Anthony Horowitz - Eagle Strike

He pointed at a glass and steel building on the other side of the plane. “That"s where they all go.

Presidents, prime ministers … I"ve been in there once or twice as a matter of fact. Very comfortable, and no queues for passport control!” “Let us go,” Alex said. “You don"t need us.”

“Would you rather I killed you now, instead of later?” Sabina glanced at Alex but said nothing.

Yassen appeared at the door of the plane and signalled. Air Force One had been taken. There was no one left to fight. Cray"s men filed past him and made their way back down the stairs. One of them had been wounded; there was blood on the sleeve of his suit. So at least someone had tried to fight back! “I think we can go on board,” Cray said. All his men were now dressed as American soldiers, forming a half circle round the steps leading up to the door of the plane, a defensive wall in the event of a counter-attack. Henryk had already climbed up; Alex and Sabina followed him. Cray was right behind them, holding his gun. So there were only going to be the five of them on the plane. Alex filed the information somewhere in his mind. At least the odds had been shortened.

Sabina was numb, walking as if hypnotized. Alex knew what she was feeling. His own legs almost refused to carry him, to take these steps, reserved for the most powerful man on the planet. As the door loomed up ahead, with another eagle mounted on its side, he saw Yassen appear from inside, dragging a body dressed in blue trousers and a blue waistcoat: one of the air stewards. Another innocent man sacrificed for Cray"s mad dream.

Alex entered the plane.

Air Force One was like no other plane in the world. There were no seats cramped together, no economy class, nothing that looked even remotely like the inside of an ordinary jumbo jet. It had been modified for the president and his staff over three floors: offices and bedrooms, a conference room and kitchen … four thousand square feet of cabin space in all. Somewhere inside, there was even an operating table, although it had never been used. Alex found himself in an open-plan living area. Everything had been designed for comfort, with a thick-pile carpet, low sofas and armchairs, and tables with old-fashioned electric lamps. The predominant colours were beige and brown, softly lit by dozens of lights recessed into the ceiling. A long corridor led down one side of the plane, with a series of smart offices and seating areas branching off. There were more sofas and occasional tables at intervals all the way down. The windows were covered with fawn-coloured blinds.

Yassen had cleared away the bodies but he had left a bloodstain on the carpet. It was horribly noticeable. The rest of the plane had been cleaned and vacuumed until it was spotless. There was a wheeled trolley against one of the walls and Alex noticed the gleaming crystal glasses, each one engraved with the words AIR FORCE ONE and a picture of the plane. A number of bottles stood on the lower shelf of the trolley: rare malt whiskies and vintage wines. It was service with a smile, all right. To fly on this plane was a privilege enjoyed by only a handful of people and they would be surrounded by total luxury.

Even Cray, who had his own private jet, looked impressed. He glanced at Yassen. “Is that it?” he asked. “Have we killed everyone who needs killing?”

Yassen nodded.

“Then let"s get started. I"ll take Alex. I want to show him… You wait here.” Cray nodded at Alex. Alex knew he had no choice. He took one last glance at Sabina and tried to tell her with his eyes: I"ll think of something. I"ll get us out of here. But somehow he doubted it.

The enormity of Eagle Strike had finally hit him. Air Force One! The presidential plane. It had never been invaded in this way -and no wonder. Nobody else would have been mad enough to consider it.

Cray jabbed Alex with the gun, forcing him up a stairway. Half of him hoped they would meet someone. Just one soldier or one member of the cabin crew who had managed to escape and who might be lying in wait. But he knew that Yassen would have been thorough in his work. He had told Cray that the entire crew had been dealt with. Alex didn"t like to think how many men and women there might have been on board.

They entered a room filled with electronic equipment from floor to ceiling. Hugely sophisticated computers stood next to elaborate telephone and radar systems with banks of buttons, switches and blinking lights. Even the ceiling was covered with machinery. Alex realized he was standing in the communications centre of Air Force One. Someone must have been working there when Cray took over the plane. The door wasn"t locked.

“Nobody at home,” Cray said. “I"m afraid they weren"t expecting visitors. We have the place to ourselves.” He took the flash drive out of his pocket. “This is the moment of truth, Alex,” he said. “This is all thanks to you. But do, please, stay very still. I don"t want to kill you until you"ve seen this, but if you so much as blink, I"m afraid I may have to shoot you.” Cray knew what he was doing. He laid the gun on the table next to him so that it would never be more than a few centimetres from his hand. Then he opened the flash drive and plugged it into a socket in the front of the computer. Finally he sat down and tapped out a series of commands on the keyboard.

“I can"t explain exactly how this works,” he said as he continued. “We don"t have time, and anyway I"ve always found computers and all that stuff really dreary. But these computers here are just like the ones in the White House, and they"re connected to Mount Cheyenne, which is where our American friends have their top-secret underground nuclear weapons control centre.

Now, the first things you need to set off the nuclear missiles are the launch codes. They change every day and they"re sent to the president, wherever he is, by the National Security Agency. I hope I am not boring you, Alex?”

Alex didn"t reply. He was looking at the gun, measuring distances…

“The president carries them with him all the time. Did you know that President Carter actually lost the codes once? He sent them to the dry-cleaner"s. But that"s another story. The codes are transmitted by Milstar—the Military Strategic and Tactical Relay system. It"s a satellite communications system. One set goes to the Pentagon and one set comes here. The codes are inside the computer and…”

There was a buzzing sound and a number of lights on the control panel suddenly went green.

Cray let out a cry of pleasure. His face glowed green in the reflection.

“…and here they are now. Wasn"t that quick! Strange though it may seem, I am now in control of just about all the nuclear missiles in the United States. Isn"t that fun?” He tapped more quickly on the keyboard and for a moment he was transformed. As his fingers danced over the keys, Alex was reminded of the Damian Cray he had seen playing the piano at Earls Court and Wembley Stadium. There was a dreamy smile on his face and his eyes were far away.

“There is, of course, a fail-safe device built into it all,” he continued. “The Americans wouldn"t want just anyone firing off their missiles, would they! No. Only the president can do it, because of this…”

Cray took a small silver key out of his pocket. Alex guessed that it must be a duplicate, also provided by Charlie Roper. Cray inserted it into a complicated-looking silver lock built into the workstation and opened it. There were two red buttons underneath. One to launch the missiles.

The other marked with two words which were of more interest to Alex. SELF-DESTRUCT.

Cray was only interested in the first of them.

“This is the button,” he said. “The big button. The one you"ve read all about. The button that means the end of the world. But it"s fingerprint sensitive. If it isn"t the president"s finger, then you might as well go home.” He reached out and pressed the launch button. Nothing happened.