Eagle Strike

produce opium and heroin. The government of Burma doesn‟t care. Nobody cares.
    And let‟s not forget Pakistan, manufacturing one hundred and fifty-five metric tons of opium a year, with refineries throughout the Khyber region and along the borders.
    “On the other side of the world there‟s Colombia. It‟s the Leading supplier and distributor of cocaine, but it also supplies heroin and marijuana. It‟s a business worth three billion dollars a year, Alex. Eighty tons of cocaine every twelve months. Seven tons of heroin. A lot of it ends up on the streets of American cities. In high schools. A tidal wave of misery and crime.
    “But that‟s only a small part of the picture.” Cray held up a hand and began to tick off other countries on his fingers. “There are refineries in Albania. Mule trains in Thailand. Coca crops in Peru. Opium plantations in Egypt. Ephedrine, the chemical used in heroin production, is manufactured in China. One of the biggest drugs markets in the world can be found in Tashkent, in Uzbekistan.
    “These are the principal sources of the world‟s drug problem. This is where the trouble all starts.
    These are my targets.”
    “Targets…” Alex whispered the single word.
    Damian Cray reached into his pocket and took out the flash drive. Yassen was suddenly alert.
    Alex knew he had a gun and would use it if he so much as moved.
    “Although you weren‟t to know it,” Cray explained, “this is actually a key to unlock one of the most complicated security systems ever devised. The original key was created by the National Security Agency and it is carried by the president of the United States. My friend, the late Charlie Roper, was a senior officer with the NSA, and it was his expertise, his knowledge of the codes, that allowed me to manufacture a duplicate. Even so, it has taken enormous effort. You have no idea how much computer processing power was required to create a second key.”
    “The Gameslayer…” Alex said.
    “Yes. It was the perfect cover. So many people; so much technology. A plant with all the processing power I could ask for. And in reality it was all for this!”

    He held up the little metal capsule.
    “This key will give me access to two and a half thousand nuclear missiles. These are American missiles and they are on hair-trigger alert—meaning that they can be launched at a moment‟s notice. It is my intention to override the NSA‟s system and to fire twenty-five of those missiles at targets I have carefully chosen around the globe.”
    Cray smiled sadly.
    “It is almost impossible to imagine the devastation that will be caused by twenty-five one-hundred-ton missiles exploding at the same time. South America, Central America, Asia, Africa
    … almost every continent will feel the pain. And there will be pain, Alex. I am well aware of that.
    “But I will have wiped out the poppy fields. The farms and the factories. The refineries, the trade routes, the markets. There will be no more drug suppliers because there will be no more drug supplies. Of course, millions will die. But millions more will be saved.
    “That is what Eagle Strike is all about, Alex. The start of a new golden age. A day when all humanity will come together and rejoice.
    “That day is now. My time has finally arrived.”

EAGLE STRIKE

    He swans really weren‟t going anywhere. They seemed happy just to circle slowly in the sunshine, occasionally dipping their beaks under the surface of the water, searching for insects, algae, whatever. Alex had been watching them for the last half-hour, almost hypnotized by them.
    He wondered what it was like to be a swan. He wondered how they managed to keep their feathers so white.
    He was sitting on a bench beside the Thames, just outside Richmond. This was where the river seemed to abandon London, finally leaving the city behind it on the other side of Richmond Bridge. Looking upstream, Alex could see fields and woodland, absurdly green, sprawled out in the heat of the English summer.
    An au pair, pushing a pram, walked past on the towpath. She noticed Alex, and although her expression didn‟t change, her hands tightened on the pram and she very slightly quickened her pace. Alex knew that he looked terrible, like something out of one of those posters put out by the local council. Alex Rider, fourteen, in need of fostering. His last fight with Damian Cray had left its marks. But this time it was more than cuts and bruises. They would fade like others