by Stuart Gibbs
“But your father knows the actual coordinates?” I asked.
“Yes,” Alexander said. “He felt it was too dangerous to record them anywhere. So he memorized them.”
“But now, SPYDER can make him give them up,” I said.
“I’m afraid so,” Alexander admitted. “If they had only captured my father, he’d never give up the information. He’d kill himself before he did that. He has a cyanide capsule embedded in one of his teeth just for such occasions. But SPYDER must have known that, because they captured Erica, too. She’s my father’s only weakness. He’d do anything to protect her.”
I shook my head, amazed by SPYDER’s plan. They hadn’t merely been after Cyrus Hale, then. They’d been after Erica as well. And they’d used me to get to both of them.
“There’s just one thing I don’t understand,” Zoe said. “This seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through. If SPYDER really wanted to hit the president, couldn’t they just bring the missile to within sight of the target and fire it directly?”
“No.” Alexander shook his head. “First, all missile systems operate via the same global positioning coordinate system, no matter how close you are . . .”
“But you could override it, couldn’t you?” Zoe asked.
“Perhaps, if you were using a small missile,” Claire said, looking through her night-vision binoculars at the box for the control system again. “But it looks like they’ve got a Russian Omsk-class surface-to-surface missile there. It’s not exactly a pocket rocket. No one could bring something that big anywhere within ten miles of the president. It’d be like trying to smuggle a building into downtown Washington.”
I was already feeling gravely concerned, but now an even more worrisome thought came to me. “Exactly how big is the payload on one of those?”
“I can’t recall off the top of my head,” Claire said. “But it’s quite substantial. Enough to level the entire White House.”
“So then, SPYDER’s probably not going for a mere assassination here,” I said. “They’re trying to take out a lot of people at once.”
Everyone met my eyes, now looking as worried as me.
“Congress?” Zoe suggested. “Could they take out the whole Capitol building with one shot?”
“Maybe,” Alexander said. “Although my father also knows the true coordinates for the Supreme Court and the Pentagon as well.”
“Perhaps,” Claire said. “But SPYDER couldn’t be targeting those places. The Omsk is an old missile. We’re talking early Cold War. Despite the large payload, its range is limited. Less than thirty miles, I believe. Washington, DC, is too far from here.”
“Then what’s the point of taking over this mine?” Zoe asked. “What could possibly be of national interest way out here in the sticks?”
“Camp David,” I said.
Claire gasped. “The country residence for the president of the United States? That’s near here?”
“Less than thirty miles, I’d bet,” I said.
“Does anyone know if the president is there right now?” Zoe asked.
“He is,” Claire said gravely. “He’s hosting the British prime minister and a few other European leaders.”
“The perfect set of targets for an evil organization with a stolen missile,” Alexander said.
We all solemnly nodded agreement.
“Looks like we got here just in time,” I said.
“Assuming we can actually stop them,” Claire told me.
“Yes,” I said. “It’d be very nice if we could do that.”
INFILTRATION
Junction Mine
June 15
2345 hours
According to my watch, it was almost time for Chip, Hank, and Jawa to strike. I peered through my night-vision binoculars.
In the compound below, the three SPYDER guards were still standing.
And then they weren’t.
The boys attacked so fast, I almost didn’t see it. Each hit his target from behind, took him down, and sedated him in perfect sync. The guards didn’t have a chance to sound the alarm.
Then Hank gave us the okay sign.
“Step one’s a success,” I reported.
“Great,” Claire said sourly. “Now all we have to do is infiltrate an abandoned mine, find the captives, rescue them—and, oh yes, prevent a missile from going off.”
“All in due time,” Alexander said. He sounded surprisingly confident and reassuring, although when I looked at him closely, I could see he was quite worried as well.
Warren was still out cold, so we left him propped against a tree with a paintball gun and hurried down the wooded slope to the compound. Hank, Chip, and Jawa had bound the SPYDER agents tightly with duct tape by the time we got there.
“Nice work,” Alexander told them. The boys beamed, thrilled to have received a compliment from the great Alexander Hale.
Zoe, Claire, and I quickly cased the trailers and the Winnebago while Alexander brought the others up to speed on SPYDER’s plan. The trailers turned out to be merely bunkhouses, while the Winnebago was being used as a mobile kitchen. Everything of importance was apparently in the mine. The only things of interest I found were the keys to the Winnebago, which had been hidden above the driver’s sun visor. I pocketed them to ensure no bad guys drove off.
By the time we regrouped, Chip, Hank, and Jawa had been briefed on the missile and everyone was hatching a plan. “It looks like this is the only entrance to the mine,” Alexander was saying. “And in any case, we don’t have the time to search for another. That missile could go off at any moment. So we all go in this way. Now who here is most qualified to reprogram the missile control system?”
“Uh, I think you are,” Zoe said.
“Me?” Alexander asked, worried.
“Yes,” Zoe replied. “According to your files, you’ve reprogrammed the control system of a missile before. Twice, in fact. Once with only twenty-three seconds until launch.”
“Ah. So I have.” Alexander smiled weakly. “Does anyone else know how to do this? As a sort of emergency backup system, in case something should happen to me?”
Everyone shook their heads. “Reprogramming missiles is a very advanced course,” Hank said. “Only seniors get it. Looks like you’ll have to handle it, Agent Hale. Take Ben with you. He’s the math genius, so he can help with any calculations you need to make. The rest of us will rescue Cyrus and Erica. Let’s move.”
There was no time for me to protest. As Alexander had said, time was of the essence. We all strapped on our headlamps, helped ourselves to the weapons of the unconscious guards, and set off into the mine.
Entering an abandoned mine shaft would probably be somewhat spooky on a nice, sunny summer afternoon. Entering one filled with enemy agents plotting the simultaneous assassinations of a dozen world leaders on a dark, moonless night was downright nerve-wracking. Even when I was surrounded by fellow spies-in-training. Because the fact was, no matter how talented everyone was, we were still spies-in-training. No one there had ever been on a mission that wasn’t simulated, except Alexander—and his espionage talents were questionable at best.
The mine shaft was incredibly dark and claustrophobically narrow. If I stuck out my arms I could touch both sides. In addition, it was dank and damp. Water trickled down from the roof in spots and pooled on the floor in others. Roaches and millipedes of startling size scurried along the walls, while bats darted over our heads. A thick black power cable from the generator wound along the tunnel floor; in the faint light of our headlamps, I repeatedly mistook it for a very large snake.
Alexander was in the point position at the front of our attack. He hadn’t really chosen this position. I had no doubt that in similar circumstances with real CIA agents, Alexander would have positioned himself toward the back of the pack, where it was safer. But my fellow students had ceded the point position to him and Alexander had taken it to save face.
I reluctantly joined him there because I needed to talk to
him.
“Have you ever actually reprogrammed the control system for a missile?” I whispered.
“Uh . . . No,” he said, glancing behind him to make sure the others couldn’t hear. “In one case, a fellow spy named Ken Parker did the reprogramming, but then he whacked his head during the escape and got amnesia, so I took the credit.”
“And the other time?” I asked.
“The missile just sort of blew up on the launchpad,” Alexander told me. “Probably an error in construction. It was a North Korean missile, and their handiwork is generally quite shoddy. But I said I’d made it happen in my report.”
“So then, you have no idea how to stop this missile from launching?” I asked.
“No,” Alexander admitted. “But then, I don’t really have any idea how to rescue my father and daughter, either. So it’s kind of a relief that someone else is handling that.”
“You have to be honest with the others,” I said. “This isn’t a game. The lives of the leaders of the free world are at stake here.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Alexander said. “I’m sure you and I can handle this.”
“I’m not!” I protested. “The only time I’ve ever even seen a missile was when that one nearly blew us up. And as far as you’re concerned . . .”
“Shhh!” Hank hissed. “Enemy ahead. Lights off.”
I fell silent and switched my headlamp off. So did everyone else.
We were immediately plunged into darkness, save for a faint glimmer of light in the distance, shining from around a bend. I could hear the distant sound of voices and footsteps echoing from the same direction.
We were close. Everyone pressed forward, closing in on SPYDER. I wanted to stop them all and explain that there was a large flaw in relying on Alexander, but there was no way to do that without making a sound—and it was so dark that I couldn’t even signal anyone else manually. I had no choice but to press on and hope that Alexander was right, and that somehow, he and I would actually figure out how to handle the missile—assuming we even got the chance to do that.
Our team moved through the tunnel as silently as possible. The dim light grew brighter as we got closer—and the noise grew louder too. Finally, we were close enough to peer around the corner.
Directly ahead of us, the mine widened into a large cavern. It seemed to be a main junction where six different tunnels came together. In the center of it, a vertical shaft rose up through the roof, apparently heading to the top of the mountain. A makeshift launchpad had been built directly beneath it. A missile sat on this, ready to fire up through the shaft.
Even though Claire had said the missile would be big, I was still surprised by the sheer size of it. It was three stories tall and eight feet in diameter. The booster alone was ten feet long. It reeked of rocket fuel and idled menacingly.
SPYDER’s choice of location had been brilliant. Inside the mine shaft, they could set up an entire missile launching system less than two hours’ drive from Washington, DC, and yet, because it was underground, it wouldn’t show up on any satellite photos.
There were three other missiles resting on their sides in three of the other tunnels. Either they were backups just in case something went wrong, or SPYDER had additional targets planned after Camp David.
It appeared to be close to launch time. The missile looked ready to go. Apparently, Cyrus had coughed up the coordinates.
There weren’t any SPYDER agents to be seen.
This was shocking to me at first. In every spy movie I’d ever seen, there were always hundreds of enemy agents in the bad guy’s lair. But when I thought about it, the lack of employees made sense. It probably didn’t take too many people to launch a missile—and being around the launchpad was dangerous. You didn’t want to be too close to a rocket when it ignited, so anyone with any sense would probably keep their distance.
We, however, didn’t have a choice.
We hurried into the junction. A series of cables and another thick electrical cord led from the launchpad down one of the tunnels, most likely to the controls. Hank deduced the same thing, because he pointed to Alexander and me, and then the tunnel.
I figured it was my last chance to request the help of someone who might actually know what they were doing, but before I could, the voice of Cyrus Hale rang out from another tunnel. “This is madness!” he yelled. “Think about what you’re doing!”
There was a loud thwack, followed by a groan from Cyrus.
Hank, Chip, Jawa, Claire, and Zoe raced toward the sound, hurrying to the rescue.
I looked at Alexander. His face was filled with concern. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to me. “He’s my father. I can’t leave saving him to a bunch of kids.” And then he took off down the tunnel as well.
Leaving only me to deal with the missile.
My stomach, which had been churning anxiously all night, now revved up several more notches. I wanted to yell after the others for help, but there was no way to do that without alerting SPYDER to our presence. I could only watch helplessly as the others all disappeared into the dark.
I had no idea what to do. A hundred emotions tumbled through my brain. Annoyance at Alexander for abandoning me. Anger at SPYDER for putting us all in this situation. Fear. Anxiety. Panic.
I almost threw up.
I had to lean against the wall for a moment to catch my breath. My hands were trembling. I wanted nothing more than to run away.
But I couldn’t. SPYDER was about to launch a missile, and there was no one to stop it but me. Even though I didn’t know how to do this, I still had to try. If I ran, I’d probably survive—but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself. As terrified as I was, dying valiantly sounded better than living seventy more years with crushing guilt.
Plus, if I ran, Erica Hale would never so much as look at me again.
My stomach settled. My hands steadied. I got my breath back and pressed on.
I followed the cables that led from the launchpad. They snaked over the old tram car rails and through a few puddles before hooking around a corner.
I rounded it to find the missile control system.
It wasn’t impressive at all. Only a few ancient Russian components—the contents of the metal box we’d seen outside—set up on a crummy old desk someone must have found at a garage sale. They were all plugged into the electrical cable, along with a lamp and a large computer monitor. Lots of data streamed across the monitor, but the most important bit seemed to be the timer, which indicated six minutes and twenty-nine seconds until launch. A SPYDER agent sat in a spindly folding chair, watching the numbers tick down.
Murray Hill.
My arrival completely caught him by surprise. His eyes went wide at the sight of me and, for once, he didn’t quite have anything glib to say. He just stared at me blankly, as though he couldn’t actually believe I was there. It didn’t even occur to him to reach for the gun on the desk until it was way too late.
I already had mine pointed at his head. “Hands up,” I ordered. “Then stand up and back away from the desk.”
Murray lifted his hands, but he didn’t do anything else I said. His old confidence quickly came back to him. He grinned at me and said, “Holy cow. You found us. I knew you were good.”
“Shut down the missile, Murray.”
“I’d love to, Ben. Really. But I can’t.”
“Don’t lie to me. I’ll shoot you if I have to.”
“Well, then I’ll just be dead and no help whatsoever.”
“I didn’t mean I’d shoot you in the head. I meant in the arm. Or the foot. Somewhere painful.”
Murray’s smile wavered a tiny bit. “You wouldn’t do that.”
“Not to most people. But for you, I’ll make an exception.” I plucked Murray’s gun off the desk and kept mine trained on him.
“Look, I’m being honest here,” Murray told me. “I can’t shut this thing down. There’s two reasons. One: I don’t know how it works. I didn’t set it up, and I�
��m only minding the store right now.”
“And two?” I asked.
“My boss is behind you, holding a gun to your head.”
I didn’t even flinch. I’d been expecting Murray to try something like this. “It’s not going to work,” I told him. “I know better to trust anything that comes out of your mouth.”
“Usually a wise policy,” a voice behind me said, as the cold barrel of a gun was placed against the base of my skull. “Only this time, he actually happens to be telling the truth.”
I’d never heard the voice before, but I had a pretty good idea who it belonged to. “Joshua Hallal, I presume?”
For the second time since I showed up, Murray registered genuine surprise. “Wow, Ripley,” he said. “You figured that out too?”
DETONATION
Junction Mine
June 16
0015 hours
“Drop your weapons,” Joshua told me.
I did. It’s hard to argue with a man who has a gun to your head. I dropped both the gun I had brought with me and the one I had just taken from Murray.
“All your weapons,” Joshua said.
I reached into my pockets and removed the Swiss army knife I had tucked away there. And the tomahawks. And the can of pepper spray.
Once they were all on the ground, Joshua circled around so I could see him. He joined Murray at the desk, keeping his gun aimed at me the whole time.
I could see why he’d once been regarded as the cream of the crop at spy school. He looked like the quintessential junior spy. Although he was only eighteen, he seemed far more mature than that. He was handsome, athletic, and debonair. He had style, self-assurance, and a cold, menacing look in his eye that said he could snap my neck with his bare hands if he had to.