It was true. Apart from a couple of Asian American members scattered among them, the 7th Squadron units in the hangar were absolutely lily-white.
'Yes, I've heard those rumors, too,' Schofield said. Although no one liked to admit it, in some sections of the armed forces, racism — particularly against black soldiers — was still a problem. And with their brutal selection courses, special forces units like the 7th Squadron could easily wield subtle discriminatory powers.
Schofield nodded at the leaders of the three ten-man groups, distinguished from the others by the fact that they didn't have to hold their P-90's in their hands. Their machine guns were secured behind their shoulder blades, in back mounted holsters. 'You know what they call the five 7th Squadron unit commanders at exercises?'
'What?'
'The Five Snakes. As the overall squadron leader, Kurt Logan commands one ten-man team, the first one, Alpha Unit. The other four units are run by four captains — McConnell, Willis, Stone and Carney. And they're good. When they've cared to show up at the interservice combat exercises at Bragg, they've always come in at number one. One time, a lone 7th Squadron unit took out three SEAL defensive teams all by itself — and that was without Logan.'
'Why do they call them the Five Snakes?' Gant asked.
'It started out as a jealous joke among the other field commanders. Three reasons. One, because tactically they resemble snakes: they strike quickly and with maximum force, and with a total lack of mercy. Two, because, personally, they're all very cold individuals. They would never mix with their counterparts in the other services. Always stuck together.'
'And the third reason?'
'Because each of their call-signs is a variety of aggressive snake.'
'Nice,' Gant said wryly.
They kept walking. Gant changed the subject: 'You know, I had a good time last Saturday night.'
'You did?' Schofield turned to face her.
'Yeah. Did you?'
'Oh, yeah.' Gant said, 'I was just wondering, you know, because, well, you didn't…'
'Wait a second,' Schofield said suddenly. 'Something's wrong here.'
'What?'
Schofield looked at the three 7th Squadron units stationed around the hangar again.
One squad stood guard over by the regular elevator. The second group of ten men stood beside the wide aircraft elevator shaft. The third unit stood on the southeastern side of the hangar, over by a door that led into the two-story control building.
It was at that moment that Schofield saw the sign on the door behind the third group of 7th Squadron men.
And then, in his mind's eye, he saw it.
'Come on,' he said, heading back toward the offices. 'Quickly.'
'The arming codes have been entered, Sir,' Logan said. 'The Football is ready. Warrant Officer Webster was most… forthcoming.'
The radio operators inside the control room continued their verbal updates:
'…Emergency sealing system ready…'
'…Self-contained oxygen supply ready…'
'Major Logan,' one of them said, 'I'm still picking up those trace heat signatures in sector nine outside, out by the EEV.'
'Size?'
'Same as before. Between twelve and seventeen inches. I'm not sure, sir, but I'd swear they've moved closer to the vent since the last time I looked.'
Logan looked at the satellite image. A zoomed-in black and-white shot of the desert to the east of the main complex showed about twenty-four rod-shaped white blobs arrayed in a wide three-hundred-yard circle around the Emergency Escape Vent.
'Twelve to seventeen inches.' Logan peered closely at the image. 'Too small to be men. Probably just a pack of desert rats. Get an enhanced image from the satellite, just to be sure. Keep an eye on them.'
The shadowy figure turned to face Logan. 'Where is the President now?'
'He's down in the testing lab on Level 4.'
'Contact Harper. Give him the green light. Tell him we're ready. Tell him the mission is go.'
'Subject One has not been immunized with the vaccine,' Dr. Gunther Botha said in a neutral scientific voice.
The President now stood in near darkness, in another area of Level 4, facing two brightly lit test chambers.
Inside each chamber stood a completely naked man. Both men, in perverse contrast to their nakedness, wore gas masks and a series of electrodes attached to their chests.
'Subject One is a white, Caucasian male, five foot seven inches, one hundred and sixty pounds, age thirty-six. Subject is wearing a standard-issue anti-contagion gas mask. Releasing the agent now.'
There was a soft hissing sound as a light mist of mustard-yellow aerosol particles was released into the first man's chamber. He was a thin man, gangly. He looked about himself fearfully as the gas entered his airtight room.
The President said, 'Where did you get the virus?'
'Changchun,' Botha said.
The President nodded.
Changchun was a remote town in northern Manchuria. Although the Chinese government denied it, Changchun was the Chinese Army's chief biological weapons testing facility. It was said that political prisoners and captured foreign spies were sent there and used as guinea pigs for virus and nerve agent testing.
The naked man in the gas chamber was still standing, still looking nervously about himself.
'Secondary infection occurs via indirect ingestion through dermatological orifices — hair follicles in the skin, open cuts,' Botha said blandly. 'Without administration of an effective vaccine, death will occur approximately thirty minutes after contact. For indirectly ingested nerve agents, this is a relatively fast kill rate.
'But,' Botha held up a finger, 'when compared with the effects of direct inhalation of this agent, it is highly efficient.' He pressed an intercom switch and addressed the man in the chamber. 'Would you please remove your mask.'
In response, the man gave Botha the finger — firmly.
Botha just sighed and pressed a button on a nearby console. Subject One received a severe shock through his chest electrodes.
'I said, would you please remove your gas mask.'
Subject One slowly took off his mask.
And immediately — violently — the virus took effect.
The man clutched his stomach and coughed a deep, hacking cough.
'As I said, far more efficient,' Botha said.
The man doubled over, started wheezing.
'Gastrointestinal irritation begins within approximately ten seconds of onset.'
The man vomited explosively, splatting brown-green vomit all over the test booth's floor.
'Stomach liquefication within thirty seconds…'
The man dropped to his knees, gasping for air. A chunky liquid dribbled down his chin. He clutched at the booth's glass wall, right in front of Botha.
'Liver and kidney liquefication within a minute…'
The subject puked a bloody black sludge all over the window. Then he fell to the ground, shuddering and shivering.
'Total organ failure within ninety seconds. Death within two minutes.'
Soon, the naked man inside the chamber — coiled in the fetal position — lay still.
