Anthony Horowitz - Alex Rider 1 - Stormbreaker (v1.0) Page 5

  The trip wire activated a stun grenade—a small device filled with a mixture of magnesium powder and mercury fulminate. The blast didn’t just deafen Alex, it shuddered right through him as if trying to rip out his heart. The light from the ignited mercury burned for a full five seconds. It was so blinding that even closing his eyes made no difference. Alex lay there with his face against the hard wooden floor, his hands scrabbling against his head, unable to move, waiting for it to end.

  But even then it wasn’t over. When the flare finally died down, it was as if all the light in the room had burned out with it. Alex stumbled to his feet, unable to see or hear, not even sure anymore where he was. He felt sick to his stomach. The room swayed around him. The heavy smell of chemicals hung in the air.

  Ten minutes later he staggered out into the open. Wolf was waiting for him with the others, his face blank. He had slipped out before Alex hit the ground. The unit’s training officer walked angrily over to him. Alex hadn’t expected to see a shred of concern in the man’s face and he wasn’t disappointed.

  “Do you want to tell me what happened in there, Cub?” he demanded. When Alex didn’t answer, he went on. “You ruined the exercise. You fouled up. You could get the whole unit binned. So you’d better start telling me what went wrong.”

  Alex glanced at Wolf. Wolf looked the other way. What should he say? Should he even try to tell the truth?

  “Well?” The sergeant was waiting.

  “Nothing happened, sir,” Alex said. “I just wasn’t looking where I was going. I stepped on something and there was an explosion.”

  “If that was real life, you’d be dead,” the sergeant said. “What did I tell you? Sending me a child was a mistake. And a stupid, clumsy child who doesn’t look where he’s going … that’s even worse!”

  Alex stood where he was. He knew he was blushing. Half of him wanted to answer back, but he bit his tongue. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wolf half smiling.

  The sergeant had seen it too. “You think it’s so funny, Wolf? You can go clean up in there. And tonight you’d better get some rest. All of you. Because tomorrow you’ve got a thirty-mile hike. No rations. No lighters. No fire. This is a survival course. And if you do survive, then maybe you’ll have a reason to smile.”

  Alex remembered the words now, exactly twenty-four hours later. He had spent the last eleven of them on his feet, following the trail that the sergeant had set out for him on the map. The exercise had begun at six o’clock in the morning after a gray-lit breakfast of sausages and beans. Wolf and the others had disappeared into the distance ahead of him a long time ago, even though they had been given 55-pound backpacks to carry. They had also been given only eight hours to complete the course. Allowing for his age, Alex had been given twelve.

  He rounded a corner, his feet scrunching on the gravel. There was someone standing ahead of him. It was the sergeant. He had just lit a cigarette and Alex watched him slide the matches back into his pocket. Seeing him there brought back the shame and the anger of the day before and at the same time sapped the last of his strength. Suddenly, Alex had had enough of Blunt, Mrs. Jones, Wolf … the whole stupid thing. With a final effort he stumbled forward the last hundred yards and came to a halt. Rain and sweat trickled down the side of his face. His hair, dark now with grime, was glued across his forehead.

  The sergeant looked at his watch. “Eleven hours, five minutes. That’s not bad, Cub. But the others were here three hours ago.”

  Bully for them, Alex thought. He didn’t say anything.

  “Anyway, you should just make it to the first RV,” the sergeant went on. “It’s up there.”

  He pointed to a wall. Not a sloping wall. A sheer one. Solid rock rising two or three hundred feet up without a handhold or a foothold in sight. Even looking at it, Alex felt his stomach shrink. Ian Rider had taken him climbing … in Scotland, in France, all over Europe. But he had never attempted anything as difficult as this. Not on his own. Not when he was so tired.

  “I can’t,” he said. In the end the two words came out easily.

  “I didn’t hear that,” the sergeant said.

  “I said, I can’t do it, sir.”

  “Can’t isn’t a word we use around here.”

  “I don’t care. I’ve had enough. I’ve just had …”

  Alex’s voice cracked. He didn’t trust himself to go on.

  He stood there, cold and empty, waiting for the ax to fall.

  But it didn’t. The sergeant gazed at him for a long minute. He nodded his head slowly. “Listen to me, Cub,” he said. “I know what happened in the Killing House.”

  Alex glanced up.

  “Wolf forgot about the closed-circuit TV. We’ve got it all on film.”

  “Then why—?” Alex began.

  “Did you make a complaint against him, Cub?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you want to make a complaint against him, Cub?”

  A pause. Then… “No, sir.”

  “Good.” The sergeant pointed at the rock face, suggesting a path up with his finger. “It’s not as difficult as it looks,” he said. “And they’re waiting for you just over the top. You’ve got a nice cold dinner. Survival rations. You don’t want to miss that.”

  Alex drew a deep breath and started forward. As he passed the sergeant, he stumbled and put out a hand to steady himself, brushing against him. “Sorry, sir …” he said.

  It took him twenty minutes to reach the top and sure enough K Unit was already there, crouching around three small tents that they must have pitched earlier in the afternoon. Two just large enough for sharing. One, the smallest, for Alex.

  Snake, a thin, fair-haired man who spoke with a Scottish accent, looked up at Alex. He had a tin of cold stew in one hand, a teaspoon in the other. “I didn’t think you’d make it,” he said. Alex couldn’t help but notice a certain warmth in the man’s voice. And for the first time he hadn’t called him Double 0 Nothing.

  “Nor did I,” Alex said.

  Wolf was squatting over what he hoped would become a campfire, trying to get it started with two flint stones while Fox and Eagle watched. He was getting nowhere. The stones only produced the smallest of sparks and the scraps of newspaper and leaves that he had collected were already far too wet. Wolf struck at the stones again and again. The others watched, their faces glum.

  Alex held out the box of matches that he had pickpocketed from the sergeant when he had pretended to stumble at the foot of the rock face. “These might help,” he said.

  He threw the matches down, then went into his tent.

  TOYS AREN’T US

  « ^ »

  IN THE LONDON OFFICE, Mrs. Jones sat waiting while Alan Blunt read the report. The sun was shining. A pigeon was strutting back and forth along the ledge outside as if it were keeping guard.

  “He’s doing very well,” Blunt said at last. “Remarkably well, in fact.” He turned a page. “I see he missed target practice.”

  “Were you planning to give him a gun?” Mrs. Jones asked.

  “No. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Then why does he need target practice?”

  Blunt raised an eyebrow. “We can’t give a teenager a gun,” he said. “On the other hand, I don’t think we can send him to Port Tallon empty-handed. You’d better have a word with Smithers.”

  “I already have. He’s working on it now.”

  Mrs. Jones stood up as if to leave. But at the door she hesitated. “I wonder if it’s occurred to you that Rider may have been preparing him for this all along?” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Preparing Alex to replace him. Ever since the boy was old enough to walk, he’s been being trained for intelligence work … but without knowing it. I mean, he’s lived abroad so he now speaks French, German, and Spanish. He’s been mountain climbing, diving, and skiing. He’s learned karate. Physically he’s in perfect shape.” She shrugged. “I think Rider wanted Alex to
become a spy.”

  “But not so soon,” Blunt said.

  “I agree. You know as well as I do, Alan—he’s not ready yet. If we send him into Sayle Enterprises, he’s going to get himself killed.”

  “Perhaps.” The single word was cold, matter-of-fact.

  “He’s fourteen years old! We can’t do it.”

  “We have to.” Blunt stood up and opened the window, letting in the air and the sound of the traffic. The pigeon hurled itself off the ledge, afraid of him. “This whole business worries me,” he said. “The prime minister sees the Stormbreakers as a major coup … for himself and for his government. But there’s still something about Herod Sayle that I don’t like. Did you tell the boy about Yassen Gregorovich?”

  “No.” Mrs. Jones shook her head.

  “Then it’s time you did. It was Yassen who killed his uncle. I’m sure of it. And if Yassen was working for Sayle…”

  “What will you do if Yassen kills Alex Rider?”

  “That’s not our problem, Mrs. Jones. If the boy gets himself killed, at least it will be the final proof that there is something wrong. At the very least it’ll allow me to postpone the Stormbreaker project and take a good hard look at what’s going on at Port Tallon. In a way, it would almost help us if he was killed.”

  “The boy’s not ready yet. He’ll make mistakes. It won’t take them long to find out who he is.” Mrs. Jones sighed. “I don’t think Alex has got much chance at all.”

  “I agree.” Blunt turned back from the window. The sun slanted over his shoulder. A single shadow fell across his face. “But it’s too late to worry about that now,” he said. “We have no more time. Stop the training now. Send him in.”

  Alex sat hunched up in the back of the low-flying C-130 military aircraft, his stomach churning behind his knees. There were eleven men sitting in two lines around him—his own unit and two others. For an hour now, the plane had been flying at just three hundred feet, following the Welsh valleys, dipping and swerving to avoid the mountain peaks. A single bulb glowed red behind a wire mesh, adding to the heat in the cramped cabin. Alex could feel the engines vibrating through him. It was like traveling in a spin dryer and microwave oven combined.

  The thought of jumping out of a plane with an oversize silk umbrella would have made Alex sick with fear—but only that morning he’d been told that he wouldn’t in fact be jumping. A message from London. They couldn’t risk him breaking a leg, it said, and Alex guessed that the end of his training was near. Even so, he’d been taught how to pack a parachute, how to control it, how to exit a plane, and how to land. And at the end of the day the sergeant had instructed him to join the flight—just for the experience. Now, close to the drop zone, Alex felt almost disappointed. He’d watch everyone else jump and then he’d be left alone.

  “P minus five…”

  The voice of the pilot came over the speaker system, distant and metallic. Alex gritted his teeth. Five minutes until the jump. He looked at the other men, shuffling into position, checking the cords that connected them to the static line. He was sitting next to Wolf. To his surprise, the man was completely quiet, unmoving. It was hard to tell in the half darkness, but the look on his face could almost have been fear.

  There was a loud buzz and the red light turned green. The assistant pilot had climbed through from the cockpit. He reached for a handle and pulled open a door set in the back of the aircraft, allowing the cold air to rush in. Alex could see a single square of night. It was raining. The rain howled past.

  The green light began to flash. The assistant pilot tapped the first pair on their shoulders and Alex watched them shuffle over to the side and then throw themselves out. For a moment they were there, frozen in the doorway. Then they were gone like a photograph crumpled and spun away by the wind. Two more men followed. Then another two. Wolf would be the last to leave—and with Alex not jumping he would be on his own.

  It took less than a minute. Suddenly Alex was aware that only he and Wolf were left.

  “Move it!” the assistant pilot shouted above the roar of the engines.

  Wolf picked himself up. His eyes briefly met Alex’s and in that moment Alex knew. Wolf was a popular leader. He was tough and he was fast—completing a thirty-mile hike as if it were just a stroll in a park. But he had a weak spot. Somehow he’d allowed this para chute jump to get to him and he was too scared to move. It was hard to believe, but there he was, frozen in the doorway, his arms rigid, staring out. Alex glanced back. The assistant pilot was looking the other way. He hadn’t seen what was happening. And when he did? If Wolf failed to make the jump, it would be the end of his training and maybe even the end of his career. Even hesitating would be bad enough. He’d be binned.

  Alex thought for a moment. Wolf hadn’t moved. Alex could see his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to summon up the courage to go. Ten seconds had passed. Maybe more. The assistant pilot was leaning down, stowing away a piece of equipment. Alex stood up. “Wolf…” he said.

  Wolf didn’t hear him.

  Alex took one last quick look at the assistant pilot, then kicked out with all his strength. His foot slammed into Wolf’s backside. He’d put all his strength behind it. Wolf was caught by surprise, his hands coming free as he plunged into the swirling night air.

  The assistant pilot turned around and saw Alex. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Just stretching my legs,” Alex shouted back.

  The plane curved in the air and began the journey home.

  Mrs. Jones was waiting for him when he walked into the hangar. She was sitting at a table, wearing a gray silk jacket and trousers with a black handkerchief flowing out of her top pocket. For a moment she didn’t recognize him. Alex was dressed in a flying suit. His hair was damp from the rain. His face was pinched with tiredness, and he seemed to have grown older over the past two weeks. None of the men had arrived back yet. A truck had been sent to collect them from a field about two miles away.

  “Alex…” she said.

  Alex looked at her but said nothing.

  “It was my decision to stop you from jumping,” she said. “I hope you’re not disappointed. I just thought it was too much of a risk. Please. Sit down.”

  Alex sat down opposite her.

  “I have something that might cheer you up,” she went on. “I’ve brought you some toys.”

  “I’m too old for toys,” Alex said.

  “Not these toys.”

  She signaled and a man appeared, walking out of the shadows, carrying a tray of equipment that he set down on the table. The man was enormously fat. When he sat down, the metal chair disappeared beneath the spread of his buttocks, and Alex was surprised it could even take his weight. He was bald with a black mustache and several chins, each one melting into the next and finally into his neck and shoulders. He wore a pinstriped suit, which must have used enough material to make a tent.

  “Smithers,” he said, nodding at Alex. “Very nice to meet you, old chap.”

  “What have you got for him?” Mrs. Jones demanded.

  “I’m afraid we haven’t had a great deal of time, Mrs. J,” Smithers replied. “The challenge was to think what a fourteen-year-old might carry with him—and adapt it.” He picked the first object off the tray. A yo-yo. It was slightly larger than normal, black plastic. “Let’s start with this,” Smithers said.

  Alex shook his head. He couldn’t believe any of this. “Don’t tell me,” he exclaimed, “it’s some sort of secret weapon…”

  “Not exactly. I was told you weren’t to have weapons. You’re too young.”

  “So it’s not really a hand grenade? Pull the string and run like hell?”

  “Certainly not. It’s a yo-yo.” Smithers pulled out the string, holding it between a pudgy finger and thumb. “However, the string is a special sort of nylon. Very advanced. There’s thirty yards of it and it can lift weights of up to two hundred pounds. The actual yoyo is motorized and clips onto your belt. Very useful for cl
imbing.”

  “Amazing.” Alex was unimpressed.

  “And then there’s this.” Mr. Smithers produced a small tube. Alex read the side: ZIT-CLEAN. FOR HEALTHIER SKIN. “Nothing personal,” Smithers went on, apologetically. “But we thought it was something a boy of your age might carry. And it is rather remarkable.” He opened the tube and squeezed some of the cream onto his finger. “Completely harmless when you touch it. But bring it into contact with metal and it’s quite another story.” He wiped his finger, smearing the cream onto the surface of the table. For a moment nothing happened. Then a wisp of acrid smoke twisted upward in the air, the metal sizzled, and a jagged hole appeared. “It’ll do that to just about any metal,” Smithers explained. “Very useful if you need to break through a lock.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his finger clean.

  “Anything else?” Mrs. Jones asked.

  “Oh yes, Mrs. J. You could say this is our pièce de résistance.” He picked up a brightly colored box that Alex recognized at once as a Nintendo Color Game Boy. “What teenager would be complete without one of these?” he asked. “This one comes with four games. And the beauty of it is, each cartridge turns the computer into something quite different.”

  He showed Alex the first game. Nemesis. “If you insert this one, the computer becomes a fax/photocopier, which gives you direct contact with us and vice versa. Just pass the screen across any page you want to transmit and we’ll have it in seconds.”

  He produced a second game: Exocet. “This one turns the computer into an X-ray device. Place the machine against any solid surface less than two inches thick and watch the screen. It has an audio function too. You just have to plug in the earphones. Useful for eavesdropping. It’s not as powerful as I’d like, but we’re working on it.”

  The third game was called Speed Wars. “This one’s a bug finder,” Smithers explained. “You can use the computer to sweep a room and check if somebody’s trying to listen in on you. I suggest you use it the moment you arrive. And finally … my own favorite.”