coffee mugs, just in case anyone forgot in whose presence they were traveling.
At the rear of the central area, guarded at all times by a Marine in full dress uniform, was a polished mahogany door that led to the aft-most section of the helicopter.
It was the President's private office.
Small but elegantly appointed — and featuring an amazingly compact arrangement of phones, faxes, computers and televisions — Marine One's office allowed the Boss to monitor the nation's business wherever he happened to be.
At the very rear of the President's office, behind a small pressure-sealed door, was one final feature of Marine One which was reserved for use in only the most dire of circumstances — a small one-man ejection unit, the Presidential escape pod.
Schofield waved his spectrum analyzer over the seats in the first-class section, searching for bugs.
Seated there were Frank Cutler and five of his Secret Service people. They peered out the windows, ignoring Schofield as he did his sweep around them.
Also there were a couple of the President's advisers — his Deputy Chief of Staff, his Communications Director — both of whom flicked through thick manila folders.
Standing above them, manning the two exit doors at either end of the main cabin, were a pair of straight- backed United States Marines.
There was one more person seated in the main cabin.
A stocky no-necked man dressed in an olive U.S. Army uniform, sitting quietly at the back of the cabin, in the first class seat closest to the President's office.
To look at him, with his carrot-red hair and bushy orange mustache, he didn't seem like anyone special, and truth be told, he wasn't anyone special.
He was an Army warrant officer named Carl Webster, and he followed the President wherever he went — not because of any special expertise or knowledge he possessed, but because of the extremely important object handcuffed to his right wrist: a stainless-steel briefcase that contained the codes and the activation switches to America's nuclear arsenal, a briefcase known as 'the Football.'
Schofield finished his sweep, including a short 'excuse me' check of the President's office.
Nothing.
There was not a single bug to be found on the helicopter.
He returned to the cockpit, just in time to hear Gunman Grier say into his mike: 'Copy that, Nighthawk Three, thank you. Continue on to the vent.'
Grier turned to his copilot. 'Air Force One's back on deck. It was just a valve leak. It'll stay at Area 8. We'll bring the Boss back after our little visit to Area 7. Scarecrow?'
'Nothing,' Schofield said. 'The helicopter's clean.'
Grier shrugged. 'Must have been the radiosphere. Thanks, Scarecrow.'
Suddenly Grier touched his helmet as another message came through. He sighed wearily as the voice at the other end nattered into his ear.
'We'll do our best, Colonel,' he said, 'but I make no promises.' Grier switched off his mike and shook his head. 'Fucking Ramrod.'
He turned to Schofield and Dallas. 'Ladies and gentlemen, our esteemed White House Liaison Officer has asked us to pick up the pace a little. Apparently, the Boss has an afternoon tea with the Washington Ladies' Auxiliary to get to, and Liaison Officer Hagerty thinks we're not going fast enough to meet his schedule.'
Dallas snuffed a laugh. 'Good ol' Ramrod.'
When it came to the use of Marine One, all White House-Marine Corps correspondence went through a Marine colonel called the White House Liaison Officer, a position which for the last three years had been held by Colonel Rodney Hagerty, USMC.
Unfortunately, Hagerty, forty-one years old, tall and lanky, with a pencil-thin mustache and a far too proper manner, was regarded by many in HMX-1 as the worst kind of soldier — a ladder climber, but also a ruthless expert in office politics, someone more interested in getting stars on his shoulders than actually being a United States Marine. But as so often happens, the upper echelons of the Corps didn't see this and kept promoting him nonetheless.
Even Schofield disliked him. Hagerty was a bureaucrat — a bureaucrat who had obviously come to enjoy his proximity to power. Although his official call-sign was 'Hot Rod,' his rigid adherence to procedure and protocol, even when it was patently impractical, had earned him an alternate call-sign among the troops: 'Ramrod.'
At that very same moment, the lone Super Stallion chopper that was Nighthawk Three was landing in a cloud of dust on the sandy desert plain. About half a mile to the west stood the low rocky mountain that housed Area 7.
As the big chopper's tires hit the ground, four Marines dressed in full combat attire leaped out from it and ran over to a small trench carved into the rock-hard desert floor.
The trench housed Area 7's EEV — Emergency Escape Vent — the well-concealed exit point of a long underground tunnel that provided emergency egress from Area 7. Today it was the primary escape route from the complex, in the unlikely event that the President encountered any trouble there.
The lead Marine, a lieutenant named Corbin 'Colt' Hendricks, approached the dusty earthen hole, accompanied by his three subordinates, MP-5/10 — sometimes called the MP-10, they were 10 mm versions of the Heckler & Koch MP-5 — in hand.
A steady beep-pause-beep warbled in Hendricks's earpiece: Advance Team 2's All-Clear beacon. The A-C beacon couldn't transmit voice messages, but its powerful digital signal still provided a worthwhile service: if Advance Team 2 encountered any kind of ambush or disturbance, its lead agent simply flicked off the All-Clear beacon and everyone else in the presidential entourage would know that danger was afoot. Its presence now was reassuring.
Hendricks and his squad came to the edge of the trench and looked down into it.
'Oh shit…' Hendricks breathed.
The other two presidential helicopters raced toward Restricted Area 7.
'Hey, Scarecrow?' Gunman Grier turned in his seat to face Schofield. 'Where's your harem?'
Through his reflective silver sunglasses, Schofield offered a crooked smile to the Presidential helicopter pilot.
'They're over on Nighthawk Two today, sir,' he said.
Grier was referring to the two female members of Schofield's former unit who had joined him on his tour on board Marine Helicopter Squadron-1 — Staff Sergeant Elizabeth 'Fox' Gant and Gunnery Sergeant Gena 'Mother' Newman.
As a former commander of a Marine Force Reconnaissance Unit, Schofield was something of a rarity on board Marine One.
Owing to the largely ceremonial duties associated with working on the President's helicopter and to the fact that time spent on board the helicopter is not counted as 'active deployed airtime,' many Marines choose to avoid HMX-1 duty. Indeed, with few exceptions, most of the troops assigned to HMX-1 are relatively junior soldiers who won't miss any promotional opportunities.
So to have a former Recon commander on board was highly unusual, but something which Gunman Grier welcomed.
He liked Schofield. He'd heard on the grapevine that he was a gifted field commander — a man who looked out for his men, and as a result, got the very best out of them.
Grier had also heard about what had happened to Schofield on his last mission and he respected the young captain for it.
He also liked both Mother and Gant — admired their attitudes to their work and their fierce loyalty to their former commander — and his labeling of them as Schofield's 'harem' was a sign of affection from a man who rarely showed it.
Schofield, however, was used to being considered unusual.
Indeed, that was why he was stationed aboard Marine One.
