Eagle Strike (18 page)

Cray now had the power to launch his nuclear attack.

“Wait a minute,” Alex said.

“Yes?”

“You’re wrong. You’re terribly wrong. You think you’re making things better, but you’re not!” He struggled to find the right words. “You’ll kill thousands of people. Hundreds of thousands of people, and most of them will be innocent. They won’t have anything to do with drugs…”

“There have to be sacrifices. But if a thousand people die to save a million, what’s so wrong with that?”

“Everything is wrong with it! What about the fallout? Have you thought what it’ll do to the rest of the planet? I thought you cared about the environment. But you’re going to destroy it.”

“It’s a price worth paying, and one day the whole world will agree. You’ve got to be cruel to be kind.”

“You only think that because you’re insane.”

Cray reached for the launch button.

Alex dived forward. He no longer cared about his own safety. He couldn’t even protect Sabina. The two of them might be killed, but he had to stop this happening. He had to protect the millions who would die all over the world if Cray was allowed to continue. Twenty-five nuclear missiles falling simultaneously out of the sky! It was beyond imagination.

But Cray had been expecting the move. Suddenly the gun was in his hand and his arm was swinging through the air. Alex felt a savage blow on the side of his head as Cray struck him. He was thrown back, dazed. The room swam in front of his eyes, and he stumbled and fell.

“Too late,” Cray muttered.

He reached out and drew a circle in the air with a single finger.

He paused.

Then he stabbed down.

“FASTEN YOUR SEAT BELTS”

T
he missiles had been activated.

All over America, in deserts and in mountains, on roads and railways, even out at sea, the launch sequences began automatically. Bases in North Dakota, Montana and Wyoming suddenly went onto red alert. Sirens howled. Computers went into frantic overdrive. It was the start of a panic that would spread in minutes all around the world.

And one by one the twenty-five rockets blasted into the air in a moment of terrible beauty.

Eight Minutemen, eight Peacekeepers, five Poseidons and four Trident D5s climbed into the upper atmosphere at exactly the same time, travelling at speeds of up to fifteen thousand miles per hour. Some were fired from silos buried deep under the ground. Some exploded out of specially adapted train carriages. Others came from submarines. And nobody knew who had given the order. It was a billion-dollar fireworks display that would change the world for ever.

And in ninety minutes it would all be over.

In the communications room the computer screens were flashing red. The entire operating board was ablaze with flashing lights. Cray stood up. There was a serene smile on his face.

“Well, that’s it,” he said. “There’s nothing anyone can do now.”

“They’ll stop them!” Alex said. “As soon as they realize what’s happened, they’ll press a button and all your missiles will self-destruct.”

“I’m afraid it’s not quite as easy as that. You see, all the launch protocols have been obeyed. It was the Air Force One computer that set the missiles off; so only Air Force One can terminate them. I noticed you eyeing the little red button on the keyboard right here. SELF-DESTRUCT. But I’m afraid you’re not going anywhere near it, Alex. We’re leaving.”

Cray gestured with the gun and Alex was forced out of the communications room and back down to the main cabin. His head was still hurting where Cray had hit him. He needed to recover his strength. But how much time did he have left?

Yassen and Sabina were waiting for them. As soon as Alex appeared, Sabina tried to go over to him but Yassen held her back. Cray sank into a sofa next to her.

“Time to go!” he said. He smiled at Alex. “You realize, of course, that once this plane is in the air, it’s virtually indestructible. You could say it’s the perfect getaway vehicle. That’s the beauty of it. It has over two hundred and thirty miles of wiring inside the frame which is designed to withstand even the pulse of a thermonuclear blast. Not that it would make any difference anyway. If they did manage to shoot us down, the missiles would still find their target. The world would still be saved!”

Alex tried to clear his head. He had to think straight.

There were just the five of them on the plane. Sabina, Yassen, Damian Cray and himself – with Henryk in the cockpit. Alex looked out of the main door. The ring of fake American soldiers was still in place. Even if anyone at the airport glanced their way, they would see nothing wrong. Not that that was likely to happen. The authorities must still be concentrating on the cloud of deadly nerve gas that didn’t in fact exist.

Alex knew that if he was going to do anything – if there was anything he could do – it would have to happen before the plane left the ground. Cray was right. Once the plane was in the air, he would have no chance at all.

“Close the door, Mr Gregorovich,” Cray commanded. “I think we should be on our way.”

“Wait a minute!” Alex started to get to his feet but Cray signalled to him to sit down. The gun was in his hand. It was a Smith and Wesson .40, small and powerful with its three and a half inch barrel and square handgrip. Alex knew that it was extremely dangerous to fire a gun on a normal plane. Breaking a window or penetrating the outer skin would depressurize the cabin and make flight impossible. But this, of course, was Air Force One. This was not a normal plane.

“Stay exactly where you are,” Cray said.

“Where are you taking us?” Sabina demanded. Cray was still sitting on the sofa next to her. He obviously thought it would be better to keep her and Alex apart. He reached out and ran a finger across her cheek. Sabina shuddered. She found him revolting and didn’t care if he knew it. “We’re going to Russia,” he said.

“Russia?” Alex looked puzzled.

“A new life for me. And a return home for Mr Gregorovich.” Cray licked his lips. “As a matter of fact, Mr Gregorovich will be something of a hero.”

“I rather doubt that.” Alex couldn’t keep the scorn out of his voice.

“Oh yes. Heroin is smuggled into the country – I am told – in lead-lined coffins, and the border guards simply look the other way. Of course, they’re paid. Corruption is everywhere. Drugs are ten times less expensive in Russia than they are in Europe and there are at least three and a half million addicts in Moscow and St Petersburg. Mr Gregorovich will be ending a problem that has almost brought his country to its knees, and I know that the president will be grateful. So you see, it looks as if the two of us are going to live happily ever after – which, I’m afraid, is more than can be said for you.”

Yassen had closed the door. Alex watched as he pulled the lever down, locking it. “Doors to automatic,” said Yassen.

There was a speaker system active in the plane. Everything that was said in the main cabin could be heard in the cockpit. And, sitting at the flight deck, Henryk flicked a switch so that his voice too could be heard throughout the plane.

“This is your captain speaking,” he said. “Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for take-off.” He was joking: a grisly parody of a real departure. “Thank you for flying with Cray Airlines. I hope you have a pleasant flight.”

The engines started up. Out of the window Alex saw the soldiers scatter and run back to the trucks. Their work was done. They would leave the airport and make their way home to Amsterdam. He glanced at Sabina. She was sitting very still and he remembered that she was waiting for him to do something.
I know things… You have to leave everything to me
. That was what he had told her. How very hollow the words sounded now.

Air Force One was equipped with four huge engines. Alex heard them as they began to turn. They were about to leave! Desperately he looked around him: at the closed door with its white lever slanting down, at the stairway leading up towards the cockpit, at the low tables and neatly arranged line of magazines, at the trolley with its bottles and glasses. Cray was sitting with his legs slightly apart, the gun resting on his thigh. Yassen was still standing by the door. He had a second gun. It was in one of his pockets but Alex knew that the Russian could draw, aim and fire before he had time to blink. There were no other weapons in sight, nothing he could get his hands on. Hopeless.

The plane jerked and began to pull back from its stand. Alex looked out of the window again and saw something extraordinary. There was a vehicle parked next to the VIP building, not far from the plane. It was like a miniature tractor, with three carriages attached, loaded with plastic boxes. As Alex watched, it was suddenly blown away as if it had been made of paper. The carriages spun round and broke free. The tractor itself crashed onto its side and skidded across the tarmac.

It was the engines! Normally a plane of this size would have been towed to an open area out of harm’s way before it began to taxi. Cray, of course, wasn’t going to wait. Air Force One had been put into reverse thrust and the engines – with a thrust rating of over two hundred thousand pounds – were so powerful that they would blow away anything or anyone who came near. Now it was the turn of the VIP building itself. Windows shattered, the glass exploding inwards. A security man had come out and Alex saw him thrown back like a plastic soldier fired from an elastic band. A voice came through on the speakers inside the cabin. Henryk must have connected up the radio so that they could hear.

“This is air traffic control to Air Force One.” This time it was a man’s voice. “You have no clearance to taxi. Please stop immediately.”

The stairs that they had climbed to board the plane toppled to one side, crashing onto the tarmac. The plane was moving more quickly now, backing out onto the main apron.

“This is air traffic control to Air Force One. We repeat: you have no clearance to taxi. Can you please state your intentions…”

They were out in the open, away from the VIP lounge. The main runway was behind them. The rest of the airport must have been almost a mile away. Inside the cockpit Henryk put the plane into forward thrust, and Alex felt the jolt and heard the whine of the engines as once again they began to move. Cray was humming to himself, his eyes vacant, lost in his own world. But the Smith and Wesson was still in his hand and Alex knew that the slightest movement would bring an instant response. Yassen hadn’t stirred. He also seemed wrapped up in his own thoughts, as if he was trying to forget that this was happening.

The plane began to pick up speed, heading for the runway. There was a computer in the cockpit and Henryk had already fed in all the necessary information: the weight of the plane, the outside air temperature, the wind speed, the pressure. He would take off into the breeze, now coming from the east. The main runway is nearly four thousand metres long and the computer had already calculated that the aircraft would only need two and a half thousand of them. It was almost empty. This was going to be an easy take-off.

“Air Force One. You have no clearance. Please abort immediately. Repeat: abort at once.”

The voice from air traffic control was still buzzing in his headphones. Henryk reached up and turned the radio off. He knew that an emergency overdrive would have gone into operation and any other planes would be diverted out of his way. After all, this aircraft did belong to the president of the United States of America. Already the Heathrow authorities would be screaming at each other over the phone lines, fearing not just a crash but a major diplomatic incident. Downing Street would have been informed. All over London, officials and civil servants would be asking the same desperate question.

What the hell is going on?

A hundred kilometres above their heads, the eight Peacekeeper missiles were nearing the edge of space. Two of their rockets had already burnt out and separated, leaving only the last sections with their deployment modules and protective shrouds. The Minutemen and the other missiles that Cray had fired weren’t far behind. All of them carried top-secret and highly advanced navigation systems. On-board computers were already calculating trajectories and making adjustments. Soon the missiles would turn and lock into their targets.

And in eighty minutes they would fall back to earth.

Air Force One was moving rapidly now, following the taxi paths to the main runway. Ahead was the holding point where it would make a sharp turn and begin pre-flight checks.

In the cabin Sabina examined Cray as if seeing him for the first time. Her face showed only contempt. “I wonder what they’ll do with you when you get to Russia,” she said.

“What do you mean?” Cray asked.

“I wonder if they’ll get rid of you by sending you back to England or just shoot you and be done with it.”

Cray stared at her. He looked as if he had been slapped across the face. Alex flinched, fearing the worst. And it came.

“I’ve had enough of these guttersnipes,” Cray snapped. “They’re not amusing me any more.” He turned to Yassen. “Kill them.”

Yassen seemed not to have heard. “What?” he asked.

“You heard me. I’m bored of them. Kill them now!”

The plane stopped. They had reached the holding point. Henryk had heard the instructions being given in the main cabin but he ignored what was happening as he went through the final procedures: lifting the elevators up and down, turning the ailerons. He was seconds away from take-off. As soon as he was satisfied that the plane was ready, he would push down the four thrust levers and they would rocket forward. He tested the rudder pedals and the nose wheel. Everything was ready.

“I do not kill children,” Yassen said. Alex had heard him say exactly the same thing on the boat in the South of France. He hadn’t believed him then, but he wondered now what was going on inside the Russian’s mind.

Sabina watched Alex intently, waiting for him to do something. But trapped inside the plane, with the whine of the engines already beginning to rise, there was nothing he could do. Not yet…

“What are you saying?” Cray demanded.

“There is no need for this,” Yassen said. “Take them with us. They can do no harm.”

“Why should I want to take them all the way to Russia?”

“We can lock them in one of the cabins. You don’t even need to see them.”

“Mr Gregorovich…” Cray was breathing heavily. There was a bead of sweat on his forehead and his grip on the gun was tighter than ever. “If you don’t kill them, I will.”

Yassen didn’t move.

“All right! All right!” Cray sighed. “I thought I was meant to be in charge, but it seems that I have to do everything myself.”

Cray brought up his gun. Alex got to his feet.

“No!” Sabina cried.

Cray fired.

But he hadn’t been aiming at Sabina or even at Alex. The bullet hit Yassen in the chest, spinning him away from the door. “I’m sorry, Mr Gregorovich,” he said. “But you’re fired.”

Then he turned the gun on Alex.

“You’re next,” he said.

He fired a second time.

Sabina cried out in horror. Cray had aimed at Alex’s heart, and in the confined space of the cabin there was little chance he could miss. The force of the bullet threw Alex off his feet and back across the cabin. He crashed to the ground and lay still.

Sabina threw herself at Cray. Alex was dead. The plane was taking off. Nothing mattered any more. Cray fired at her but the shot missed and suddenly she was right up against him, her hands clawing at his eyes, shouting all the time. But Cray was too strong for her. He brought an arm round, grabbed hold of her and threw her back against the door. She lay there, dazed and helpless. The gun came up.

“Goodbye, my dear,” Cray said.

He aimed. But before he could fire, his arm was seized from behind. Sabina stared. Alex was up again and he was unhurt. It was impossible. But, like Cray, she had no way of knowing that he was wearing the bulletproof jersey that Smithers had given him with the bike. The bullet had hurt him; he thought it might have cracked a rib. But although it had knocked him down, it hadn’t penetrated his skin.