank with frightening speed.

  Water gurgled up through the access hatch, expanding

  outward as it rose up into the cargo hold, pulling the rear end

  of the chopper down into the lake.

  As more water rushed into it, the helicopter dropped

  lower in the water. Within a minute, the rear loading ramp

  fell below the waterline and from that moment on, water

  came flooding in through the wide rear opening.

  Up in the cockpit, Schofield and Book II were standing

  ankle-deep in water when abruptly the entire chopper tilted

  sharply skyward.

  "Any risky ideas now?" Book II shouted, grabbing for a

  handhold.

  "Not a one."

  The Super Stallion continued to sink slowly, rear end

  first.

  With the Football still hanging from his side, Schofield

  looked out through the cockpit's forward windshield.

  He saw one of the Penetrators approach Gunther

  Botha's bipod. It hovered directly in front of the tiny rivercraft,

  like a gigantic menacing vulture.

  Schofield saw Botha stand in his pod and face the

  black Air Force helicopter—waving. With his arms flailing,

  he looked like a tiny pathetic figure beseeching an angry

  bird-god.

  Then, without warning, a Stinger missile shot down

  from the right-hand wing of the Penetrator, trailing a dead straight finger of white smoke.

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  The missile hit Botha's pod and blasted it out of the water.

  One second Botha was there, the next he was gone, replaced

  by a frothing circle of ripples.

  Kevin's pod, however, remained intact--severed

  cleanly from Botha's by the missile impact.

  His pod and the cracked remains of the bipod's crossbeam just bobbed in the water under the steely gaze of the

  hovering Penetrator.

  from his position inside the sinking super stallion,

  Schofield blanched.

  They'd just killed Botha!

  Holy shit

  His Super Stallion was now three-quarters underwater--

  its entire rear section underneath the surface. Only its domelike

  glass windshield and the tip of one of its rotor blades

  still protruded above the waterline.

  Water began to lap up against the outside of the windshield.

  The entire rear cargo hold was now filled with encroaching

  dark-green liquid--water that wanted to rise into

  the cockpit, and devour the whole helicopter.

  The chopper sank further.

  Through the green-tinged waves slapping against the

  windshield, Schofield saw the Air Force Penetrator swing in

  above the half-destroyed bipod and lower a rescue harness

  down to Kevin.

  "Ah, damn it," he said aloud.

  But the Super Stallion just continued to sink--down

  and down--and the last thing Schofield saw before the

  windshield was completely covered over by lapping green

  water was the image of Kevin being hauled up toward the

  Penetrator on the harness and being pulled into the rear section

  of the attack helicopter's three-man cockpit.

  Then the windshield was covered over completely-and

  Schofield saw nothing but green.

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  the two air force penetrators were well aware of who

  was inside the Super Stallion.

  Their calls to "Looking Glass" on- a designated alternate

  frequency had gone unanswered for the last few minutes. Indeed,

  it was a transponder trace on the Super Stallion that

  had led them to this crater--where they had found Botha

  and the boy.

  The two Penetrators hovered above the sinking Super

  Stallion, watching it founder, watching it drown.

  Inside the lead Penetrator sat Python Willis, the commander

  of Charlie Unit. He gazed intently at the sinking

  Super Stallion, making sure it disappeared beneath the

  waves.

  The Super Stallion's cockpit went under, followed by the tip of its rotor blade--the last remaining part of the helicopter

  above the waterline.

  A legion of bubbles rose instantly to the surface as

  every ounce of air inside the sinking helicopter was replaced

  with water.

  The two Penetrators waited.

  The Super Stallion disappeared into the inky green

  depths of the lake, trailing multiple lines of bubbles.

  Still Python Willis waited--until the bubbles stopped

  coming, until he was sure that there could be no air whatsoever

  inside the sunken helicopter.

  After a few minutes, the water surface became calm.

  Still the two Penetrators waited.

  They lingered another ten minutes, just to be absolutely

  certain that nobody came up. If anyone did, they would finish

  them off.

  Nobody came up.

  At last, Python made the decision and the two Penetrators

  wheeled around in the air and headed back toward

  Area 7.

  No one could have stayed under that long, not even

  Matthew Reilly

  inside an air pocket. The air in a pocket would have gone bad

  by now.

  No.

  Shane Schofield--and whoever else was in that Super

  Stallion with him--was now, without a doubt, dead.

  gant, mother, juliet and the president were still on

  Level 4, in the semi-darkened observation lab. Hot Rod

  Hagerty and Nicholas Tate were also still with them.

  "We should move," Gant said.

  "What are you thinking?" Mother asked.

  "No. W
hat are you doing, Sergeant Gant?" Hot Rod

  demanded.

  "We shouldn't stay here," Gant said.

  "But this is a perfectly good hiding place."

  "We should keep moving. If they're searching for us,

  and we stay in the same place, they'll eventually find us. We

  should move at least once every twenty minutes."

  "And where exactly did you learn this?" Hagerty asked.

  "It's in the training manual for Officer Candidate

  School," Gant said. "Standard evasive techniques. Surely

  you read it at some point in your career. Besides, there's

  something else I'd like to check out--"

  Hagerty went red. "I will not be spoken to like that by a sergeant--"

  "Yes. You will," Mother stepped up to Hagerty. At six four, she towered over him. She nodded over at Gant: "Because that little chickadee is smarter and cooler in a combat

  situation than you'll ever be. And, for your information, she

  ain't gonna be a sergeant for long. Soon she's gonna be an

  officer. And I'll tell you something, I'd put my life in her

  hands before I put it in yours."

  Hagerty pursed his lips. "Right. That's--"

  "Colonel Hagerty," the President said, stepping forward,

  "Sergeant Gant has saved my life twice this morning--on

  Matthew Reilly

  the train downstairs and then on the platform. In

  both instances, she was decisive and cool-headed in a situation

  that would have brought many other people unstuck. I

  am happy to trust my safety to her judgment."

  "Fucking-A," Mother said. "The power of estrogen, man."

  "Sergeant Gant," the President said. "What are you

  thinking?"

  Gant smiled, her sky-blue eyes gleaming.

  "I'm thinking we do something about that transmitter

  attached to your heart, sir."

  IN HIS STERILE WINDOWLESS ROOM ON THE SECOND-TO-BOTTOM floor of the Pentagon, Dave Fairfax was still hard at work decoding the intercepted telephone conversations that had come

  out of United States Air Force Special Area (Restricted) No. 7.

  Having decrypted the incoming and outgoing messages

  in Afrikaans, Fairfax was pretty pleased with himself.

  There was, however, still one thing that nagged at him.

  The two messages in English that he had found in amongst