Fifteen minutes later he stood hunched in the 21-inch firing tube reserved for a nuclear missile. It was an agonizingly tight fit and the feeling of claustrophobia it induced exceeded anything that Bond had known. His face was pressed against the smooth circular tube and his scuba tank scraped the wall behind him. It was dark and hot and he felt like a man in a strait jacket. When the water started to pour in he wanted to scream. Instead, he pulled his mask down, spat inside it, and with his elbows pressed against his chest, rubbed the saliva over the mask. He settled it on his face and drew up the regulator tube, fitting the mouthpiece into his mouth.
He took a couple of breaths and felt the water rising above his waist. This was the moment of sheer death-knowing terror. The moment that the many men who had drowned with the rats on the Lepadus must have known. Supposing he couldn’t move? Supposing he remained stuck in the tube and the regulator failed? The water passed over his face, less icy than the fear that surged with it. A stream of bubbles rushed up and he tilted his head to see the hatch beginning to open. Three fathoms above his head there was morning light glinting down through the water. Now, pause, fight panic, flex the knees as far as possible. Push - but not too hard I Don’t lose momentum against the side of the tube. Bond felt the scuba tank dragging against the metal and paddled wildly. For a couple of seconds he seemed locked, and then his stretching hands clawed against the top of the tube and he was able to pull himself from the chrysalis of death.
Like a basking whale the three hundred feet of nuclear submarine stretched away on either side. Bond patted the hull as one might an obedient dog and began paddling towards the surface to make a sighting.
It took him ten minutes to reach the cove and his arm was aching painfully as he raised his head behind the protection of an offshore rock. There was no one about. The merest hiss of surf on the virgin sand. Bond wanted to rest but he knew there was no time. He had to drive himself forward. He came in close to the caldera and let the swell lift him on to an apron of pumice-stone rock made slippery by the passage of the sea and a coating of weed that rose and fell like the fur of an animal. He pulled himself ashore and tugged off his flippers, watching small striped fish dart in and out with the passage of the swirling sea. The sun was still low but already adding some lustre to the sinister grey of the wall that surrounded Stromberg's harbour.
Bond looked about him carefully and began to make his way up the loose shale of volcanic rock that ran away beneath his feet like whispers in church. It was like climbing up a pile of coke. He reached the lip and laid himself down with the mask and flippers beside him. He was breathing hard and his shoulder throbbed. Below him was a narrow defile plunging down into the dark waters of the caldera. Two hundred yards away, the lab rose like a mixture of oil-rig and space- probc launching-pad. There was no sign of life. The helideck was empty. The Riva was not moored alongside.
Bond turned his eyes towards the shore. No vessels were moored against the ramp. The shutters on the buildings were closed. To all intents and purposes, Stromberg had abandoned his headquarters. But ... Bond tried to analyse his presentiment rationally. Something told him that the place still contained life. He waited another minute, his keen eyes searching all corners of the caldera, and then crawled over the ridge and lowered himself into the defile. Now he was in shadow and the neoprene suit chafed uncomfortably. He picked his way down, scraping knuckles and bare feet as he tried to use every inch of protection that the crevasse offered. Within five minutes he was at the water’s edge. He looked at his battered Rolex Perpetual; nearly half an hour had elapsed since he left the Wayne.
Quickly sluicing his mask in water, he pulled it over his head and began to don his flippers. Within seconds, he was sliding beneath the surface. To his irritation, he found that there was water inside the mask so he let his feet sink and tilted his head back until he was looking up through the murky water. He pressed a hand against the faceplate and expelled air through his nose until the mask was clear. Now he drove forward, paddling hard with his feet, his arms straggling back along the length of his body. The only sound was of his breathing - a deep, hollow noise when he breathed in, a fluted thumping of bubbles as he exhaled. The sea was murky, close- textured, impenetrable to the eye. With every stroke of his legs, the tension mounted. Was some sonar device plotting his course through the water? Would a depth-charge soon drift lazily down to rip the flesh from his bones? He pressed on, seeking to cure fear with movement. The journey seemed endless. Had he by chance veered to one side of his target? No, there it was in front of him., the inverted dome vaguely discernible through the murk.
He looked behind warily but there was nothing save a trail of bubbles. Conscious that these might be seen if he was too near the surface, he dived beneath the hull before making his way upwards, brushing against the barnacle-encrusted side. The light grew in intensity and shoals of small fish veered sharply to one side like shimmering iron filings caught in the refraction of the sun. His head broke the surface and he pushed his mask back and spat out the mouthpiece so that he could fill his lungs with sweet gulps of fresh air. There was no sound except that of water nudging the landing stage. He paddled towards it and pulled himself aboard, wincing at the pain in his arm. He could feel the escaping blood making the inside of the neoprene suit slippery.
Unzipping the jerkin, he took out his Walther PPK. He then shed his diving gear, and without its cumbersome weight immediately felt better. He took several deep breaths and rose unsteadily to his feet. His respite on the Wayne had not been sufficient convalescence for the nonstop action of the last few days. He was drawing on his last resources of energy.
Moving his gear to the side of the pontoon, Bond began to ascend the stairway, pistol in hand. The catwalks and gantries which had once been lined with hard-eyed guards were now eerily empty. He came to the first stage and faced the lift. Some internal voice spoke up urgently and told him not to use it. He moved to port and found a metal stairway curving up round one of the four tubular columns supporting the structure. He followed it warily and came to a point where two enclosed galleries parted at right angles. One was in shadow and the other half-exposed to the rising sun. The sea murmured thirty feet below but there was a closer source of noise. From somewhere along the gallery that lay in shadow came the sound of voices.
Bond tensed and tried to pump new life into the pain- numbed fingers that were gripping the Walther. It was impossible to hear what the voices were saying but they sounded agitated and were talking over each other as if trying to press home an argument. Bond moved forward from the stairway and began to creep along the gallery. Somewhere above his head was a persistent creaking noise like a shutter stirring in the breeze. He passed one door and could tell that the voices were coming from the next room. One of them was speaking urgent Italian. He ducked below a porthole and saw that the heavy metal door was ajar. Two steps and he threw his shoulder against it and burst inside.
The room was empty. Empty save for two banks of television screens on opposite walls. They were all showing different pictures and as Bond watched he realized that they were commercial television programmes beamed from around the world. A quiz game from Tokyo, a situation comedy from New York, a news bulletin from Rome. Bond pondered and arrived at the truth. This is where Stromberg must have waited to heard news of the end of the world. Horrified announcements and then, one by one, the screens going blank, the babble of voices dying away until there was complete and utter silence. The silence of the grave.
Bond shivered and was turning to leave the room when a voice stopped him dead in his tracks.
‘Good day, Commander Bond. I have been expecting you.’
Exit Sigmund Stromberg - Again
The voice was Strombcrg’s. It came, like the picture of him sitting in his vast armchair, from each of the screens in the room. The other images had been wiped away into oblivion. He helped himself from a bowl of walnuts, cracking one with slow, intense care.
Bond glanced at his watch.
Less than fifteen minutes to Carter’s deadline. There seemed little alternative but to play along with Stromberg. The thin, disembodied voice continued.
‘I have been watching you for some time. Ever since you crawled from the sea, in fact.’ The voice became introspective. ‘An appropriate entrance in the circumstances. Did it occur to you, Commander Bond? Were you intending to rub salt in my wounds by enacting the role of some primordial creature bridging the gap between fish and man? I imagine not. Such foresight docs not seem to be in your nature.’
‘I didn’t come here for character analysis.’ Bond’s voice was cutting. ‘Where's Major Amasova?’
Stromberg spread his hands wide. ‘Clearly not with me. Come, there are matters which I wish to discuss with you. She can be one of them. I am in Room 4c. Do not be alarmed. I am not armed.’ He slowly stretched out a hand towards a console. The screens went blank.
Stromberg dropped the nutcrackers into the bowl and flicked a switch on the console. The two halves of the Romney portrait separated and revealed the screen of the TV monitor. Stromberg adjusted picture control and watched the evil grace of the great white shark careen through the water. A slight quickening of the pulse was revealed in the deepening red glow of his pupils. The socket mouth began to tremble in anticipation. The camera was covering the glass-fronted cavity
of the death-trap of Room 4c and Stromberg settled back in his chair and tightened his hands over the rounded arm-ends, He wanted to hear Bond scream as the girl had screamed. He wanted to hear the water rushing in, the gasps, the groans, the sounds of scrabbling, gasping, choking, mad-eyed panic. He wanted to see Bond torn apart while he was still alive. He wanted to watch until the images on the screen were obliterated by a thick, crimson curtain.
‘Room 4c sounded a little pedestrian. I preferred to talk to you face to face.’
Stromberg spun round and found himself looking into the mean, glinting barrel of Bond’s Walther PPK. Bond emerged from the shadows. ‘Now, let’s return to my earlier question. Where’s Anya?’
Stromberg raised a non-existent eyebrow. ‘Anya? Last time it was Major Amasova. Do I detect the signs of a developing and tender friendship?’
Bond moved the Walther six inches closer to Stromberg’s heart. ‘We don’t have time for small talk, Stromberg. In less than ten minutes, this place is going to be sunk by torpedo fire.'
Stromberg spread his arms wide. ‘That is of no consequence, Commander Bond. I have already decided to die. My main interest is in ensuring that you die with me. I would have preferred that the shark accounted for you, but that is a question of personal whim.’ Stromberg waved an arm towards the walls. ‘If you could see outside, you would be able to observe that we are sinking. Even a person of your limited intelligence and imagination must have wondered why I should place my laboratory here, Commander Bond. It is because it is a bathysphere, and because the caldera is practically bottomless. When the volcano exploded it gouged a socket descending over a mile into the earth. This is where I would have lain whilst the nuclear turbulence passed far overhead. Snug as a foetus in a womb. A womb which, but for you, would have given birth to a new and immeasurably better world!’ Stromberg’s voice ascended to a shriek. ‘But you destroyed that, and I will destroy you! As soon as you came aboard, I instigated the process which put this craft into a dive from which she will not recover. Slowly but inevitably we will descend until the
pressure crumbles this wasted structure like a tin can!'
Bond’s mind quickly pickcd the meat from Strombcrg’s insane ranting. If they were sinking, what was Carter going to make of it? The answer came sooner than he anticipated.
A violent explosion lifted Bond’s feet from the ground and the room tilted crazily. Carter had fired early, but who could blame him? He could not afford to let the prize escape. Bond was sprawled against the wall behind Stromberg’s chair, the floor rising like a steep slope in front of him. He rolled aside as a chair hurtled towards him and searched for Stromberg and his gun. Six feet away along the wall, Stromberg pounced greedily. The Walther PPK took shape in his hand and he steadied himself against the wall The twin pinpoints of hate glinted triumphantly. Bond tensed for the feel of the first bullet burrowing into his flesh. The third small eye was trained unswervingly on his heart. And then the glass-and-steel table crashed down the room and drove against Strombcrg’s head like a battering-ram. There was a sickening crunch and the head elongated, pushing forward the eyes so that they bulged out like those of a fish. Even in death, thought Bond.
Another pile-driving explosion and an ominous groan of anguish from the smitten hull. The room slowly righted itself and a fast-moving stream of water entered the door and began to snake across the carpet as if searching for someone. Bond scrambled to his feet and prised Stromberg’s fingers from his pistol. Although but recently dead they were of a reptilian coldness.
Bond burst through the door shouting Anya’s name. The water was now an angry tide tearing at his legs. He could see it frothing and bubbling as it welled up from a companionway further along the corridor. A giant squid swirled past and then three angel fish. What the devil was happening? Then he realized. The aquarium! The tanks must have burst. My God, if Anya was down there! There would be no hope. He shouted again and struggled on against the current. The corridor divided and a metal rail ran along the roof. From it dangled the familiar roundel of an electromagnet, presumably used to move stores and heavy equipment.
Bond ducked past the cable and straightened up to find a shadow blocking his path. A shadow with the ominous substance of Jaws behind it. The great uneven head scraped the roof of the corridor. The lips divided in a chilling smile of welcome. The tree-trunk legs parted the current like the Colossus of Rhodes. Bond raised his gun to fire but his lacerated arm was too slow. Jaws gripped his hand and dashed it against the wall, shattering his knuckles like a row of peanut shells. Bond cried out in pain and drove his knee upwards with all the force that desperation and anger could muster. Jaws grunted; spreading his hand over Bond’s face he propelled him into the flood. Bond floundered backwards, scrabbling to find his feet. Next time it would be teeth. Jaws was baring them, curling his lips back and tilting his head so that one could see into the disgusting black caverns of his nostrils.
Bond’s aching limbs scraped metal and his despairing hand at last found something to cling to. He pulled himself from the flood and saw that he was hanging on to a small control-box, attached to wires that led to the rail in the ceiling. Jaws lumbered on remorselessly, pacing each step against the increasing fury of the mounting tide. Now, the magnet dangled like a bait before the hideous metal teeth. The image set off a small explosion inside Bond’s battered brain. Oblivious of the pain he jabbed his shattered hand against the contact button on the control box.
The magnet sprang at Jaw’s mouth and clung, whirring, to his teeth. He looked like some malformed baby sucking a huge teat. Then a look of surprise spread over the gross features. A giant hand rose to pluck at the offensive object as if it was an impertinent fly. Bond pressed the second switch and the wire tightened and began to draw Jaws back against the current. Now, both hands were tearing at the magnet and Jaws twisted furiously like a fish on the hook. As Bond watched in fascinated horror, a relentless triangle streaked up behind the stricken giant. A huge, grey force launched itself through the wild water and two rows of white teeth closed about the threshing flesh. Obscene sounds broke through the barrier of the imprisoned teeth and a wave of blood surged against Bond’s chest. Like a man fleeing from a nightmare he turned and let the current carry him away from this mind- searing spectacle of hideous death. The image of the small red eye glowing with demonic purpose pursued him like an avenging fury.
‘Anya!’ Bond shouted to hear his voice and know that he was still alive. The current swirled him round a corner and turned into a whirlpool as it surged, white-tipped against a wall of metal. Bond seized the rail of a companionway and dragged himself from the flood. The structure was
listing at an angle of forty-five degrees and beginning to buckle. It groaned and shuddered as if in its death agonies. Ahead, a door twisted and sprang open with a metallic snap. A slim white hand appeared round it.
‘Anya!’ Bond launched himself forward, scrambling along the angle of deck and wall. Anya’s head and shoulders appeared pulling themselves out into the corridor. Her eyes recognized him and then hardened as if frozen over with a layer of ice.
‘Anya.’ He tried to reassure her with the sound of his voice. She must be in a state of shock. God knows what they had done to her. Then a pistol appeared in her hand. The sight reared towards the lop-sided ceiling and then slowly swung down to cover Bond’s heart. The finger started to tighten round the trigger.
‘When this mission is over, Sergei will be avenged and you will be dead.’ The words came back to Bond with chilling clarity. He kept coming. ‘Anya, give me that gun.’ He stretched out his hand. The barrel began to waver. Bond closed his fingers about it and kept looking into Anya’s eyes. She blinked as if awakening from a bad dream. The corridor echoed to the sound of grinding metal as if it had been twisted by two giant hands. Bond took the gun from the unresisting fingers and pressed Anya to his chest. He could feel her heart thudding like a bird’s. ‘We have seconds to get out of this place. Trust me.’ He took her by the hand and drew her after him as a menacing column of water rushed between their feet.
Now the downward motion was terrifying perceptible. The stomach rose, the legs hung weightless. Bond's heart pumped blood and panic through his system. How in God’s name did one escape from this waterlogged tomb? The walls were now listing at such an angle as to become a roof. Bond dropped to his knees and the water rushing past brushed against his chin.
Soon it would be above his shoulders, his head - and then what? How many minutes of palsied dance before the body finally floated belly upwards, the legs and arms dangling down like those of some near-spent insect? Bond jerked his head above the rising torrent and held tight to Anya's hand. To port there was a bulkhead door, opening six inches above the tilting deck. Three inches from its bottom was a small plaque. Two magic words stencilled in four languages: ESCAPE HATCH.
The Spy Who Loved Me Page 19