“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.
Now Alex was on top of Cray. The man was small – only a little taller than Alex himself – but even so he was thickset and surprisingly strong. Alex managed to get one hand around Cray’s wrist, keeping the gun away from him. But Cray’s other hand grabbed Alex’s neck, his fingers curling into the side of Alex’s throat.
“Sabina! Get out of here!” Alex managed to shout the words before his air supply was cut off. The gun was out of control. He was using all his strength to stop Cray from aiming it at him and he wasn’t sure how much longer he would be able to hold him off. Sabina ran over to the main door and pulled up the white handle to open it.
At that exact moment, in the cockpit, Henryk pushed the four thrust levers all the way down. From where he sat, the runway stretched out in front of him. The path was clear. Air Force One lurched forward and started to take off.
The main door flew open with a loud hiss. It had been set to automatic before the plane began to move, and as soon as Sabina had unlocked it, a pneumatic system had kicked in. An orange slide extended itself from the doorway like a giant tongue and began to inflate. The emergency slide.
Wind and dust rushed in, a miniature tornado that whirled madly through the cabin. Cray had brought the gun round, aiming at Alex’s head, but the force of the wind surprised him. The magazines on the table flew into the air, flapping into his face like giant moths. The trolley of drinks broke loose and rattled across the carpet, bottles and glasses crashing down.
Cray’s face was contorted, his perfect teeth in a twisted snarl, his eyes bulging. He swore, but no sound could be heard against the roar of the engines. Sabina was pressed against the wall, staring helplessly through the open doorway at the grass and concrete rushing past in a green and grey blur. Yassen wasn’t moving; blood was spreading slowly across his shirt. Alex could feel the strength draining out of him. He relaxed his grip and the gun went off. Sabina screamed. The bullet had smashed a light fitting inches from her face. Alex jabbed down, trying to knock the gun out of Cray’s hand. Cray slammed a knee into his stomach and Alex reeled back, gasping for breath. The plane continued, faster and faster, hurtling down the runway.
Behind the controls Henryk was suddenly sweating. The eyes behind the spectacles were confused. He had seen a light blink on, warning him that a door had opened and that the main cabin was depressurized. He was already travelling at a hundred and thirty miles an hour. Air traffic control must have realized what was happening and would have alerted the authorities. If he stopped now, he would be arrested. But did he dare take off?
And then the on-board computer spoke.
“V1…”
It was a machine voice. Utterly emotionless. Two syllables brought together by electronic circuitry. And they were the last two syllables Henryk wanted to hear.
Normally it would have been the first officer w
ho called out the speeds, keeping an eye on the progress of the plane. But Henryk was on his own. He had to rely on the automated system. What the computer was telling him was that the plane was moving at one hundred and fifty miles per hour – V1 – decision speed. He was now going too fast to stop. If he tried to abort the take-off, if he put the engines into reverse, he would crash.
It is the moment every pilot dreads – and the single most dangerous moment in any flight. More plane crashes have been caused by a wrong decision at this time than by anything else. Every instinct in Henryk’s body told him to stop. He was safe on the ground. A crash here would be better than a crash from fifteen hundred feet up in the air. But if he did try to stop, a crash would be the certain result.
He didn’t know what to do.
* * *
The sun was setting in the town of Quetta in Pakistan, but life in the refugee camp was as busy as ever. Hundreds of people clutching blankets and stoves made their way through a miniature city of tents, while children, some of them in rags, queued for vaccinations. A row of women sat on benches, working on a quilt, beating and folding the cotton.
The air was cool and fresh in the Patkai Hills of Myanmar, the country that had once been Burma. Fourteen hundred metres above sea level, the breeze carried the scent of pine trees and flowers. It was half past nine at night and most people were asleep. A few shepherds sat alone with their flocks. Thousands of stars littered the night sky.
In Colombia, in the Urabá region, another day had dawned and the smell of chocolate wafted down the village street. The campesinas – the farmers’ wives – had begun working at dawn, toasting the cacao beans, then splitting the shells. Children were drawn to their doors, taking in the rich, irresistible scent.
And in the highlands of Peru, north of Arequipa, families in colourful clothes made their way to the markets, some carrying the little bundles of fruit and vegetables that were all they had to sell. A woman in a bowler hat sat hunched up beside a row of sacks, each one filled with a different spice. Laughing teenagers kicked a football in the street.
These were the targets that the missiles had selected, far out in space. There were thousands – millions – more like them. And they were all innocent. They knew about the fields where the poppies were grown. They knew the men who worked there. But that was no concern of theirs. Life had to go on.
And none of them had any knowledge of the deadly missiles that were already closing in on them. None of them saw the horror that was coming their way.
The end came very quickly on Air Force One.
Cray was punching the side of Alex’s head again and again. Alex still clung to the gun, but his grip was weakening. He finally fell back, bloody and exhausted. His face was bruised, his eyes half closed.
The emergency slide was jutting out now, horizontal with the plane. The rush of air was pushing it back, slanting it towards the wings. The plane was travelling at a hundred and eighty miles per hour. It would leave the ground in less than ten seconds’ time.
Cray raised the gun one last time.
Then he cried out as something slammed into him. It was Sabina. She had grabbed hold of the trolley and used it as a battering ram. The trolley hit him behind the knees. His legs buckled and he lost his balance, toppling over backwards. He landed on top of the trolley, dropping the gun. Sabina dived for it, determined that he wouldn’t fire another shot.
And that was when Alex rose up.
He had quickly gauged distances and angles. He knew what he had to do. With a cry he threw himself forward, his arms outstretched. His palms slammed into the side of the trolley. Cray yelled out. The trolley shot across the main area of the cabin and, with Cray still on top of it, out the door.
And it didn’t stop there. The emergency slide slanted gently towards the ground that was shooting past far below. It was held in place by the rushing wind and by the compressed air inside it. The trolley bounced out onto the slide and began to roll down. Alex staggered over to the door just in time to see Cray begin his fairground ride to hell. The slide carried him halfway down, the force of the wind tilting him back towards the wings.
Damian Cray came into the general area of engine two.
The last thing he saw was the engine’s gaping mouth. Then the wind rush took him. With a dreadful, inaudible scream he was pulled into the engine. The trolley went with him.
Cray was mincemeat. More than that, he was vaporized. In one second he had been turned into a cloud of red gas that disappeared into the atmosphere. There was simply nothing left. But the metal trolley offered more resistance. There was a bang like a cannon shot. A huge tongue of flame exploded out of the back as the engine was torn apart.
That was when the plane went out of control.
Henryk had decided to abort take-off and was trying to slow down, but now it was too late. An engine on one side had suddenly stopped. Both engines on the other side were still on full power. The imbalance sent the plane lurching violently to the left. Alex and Sabina were thrown to the floor. Lights fused and sparked all around them. Anything that wasn’t securely fastened whirled through the air. Henryk fought for control but it was hopeless. The plane veered away and left the runway. That was the end of it. The soft ground was unable to support such a huge load. With a terrible shearing of metal, the undercarriage broke off and the whole thing toppled over onto one side.
The entire cabin twisted round and Alex felt the floor tilt beneath his feet. It was as if the plane was turning upside down. But finally it stopped. The engines cut out. The plane rested on its side and the scream of sirens filled the air as emergency vehicles raced across the tarmac.
Alex tried to move but his legs wouldn’t obey him. He was lying on the floor and he could feel the darkness closing in. But he knew he had to stay conscious. His work wasn’t finished yet.
“Sab?” He called out to her and was relieved when she got to her feet and came over.
“Alex?”
“You have to get to the communications room. There’s a button. Self-destruct.” For a moment she looked blank and he took hold of her arm. “The missiles…”
“Yes. Yes … of course.” She was in shock. Too much had happened. But she understood. She staggered up the stairs, balancing herself against the sloping walls. Alex lay where he was.
And then Yassen spoke.
“Alex…”
Alex didn’t have enough strength left to be surprised. He turned his head slowly, expecting to see a gun in the Russian’s hand. It didn’t seem fair to him. After so much, was he really going to die now, just when help was on its way? But Yassen wasn’t holding a gun. He had propped himself up against a table. He was covered in blood now and there was a strange quality to his eyes as the blue slowly drained out. Yassen’s skin was even paler than usual and, as his head tilted back, Alex noticed for the first time that he had a long scar on his neck. It was dead straight, as if it had been drawn with a ruler.
“Please…” Yassen’s voice was soft.
It was the last thing he wanted to do, but Alex crawled through the wreckage of the cabin and over to him. He remembered that Cray’s death and the destruction of the plane had only happened because Yassen had refused to kill Sabina and him.
“What happened to Cray?” Yassen asked.
“He went off his trolley,” Alex said.
“He’s dead?”
“Very.”
Yassen nodded, as if pleased. “I knew it was a mistake working for him,” he said. “I knew.” He fought for breath, narrowing his eyes for a moment. “There is something I have to tell you, Alex,” he said. The strange thing was that he was speaking absolutely normally, as if this were a quiet conversation between friends. Despite himself, Alex found himself marvelling at the man’s self-control. He must have only minutes to live.
Then Yassen spoke again and everything in Alex’s life changed for ever.
“I couldn’t kill you,” he said. “I would never have killed you. Because, you see, Alex …
I knew your father.”
“What?” Despite his exhaustion, despite all the pain from his injuries, Alex felt something shiver through him.
“Your father. He and I…” Yassen had to catch his breath. “We worked together.”
“He worked with you?”
“Yes.”
“You mean … he was a spy?”
“Not a spy, no, Alex. He was a killer. Like me. He was the very best. The best in the world. I knew him when I was nineteen. He taught me many things…”
“No!” Alex refused to accept what he was hearing. He had never met his father, knew nothing about him. But what Yassen was saying couldn’t be true. It was some sort of horrible trick.
The sirens were getting nearer. The first of the vehicles must have arrived. He could hear men shouting outside.
“I don’t believe you,” Alex cried. “My father wasn’t a killer. He couldn’t have been!”
“I’m telling you the truth. You have to know.”
“Did he work for MI6?”
“No.” The ghost of a smile flickered across Yassen’s face. But it was filled with sadness. “MI6 hunted him down. They killed him. They tried to kill both of us. At the last minute I escaped, but he…” Yassen swallowed. “They killed your father, Alex.”
“No!”
“Why would I lie to you?” Yassen reached out weakly and took hold of Alex’s arm. It was the first physical contact the two had ever had. “Your father … he did this.” Yassen drew a finger along the scar on his neck, but his voice was failing him and he couldn’t explain. “He saved my life. In a way, I loved him. I love you too, Alex. You are so very much like him. I’m glad that you’re here with me now.” There was a pause and a spasm of pain rippled across the dying man’s face. There was one last thing he had to say. “If you don’t believe me, go to Venice. Find Scorpia. And you will find your destiny…”
Eagle Strike Page 19