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. 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 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. What 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 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 the Afrikaans messages.
He played the two messages again, listened intently.
16-JUN 19:56:09
ENGLISH — ENGLISH
VOICE 3:
Everything is in place.
Confirm that it’s the third.
22-JUN 20:51:59
ENGLISH — ENGLISH
VOICE 3:
Mission is a go.
One thing was certain. It was the same voice on both messages.
A man's voice. American. Southern accent. Speaking slowly, deliberately.
Fairfax pushed his glasses up onto his nose, started typing on his keyboard.
He brought up a voice analysis program.
Then he compared the taped voice's digital signature — or 'voiceprint' — with the signatures of every other voice in the DIA's mainframe, every voice the Agency had ever secretly recorded.
Spiked displays whizzed across his screen as the program accessed the Agency's massive database of voiceprints. And then the computer beeped:
6 MATCHES FOUND
DISPLAY ALL MATCHES?
'Yes, please,' Fairfax said as he hit the 'Y' key. Six entries appeared on his screen:
NO.
DATE
DIVISION
