Per Fine Ounce
Page 1
Per Fine Ounce
Peter Vollmer
First published by Acorn Books in 2014
Copyright © Peter Vollmer 2014
This edition published in 2020 by Lume Books
30 Great Guildford Street,
Borough, SE1 0HS
The right of Peter Vollmer to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
Table of Contents
Original version of Per Fine Ounce by Geoffrey Jenkins
Historical Background and Two-Page Extract of “missing” James Bond novel
Author’s Note
Preface
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Original version of Per Fine Ounce by Geoffrey Jenkins
Historical Background and Two-Page Extract of “missing” James Bond novel
Glidrose Productions (now Ian Fleming Publications) planned for a series of James Bond novels to be published under the pseudonym of Robert Markham. Celebrated South African novelist and award-winning Sunday Times correspondent Geoffrey Jenkins was asked to write an original James Bond 007 novel by Glidrose in 1966, following on from The Man with the Golden Gun.
Ian Fleming wrote at the time, “Geoffrey Jenkins has the supreme gift of originality. A Twist of Sand is a literate, imaginative first novel in the tradition of high and original adventure.”
Jenkins and Fleming had talked about a diamond-smuggling storyline based in South Africa, which Jenkins later penned for Glidrose entitled Per Fine Ounce. Despite the promising Bond storyline and the fact that Jenkins was a best-selling thriller writer in the Fleming mould, along with being a friend and colleague of Fleming’s, Glidrose rejected Jenkins’ draft manuscript after Fleming passed away. Much speculation has ensued over the years about the reasons for this rejection, and why the manuscript was never published and seemingly “lost” by Glidrose.
However, it later emerged that the original manuscript for Jenkins’ Per Fine Ounce had not been lost, as extracts, in fact, remained in the possession of Geoffrey’s son, David, who then gave his consent for the following two pages to be published from the original Per Fine Ounce novel, and for Peter Vollmer’s version to be published, which shares the same title and is written in the same style, taking its lead from the original manuscript and endorsed by the Jenkins Estate.
The author, Peter Vollmer, has removed any references to the Bond characters to differentiate this version from the Ian Fleming Publications, and hopes this version will further encourage the Ian Fleming Foundation to publish the original version of Per Fine Ounce as written by Geoffrey Jenkins, or to give the Jenkins estate the right to do so for James Bond readers around the world to decide for themselves whether the original version of Per Fine Ounce merited publication nearly 50 years ago.
Author’s Note
The next two pages are original extracts (pgs. 86 & 87) from the “missing” James Bond 007 novel PER FINE OUNCE by Geoffrey Jenkins (printed with full permission from the Jenkins family estate).
Preface
I remain in awe of those who have control in fulfilling their aspirations — this usually from a young age and already evident during the senior school years. This is reflected by those who devoted time to their studies and made the necessary sacrifices to attain their goals with the resultant excellent marks and acceptance to a tertiary education. Looking back, my scholarly career progressed in uncontrolled fits and starts, peppered with moments of outright brilliance offset by many others that are so shameful, that at the thought, I still cringe today. I can now only nostalgically think of those golden moments, of which there were surely many, that I let slip through my fingers.
I started reading prolifically from an early age, losing myself in John Buchanan, Elleston Trevor, Wilbur Smith, Ian Fleming and a near endless list of others. Each subsequent book hinting to me that I too needed to write something. But as the years went by, and I led a life filled with career-building, sports, various hobbies, then boating, and flying, there was never a dull moment and seemingly not a minute to spare either. Eventually, now in my later years, the desire became overwhelming, and I sat down and finally put pen to paper and wrote a book, which is, in itself, an achievement I’m proud of. The idea and story that came from it I thought good, but I was truly not prepared for what came after the actual writing. Suffice it to say that since then, I’ve written a few more!
At the time, a number of people inspired me, but in particular, Ron Payne, a literary agent in the USA, a novelist, and past war and political correspondent who had seen it all. He inspired me to write this novel, although I never precisely followed the storyline he proposed. However, I have included certain aspects and names he did suggest. Sadly, Ron Payne passed on a few years ago, but I will forever remain indebted to him.
The story takes place during a time of great change in South Africa, and I have relied extensively thereon for the background to my novel — the story itself is a work of fiction, as are the characters. While an effort was made to keep the actual historical timeline as accurate as possible, slight creative liberties were taken and all obvious inaccuracies are mine.
I wish to express my gratitude to my wife Elaine, who I would continuously interrupt with the questions give me another word for or please buy, or please pay — all related to writing and publishing a novel. To Jacqui Corn-Uys, my editor who literally worked wonders with my stilted dialogue and German-influenced grammar; to my agent, Tom Cull, whose persistence, patience, and belief in me are ‘par extraordinaire’; and to my friend, George Carter, who would read my first drafts and produce reams of pencil-filled notes of discovered errors and sometimes hilarious inaccuracies. There are many more and to all, I give my heartfelt thanks.
Prologue
Shrouded in the utmost secrecy, the mission was planned to keep pace with the demarcation between night and day as it rushed its way westwards. The high-altitude spy plane was in a race with the rotation of the earth and would attempt to close in on its targets out of the darkness of the approaching night sky.
The aircraft had departed the U.S. Indian Ocean rapid deployment military base and climbed swiftly to seventy-five thousand feet, where it levelled off and accelerated to its cruising speed of Mach 1.6. It flew due west from the island of Diego Garcia, the largest of sixty small islands comprising the Chagos Archipelago, a thousand miles to the south of India.
It passed over the Seychelles, remaining well out over the I
ndian Ocean detouring north of the huge island of Madagascar. With Madagascar behind, it changed course southwest over the Mozambique Channel, where it descended to forty thousand feet to rendezvous and refuel.
Sitting in the tail of the TriStar, the fuel-boom operator stared intently into the night sky looking for the expected reconnaissance plane.
Suddenly, the operator’s earphones crackled. “Boomer-2, Boomer-2, this is Shadow-1 approaching. We are a thousand feet behind you and fifty feet below your current altitude.”
Against the black velvet of the night sky, the boom operator seated in the tail of the U.S. Air Force Lockheed TriStar K. Mk.1 tanker could not see the Blackbird as it slowly approached. The recon aircraft’s matt fuselage and wings merged with the night sky, the still-secret matt black titanium, and carbon-fibre skin of the hypersonic SR71 designed to absorb most light and all radar waves, rendering it invisible against the dark backdrop. However, the hypersonic spy plane’s proximity radarscope clearly revealed the tanker.
The operator jerked upright in his seat, immediately fully attentive, and began to flick various switches on his small instrument panel. Suddenly, a brilliant cone of light bored through the darkness from below the tanker’s tail, illuminating the dark shape that approached. Still, the reconnaissance aircraft was difficult to see as it closed to about a hundred and fifty feet, where it slowed to match the tanker’s speed of almost 500 m.p.h. In the cold night air, now free of the usual daytime tropical turbulence, the two aircraft were vague shapes against the stars, seemingly stationary and joined by some invisible force.
With the slightest of movements of a small joystick, the operator guided the long refuelling boom into the refuelling slot above the recon aircraft’s cockpit. He felt a slight shudder as the connection locked.
“Contact… coupling confirmed. Lights green — commence pumping,” the Blackbird pilot said.
No small talk ensued. The black ops aircrews who flew the SR71 and U2 high-altitude reconnaissance aircraft never said more than was absolutely necessary. They were not inclined to friendly banter and were all business, cocooned in their airtight suits and full-face helmets. They appeared to live in a world of their own.
The operator was a skilled technician who knew his job. He activated the high-speed electric pumps and hundreds of gallons of jet fuel swiftly flowed through the boom into the large wing tanks of the recon aircraft, filling them in mere minutes as the spy plane kept meticulous station behind the air-tanker.
The moment the tanks were full, the boom operator disengaged and retracted the flying boom. Briefly, a vaporised cloud of fuel appeared, only to be instantly swept back over the spy plane’s fuselage. A moment later, the Blackbird started to fall behind. When well clear of the tanker, the commander advanced the throttles of the two turbojet engines to full power, leaving a string of pale-blue transparent doughnut rings of fire strung out behind each engine as the afterburners were ignited. The aircraft’s nose lifted towards the stars as it climbed, disappearing rapidly from view.
With Mozambique now in sight, it turned west towards the country and soon crossed the coastline, heading for the border with South Africa.
The spy plane chased the setting sun before it, slowly gaining on the day-night separation as the aircraft overtook the speed of the Earth’s rotation. The plan was to penetrate South Africa just before the close of day, the aircraft approaching out of the fading darkness from the east, making both the plane and any possible contrail from the aircraft’s engines difficult to detect.
The spy plane crossed Mozambique and entered South African airspace, heading towards the industrial complex of the Witwatersrand. Its mission was to photograph the nuclear research facility at Pelindaba, constructed among the foothills of the Magaliesberg Mountains on the outskirts of Pretoria, the nation’s capital. From there it would continue westwards towards Vastrap, an arid flat area measuring thousands of square miles on the fringes of the Kalahari Desert. The previous inhabitants had long been displaced, the area now a restricted military training site and weapons range where the South African government tested its latest weaponry far from prying eyes. It was also here that the CIA believed the South African Atomic Energy Board, together with the South African Defence Force, was sinking a vertical shaft deep into the desert to be used to carry out an underground atomic test blast. South Africa had yet to test-fire any nuclear armaments on land, something scientists considered essential before the development of these weapons could be deemed a success. British Intelligence had it that a test firing was due to be carried out with South Africa’s secret partners, the Israelis, which of course both countries vehemently denied. Besides, the South African and Israeli governments were not signatories to the Nuclear Non-Proliferation Treaty.
US Intelligence had been informed by reliable sources that the Israelis and South Africans had cooperated in the development of a gun-type firing device required to detonate a weapons-grade uranium core. They had also learned that the South Africans proposed to arm Israeli Jericho-2 missiles with nuclear warheads. It was rumoured other bombs were also being designed, to be delivered by high-altitude English Electric Canberra bombers or Blackburn Buccaneers, along with others that would be fitted to the RSA-3 medium-range ballistic missiles developed in South Africa.
In recent years, the onslaught against the South African apartheid regime had gained momentum, and the country now faced threats on more than one front as it took on several enemies. These terrorist groups, or freedom fighters as they preferred to be called, were financed and armed by the Russians and Chinese. In the north, on the border of South West Africa (now Namibia) and Angola, Black guerrilla movements backed by Cuban Communist forces threatened to overrun the country.
With its apartheid policy, South Africa was a pariah nation, and Western countries faced the choice of which was the lesser evil — a nuclear-armed pro-Western South Africa, hated and ostracised by the world, or a country overrun by Black and Cuban forces who subscribed to Communist ideology. Neither idea was pleasant.
South Africa had built a sophisticated radar network, which monitored and controlled its northern borders and was supported by a ring of airfields on which French Mirage F1 and IIIc interceptor aircraft stood ready to scramble at a moment’s notice.
However, for some inexplicable reason, no interception had been ordered against the intruder that now streaked across the southern skies at sixty-thousand feet. The SR71 Blackbird’s warning systems remained silent. Were the South African forces even aware of the high-altitude intruder? It did not seem so.
The plane flew over Pelindaba, its instruments registering the complex as a source of atomic radiation. It was generally known that the South Africans had two pilot nuclear reactors for research and peaceful use, but it was rumoured that the newly developed nuclear bombs were assembled and stored here. The Blackbird’s high-definition cameras took hundreds of photographs, many in infrared. The aircraft then slightly adjusted its course for Vastrap, a new military base in the Kalahari Desert. It was here, far from civilisation, that high-resolution photographs would reveal that a mineshaft was being sunk, the workings surrounded by military vehicles and temporary buildings.
Finally, the aircraft turned south and within minutes was flying high over its ultimate target, a small town not yet revealed on any map. At their briefing, the crew had been told by the chief of the CIA’s South Africa desk that this was a mining town in the middle of the Kalahari Desert. It was also said that the town had sprung up virtually overnight. Even from this altitude, a runway of unusual length was clearly discernible. Satellite surveillance had put its length at ten-thousand feet, sufficient to accommodate the biggest aircraft in the world. What purpose then could this possibly serve in a sparsely inhabited desert? It was now up to the CIA to decipher these photographs and come up with an answer to this question.
Its covert task now finished, the spy plane sped high over the Namib Desert towards the Atlantic Ocean, where it rendezvoused three times wit
h U.S. refuelling tankers before it finally entered United States airspace.
Mission complete.
Chapter One
It was a miserable morning. Low cloud rolled in from the west and cloaked the city of London in a drab ominous grey, streaked with dark bands, heralding rain. Cars drove with their lights on and pedestrians scurried along the pavements with their umbrellas handy, clearly expecting the deluge to start at any moment.
The black London cab drew up alongside the kerb. A tall man in his late thirties alighted, fished in his back pocket, and withdrew a folded clip of banknotes. He peeled off a few and thrust them at the driver. He looked slightly out of place among the other people on the street, many of whom were in black pinstripe suits, one or two still wearing bowler hats. He appeared more up to date — his Saville Row tailored suit was of modern cut with slim-fit trousers, though he did not wear the usual waistcoat. The collar of his light-blue shirt was buttoned down and his Gordonstoun Old Boy’s tie swung free. A fawn mackintosh was draped over his forearm from which a dark umbrella also swung. He glanced down to check the shine on his expensive black slip-on moccasins. This was no city executive employed by a bank or firm of stockbrokers. Yes, perhaps the tie did reveal some loyalty to his past — but, in truth, a misconception as he only wore it because he liked its design. He wasn’t tied to his past in any way; he was a modern man who saw little value in things old.
The cab had drawn up outside the fortress-like SIS building at 85 Albert Embankment in Vauxhall Cross, London. Its drab, slightly sooty appearance belied the building’s importance as the headquarters of the SIS, more commonly known as MI6.
He entered through the main access area and approached the battery of arched stiles and x-ray boxes with his security access card in hand. All personnel and visitors, whether entering the complex from the underground parking or through the main entrance, had to endure this ritual; there were no exceptions.