Stromberg beckoned to the guards. ‘And now, Commander, I must leave you. I am returning to my laboratory. You will stay here.’ He singled out Bond for the full force of that remark before turning to Anya. ‘You, Major, will accompany me. It may come as a surprise to you to learn that there is someone who awaits your presence with a palpitating eagerness and - may I say it? - no little tender feeling.’ Stromberg smiled cruelly. ‘Yes. My friend with the sophisticated masticatory apparatus, known in some circles as Jaws. In your brief meetings he has developed a soft spot for you. Bizarre, is it not?’ The revulsion on Bond’s face was obvious. ‘I would not prejudge the match, Commander Bond. Even to a non-scientist the possibilities are fascinating. Beauty and great intelligence allied to ruthless cunning and phenomenal strength. The progeny of such a union should be remarkable.’
Anya shuddered. ‘I would rather die.’
Stromberg looked at her coldly. ‘That is certainly the only alternative.' He gestured to one of the guards, who seized Anya roughly by the arm. She looked into Bond’s eyes and there was a hint of pleading together with a slackening of the tension round the proud mouth. She looked more like the girl he had held in his arms at the Hotel Lavarone. He began to move forward but the second guard was quick to read the message. His weapon swung up and the sight dug into the side of Bond's neck beneath the jawbone. Bond could feel the man’s finger taking up the play in the trigger. One false move and the top of his head would be blown off.
‘Spare us the schoolboy heroics, Commander Bond.' Strom- berg's was mocking and Bond yearned to drive his fist into The cruel, contemptuous face and feel it crack like an egg. ‘Put him with the rest of the prisoners. The captain has his instructions.' Stromberg glanced down towards the canisters of cyanide gas that were being wheeled along the quay. ‘Farewell, Bond. The word has, I must say, a welcome ring of permanency about it'
Bond ignored Stromberg and tried to pump hope into Anya’s apprehensive eyes. 'Au revoir, Anya.’
‘Goodbye, James' There was no hatred in her voice. Perhaps a trace of resignation. A note of regret for missed opportunities. Bond watched her being led away and cried 10 purge his mind of sentiment. Why think of one girl when the future of the world hung in the balance? But what was the world except millions of girls like Anya? How could one serve humanity and ignore individuals? A door slid open to reveal a lift and Stromberg, Anya and the guard stepped inside. Bond caught one last glimpse of Anya’s brave, beautiful face staring at him impassively and then the door slid shut.
‘Move!'
The barrel of the automatic was thrust into Bond’s neck and then pulled back as the guard covered him warily. Bond began to move towards the stairs by which he had approached the control room. Behind him, he could hear the typewriter chatter of the print-out machines and the babbie of the technicians. Above, the scanner continued to move slowly along its programmed path. Guards were stationed at regular intervals along all gangways and catwalks. Bond knew that if he was going to do something, he had to do it fast. If two hundred and fifty men had found it impossible to escape from the brig his presence amongst them was not going to change things in the short term — and it was a short term. Just a few hours and the submarines would be in position. He had to get inside that control room!
Now they were at the bottom of the stairs and beginning to move along the quay. The two guards outside the first door of the brig looked up expectantly. A third man was approaching with the trolley of gas canisters. On top of them rested the bolt gun. Bond tensed and felt a sharp stab of excitement. Would it still be loaded? How could he lay hands on it? The trolley was a simple construction, one upright slotted in at each corner. If one of them was dislodged, the canisters would come tumbling down. Bond licked his dry lips. The two guards outside the brig had their automatics slung round their shoulders. The trolley was twenty feet away. Bond turned and the guard gestured to him to keep moving. He was five feet behind. Right. This was it. Bond tensed his thigh and braced his toes inside his steel-capped parachute boots. Ten feet, five feet. Bond slowed as if to let the trolley past and then
- ‘
The boot crunched against the upright and pain richoceted through his leg. The upright jolted into the air and the first canister came crashing down. Before it had touched the deck. Bond had snatched up the bolt gun and back-chopped the trolley guard into the water. Canisters were spilling everywhere and he heard the first guard stumble as they rained down about his ankles. He ducked and started running towards the furthest door of the brig. A burst of automatic fire streamed over his head like a swarm of angry wasps and he darted behind a stanchion. The two warders had unslung their weapons and were coming for him.
A machine-gun started chattering from the central catwalk and bullets screamed off the metal plating above Bond’s head. The unexpected intervention distracted the quayside attackers and Bond sprang out, struggling to level the heavy bolt gun. He pulled the trigger and was hurled backwards by the recoil. With sickening force, the bolt tore through the first warder as if he was a box of wet tissues and then entered the body of the second, chewing and spewing its way through bone and gristle until it stood a hideous six inches beyond his back. Like severed puppets the men buckled at the knees and followed each other to the deck in a gushing fountain of blood. Bond threw himself forward and snatched up the first man’s automatic. He found the trigger and rolled sideways as bullets spattered the area in front of him.
Stromberg’s guard was now out in the open, his face a mask of desperation and hate. Bond aimed at the knees and worked upwards. Life went out of the man and he slumped forward with enough force to send his automatic sliding ten feet across the deck. Bond rolled again and ran, stooped, for the nearest door of the brig. He fired a defiant burst towards the central gangway and began to wrench at the wheel. Its progress was slow at first but then it began to spin. A sudden sharp pain in his upper arm told him that he had been hit. He spun round and saw a man taking aim from a fin of the
‘Come on! Come on! ’ The voices urging him on came from behind the door as well as inside his mind. He could feel their shoulders pressing against it. Then he was thrust backwards. A surge of bodies welled out on to the quayside. Carter was kneeling beside him. ‘Thank God, Bond! I’ll get you a Medal of Merit for this.’
‘I’ve already turned one down.’ Bond’s voice changed gear into action immediate. ‘You take charge down here. I’ve got to get up on deck. Stromberg’s taking off with Anya. We need to get inside that control room.’
He was running before Carter had time to nod. Bullets were spraying like lead confetti at the men spilling from the brig; and they had only three weapons to reply with. Correction, four. Bond levelled his automatic at a man firing from the gallery and he sagged forward, relinquishing his weapon to the grateful horde fanning out behind any cover that presented itself.
Bond dropped his shoulder and charged through an oval metal door as bullets skipped at his heels. A flight of stairs zig-zagged upwards. Now it was just the sound of his boots ringing against the metal as he headed for the deck. Blood was slopping down the inside of his sleeve but his arm was still functioning. Within him was a deadly sense of purpose that kept him going. He must eliminate Stromberg. With its brain destroyed, perhaps the monster would slither to a halt. The submarine commanders would listen to reason, Armageddon could be avoided.
Bond felt fresh air beating against his face. He must be near the deck. The sinews of his legs screamed for respite. He urged himself forward and fell against the heavy handle that twisted downwards to give him access to the deck. My God! Where was he? Bond stuck his head out of the deck housing and felt a small gale tugging at his head. He might be on the roof of a gigantic building. Battalions of pipes ran into infinity like railway lines across an endless plain. The sky lowered down as if feeling menaced by the brute structure soaring up beneath it.
Bond heard the developing roar of rotor blades and jerked his head towards the Bavarian madness of the stern. Silhouetted against the towering bridge structure was die Bell, lifting into the air. Bond started to run towards it, jumping over pipes until he came to the central catwalk.
He sprang on to a hatch cover and clawed his way up, throwing the automatic in front of him. Now he had it in his grasp and was rising to his feet. The helicopter stabilized, tipped and began to follow the line of the catwalk as if using it as a runway. Bond could see its glinting, bulbous nose, like the head of a dragonfly, getting larger and larger. All he had to do was raise his gun and rake it from nose to tail as it flew overhead. He tensed, seeing the outline of the pilot, and Stromberg, and - Anya. The vibrating roar filled Bond's ears. His finger tightened against the trigger. The helicopter filled the sky above his head. He waited for the sound of the bullets ripping into the fuselage. The cockpit exploding like a lightbulb. Nothing. Nothing at all. His finger trembled against the trigger as if in a death spasm. Nothing happened. The surface- thumping beat of the rotor blades began to die away. Bond spun round. The
