flying wing shape of the B-2 stealth bomber — were stationed there.
Others still — perhaps inspired by the launch of a Chinese space shuttle two days previously — suggested that Area 8 housed the X-38, a sleek 747-launched offensive space shuttle. A black project run by the Ak Force in association with NASA, the X-38 was reputedly the world's first fight-capable space vehicle, an attack shuttle.
Schofield ignored their speculation.
He didn't have to guess that Area 8 had something to do with top-secret airplane development, probably space based. He could tell it from one simple fact.
Although the Ak Force engineers had concealed it well, the regulation-size black bitumen runway of Area 8 actually extended another thousand yards in both directions — as a pale concrete landing strip hidden beneath a thin layer of sand and carefully placed tumbleweeds.
It was an elongated runway, designed to launch and receive aircraft that needed an extra-long landing strip, which meant aircraft like space shuttles or –
And then suddenly the President had emerged from the main hangar and they were on the move again.
Originally, the Boss had intended to fly to Area 7 on Air Force One. It would be faster than Marine One, even though the distance was short.
But there had been a problem on Air Force One. An unexpected leak in the left wing's fuel tank.
And so the Boss had taken Marine One — always on stand-by for precisely this situation.
Which was why Schofield was now gazing at Area 7, lit up like a Christmas tree in the dim morning light.
As he peered at the distant hangar complex, however, Schofield had a strange thought. Curiously, none of his colleagues on HMX-1 knew any stories about Area 7, not even wild unsubstantiated rumors.
No one, it seemed, knew what went on at Area 7.
Life in the immediate vicinity of the President of the United States was a world unto itself.
It was at the same time both thrilling and frightening, Schofield thought.
Thrilling because you were so close to one with so much power, and frightening because that man was surrounded by a great number of people who claimed his influence as their own.
Indeed, even in his short time on board Marine One, Schofield had observed that at any one time, there were at least three competing power clusters vying for the President's attention.
First was the President's own staff, those people… largely self-important Harvard types… whom the President had appointed to aid him on a range of matters: from national security and domestic policy, to the management of the press corps or the management of his political life.
No matter what their field of expertise, at least insofar as Schofield could see, each of the President's personal staff seemed to have one all-encompassing goal: to get the President outside, onto the streets, and into the public eye.
In direct contrast to this objective — indeed, in direct opposition to it — was the second group vying for the President's ear: his protectors, the United States Secret Service.
Led by the stoic, no-nonsense and completely impassive Special Agent Francis X. Cutler, the Presidential Detail was constantly at loggerheads with the White House staff.
Cutler — officially known as 'Chief of the Detail', but known to the President merely as Frank — was renowned for his coolness under pressure and his complete intransigence to pleas from political ass-kissers. With his narrow gray eyes and matching crew-cut hair, Frank Cutler could stare down any member of the President's staff and rebuff them with a single word, 'No.'
The third and last group pressing for presidential attention was the crew of Marine One itself.
Not only were they also subjected to the inflated egos of the presidential staff — Schofield would never forget his first flight on Marine One, when the President's Domestic Policy Adviser, a pompous twenty-nine-year-old lawyer from New York, had ordered Schofield to get him a double latte, and to 'make it quick' — they were also often at odds with the Secret Service.
Securing the President's safety may have been the job of the Secret Service, but when he was on HMX-1, so the Marine Corps reasoned, the Boss had at least six United States Marines on board with him at any given time.
An uneasy truce had been brokered.
While on board Marine One, the President's safety would be in Marine hands. As such, only key members of his Secret Service Detail — Frank Cutler and a few others — would fly with him. The rest of his personal Detail would fly in the two chase helicopters.
As soon as the President stepped off Marine One, however, his well-being was once again the exclusive responsibility of the United States Secret Service.
Gunman Grier spoke into his helmet mike. 'Nighthawk Three, this is Nighthawk One. Go and check on Advance Team Two for me. This radio sphere is screwing up our long range comms. I'm picking up their All-Clear beacon, but I can't get any voice contact. They should be over at the exit vent. And if you get close enough, see if you can raise Area 8 again. Find out what's happening with Air Force One.'
'Copy that, Nighthawk One,' a voice replied over the short-wave. 'On our way.'
From his position behind Grier and Dallas, Schofield saw the Super Stallion to their right peel away from the group and head off over the desert.
The two remaining choppers of Marine Helicopter Squadron-1 continued on their way.
In a darkened room somewhere, a blue-uniformed man wearing a radio headset and seated in front of an illuminated computer display spoke quietly into his wraparound microphone.
'…Initiating primary satellite signal test — now…'
He pressed a button on his console.
'What the hell…?' Dallas said, touching her earpiece.
'What is it?' Gunman Grier asked.
'I don't know,' Dallas said, swiveling in her seat. 'I just picked up a spike on the microwave band.'
She looked at the microwave display screen — it depicted a series of jagged spikes and troughs — then shook her head. 'Strange. Looks like an incoming microwave signal just hit us and then bounced away.'
'Antibugging was done this morning,' Grier said. 'Twice.'
Comprehensive sweeps for listening devices planted on Marine One — and her passengers — were done with rigorous regularity. It was nigh on impossible to plant a transmitting or receiving device on the President's helicopter.
Dallas peered at her screen, shrugging. 'The signal's too small to be a location beacon. Ditto, speech or computer data. It didn't send or take any information — it's as if it was just, well, checking to see if we were here.' She turned to Grier questioningly.
The Presidential Helicopter Pilot frowned. 'Most probably it's just a surge in the radiosphere, a deflected microwave signal. But let's not take any chances.' He turned to Schofield. 'Captain, if you wouldn't mind, would you please do a sweep of the aircraft with the magic wand?'
'…Return signal received,' the console operator in the darkened room said. 'Primary signal test successful. The device is operational. Repeat. The device is operational. Switching back to dormant mode. All right. Commencing test of secondary signal…'
Schofield stepped into the main cabin of Marine One, waving an AXS-9 digital spectrum analyzer over the walls, seats, ceiling and floor, searching for anything that was emitting an outgoing signal.
As one would expect of the President's helicopter, the interior of Ml was plush. Indeed, with its deep maroon carpet and widely spaced seats, it looked more like the first class section of a commercial airliner than the hold of a military aircraft.
Twelve beige leather seats took up most of the main cabin. Each seat had the Seal of the President of the United States embroidered on it, as did the oversized armrests that adjoined each chair and the scotch glasses and
