Gardner, John (30 page)

The big man saw nothing funny about the remark, gruffly saying that of course it would be coffee. He slid the door open and let it slam back into place as he disappeared.

Bond knew his movements would have to be both very fast and accurate. Murik seemed preoccupied with the apparatus in front of him, and Bond feigned sleep. The other two men were still at Lavender's console. One had his eyes closed but did not seem to be fully asleep, merely relaxed and resting. The other was intent on watching his screen through the viewer.

Gently James Bond flexed his hands, allowing the wrist strap to come free. He clenched his fists a few times to get the circulation going, making up his mind for the last time as to his plan of action.

Then he dropped the strap and moved. His right hand came up, arrowing towards the gun inside Murik's jacket, while the left swept round, with all the force he could muster, in a vicious chop at the Laird's unsuspecting throat. The blow from the heel of his left hand was slightly inaccurate, catching the side of his victim's neck instead of the windpipe. Nevertheless it had all Bond's strength behind it, and as it landed so the fingers of his right hand grabbed at the butt of the Colt Python, which came out of the holster easily as Murik crumpled on to the deck. Bond, still strapped in, swivelled his chair around with his feet, holding the Colt up firmly in a two-handed grip.

He fired almost before Murik's unconscious body hit the ground, yelling to Lavender, 'Stay quite still.' Of the two men at the console, the heavy technician at the radar screen moved first, snapping his head up and going for his own gun a split second before his partner. As Bond squeezed the trigger it crossed his mind that this was one of the most foolhardy exploits he had ever attempted. Each bullet had to find its mark. One through the metal of the fuselage and bang would go the pressurisation. The long hours on various firing ranges paid off in full. In all, he fired twice: two burst of two—the 'Double Tap' as the SAS call it—the .357 ammunition exploding like a cannon in the confines of the cabin. Four bullets reached their individual targets. He could not blame Lavender for screaming as the first of her captors spun to one side, a bullet lodged in his shoulder. The second caught him on the side of the head, hurling him into eternity with a great spatter of blood leaping from the wound. Yet while the blood was still airborne, Bond had fired his second two shots. The man who had been resting with his eyes closed caught both rounds in the neck, toppling backwards, the sound of his gargling fall emerging from the after-echo of the shots.

Then there was silence except for a small whimper of fright from Lavender. 'It's okay, Dilly. The only way. Sorry it was so close.'

She looked in horror at the bodies, then took in a breath and nodded. Her guards lay dead, and her clothes dripped with their blood. She shivered and nodded again. 'It's okay, James. Sorry. It was unexpected, that's all. How . . . ?'

'No time now. Got to do something about those bloody terrorist squads before anything else.' Transferring the revolver to his left hand, 007 grasped the microphone on its snake-like, jointed stand. Now he would see how far logic went. Having heard the squads report in with their 'Number one . . . War; Number Two . . . War' there was, for Bond, only one way to stop the nuclear operation from proceeding. He pressed the transmit button and began to speak, slowly and distinctly:

'Number One . . . Lock; Number Two . . . Lock; Number Three . . . Lock' right through all six of the squads — completing the word Anton Murik had used as his personal cryptonym for Meltdown - Warlock.

'Now we pray.' He looked towards Lavender, still strapped helplessly in her seat. Bond's hands went to the buckle on his belt in order to reassemble the small knife concealed in its various components — the knife he had used to strip off the section of the money belt in Perpignan. He worked calmly, though it was a frustrating business. As he glanced towards Lavender, smiling and giving her a few words of confidence, he saw the means to his quick escape were very near the girl, if only she were free.

The technician who had been watching the radar screen when Bond's bullets had swept him from existence lay slumped in his seat, turned slightly towards Lavender. The man's trouser leg had ridden up on the right side, revealing a long woollen stocking into which was tucked a Highland dirk, safe in its scabbard. Bond had fleetingly feared, when amongst the festive crowds in Perpignan, that death would come silently by means of a dirk like this. It was the obvious weapon for these people to carry. Now, just when he needed the weapon, it was out of reach. As he completed fitting his own small knife together, he drew Lavender's attention to the dirk.

'Just get on with that handy little gadget you've produced from Lord knows where, James.' Her face betrayed her frantic state of mind. 'Caber's already been gone for nearly fifteen minutes. If you're not free by the time . . .'

'Okay, Dilly.
Nix panicus,
as my old Latin master used to say.' He was already attacking the webbing straps binding him to the seat. The small blade was sharp, but its size did not make for speed: one slip and he could slash himself badly.

As he worked there were no sounds about them except for his own breathing counterpointed with that of the unconscious Laird of Murcaldy. Bond wondered how badly he had damaged Murik. If his aim had been really accurate the man would now be dead from a shattered trachea.

The first cross-strap came clear, but he was still not free. Bond sawed away at the second belt-an easier task, for with the first strap gone, he had more room in which to move. It still seemed an age before the tiny blade ripped its way through the tough webbing. It only remained for Bond to unclip the seat belt and he was completely out of the harness, springing up and flexing his muscles to get the blood flowing again.

In a second he was with Lavender, on his knees, feeling under the anchored chair to find the release mechanism, which he undipped, so that her restraining harness fell away. Another couple of seconds to undo the wrist strap and she too was free.

'Hadn't you better stand by with that gun?' She nodded towards the other console, where Bond had left the Python.

'Don't worry, Caber's not going to cause us much . . .' He stopped, seeing her eyes turn towards the sliding door, widening with a hint of fear.

Bond whirled around. Caber had returned and now stood in the doorway, one huge hand still holding the partition open, while his eyes darted around the control room, taking in the carnage. Both Caber and Bond were frozen for a second, looking at each other. Bond's eyes flicked towards Murik's console, and the Python; and, in that second, Caber also saw the weapon.

As Bond came up from his crouched position, so Caber let out a great roar — a mixture of fury and grief for his master —and launched himself at Bond. For the first time, Lavender expressed her pent-up fear in a long, terrified shriek.

THE PREVIOUS DAY M had set up his own operations' room, next to his suite of offices on the ninth floor of the headquarters' building overlooking Regent's Park. He dozed fitfully, half dreaming of some odd childhood incident: running along a beach with water lapping at his feet. Then the familiar sound, which began in his dream as his long-dead mother ringing the bell for tea, broke into M's consciousness. It was the red telephone by the camp bed. M noted it was nearly five o'clock in the morning as he picked up the handset and answered with a throaty 'Yes?'

Bill Tanner was on the line, asking if M would come through to the main operations' room. 'They've surrendered.' The Chief-of-Staff made no attempt to disguise his excitement.

'Who've surrendered?' M snapped.

'The terrorists. The people holding the nuclear reactors. All of them: those here, in England, the French groups, the two in the United States and the Germans. Just walked out with their hands up. Said it was over.'

M frowned. 'Any explanation?'

'It only happened a short while ago.' Tanner's voice now resumed its normal, calm tone. 'Reports are still coming in, sir. Apparently they said they'd received the code message to abort the mission. Our people up at Heysham One say the terrorists seem to think their operation's been successful. I've spoken to one of the interrogators. He believes they've been given the call-off by mistake.'

M grinned to himself. 'I wonder,' he grunted. 'I wonder if it was an engineered mistake?'

'007?' the Chief-of-Staff asked.

'Who else? What about the Starlifter?' M was out of the camp bed now, trying to hang on to the 'phone and wrestle with his trousers at the same time.

'Still keeping station. The French are going in now. Two sections of fighters are on their way. They held off just long enough to get the okay from the technicians at the nuclear reactors, which all appear to be safe and operating normally, by the way.'

M paused. 'The French fighters? They're briefed to force the Starlifter down?' His grip on the receiver tightened.

Tanner's voice now became very calm: almost grave. 'They're briefed to buzz it into surrendering, then to lead it back to Perpignan.'

'And . . . ?'

'If that doesn't work, the orders are to blast it out of the sky.' 'I see.' M's voice dropped almost to a whisper. 'I know, sir.' The Chief-of-Staffwas fully aware of what must have been going through M's mind. 'We just have to hope.' Slowly, M cradled the receiver.

Bond did not stand a chance of getting to the revolver, which was still lying on the console. Murik's chief lieutenant was enraged, and dangerous as a wounded bull elephant. His roar had changed into the bloodcurdling cry of a fighting man who could only be stopped by a fusillade of bullets, as he seemed to take off through the air and catch Bond, half-way across the cabin. Bond felt his breath go from his lungs as the weight of the brute landed on him with full force. Caber was yelling obscenities and calling on the gods for vengeance. Now he had Bond straddled on the floor, his legs across Bond's thighs and the enormous hands at his victim's throat. Bond tried to cry out for Lavender's help as the red mist clouded his brain, but Caber's pressing fingers prevented him. Only a croak emerged. Then, with the same swiftness of Caber's attack, the whole situation changed.

The Starlifter's engines, which until now had been only a steady hum in the background, changed their note, rising and straining in a roar, while the deck under the struggling men lurched to one side. Bond was conscious of the aircraft's attitude altering dramatically as he rolled, still locked with Caber, across the cabin floor. He caught a glimpse of Lavender, all arms and legs, being flung forward, as a great buffeting of the airframe ensued. Then the Star-lifter lurched again, wallowing like a great liner plunging in a heavy sea. This action, followed by yet another sudden and violent change of attitude, as though they were making a steep downward turn, threw Caber free.

Bond swallowed, his throat almost closed by the pressure of Caber's hands, then heard Lavender calling that there were aircraft attacking. 'Fighters,' she yelled. 'They're coming in very close.'

Bond's ears started to pop, and he swallowed painfully again, trying to get to his feet and stay upright on the unstable deck, which was now angled downwards, juddering and bucking as though on a rollercoaster ride. He finally managed to prop himself against the forward door and began to make for the revolver. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Lavender appeared to have been thrown some distance, and was lying huddled near her console. There was no time to do anything for her now. Caber, on his hands and knees near Murik's console was bracing himself for another attack, an arm stretched out towards the revolver.

The giant leaped forward, landing unsteadily on the rolling floor, his mask of fury giving way to a smile of triumph. 'I'd rather do it another way,' he shouted. 'Not by the bullet. I ken a bullet's too guid for ye.' His hand almost hid the Python revolver, which pointed directly at Bond's chest, motioning his victim to the other side of the cabin, towards the large hatchway marked out in red, and bearing the legend DO NOT ENTER IF RED LIGHT IS ON.

'Ye'll get over there,' Caber growled, keeping his balance, even though the aircraft was undoubtedly in a nose-down attitude, descending rapidly.

There was no way to avoid the order without ending up with his chest torn away by the Python's bullets. Bond crabbed across the cabin towards the hatchway.

'Now' — Caber had managed to get close behind him, but not near enough for Bond to try a tackle — 'now ye'll slide that thing open, and hold it until ma own hand's on it.'

Bond did as he was bidden; felt the revolver barrel jab at his back and saw Caber's hand take over the weight of the sliding hatchway as, together, they stepped through into the high sparred and girdered rear of the Starlifter. The aircraft made another fast and unexpected turn, throwing them apart, so that Bond banged his right arm against a rising, curved spar.

'I'm still behind ye, Bond, with the wee shooter, so dinna do anything daft. There's a wee bit of a lever I have to pull over here.'

The rear loading bay was cold: a bleak airborne hangar of metal, smelling of oil and that odd plastic scent of air that you get inside aircraft. The buffeting was worse here, almost below the high tail of the Starlifter. Bond had to grip hard on the spar to keep his balance, for the big aeroplane seemed to be turning alternately left and right, still going down, with occasional terrifying bucketing and noise — which Bond now clearly recognised as other aircraft passing close and buzzing them.

'There we go,' Caber called, and Bond heard the solid sound of a large switch going down. It was followed by the whine of hydraulics and an increased reverberation. Bond twisted around, to see Caber leaning against a bulkhead just inside the hatchway, the revolver still accurately aimed, while his left hand was raised to an open metal box inside which a two-foot double knife-switch had just been pulled down and was locked into the 'on' position. There was another great wallowing as the huge plane dropped a couple of hundred feet, and both men clung hard to their precious holds. Caber laughed. 'The Laird had some daft idea of pushing ye out an' trailing ye along with the pick-up line when we went fur the ransom. I'm gawn tae make sure o' ye, Bond.'