The Spy Who Loved Me

combat suit. The submarine shuddered and rose steeply through the water. Anya, realizing that it was not going to break up, released her hold on Bond. Carter clapped his eyes to the periscope and rose with it. The tension in the control room was painful. Men were counting their life-expectancy in seconds. They waited in darkness like sinners at the gates of hell. Carter’s outline was just recognizable as he swung the periscope through one hundred and eighty degrees. Then there was a gasp. An unbelieving gasp.

‘My God! It’s not possible!'

The Trap Closes

A gaint shock-wave shook the Wayne like a cuff from a huge hand and Bond was hurled forward into the darkness. He cannoned into one of the crew and sprawled half stunned across the deck. Around him, men groaned, cursed and struggled to stir some response from their lifeless equipment. At any second, Bond expected the hull to split and the water come rushing in. It was the darkness that made it unbearable. They were like cats doomed to drown in a sack. Bond scrambled to his knees and found Carter as a second but lesser shock-wave ran through the submarine. There was a distant booming noise from the stern as if someone was hitting the hull with a sledgehammer.

‘What the devil’s happening?’

‘I don’t know. The Lepadus was coming up astern. I thought she was going to ram us.’

‘We wouldn’t be talking if she had. What happened before that? Why did we lose power?’

'I don’t know. It was like we were being jammed.’ ‘Precisely.’ Anya’s cold, clipped voice was close at hand. ‘Such techniques are being perfected in the Soviet Union. That is why I had reservations concerning the conduct of this operation.’

‘You might express them a little more forcefully next time.’ If there is going to be a next time, thought Bond. He heard the hiss of air as Carter activated the periscope and wondered why the sea had suddenly become so calm. They must be on the surface and yet there was hardly any movement. Some men were holding up lighters and the flames were steady. The only sound was that strange clanging noise. Bond felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickling.

‘What can you see?’

‘Nothing. I'm not getting anything. Blackout.’

‘Jesus Christ! ’ The voice came from one of the crew. Bond could sense the seeds of panic that would soon be spreading through the submarine. ‘What are we going to do, Captain? Open the hatch?'

Carter’s voice was resolute. ‘Not until I know what the hell there is out there.’

There was a violent explosion two feet behind Bond and he instinctively ducked sideways. The hull of the submarine was humming. Whatever was happening out there was calculated to tear nerves to threads. Bond took a lighter and held it up to the hull. A cylindrical metal bolt had been fired through the side of the submarine. There was a small hole in its centre. What did it all mean? Where were they?

‘Captain - you have precisely two minutes to open your hatches and surrender your ship.’ The voice was muffled and must be coming through a limpet microphone attached to the side of the hull. Despite the distortion, the thin, measured tone was familiar. Stromberg. Bond saw Anya’s eyes shining in the darkness. He read in them what he felt himself. Fear. ‘The alternative is extermination by cyanide gas. We will pump the hull full of gas bolts if necessary. You will assemble your men on deck unarmed. Anyone found with a weapon or attempting to hide will be shot. You now have one and a half minutes.’

Bond listened to men breathing in the darkness. A lighter went out. What alternatives were there? Escape via one of the torpedo tubes? No time. Gas masks? Useless against cyanide gas.

‘You have one minute, Captain. Stand by to activate gas cylinders. Reload gas bolt.’

Carter swore. ‘Bastards! They’ve got us over a barrel.’ He started to move towards the sail. There was a release of tension in the control room. Bond turned to Anya. ‘Keep your hair out of sight. Stromberg won’t know we’re aboard. We’ll take our chance when we see what the set-up is.’

Anya nodded and started to push her hair under her cap. The heat in the control room was unbearable. Bond wiped his dripping forehead with his sleeve and marvelled at the endurance   of men who were prepared to stay below the surface for months at a time.

‘So, living still appeals to you, Captain.’ Stromberg’s voice crackled through the hull. ‘Very wise. Assemble your men immediately. There is little time left.’

Carter appeared with a flashlight. He looked like a man hovering on the edge of reason. His face was hollow and drawn. ‘Okay men, muster on the forward casing. Hurry it along.’ He turned to Bond but did not speak.

‘Where are we?’ said Bond.

Carter spoke as if finding it difficult to believe his own words. ‘We’re inside the tanker.’

‘Bozhi moi!3 Anya’s long legs swept her towards the sail with Bond at her shoulder. Had Carter taken leave of his senses? Bond saw an oval of light above his head and pulled himself on to the navigation bridge. What he saw made his eyes widen in amazement. What had Carter’s words been? ‘It’s not possible!’ The first impression was of being inside a cathedral. A huge space enclosed by walls and vaulted ceiling far above. Pillars, columns, buttresses. The whole designed to throw the eye forward to a stained-glass window radiating light which stretched from one wall to the other. Sepulchral shadows giving way to celestial incandescence. But this was no place of worship. On closer examination, the rood screen across the stained-glass windows became louvred steel, shielding the face of a brilliantly lit control room. The columns became steel girders supporting gangways, gantries and catwalks, joined by flights of stairs and running both lengths of the structure and across its middle. Elevators served key access points to the galleries, and a tube-enclosed hovercar track with regular entry points ran beneath them. This was staggering enough but it was only the beginning. Virtually the entire area bounded by the four walls was an enormous sea-filled dock divided by two jetties into three mooring bays. The nose of the Wayne was in the centre bay and on either side of her were two other submarines. Bond tried to keep pace with his amazement. As a conception it was more fantastic than anything he had ever seen or thought about. A vessel built in the guise of a tanker capable of swallowing submarines. And the two submarines already here? One British, one Russian. He tried to read the nameplates through the glare of the searchlights playing on his face.

‘Hurry! I am not renowned for my patience.’ Again, Strom- berg's hectoring voice. Bond climbed down the ladder to the deck wondering where it was coming from. On all sides, men with sub-machine-guns were covering them from quay and gallery. A rubber tube, attached to the bolt that had been fired through the hull, ran from the side of the Wayne to one of a number of gas cylinders stacked on a trolley. Beside the man with his hand resting alertly on the tap of the gas cylinder was another holding what looked like a pneumatic drill. This must be the gun for firing the gas bolts. The men wore the SS-and- fish insignia of the crew of the Riva and were dressed in the same blue uniform. Without exception they looked menacingly alert and well trained. Bond’s admiration for Stromberg increased in proportion to his fear and loathing. This man was capable of holding the world to ransom.

‘That is the Potemkin!' Anya hissed the words as she moved beside Bond with her head down. Bond said nothing but looked beyond the steel pillar to the submarine in front of him. He could just make out the lettering ‘— ger' Ranger! Thank God! But what about the crew? Had Stromberg murdered them? And this thought with the crew of the Wayne being lined up on the forward casing. What were they facing, a firing squad? Bond hesitated, wondering whether to spring at the nearest guard. But even if he wrested the man’s weapon he would be instantly gunned down from above. Best to wait and see.

‘Prisoners to brig.’

Bond tucked his chin in and breathed a sigh of relief. They were not going to be killed - not yet, anyway. The guards gestured with the muzzles of their weapons and the crew of the Wayne began to file down the gangway to the quayside. Bond looked ahead and saw three heavy steel doors in the bulkhead beneath the gallery that fronted the control room. There were two armed guards outside the doors and a cluster of disappointed faces showed through small square openings. ‘Why didn’t you send the marines?’ said a Cockney voice.

Bond waited until he was out of view of the bridge beneath the wide gallery and looked back down the length