merely started to roll the pen between his fingers.
“Where did you find her?” Trevelyan asked her guards.
“She was in the mainframe, sir.” Trevelyan scowled, then snapped at Boris, “Check the programme.” Boris chuckled. “She couldn’t put a bug in a simple game, let alone damage us. She’s a moron. A second level programmer. Anyway, she doesn’t have access to the firing codes.
All she knows about is the guidance system.
As he said it, Boris seemed to slow down, slurring the final words and, at that moment, an alarm began to beep, as though someone had tried to break into a car.
A technician, sitting at the far monitor, all but shouted, “Retro-rockets firing.” It was time for Natalya to smile, but Bond kept his eyes on Boris who now resumed clicking the pen. Three - the pen was armed. A further three times, disarming the pen.
Boris leaped across to the technician: hammering at the keyboard with his right hand. “She’s at ninety-seven miles and falling. I can’t regain control.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Trevelyan was up on his feet and moving towards Boris and the technician who looked bewildered.
“We’ll have re-entry in thirteen minutes,’ as he reached forward to set a re-entry clock. The timer flashed on in brilliant red digitised figures, and the Time to Target now read, Aborted. Time To Re-entry:
13:24.
In the stunned silence, Natalya spoke. “It’s going to burn up somewhere over the Atlantic.”
“You little bitch.” Boris was still trying to regain control from the technician’s keyboard. He moved his head up to speak with Trevelyan. “She’s changed the access codes.” As he spoke, Trevelyan, his face a rage, pulled his gun and stuck it in Boris’ ear.
Natalya giggled. “Go ahead, Janus. Shoot him, he means nothing to me.
Bond gave her a look of pleasure and muttered, “Standard operating procedure.”
“I can break her codes, move that damned gun away, Alec.’ Boris flapped at the pistol as though it were an insect, then turned back to the technician. “Load the guidance sub-routines. Now.
Quickly.” Then he started playing with the pen again.
Click-click Click -click Then a whole series of clicks so that Bond lost count, just as Trevelyan took his pistol from Boris’ ear and turned it onto Natalya. “Tell him. You hear me, girl? Tell him.” Boris was out of control, whirling and screaming at Natalya, “Give me those codes. Natalya, GIVE ME THE CODES.” Bond had no idea of the status of the pen that the crazy little computer specialist was waving in Natalya’s face. He lashed out with one arm, sending Trevelyan’s gun up and out of the man’s hand. He then brought his foot up in a kick boxer’s stance, kicking Boris’ wrist and sending the pen arcing into the air. For a precious second it seemed to remain stationary in mid air, then dropped, exploding just as it hit the spreading pool of fuel.
The explosion and sudden leap of fire around them made hands and arms come up: all trying to cover their eyes from the sheet of flame which shot up the stairs and wall back to its original source.
The first fuel tank exploded. As it did so, Bond grabbed Natalya by the arm and pulled her towards the elevator on their left. As he banged the door closed, they both almost felt the thud of bullets hitting the sliding doors.
“Can he really break your codes?” Bond asked. He was aware of the urgency in his own voice.
“It’s possible,’ she said almost casually.
“Then we’ll have to destroy the transmitter.” His head tilted up, watching the numbers rise. He could only presume this would take them right to the top of the damned thing.
“That would be natural.” She lifted one eyebrow. “By the way, thank you, I’m fine.”
“Good.” The elevator stopped at the base of the catwalk which led to the transmitter cradle they had seen as the whole structure rose from the lake. An armed guard turned towards the opening doors and saw the woman slumped on the floor. He immediately ran in to her, dropping his machine pistol on the way in his hurry to help her. As he began to kneel down beside the unconscious body, Bond dropped from the roof, where he had lodged himself, using shoulders and feet, like a climber in a chimney rock formation.
First his feet hit the guard’s back, then he chopped viciously at the man’s neck which gave off a horrible cracking sound as he fell, spread-eagled, to the floor.
Natalya was on her feet again as Bond removed the guard’s pistol and threw it to her. He picked up the machine pistol, and, as he did so, they both heard the rumbling of explosions from far below.
“You know how to use one of these?” Looking at the gun he had handed to Natalya.
She nodded, checking the slide movement, ejecting the magazine and making sure it was full. “Yes,’ she said.
“Good. Just keep out of sight and get off the dish. I’m going to scupper that antenna. That will do the trick, won’t it?”
“Just get up there to the maintenance hatch. There’s probably a simple chain device which works the mechanism to turn the antenna. The best thing for you to do is remove all the fuses from the maintenance room. Go. Go now.
Quickly.” From below, more explosions rattled the dish and the superstructure as Bond kissed her on the cheek and started the long climb up to the maintenance room high above the antenna.
The climb was daunting, and by the time Bond reached halfway, he could make out the structures more clearly.
When he was some forty feet up, he glanced down and saw Natalya making a dash up to the edge of the dish, climbing over the latticework to the ground and running into the protection of the jungle.
Originally he had intended to stop at the catwalk which crossed the triangle some ten feet above the big metal maintenance room which, in turn, was set directly above the housing from which the long icicle of the antenna reached down, ending around ten feet from the dish. Now he saw that there was another large chamber, high above, set into the very apex of the triangle. Cables and wires sprouted downwards from this room, and he began to get the whole picture of how the antenna was operated.
The wires and cables, leading from the top of the triangle, undoubtedly had a part to play in the way the great silver finger was moved. Some went directly down, through the maintenance chamber and from there into what could only be the true mechanism for repositioning the antenna, yet there seemed to be another set of thicker cables.
These went over a series of pulleys and wheels.
He was thirty feet from the top of the structure when he saw that these wires ran to the far side of the dish and supported a cable car which could be taken from dish level up to the catwalk.
He cursed, wishing he had known about the cable car for it would have cut precious minutes off his journey.
From far below, he still caught the sound of occasional explosions coming from deep within the earth beyond the dish.
In the control complex, the fuel tanks were still exploding.
sending balls of fire up to the roof above the top section.
Guards raced back and forth with CO2 extinguishers, but nobody was in doubt that the roof was starting to weaken.
Tiles and pieces of insulation had already begun to fall, and Trevelyan’s men kept their eyes on this danger point, as though trying to divine the moment when they would have to give up and evacuate the complex.
The only person who seemed oblivious to the dangers was Boris who sat at his keyboard, focused wholly on the job of regaining control over the satellite.
Trevelyan stood over him, watching his every move as the younger man worked, almost feverishly, at the programme.
“How long’s it going to take?” Trevelyan was looking around and starting to take in the possible hopelessness of the situation.
Boris snapped back that it was nearly done. “Two minutes three at the most” Trevelyan suddenly frowned, remembering Bond who could blow out the all important antenna if he had a mind to. If he knew Q, and if Bond still had explosives with him, he might find a way of overriding the electronic remotes. He turned to the guard who was
