Win, Lose or Die

by John Gardner

  ‘Wrenlins,’ he repeated half aloud. He had almost forgotten that old Fleet Air-Arm slang, culled and altered from the RAF’s ‘gremlins’. Today’s young people, he presumed, would take for granted that gremlins were creatures conjured from Spielberg’s brain for a popular, if zany, movie.

  Fifteen minutes later, they were sitting at a table in the quiet, neat restaurant ordering the paté and the boeuf Beauceronne – that delightful and simple dish of rump steak cooked with bacon, potatoes and onions. Within an hour they were talking like old friends, and, indeed knew people in common, for it turned out that, while Clover’s father had been what she called ‘a humble man of the cloth’, his elder brother was Sir Arthur Pennington, Sixth Baronet and master of Pennington Nab, a stately home which Bond had enjoyed, in more ways than one. ‘Oh, you’ll know my cousins, Emma and Jane, then?’ Clover asked, looking up sharply.

  ‘Intimately,’ Bond replied flatly, and with a completely straight face.

  Clover let it pass and they discussed everything from the Hunt Balls at Pennington Nab, to life in the Royal Navy, taking in, on the way, jazz – ‘My bro’, Julian, introduced me to trad jazz when he was up at Cambridge and I’ve been an addict ever since’ – fishing in the Caribbean, a favourite for both of them; skiing; and, finally, the novels of Eric Ambler and Graham Greene.

  ‘I feel I’ve known you for a lifetime, James,’ she said as they drove slowly back towards the RNAS.

  It was, Bond thought, a somewhat trite remark, but possibly one of invitation. He pulled the BMW into a lay-by and cut the engine.

  ‘The feeling’s mutual, Clover, my dear.’ He reached for her in the darkness and she responded to his first rough kiss, though pulled away when he began to move in closer.

  ‘No, James. No, not yet. It might become difficult, particularly as we’re going to be shipmates.’

  ‘What d’you mean, shipmates?’ Bond nuzzled her hair.

  ‘Invincible, of course.’

  ‘What about Invincible?’ He gently backed off.

  ‘Well, we’re both being drafted there for Landsea ’89, aren’t we?’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it.’ Bond’s voice remained steady, while a snake of worry began to curl around his stomach. ‘First I’ve heard of Wrens going to sea as well – particularly during an exercise like Landsea ’89.’

  ‘Well, it’s all over the place. In fact I’ve been told officially. Fifteen of us. Me, and fourteen ratings – apart from the other ladies who’ll be on board.’

  ‘And what about me?’ Deep within him, Bond was more than concerned now. If it was common knowledge that he was being drafted to Invincible it would not take much intelligence for the unscrupulous to put two and two together, particularly if they had got hold of the information that three senior Admirals, including the C-in-C of the Russian Navy, were going to be aboard. His mind jumped back to the near-miss that afternoon, and he wondered if somebody was already trying to take evasive action and cut him out of the baby-sitting business.

  Clover continued to talk, saying that she wouldn’t have said anything if she did not already know he was involved. ‘Of course it’s classified,’ she sounded a shade defensive. ‘But security’s for those without need-to-know, surely.’

  ‘And I have need-to-know?’

  ‘Your name’s on the list, James. Of course you have clearance.’

  ‘And these other women. Who are they?’

  ‘We haven’t been told. All I know is that there are to be other women.’

  ‘Okay, from the top, you tell me all you know, Clover.’

  Bond listened, and became more concerned. Concerned enough to make a very secure call for a crash meeting with M during the coming weekend.

  ‘I shouldn’t go blabbing about this to all and sundry, Clover,’ he admonished. ‘Not even good to talk to me about it,’ he told her when they got back to the Wrennery.

  ‘Well, kiss me goodnight, at least, James,’ she pouted.

  He smiled and gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Not just yet,’ he said solemnly. ‘Especially if we’re going to be shipmates.’

  Though he laughed as he drove away, the entire events of the day were more than worrying. Bond made his crash call to M from a telephone box a mile up the road, off the Base. The Duty Officer, using a scrambler, arranged the meeting for Sunday.

  4

  A SUNDAY IN THE COUNTRY

  The search for the Spanish pilot, Felipe Pantano, and his missing Sea Harrier had been called off at dusk, but would be resumed in the morning. Yet, long before the S and R helicopter teams had clattered out to look for wreckage and, possibly, a signal-emitting life raft, Captain Pantano was sitting comfortably in the captain’s cabin of a small freighter, two hundred miles off the coast of his own country, Spain.

  The freighter was registered in Oporto, Portugal. Indeed, Oporto, the harbour city famous for that most clubbable of wines, was where she was headed, and she sported the name Estado Novo on bows and stern. Low in the water, the Estado Novo obviously carried a heavy cargo in her hold and a large container secured for’ard taking up the bulk of her deck space. On the ship’s manifest, the container showed as engineering equipment destined for Gibraltar, from a well-known British firm, and would not be subject to any customs scrutiny in Oporto where they would only stop for twenty-four hours to refuel.

  Sitting opposite Pantano in the cabin was not the captain but Abou Hamarik, the strategist of BAST, who sat smiling and nodding as the swarthy little pilot told of how well the plan had gone.

  ‘I’m sure nobody noticed that I had gone off the plot,’ Pantano spoke in rapid Spanish, ‘and your people were waiting right on time. It took less than five minutes.’ He had taken off as number two in the quartet of Harriers, climbed to the correct height and had been careful to continue on the obligatory course. The operation had been set up only ten days before, even though there was already a plan to filch the Harrier: in fact that was originally the reason for Pantano being sent on the course. For weeks, through their carefully planted penetration agents within the Spanish Navy, BAST had forced Pantano onto the Harrier course with the elegant expertise of a theatrical magician making a member of the audience take the Ace of Spades from a clean deck of cards. The unscheduled addition, to destroy Captain Bond, had only been slipped into place when another of their agents had confirmed what that officer’s role was to be during the all-important Landsea ’89 exercise.

  Just north of Shrewsbury, over a densely wooded area, Pantano had literally dropped his Harrier from the sky, using the vectored thrust of his engine and coming down vertically like an express lift. No pilot would have faulted his skill, for the Harrier had dropped at the exact, planned point, into a small clearing of trees. Pantano had only to make minor adjustments – moving forward and sideways – to slow down and gently bring the Harrier to rest in the clearing. There was a Land Rover parked nearby, and four men waiting for him. As Pantano had already suggested, the work of wiring up, fusing and fitting the Sidewinder AIM-9J missile (one of three stolen some four months earlier from an RAF base in West Germany) to the starboard outer pylon, would only take a very short time. Five minutes twenty seconds later Pantano’s Sea Harrier was rising fast from the trees, putting on forward speed and climbing away, back on course, but increasing his air-speed, going flat out. It was essential for him to catch up with the lead aircraft, piloted by Bond, and stay well ahead of the number three.

  ‘I think we’d have heard if the radar at Yeovilton actually lost me at any point,’ he smiled confidently at Hamarik who gave a gentle nod.

  The Spaniard’s Harrier had come within three miles of Bond just as the latter was making his bombing run. ‘I locked on to him, and let the missile go,’ he told Hamarik. ‘After that I was busy with my own bombing run, and the little bit of deviousness which followed.’

  Hamarik shrugged, making an open-handed gesture. ‘I fear friend Bond escaped,’ he smiled, as if to say ‘it is difficult to win every battle.’

>   Pantano gave a heavy sigh, obviously annoyed with himself. ‘I’m sorry. I did all I could. Damn. Damn the man.’

  ‘Please do not concern yourself. There is plenty of time for us to deal with Captain Bond. A pity we could not combine two birds with the one proverbial stone. But, I promise you, Felipe, he will go. In fact that is essential.’

  Pantano smiled, showing a small goldmine of fillings, before he went through the final phase. His bombing run had been normal up to the time when he climbed away. ‘I simply pulled into a 30° climb to show myself to the radar. At 1,000 feet I let all the flares go, switched off my radar and banged on the ECM.’ The ECM (the Electronic Counter Measures Pod) is used to confuse ground radar and missiles. ‘This was not foolproof, of course, but I went down to zero feet and set the course you had given me. It was pretty exciting, I can tell you. I was just feet above the water. There were times when I was getting salt spray on the windshield, and even with the heater and wipers going full blast I couldn’t budge all of it. Also, I had the throttle banged wide open and the altimeter “bug” was screaming at me. I had it set to minimum – one hundred feet – and it went crazy. It was more like a boat ride than flying.’

  The Harrier had run right out into the Atlantic, then turned towards the Bay of Biscay. Two hundred miles later, Pantano had slowed to a hover beside the waiting Estado Novo. There was ample room to make a vertical landing, and almost before he was out of the cockpit, the crew had started to erect false sides which eventually made up the huge container standing on the forward deck.

  ‘Good,’ Hamarik’s oily smile greased over his face. ‘You have done well. Now, all we have to do is make certain the machine is fully fuelled, overhauled, and fitted with the other weapons. Then, you will be ready for stage two of your part in the operation we are to call LOSE. There is meant to be humour in that. Operation LOSE means that the major powers lose all that is dear to them, for what country can function without their personal gyroscopes?’

  ‘I don’t follow that part of it.’ Pantano did not press the point, though he was obviously intrigued.

  ‘You don’t follow it because you do not know what is really at stake.’ The greased smile again. Then Hamarik rose from his chair. ‘Come, let us eat and talk of good things. We have a small gift for you on board. She is from Egypt and, I am told, enjoys the same kind of trivial pursuit as yourself. Food first, for you will require energy.’

  James Bond was flying for most of the Saturday and the wardroom was almost empty when he went in to dine at around eight in the evening. He entered the ante-room and was surprised to see Clover, in a smart, almost military-looking dress – beige with brass buttons and darker beige piping around the shoulders and collar.

  ‘How are you tonight, then, Clover?’ He smiled, as though the fencing of the previous evening was now well forgotten.

  ‘I’m fine, sir.’ She returned the smile though she spoke formally. ‘I was waiting to try and get a word with you.’

  ‘Right. How about dinner?’

  ‘That’s really nice. I’ll get my coat, can we . . . ?’

  Bond shook his head, putting an arm out to stop her. ‘There are few people in the wardroom on a Saturday night, Clover. Let’s see what they have for us there. I seem to remember that on the ratings’ messdecks of a Saturday evening, it was always “Herrings in”.’ He recalled it well enough from the days when, as Officer of the Watch, he had to do rounds of the messdecks. ‘Herrings in’ was the name they always gave to the large tins of herrings in tomato sauce, a favourite among both ratings and Petty Officers. Bond could never understand it. The food looked and smelled revolting to him, but there were never any complaints on Saturday nights. He presumed things had changed since then.

  The only people dining in at that time were the Officer of the Watch and the Royal Marines Duty Officer, who both nodded deferentially to Bond as he led Clover to a couple of chairs distant to the other two officers. The Wren stewards served them with the only choice on the Saturday night menu – smoked salmon, followed by grilled steak. Bond took his steak rare and, refusing the pommes frites, ordered a small green salad.

  They talked idly, circling the problem both knew existed, until the main course had been served. It was Clover Pennington who took the lead—

  ‘I wanted to apologise for last night.’ She turned her eyes away and blushed as she spoke.

  ‘Apologise for what?’ Bond stared at her until she had to make eye contact.

  ‘I broke all security regulations, sir. I shouldn’t have mentioned either Invincible or Landsea ’89. I’m sorry, it just seemed natural, particularly as I knew you were being drafted as well.’

  ‘You’re quite right.’ Bond was almost sharp with her. ‘To have gained the rank of First Officer you should really have learned all the lessons of security by now. I have to be honest with you, Clover, I’ve always had great reservations about young women with either loud voices, or runaway tongues. The Royal Navy isn’t known as the Silent Service for nothing. We’ve an almost unblemished reputation for keeping mouths closed and ears open.’

  ‘I know, sir. I’m sorry. I just thought that if I got my apology out of the way, perhaps . . .’

  Bond could not make up his mind whether she was just a garrulous woman, or an upper-class gold digger.

  ‘Perhaps what?’

  ‘Well, last night we . . .’

  ‘I think you’d do well to forget about last night. At least until the matters on your conscience are over.’ In case he was being too harsh, Bond gave her a tight smile. ‘Let’s see how it all goes. After that, anything’s possible. We could meet socially. No problem there.’

  Clover Pennington looked suitably crestfallen, pushed her plate away, made a muttered excuse and left the wardroom. Bond quietly finished his meal, went into the ante-room, took a small brandy with his coffee, then headed back to his quarters. Tomorrow was a free day, but for him it would be a full one.

  He left the Royal Naval Air Station just after eight, having eaten his usual breakfast. Bond was beginning to realise what had attracted him to the Navy in the first place. He was a man of routine, and enjoyed the privileges that came with rank. But now, rank was put to one side. He wore civilian clothes, and drove the BMW with caution, keeping his eyes on the rear-view mirror. Even though he was in England, this was an operation and any contact with his real Service was a clandestine matter where field rules applied.

  He drove to Cheddar, pleased that on this late autumn Sunday there were few other people on the road. Certainly he appeared to be free of any surveillance as he turned off the main road and headed towards a modern house on the edge of an up-market estate.

  The double garage-doors were open and Bill Tanner stood by the crimson Lancia already drawn back from the automatic doors. It took Bond less than a minute to change cars, reversing the Lancia out while Tanner nodded and drove the BMW into the garage. No other cars came near and Bond crammed an unlikely fishing hat on his head, and slipped dark glasses over his eyes. No words were exchanged, but, as he turned the Lancia back towards the main road, Bond saw the garage-door coming down to hide his own car.

  An hour later he had negotiated the M5 Motorway, and taken the M4 fork which led him towards London. It took about fifty minutes for him to reach the Windsor exit, after which he circled the smaller roads, still watching for a possible tail. It was a lengthy, painstaking business so he did not reach his destination until after eleven, purring across the Windsor-Bagshot road and looking out for the Squirrel public house on his left, then the gateway of simple stone on the right.

  He turned the Lancia through the gateway to see the familiar, well-manicured drive, the screen of silver birch, beech, pine and oak trees which stood guard over the rectangular Regency manor house of weathered Bath stone.

  He pulled the Lancia around the side of the main house, parking so that it would also be screened by the trees which, as he knew from the past, were not the only protection that guarded M’s beautiful cou
ntry house called, nostalgically, Quarterdeck.

  His feet crunched on the gravel as he approached the portico and grasped the thong attached to the gleaming brass bell, once that of some long-forgotten ship, and clanged it to and fro. Seconds later the stout door was unbolted from inside and opened to reveal M’s servant, Davison, who had replaced the faithful ex-Chief Petty Officer Hammond.

  ‘And Mrs Davison? She well?’ Bond stepped into the hall, taking in the familiar scene – the smell of polish from the pine panelling; the Victorian hall stand, with M’s old Ulster hanging from it, and Wellington boots set nearby; the table with its wonderfully-detailed 1/144 scale model of the battle cruiser Repulse, M’s last command.

  ‘Mrs Davison’s fit as a flea, sir – and twice as nippy, if you follow my drift.’

  ‘Indeed I do, Davison.’ Bond inclined his head towards the model. ‘Much more beautiful than the present one, eh?’

  ‘Don’t know what to make of the Andrew any more, sir. Carriers that aren’t carriers, and no real ships. Not like in the old days, anyhow.’2

  The present Repulse is the S23, one of the Royal Navy’s first ‘Resolution’ class SSBN, Polaris-armed submarines.

  ‘Hanyway, sir, the Hadmiral is expecting you.’

  ‘Good. Lead the way, Davison.’

  The former CPO knocked loudly on the thick, heavy Spanish mahogany door and M’s voice sounded, sharp, from behind it – ‘Come.’

  ‘Captain James Bond, sir.’

  ‘Permission to come aboard, sir?’ Bond smiled, but immediately realised that his smile was not returned.

  M did not open the conversation until the door was closed behind them but, in those few seconds, Bond took in the entire room. It was still as neat as ever. The table near the window, with water-colour materials laid out in what looked like a parade-ground precision; the old naval prints, neatly aligned along the walls and M’s desk, with papers, an old ink-stand, leather blotter, calendar, the two telephones, one ivory, the other red, all in perfect order.