It had been five minutes now and nobody had come for them and the President of the United States was not accustomed to waiting.
The President and his protective Detail just stood in the common room on Level 3, looking about themselves, waiting in the silence.
'Frank,' the President said to the Chief of the Detail, 'see what's going on…'
The big-screen television came on.
The President and his Detail whirled around.
'What the fuck…' somebody said.
On the screen, large and bold, was the bright yellow insignia of the Emergency Broadcast System — the special all spectrum broadcast network that was capable of cutting off regular broadcasting in the event of a national emergency.
Then, abruptly, the BBS symbol disappeared, and a face appeared in its place.
'What the hell…' this time it was the President who spoke.
The face on the screen was that of a dead man.
It was the face of Lieutenant General Charles Samson Russell, USAF, call-sign: 'Caesar.'
On every television screen in Area 7 — and, it appeared, every television in the United States — the round, heavy browed face of Charles Russell began to speak.
'Mr. President. People of America. Welcome to Area 7. My name is General Charles Russell, United States Air Force. For too long, I have watched this country eat itself. I will do so no longer.' His tone was measured, his Louisiana accent thick.
'Our representatives at both federal and state levels are incapable of genuine leadership. Our free press is no longer the tool for controlling government that it was intended to be. To every man who has ever fought or died for this country, this state of affairs is a disgrace. It can no longer be allowed to continue.'
In the common room, the President just stared at the big-screen television.
'And so I propose a challenge, Mr. President — both to you and to the system you represent.
'Implanted on your heart is a radio device. It was attached to the outer tissue of your cardiac muscle during an operation on your left lung four years ago.'
Frank Cutler spun to face the President, a look of horror spreading across his face.
'I will initiate its signal now,' Caesar said. He pressed some buttons on a small red unit that he held in his hand. The compact unit had a black stub antenna sticking out from its top.
Frank Cutler pulled a debugging wand from his coat — a spectrum analyzer used to detect any signal-emitting device — and waved it over the President's body.
Feet and legs… okay.
Waist and stomach… okay.
Chest…
The wand went crazy.
'My challenge to you, Mr. President, is simple.' Russell's voice echoed throughout the underground base.
'As you well know, at every major airport in the United States there are at least three hangars devoted to the storage of United States Air Force bombers, fighters and ordnance.'
'Right now, inside fourteen of those hangars, sit fourteen Type-240 blast plasma warheads. The airports include John F. Kennedy, Newark and La Guardia in New York, Dulles in Washington, O'Hare in Chicago, LAX in Los Angeles, and airports in San Francisco, San Diego, Seattle, Boston, Philadelphia and Detroit. Each plasma warhead, as you know, has a blast radius of sixteen miles and a detonation yield of ninety megatons. All are armed.'
In the common room on Level 3, everyone was silent.
'The only thing that will stop the detonation of these warheads, Mr. President,' Charles Russell said with a smile, 'is the continued beating of your heart.'
Russell went on. 'All the devices at the airports are patched in to a single satellite in geosynchronous orbit above this base. That satellite, Mr. President, emits a high-powered microwave signal which is picked up and bounced back to it by the transmitter placed on your heart.'
'But the radio transmitter on your heart, once started, is kinetically operated. If your heart should stop beating, the transmitter will cease to operate, and the satellite's signal will not be bounced back to it — in which case, the satellite will instruct the bombs in the airports to detonate.'
'Mr. President. If your heart should stop, America as we know it dies. If your heart keeps beating, America lives.'
'You are the symbol of a bankrupt culture, sir: a politician, a man who seeks power for power's sake, but, like the people you represent, one who lives safe in the knowledge that he will never ever be called upon to stand up and fight for the system that gives him that power.'
'Well, you have lived safely for too long, Mr. President. Now you have been called to account. Now you have been called to fight.'
'I, on the other hand, am a warrior. I have spilled my blood for this country. What blood have you spilled? What sacrifices have you made? None. Coward.'
'But like an honest patriot, I will give you and the system you represent a final chance to prove your worth. For the people of this country need proof. They need to see you flounder — see you fall — see you sell them out to save your skin. They elected you to represent them. Now you shall do that — literally. If you die, they die with you.'
'This facility has been completely sealed. It is designed to withstand the full force of a nuclear blast, so there is no way out of it. Inside it with you is a fifty-man detachment of the best ground force this country has to offer, the 7th Special Operations Squadron. These men have orders to kill you, Mr. President.'
'With your Secret Service Detail, you will face them in a fight to the death. Whoever wins, gets the country. Whoever loses, dies.'
'Of course, the American people must be kept apprised of the score in this challenge,' Caesar said. 'Therefore, every hour on the hour, I shall address them via the Emergency Broadcast System and give them an update on the pursuit.'
The President looked up at the nearest security camera. 'This is ridiculous! You couldn't possibly have put a…'
'Jeremiah K. Woolf, Mr. President,' Caesar Russell said from the TV screen. The President immediately fell silent.
No one else spoke.
'I will assume from your silence that you have seen the FBI file.'
Of course the President had seen the file — the peculiarities of the ex-senator's death had demanded it.
At the exact moment that Jeremiah Woolf had died in Alaska, his home in Washington, D.C., had exploded. No culprit — for either incident — had ever been found. It was a coincidence too bizarre to ignore, but in the absence of any evidence to explain it, to the mass media it had remained simply that, a tragic coincidence.
As the President knew, however, one particular aspect of the ex-senator's death had never been made public: namely, the elevated levels of red blood cell production in his bloodstream, plus extremely low alveolar and arterial phosphate pressures. All of these symptoms indicated a prolonged period of hyperventilation before Woolf had been shot — a period during which the ex-senator had experienced a heightened state of 'fight or flight' physiology.
In other words, the ex-senator had been running from someone when he'd been shot. He had been hunted.
And now it made sense.
Woolf had been implanted with a transmitter… and then in Alaska he had been hunted and shot, and when, finally, his heart had stopped, his home on the other side of the country had been destroyed.
Caesar Russell's voice invaded his thoughts. 'Former Senator Woolf's unexpected retirement from government left me with an extra transmitting device. And so he became a guinea pig, a test run. A test run for today.'
