so its makers claimed, guaranteed total and undiminished body movement. Featuring titanium-alloy 'bones,' fully rotating joints and hydraulic muscle simulators, its operation was so sophisticated — involving nerve impulse reception and automatic weight-shifting — that it required an internal prologic computer chip to control it.
Mother was gazing at the glistening Tiffany's necklace.
'Whoa, that is one mighty fine piece of jewelry,' she gawped. She turned to Nick Tate: 'That piece of string must have cost you a pretty penny, sonny Jim.'
'It was within my price range,' Tate said coolly. 'Probably cost more than I make in a year'
'Probably did.'
Mother ignored him, turned to Gant. 'Sorry to rain on your parade, Birthday Babe, but the skipper sent me back to get you. He wants you up front for the landing.'
'Oh, okay.' Gant stood, and as she did, she handed Tate back his necklace. 'I'm sorry, Nicholas, but I can't accept this. I'm seeing someone else.'
And with that she headed up front.
Over at the emergency escape vent, Colt Hendricks just stood with his mouth agape, staring down into the trench.
The sight before him was nothing short of horrific.
All nine members of the Secret Service's secondary advance team lay on the sand-covered floor of the trench, their bodies twisted at all angles, riddled with bullet holes. The size of the wounds indicated hollow-point ammunition had been used — bullets that expanded once they entered the wound, guaranteeing a kill. A few of the agents had been shot in the face — their heads had been all but blown off. Blood was everywhere, drying in the sand.
Hendricks saw the agent-in-charge of the Secret Service team, a man named Baker — mouth open, eyes wide, bullet hole in the forehead. In Agent Baker's outstretched hand was the Advance Team's All-Clear beacon switch. The attack must have happened so quickly that he hadn't even had time to flick the switch.
Beyond Baker, Hendricks saw a solid-looking steel door set into the dirt wall of the trench — the escape vent itself. It just stood there, resolutely closed.
Hendricks spun on his heel, yanked out his radio, headed back toward Nighthawk Three.
'Nighthawk One!'
Radio static.
'Goddamn it! Nighthawk One! This is…'
It was as if the desert just came alive.
The dusty desert floor parted — sand falling off canvas ambush covers — and suddenly, from both sides of Hendricks, about a dozen man-sized shapes rose from the sand, submachine guns raised and firing.
A second later, a 9-millimeter Silvertip bullet entered Hendricks's brain from the side. The subsequent gaseous expansion of the hollow-pointed projectile caused his head to explode.
Hendricks never saw the man who killed him.
Never saw the dark team of desert wraiths take down the rest of his men with clinical, ruthless efficiency.
And he never saw them take his helicopter and fly it back toward Area 7.
The two remaining presidential helicopters descended together, landing in a whirlwind of sand in front of the massive main hangar of United States Air Force Special Area (Restricted) No. 7.
The giant hangar's enormous twin doors yawned wide, its interior brightly illuminated. The low mountain into which the hangar had been carved loomed over the squat four-building complex.
No sooner had the two choppers touched the ground than the Secret Service people from Nighthawk Two were dashing to their positions around Marine One.
A welcoming party stood on the runway in front of the hangar, standing silently in the cool morning air, silhouetted by the hangar light behind them.]
Two Air Force officers — one colonel and one major — stood at the head of the welcoming unit.
Behind the two officers stood four rows of fully armed commandos, ten men to a row. All of them were dressed in full combat gear — black battle-dress uniforms, black body armor, black helmets — and they all held high-tech Belgian made P-90 assault rifles rigidly across their chests.
Looking out through Marine One's cockpit windshield, Schofield recognized their insignia patches at once. They were members of a unit rarely seen at U.S. military exercises, a unit which was shrouded in secrecy, a unit which many believed was used only in the most critical of missions.
It was the elite ground unit in the United States Air Force, the famous 7th Special Operations Squadron.
Based in West Germany for much of the Cold War, its official task during that time was the defense of U.S. airfields against the elite Soviet Spetsnaz units. Its unofficial achievements, though, were far more spectacular.
Masterminding the defection of five senior Soviet nuclear missile specialists from a secret base in the Ukraine mountains. The assassination of KGB operations chief Vladimir Nakov in Moscow in 1990, before Nakov could himself assassinate Mikhail Gorbachev. And, finally, in 1997, the daring rescue of the CIA's captured Far Eastern Bureau Chief, Fred Conway, from the dreaded Xiangi Prison — the all but impregnable maze of grim cells and torture chambers belonging to the notorious Chinese External Intelligence Service.
Each man in the formation wore a special combat mask around his throat — an ERG-6 gas mask. Black and hard, it looked like the lower half of a hockey mask, and it covered its wearer's mouth and nose in much the same way Jesse James's mask had covered his face in the old days.
Three other men stood out in front of the detachment of 7th Squadron members on the deserted runway. All three wore starched white lab coats. Scientists.
Once the Marine and Secret Service people from Nighthawk Two were in place, a set of Airstairs folded down from the forward left-hand side of Marine One.
Two Marines emerged from the helicopter first and took up their positions at the base of the stairs, backs straight, eyes forward.
A moment later, Special Agent Frank Cutler stepped out of the chopper, hand on his holster, eyes watchful. The Secret Service trusts nobody. Not even the United States Air Force. Even it could have a disgruntled soldier who might take a shot at the President.
The President came out next, followed by his staff.
Schofield and a young Marine corporal emerged last of all.
As usual, Marine One's two pilots, Gunman and Dallas, stayed on board just in case a rapid departure was called for.
The two parties faced each other on the runway in the early morning light — the Air Force detachment stationed at the complex; the President and his entourage.
Twisting coils of windswept sand swirled around their bodies. A sandstorm was due later in the day.
A young Air Force captain guided the President over to the colonel at the head of the Air Force formation — a severe looking man with gray hair and eyebrows. As the President came closer, the colonel stepped forward and crisply saluted his Commander-in-Chief.
'Good morning, Mr. President,' he said. 'My name is Colonel Jerome T. Harper, United States Air Force Medical and Surgical Command, and commanding officer of United States Air Force Special Area (Restricted) 7. This is Major Kurt Logan, commander of the 7th Squadron forces here at the base. Your two Secret Service advance teams are waiting for you inside. We're honored to have you, sir. Welcome to Area 7.'
'Thank you, Colonel,' the President replied. 'It's a pleasure to be here. Lead the way.'
As soon as the President was taken away, disappearing inside the enormous main hangar with his highest- level entourage in tow, the major in charge of the 7th Squadron detachment came up to Schofield.
Major Kurt Logan was about six-one, with closely shaved hair and heavily pockmarked skin. Schofield had actually met him before, although he doubted Logan would remember him.
It had been at a special command and leadership course run by the Navy at their SEAL compound in Fort Lauderdale in 1997. Through a combination of smart tactics and ruthless follow-through, the softly spoken Logan had come first in the class by a clear forty points. He could assess any battlefield situation in an instant, and when
