helicopter was rising now, clearing the bow of the
With a sense of shame that was physically painful, Bond realized what he had done. He had betrayed his country and himself because of his attachment to a woman. He had not opened fire because Anya was a prisoner in the cockpit. What a contemptible fool he was! Bitter and self-despising he turned his back on the spectacle of his perfidy.
Like a quixotic windmill, the bridge soared into the air before him. Right! Pull yourself together, Bond! Attack! He started to run down the catwalk towards the helideck. Two mechanics and a guard were moving cans away from its perimeter. Refuelling must have been done by hand. Bond opened up from long range and corrected his aim according to the passage of his bullets. A fuel-can exploded and, instantly, the helideck was a square pool of flame. Aviation spirit had been slopped all over it. A yellow flame soared into the sky, its edge shimmering so that the bridge seemed to be seen through perspex. Tongues of red ran through the flame and a man staggered out of it a blazing torch. As Bond watched, he appeared to dissolve into the deck. The heat singed Bond’s eyelashes and scorched his cheeks. There was no air left to breathe. The roar of the flames was deafening.
Bond fell back as there was a second explosion, more powerful than the first. The rest of the fuel-cans had gone up. Now the yellow became embroidered with needles of black and a dense smoke blotted out die bridge. One of the oil-tanks next to the cofferdam must have caught fire.
Bond scrambled over the rail of the catwalk and dropped to the deck. The fire would cause a valuable diversion. He broke into a run and hurdled the pipes that blocked his path to the nearest deck housing. Now the mist of self-loathing was clearing and he could re-programme his mind to the job in hand. Get inside the control room! That was the most important objective. He clattered down the stairs as a guard loomed out of a companionway beside him. Bond pressed the trigger but the magazine was empty. The man1 spun to fire but Bond knocked the weapon sideways and drove the barrel of his gun into the unprotected stomach. The man jack-knifed and Bond swung the butt of his weapon in a vicious, two- handed uppercut that delivered the forged steel flush to the side of the jaw. The neck snapped like a stick of rock. Bond unclamped the dead fingers, one by one, and took the man’s weapon. He slung his own over his shoulder and continued down the stairs.
As he approached the bottom, he could hear the steady drumming of automatic fire. The battle was not over. He waited behind the heavy metal door and listened to his heart pounding. The blood was coagulating about his wrist and the arm was stiffening up. He could not afford to stop moving. Taking several deep breaths, he twisted the handle and leant against the door sufficiently to push it open a couple of inches. The murky water glimmered in front of him. As he had imagined, he was further down towards the bows than when he had entered the port companion ways. Above him and towards the stern was the central catwalk that traversed the dock area. In its middle was a revolving gun-platform now facing towards the brig. Bond could see the backs of the three gunners as they crouched behind the shield. He looked towards the control room and his heart fell. The louvres were shut tight to form an impenetrable wall. Half a dozen bodies lay scattered on the balcony in front of them.
It was brutally clear that there was no easy way through to the nerve centre of the Stromberg empire. And there were less than four hours to Armageddon.
Drowned, Buried and Cremated
Bond fought off weariness and despondency and edged his way out on to the quayside. There had never been any doubt that it was going to be difficult. Once you started feeling sorry for yourself you were finished. Maybe the same was true about feeling sorry for other people.
He shrank back against the iron plating and reviewed the situation. From what he could see, Carter and the rest of the escaped prisoners were spread out round the berths. Some of them had got into the side galleries; occasional shots were winging from that direction. A number of them had perished in an unsuccessful attack on the control room. From the spread of their fire it sounded as if they had laid their hands on some more weapons. But wherever they moved they were within range of the central gun emplacement on the catwalk. That had to be knocked out. Bond’s eye swung on a closer orbit. The hovercar track and its protective tube ran within six feet. One of the hovercraft was conveniently placed in the nearest opening. That was twenty feet away. Bond looked around him and emerged from the shadow.
He had taken two steps when there was an ear-splitting screech above his head. He threw himself full length and screwed his eyes shut, waiting for the bullets to skewer into his flesh. Nothing happened. The siren continued to wail and he relaxed fractionally. It must be an alarm signal announcing the fire on deck. No help likely from down here, chums. Everybody has got their hands full. He raised his head and crawled towards the hovercar. It was a simple six-seater shell with a dead-man’s handle connecting to the electrified monorail. Lift it and you got the juice to propel the hovercar. The wailing of the siren stopped and there was an eerie silence
broken by the groans of a wounded man lying near the brig. There was a short burst of fire from the central catwalk and the groans stopped. Bond’s teeth ground together with a sound that was almost audible. He didn’t like shooting people in the back but sometimes they made it easier for you.
Looking carefully along the gallery that ran above his head, he straightened up and peered across to the far gallery. There was no sign of movement. Now he had to move fast before his own side picked him out as one of the enemy and started shooting. He unslung his empty weapon and placed it in the cockpit of the hovercar. Then he scrambled on to the roof of the track cover and moved towards the bows. Ten paces and he was beyond the gun crew. Looking up, he could see their shoulders hunched behind the square metal plate with the observation slits. He raised his gun and there was a warning shout followed by a burst of automatic fire from the shadows opposite. Bond concentrated on the gun crew. As they spun round he unleashed a long burst and saw two of the men buckle and slump. The third was struggling with the handle that turned the gun. Bond fired again but the defensive shield continued to swing round. He could see the sparks as his bullets screamed off it. The gun barrels were depressing towards him when the third man suddenly slid sideways and lay still with his arm draped over one of the gantry rails.
Bond could feel his body awash with sweat. The tunnel beneath his feet was raked by bullets and he started to run towards the hovercar. He sprang through the opening and snatched at the lever. There was a high-pitched whine and the hovercar lifted and began to glide forward. Bullets drummed against the tunnel housing like tropical rain. Bond kept his head down and the handle up. Two more openings flashed by and he was at the quayside on the port side of the brig. He saw the startled faces of Carter’s men bringing their weapons to bear. ‘Hold your fire men! ’ Bond felt a surge of gratitude for Carter’s quick reading of the situation and scrambled out to shelter behind the stairs leading up to the control room. Carter ducked down beside him. ‘Did you get him?’
‘No.’
Carter noticed from the expression on Bond’s face that something was wrong but he did not pursue it. ‘Tough.
Thanks for knocking out that machine-gun. We got the guy who was trying to nail you. I think we’ve just about cleaned them up out here but they’re thick as ticks on a hog’s back in the control room.’
Bond saw that Carter was holding an FN automatic rifle. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘We got into the magazine. We’ve got no problem about arms.’
‘Excellent.’ Bond looked through the door of the brig where he could see ‘Chuck’ Coyle supervising the treatment of a line of injured men. Dead bodies lay where they had dropped. The ghastly stench of death already filled the air, ‘What about losses?’
Carter’s face clouded. ‘Heavy. They really poured it into us coming out of the brig. About thirty dead and half as many again injured. The Russian captain bought it in the assault on the magazine.’ Carter shook his head in admiration. ‘Those guys fought like wildcats.’
‘What about Talbot, your opposite number on
Bond thought about the four-inch-thick steel louvres and was sceptical. He looked at his watch. Three and a half hours to go. ‘Let’s have a talk to him.*
Talbot was in his mid-thirties, blond-haired and handsome in a typically English way which made his face seem unmarked by any contact with the unpleasant realities of life. Bond could imagine the teacups at the vicarage trembling when he returned on leave.
