‘Make that a Congressional Medal of Honor.’
Bond tried to smile. ‘Where’s the Captain?’
Carter nodded towards the giant globe, which was still turning on its axis. ‘If he’s not dead, he soon will be.’
Bond found the man lying with the front of his uniform soaked in blood. The colour contrasted with the deathly pallor of his face. He raised his head defiantly. ‘You are too late. Our submarines are already on station. In five minutes they will launch their missiles.’ He shook his head. ‘There is nothing you can do.’
Bond turned away. He was tired almost to death. His wound had re-opened and all he wanted to do was to lie down and be allowed to go to sleep. But that was impossible. He had to think - and he had to think fast. Less than five minutes. What the hell were they going to do? His eyes sped over the banks of equipment trying to find a solution. Then he saw something. It was a chance. A faint chance. But it was all they had.
One of the relay screens on the console showed a set of coordinates. Bond looked from them to the giant globe. Two lights, marked ‘S1’ and ‘S2’, flashed from positions in the Atlantic. Stromberg One and Stromberg Two. Ranger and Potemkin! Bond checked the positions on the globe against the co-ordinates on the relay screen. The position of the Potemkin approximated to that on the screen. Now, where were the co-ordinates of Ranger?
Another explosion thundered through the ship and a slight list to starboard became more pronounced. Black smoke was pouring out of one of the ventilators. Bond could feel the seconds ticking away with every tortured heartbeat. Carter was looking into his face imploringly. ‘James-’
Bond held up his hand and looked at his watch. ‘I know. We have four minutes. Can you work a printout transmission unit?'
‘Sure. Why?’
‘Find one and get ready to transmit. I’ll tell you in a moment.’
Bond’s eyes ranged to the opposite aisle of the console. A body slumped across one of the machines. He pulled it aside and his heart lifted. Through a smear of blood he could make out the faint, flickering digitals of another set of co-ordinates. He checked them off against the globe and they approximated to the indicated position of Ranger. Running to Carter’s side, he flicked up the switch marked ‘Stromberg One’. Carter looked up at him strained and puzzled. Bond took a deep breath. ‘We’re going to try and re-target those submarines.’
‘What on?’
Each other.’ Bond did not pause for a reaction to his words.
I'm going to give you Potemkin's position as a target for Ranger
‘And vice versa.’ Carter’s face lit up. ‘My God I It might just work.’ His fingers poised over the keys and Bond started reeling out the figures. Below him, the message that might save the world began to take shape like a business telex. ‘Captain of Stromberg One. New target co-ordinates. Repeat, new target co-ordinates -*
In less than a minute it was done and Carter started to contact Potemkin. Supposing the two submarines were in communication with each other? Bond shivered. The whole plan was built on ‘ifs' He watched the telex machine. At one minute to midday it chattered into life.
‘Stromberg One. Message received and understood.’
Carter sighed in relief and snapped his finger. ‘Come on, Stromberg Two, talk to daddy.’
Bond turned to the globe and looked at the throbbing lights indicating New York and Moscow. People waking, people sleeping - perhaps, soon, people dying.
‘James!’
The telex was working again. ‘Stromberg Two. Message received and understood.' It was exactly twelve o’clock.
Bond slumped into a chair and faced the slowly turning globe. Now that the die was cast he felt strangely calm. Whatever more might have been expected of him he had done all that he could. He would have liked a drink. A large dry martini with the thinnest sliver of freshly pared lemon- peel.
‘Look, James!'
Something was happening on the globe. Two dotted lines of lights were rising from the submarine symbols. Bond stiffened. These must be tracing the paths of the missiles. The dotted line from the south Atlantic seemed to be travelling towards New York. The line from the north was rising as if about to veer eastwards. What had happened? Had the captains ignored the change of co-ordinates? Fear drove a wedge into his heart. Then a pattern began to establish itself. The missiles were travelling in an arc. They rose and then began, slowly but remorselessly, to veer towards each other. The traces overlapped and one bisected the other as they started to descend. Bond watched fascinated as the dotted lines drew nearer and nearer to ‘SI’ and ‘S2 Behind, the tanker listed and groaned, playing out a minor drama of its own. It was like watching the fuse burn down to some enormous firework. The globe spun once more and when it came round there were no dotted lines, no symbols.
‘Jesus Christ!' said Carter. ‘I think we’ve done it.’
An explosion punctuated his words and Bond pulled himself to his feet. It wasn’t over yet. ‘Now we save ourselves. What’s the situation on deck?’
‘We can’t get up there.’ Coyle had appeared at their side, his face black with smoke and oil. ‘It’s a sheet of flame from bow to stern. The companionways are buckling with the heat.’ ‘We’ll have to go out the way we came in,’ said Carter. ‘Get everybody aboard the Wayne and get those bow doors open. Stromberg’s men have last priority. We’re going to be like sardines as it is.’
‘Yes sir! ’ Coyle turned away and started bellowing through a loud-hailer.
Bond looked round for a radio. ‘We must tell the outside world what’s happening. Those two submarines going up is going to put everybody on nuclear alert. God knows how much damage has been caused.’
Carter nodded grimly. ‘Okay, I’ll supervise embarkation. Don’t leave it too late!’ He had to shout the last words as there was a staccato ripple of explosions, and flames belched out of one of the ventilator grills. The paint on the forward bulkhead was blistering. Bond groped his way through the smoke and found a VHF set. It was hot to the touch. He began to transmit the special call sign, which should immediately be picked up by the nearest Area Station of Universal Export. Lights were beginning to go out and generators whine down into unnerving silence. Come on, you lazy bastards! What are you doing? Listening to the ice cubes clinking in your gins and tonic?
‘... Station Y. State your message. Over.’
Thank God! Bond hunched over the speaker. ‘On no account implement Red Revenge. Repeat. On no account implement Red Revenge. Explanation will follow. 007 for London. Out.’
Bond left the voice asking for further information and started to run towards the gallery. Heat and smoke were now turning the control room into a death-chamber. The tanker was listing hard to starboard. It was difficult to keep his feet.
A violent explosion racked the control room and hurled Bond to the deck. The giant globe crashed on to the console and disintegrated. Severed wires spluttered angrily in the smoke-filled darkness. Bond started to claw his way to his feet and winced as a fragment of broken glass cut his hand to the bone.
‘James?’ Carter nearly fell over him before seizing his arm and dragging him towards the gap in the louvres. ‘The bow doors wouldn’t open. We'll have to blast our way out!’
Bond stumbled on to the gallery and peered through the smoke towards the dock. Water had risen fast and the starboard side of the quay was submerged. The bows of the Wayne swung free and men were swimming to reach the forward hatch. The area around her was crowded with crew members of the British, American and Russian submarines trying to help their wounded comrades aboard. Stromberg’s men were being held back at gunpoint. It was a scene of desperation and confusion that bordered on panic. Smoke, flames and the smell of battle and burning flesh. Injured men who were frightened of being left behind were crying out and trying to drag themselves towards the Wayne. Others were struggling to keep clear of the rising water.
Bond found one of Talbot’s men who was still alive and began to help him down the stairs.
Below him, he saw two rats swim through the water and scramble on to a floating corpse. This was a hell by Hieronymus Bosch. Was this degrading slaughter what Stromberg had in mind when he planned the end of the world? Bond reached the bottom of the stairs and water swirled over his feet. The man in his arms was babbling incoherently and beginning to falter. Bond fought to keep his feet. Another explosion rocked the tanker and the list became more pronounced. The water was now up to his waist and running wild as if fretting to be free of its metal bonds. Into the brig it swirled, snatching up the relics of the last six hours of bitter struggle and battering them against the steel walls. The lights were going out one by one and the smoke lowering down upon the Stygian gloom. Bond remembered the obituary he had written for himself earlier - ‘drowned, burned, and buried’. With every second, the type became more readable. Keeping close hold on the man in his arms he advanced precariously towards the invisible quayside. The last berthing ropes of the Wayne had been slipped and she now rode free of the sunken jetty. Carter had scrambled to the stern and was looking back.
Another list and Bond felt the deck lurching away beneath him. He scrabbled like a skier trying to find an edge on a steep slope and then lost his footing completely. He trod water for an instant and then sank until he felt a firm surface beneath his feet. Bracing himself, he drove off it and surged through the water like a swimmer starting a back-stroke race. The survivor of Talbot’s raid was still keeping him unconscious company. Bond’s shoulders smacked against the side of the Wayne and strong hands snapped into the collar of his tunic. He was hauled up the side of the pear-drop hull and relinquished his grip on his countryman only when he saw that he was securely held by members of the Wayne's crew.
‘Get ’em below!’ Carter disappeared through the main access hatch and Bond struggled to his feet and followed him. Below, it was like a crowd scene from an Eisenstein film. Men were pressed shoulder to shoulder and the wounded found space between their feet. Carter fought his way to the control room and barked into the PA system. ‘All personnel below decks. Close hatches. Diving stations.’
Bond’s glazed eyes stared at the crowded metal walls pressing in on him and wondered if he had not exchanged a tomb for a coffin.
‘All personnel aboard, sir’ - there was an unhappy pause - ‘all that are left, that is. Hatches shut and clipped. Submarine ready for sea.’
Carter’s lips trembled and then he spoke urgently. ‘Torpedo room - Control. Load tube one with Mark 46 Torpedo. Engine Room - Control. Hold her steady.’
Bond looked at the faces about him. The sweat poured from them. The tension showed on each death-haunted feature.
‘Torpedo Room - Control. Open outer door on tube one.’
A man closed his eyes and his lips began to murmur a prayer.
‘Control - Torpedo Room. Outer door on tube one open.* The voice came from Texas. It was unwavering. Something
- or someone - thumped against the side of the hull. Carter’s fist clenched.
‘Match bearings and shoot.’
The man who was praying pressed a thin gold crucifix between finger and thumb. Bond noticed that the indentation on its transversals had been worn smooth. Two voices spoke out from the back of the control room.
‘Set.’
‘Shoot!’
The Wayne shuddered and Bond tensed. There was the passage of seconds and then a giant swell buffeted the submarine. The bows pitched into the air and men clung to any support that offered itself. Bond watched the deck tilt up in front of him and heard wounded men cry out in pain and panic as they were trampled underfoot. Almost instantly, a second shock wave hit the Wayne, as the back-surge rebounded from the quay. Bond crashed into Carter's back and the two men sprawled across the deck. Carter was on his feet first and brought the periscope hissing from the well. His hands snapped on the handles and his back arched. When he turned away, his face showed a grim triumph close to tears. He nodded to Bond.
‘Take a look.’
Bond pressed his eyes to the viewer. Ahead, the great doors tilted like lop-sided book-ends. A jagged bitemark showed where the torpedo had blasted a way through them. Bond could see the sky beyond. Behind him, Carter’s voice rang out triumphantly.
‘Take her out!’
Coming up for Air
‘Well?' said Bond.
Carter tapped the piece of paper in his hand. ‘The order’s been confirmed by Washington. “Destroy Stromberg’s laboratory with all possible speed.”'
Bond looked sceptical. ‘If it’s still there. I told you, it’s not attached to the sea bed. It can be moved.’
Carter frowned, sensing the unfamiliar lack of enthusiasm in Bond’s voice. ‘It was still there an hour ago. I’ve had an aerial reconnaissance report. No sign of life. No helicopter, either.’
‘They must have pulled out.’ Was Bond wrong or did he actually feel relieved that Anya might not be there? ‘How are you going to destroy it?’
‘Torpedos. If the layout is as you describe it, we’ll blast it through the opening in the caldera. Officially, it will be a spontaneous eruption of what was thought to be an extinct volcano. The Italian Navy will move in and close the area. Their government has been informed.’
‘Very neat.’
‘What’s the matter, James? You’re not exactly bursting with enthusiasm. Don’t you want to get Stromberg?’
Bond pulled himself together. ‘Of course I do. I just want to ask you one favour. Before you destroy Atlantis I’d like the chance to get aboard by myself.’
Carter jerked his head heavenwards in a gesture of exasperation.
‘Hell, James! Are you mad? I told you my orders. “Destroy Atlantis with all possible speed.” That didn’t come from the Sweetbrush PTA.’
‘An hour.’ Bond’s voice was calm but it had a hard edge to
it. ‘If I’m not back within an hour you can send the whole hellish structure to the bottom.’
Carter’s reply veiled his concern for Bond. ‘You’re trying to get me court-martialled, James.’
Bond’s face did not lighten. The tone remained firm. There was no hint of supplication. ‘An hour. That’s all I need.’ Carter looked into the hard gun-metal eyes seared with red lines of pain and fatigue. ‘What is it, James? Stromberg or the girl?’ The tight, cruel line of Bond’s mouth divided like a trap being sprung. ‘Let’s say both.’
Bond never discovered the speed they made through the Straits of Gibraltar and past the Balearics but he estimated that it must be in excess of forty knots. He was, however, able to catch up on some important items of world news over the ship’s radio. A mysterious tidal wave had lashed the west coast of Ireland causing considerable damage but mercifully few deaths. A number of ships had been lost. A similar natural phenomenon in the area of the Windward Islands had savaged the east coast of Barbados and caused widespread damage in the islands of St Lucia, Martinque and Dominica. Both disturbances were said to be the results of seismic eruptions on the ocean bed and demonstrated that when it stirred itself, nature could reproduce a cataclysm of almost man-made proportions. Bond wondered drily whether informed scientific opinion would be able to link these eruptions with that which was shortly going to take place on the coast of north-east Sardinia. Amongst natural disasters of this magnitude, a report of the sinking of one of the world's largest and newest tankers, the Lepadus, was hardly given news space. Bond knew that the sight of the great iron coffin sliding beneath the sea would stay with him for ever. Despite the evil purpose for which it was built there was a grandeur about the concept and execution of the Lepadus that commanded respect. To see a mighty ship die was always sad, especially in a dense pall of black smoke and a sizzling flame-scarred sea.
The Straits of Bonifacio were entered at dawn and the Wayne, still under water, veered to starboard. Bond sat in Carter’s cabin wearing a neoprene wet-suit and checking his diving gear. The suit was a good fit. Tight enough to show the bulge of the Walther PPK in its oilskin bag against his left shoulder.
Bond fitted the regulator to the neck of the scuba tank, tightened the wing nut that held it in place, and opened the air valve. He sucked a few breaths from the tank to make sure that it was feeding air and looked up to see Carter standing in the doorway.
‘I think we’re there. You’d better come up and take a look.’ Bond picked up the tank, flippers and mask and followed Carter to the control room. He gripped the handles of the periscope and looked towards the familiar snaggle-tooth outline of the rocky coast. Seen from a distance and the right angle, the jagged circular outline of the caldera was easily recognizable. Streaks of white surf showed at the entrance through the rocks. Bond shivered and turned the periscope to port. A small cove bit into the cliffs and there was a suspicion of white sand. A steep climb and you would be on the lip of the caldera. He relinquished the periscope. ‘That’s it. They’ve got an early warning device at the entrance to the harbour so I’m going to make for the cove alongside. Can you take me in any closer? There’s quite a current.’
Carter looked at Bond’s injured arm and shook his head. ‘If there was a medal for stupidity I’d pin it on you right away.* Bond started to lift the tank and Carter stepped forward and held it so that he could slip his arms through the straps. ‘Remember what I said. An hour after you leave this vessel, I’m going to attack. You’ll have to wait for the Italian Navy to take you off. I have strict orders not to surface. We don’t want any reports of fishermen seeing submarines around at the time of the eruption.’
Bond nodded and fastened the third strap round his waist. ‘Message received and understood, Captain. Where do you want me?’
Carter’s jaw tightened. ‘I’m going to flood one of the missile tubes amidships. You’ll be inside it. I’ll open the outer door and you swim out. Will you be able to get enough lift with that equipment?’
Bond wasn’t certain but he nodded.
The Spy Who Loved Me Page 18