In Bond’s case, he carried equipment wrapped around his chest under the parka, and a long pocket containing what he hoped would be his ultimate salvation ran down the right thigh of the wet suit. Further, a broad webbing belt was clipped around his waist
At least four pouches were threaded onto the belt, plus a webbing holster for his weapon of choice, the ASP 9mm, loaded with ferocious Glaser ammunition and fitted with a long noise reduction cylinder. His face and head were covered in an insulated ski mask, while his hands were protected by skin-tight leather gloves which kept out the cold without reducing his ability to use his fingers for the most delicate of tasks.
In his head he ticked off the contents of the pockets and pouches, as he had done a dozen times before the cold and fatigue had pushed him into a dangerous sleep.
As he went through the items, Bond became aware of noise, the splutter and buzz of the Storch’s engine far away below on the edge of the runway. It was the first signal, for the old spotter aircraft ran regular patrols over the area, its pilot making sure that no civilian climbing enthusiasts, or worse, enemies of the state, had made their way just a shade too close to the restricted area.
The Storch flew a pre-set pattern which seldom varied and took around twenty minutes to complete. Its final manoeuvre was to fly low across the lake, passing over the dam at its midpoint. From the large greenhouse cockpit the pilot would scan the guard post, and routine security required that one of the KGB Border Guards would come out into the steel cage and signal an all clear’ to the aircraft. In spite of the fact that there was both a two-way radio and a telephone in the guard post, this was the kind of instruction beloved of Colonel Ourumov, the officer in charge of security. Arkady Grigorovich Ourumov, a senior officer of the KGB Border Guards, was well known to Western agents such as Bond. It was said of him that his view of security was so paranoid that should he ever get his way, he would have guards watching guards watching guards, and so on to infinity.
Below, the enigma pitch changed on the Fiesler Storch as it began its take off run. Bond slowly rose, flexing his limbs, then he noiselessly ran towards the building, flattening himself against the wall to the right of the grimy window. As he did so, he was aware of the aircraft climbing out of the valley.
Quickly he leaned inwards, peering through the window. The two soldiers sat opposite one another concentrating on a chess game. What happens, he wondered, if they miss their cue by not signalling to the plane?
The aircraft noise was receding; now he detected another change of engine noise and an increase in sound as, far out over the lake, it began to line up with the centre of the dam.
Pressed against the wall, he clearly heard the guards’ voices and the scrape as a chair was pushed back.
Once more he leaned towards the window. One of the men was opening the door on the dam side and walking out into the steel enclosure, the other soldier still sat at the table, his entire concentration on the chess board.
Listening for the aircraft’s approach, Bond removed the automatic pistol from its holster and edged towards the door. As he passed the window he could see that the guard outside was shielding his eyes, looking upwards.
In one fluid movement he opened the door, stepped inside the building and lifted his right hand. The man puzzling over the chess board was so engrossed that his reactions were considerably slowed. He turned, looked blankly at Bond as though he were someone from another planet, then began to push his chair back, his face a mixture of surprise, fear, and disbelief.
The automatic made little noise, just a quiet phut-phut.
In fact the metallic click of the mechanism seemed louder than the actual rounds being fired. Bond winced slightly as the two Glasers blew into the man’s chest, right over the heart, the pair hitting within a quarter of an inch of each other. Overkill, Bond thought as the twin odours of gunsmoke and blood twitched at his nostrils. His lifetime experience taught him to always fire two rounds, in the traditional manner. With Glasers you only needed one, for ninety percent of victims hit by this round ended up dead within seconds, it being virtually a shotgun cartridge, the No. 12 shot floating in liquid Teflon within a thin cupronickel jacket, the bullet sealed with a plastic cap. It was the sudden outward explosion of the No. 12 shot once the bullet entered the body that did the damage.
The dead soldier’s chair had been pushed back, almost to the wall by the impact. Now the body slumped to one side and fell to the floor, one arm flapping against the chess board, scattering the pieces.
The spotter aircraft was passing overhead, and as Bond stepped over the body so the telephone began to ring.
Bond hesitated, a fraction too long, his eyes searching for the incoming point. The telephone rang five times before he reached down and ripped the jack from the socket. By then he heard the other guard running back towards the building. He could hear the man’s boots thudding on the paving and could imagine him unholstering his pistol.
Definitely not officer material, Bond murmured. The man was just rushing back without even making a tactical appraisal of what might, or might not, be happening inside the guard post He exploded through the door, the little Stechkin automatic waving, almost out of control, in his hand.
This time, Bond fired only once. The second soldier spun to the left, hit the wall and collapsed, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind him. In the silence that followed, two of the chess pieces rolled at his feet.
Checkmate,’ Bond muttered, taking stock of the situation, looking specifically for the control to the gate out on the top of the dam.
The big metal button like an unpolished silver mushroom was set into the wall high to the left of the door, just where they said it would be. He glanced at his watch, seeing there was not much time left.
If all had gone smoothly, Alec Trevelyan would be in place waiting for him. The plan had been to set the charge and get out while the bulk of the Plant’s staff were on their one hour’s mid-morning break.
He unzipped the parka and began to unwind the cumbersome thick elasticised rope from around his body, curling it across his left arm, making certain that the entire length was free and there was no danger of it getting tangled. In the next few minutes his life would depend on the strength and pliability of this piece of equipment which he coiled so that the strengthened noose was in his left hand and the big spring clip in his right. Reaching up, Bond banged the big button which controlled the outer gate, hitting it squarely with the spring clip.
He heard the whine of the metal from the far end of the cage, looked out and saw that the way onto the wide top of the dam was clear.
Taking a deep breath he began to sprint forward.
He had not anticipated the stiff breeze blowing off the lake, but the top of the dam was wide enough, and there was no question of doing a balancing act as the wind whipped around him. There were strong metal guardrails running along either side, so Bond had no worries about falling off and hurtling through the eight hundred feet of space onto the rocks below - even though this was basically what he was about to do.
He reached the centre of the high curved structure, glanced down and felt his stomach turn over. In the short period they had been given to prepare for Operation Cowslip, he had done this only twice, and then dropping less than half the distance he was about to attempt.
You only got one chance with this method, and there were no things like reserve parachutes or wrist clamped altimeters.
Initially he had suggested absailing down the face of the dam, but quickly realised that this tried and true method would leave him exposed to detection for longer than anyone wanted - including himself.
He banged the spring clip onto one of the metal ii guardrail uprights, and gave it a quick pull, quietly hoping the iron to which he was tethering himself was bedded firmly into the top of the dam as the experts claimed.
Hardly stopping to think about anything else, Bond slid his right foot into the noose at the other end of the bungee cord and pulled the long piton gun - assembled lovingly by Q’s people - from its special holster in the thigh of his wet suit. Ducking under the rail, he glanced back to be certain the cord was free of any obstruction, and could not get tangled. Then, expelling his breath in a loud whaaa sound, James Bond launched himself from the top of the dam.
This was nothing like free fall parachuting because you did not have the comfortable knowledge that, when the moment came, there was a “chute on your back. Bond’s stomach was still up on top of the dam as he plunged downwards. The drop seemed endless. He could feel his body moving faster and even felt the resistance of the air through which he moved. His ears sang and his facial muscles ceased to be of any value, his cheeks forced back and
