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.
“You see? It doesn't work!”
“Then all this has been a waste of time!” Alex said.
“Oh no, my dear Alex. Because, you see, you may remember that I recently had the privilege—
the very great privilege—of shaking hands with the president. I insisted on it. It was that important to me. But I had a special latex coating on my own hand, and when we shook, I took a cast of his fingers. Isn't that clever?”
Cray removed what looked like a thin plastic glove from his pocket and slipped it onto his hand.
Alex saw that the fingers of the glove were moulded. He understood. The president's fingerprints had been duplicated onto the latex surface.
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 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.”
