It is difficult to avoid the conclusion that the health of the officer is being systematically undermined by his mode de vivre. [‘Fancifully put,’ thought Bond. ‘What is happening in Harley Street these days?’] It is strongly recommended that if his working efficiency is not to be seriously impaired he cease smoking immediately and cut down his intake of spirits. A change to wine would be preferential and total abstinence ideal.
Unequivocal. That was the least that could be said of the report. M had made no strictures but suggested that Bond consider the implications of his check-up. Seriously.
James Bond decided to do so as he smoked his fiftieth cigarette of the day. He slid it between his lips, snapped the gunmetal case shut and reached for his battered Ronson. The small, orgasmic flame flickered and he drew the smoke in greedily. He felt in perfect shape, and when he did not he would take whatever action he felt necessary of his own accord. Medicals were for overweight men who sat behind desks telling other people to do things. He wondered how most doctors would make out under their own stethoscopes.
Smoking was also, for Bond, part of the ritual of flying, and he enjoyed rituals. He enjoyed a well-made vodka martini too. He looked round the cabin of the eight-seater private jet that had been sent to speed him back from Dakar and located a small refrigerator that looked promising. It was tucked just behind the entrance to the cramped pilot’s cabin and below a rack of glossy magazines that Bond had already flicked through. With an intuition that Bond found wholly admirable the stewardess appeared through the opening and slid the door closed behind her. She was a tall girl with a wide, sensuous mouth and well-shaped breasts. Her smile had not been over-used flying the routes followed by the commercial airlines and it came across as a genuine expression of a desire to please. Her clothing was simple. A beautifully cut grey woollen skirt and a white silk shirt with matching stock.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she said.
Bond returned her smile. ‘I knew you were a mind reader. Do we have any Gordon’s gin or a grain-based vodka?’
‘I don’t know about the grain-based.’ She bent down to open the refrigerator and Bond enjoyed the firm rounding of her haunches. ‘I thought vodka was made from potatoes.’
‘A lot of it is.’
The girl stood up with a bottle of Gordon’s in her hand. ‘That’s all we have, I’m afraid. Unless you’d like whisky?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll take four measures of Gordon’s with a smidgin of dry martini, shaken till it’s ice cold. If you can lay your hands on a long shave of lemon peel, my happiness will be complete.’
The girl looked down at him approvingly. ‘You know what you like.’
‘I think that makes it easier for everybody,’ said Bond. He held her glance for a second longer than was necessary and expelled two dragon’s breaths of smoke through his nostrils. ‘How long have you been working for Transcontinental?’
The girl went about mixing the drink. ‘Only a few weeks. It took so long to get through security clearance.’
‘I thought I hadn’t seen you,’ said Bond thoughtfully. ‘I didn’t recognize the crew either.’
‘They’re like me,’ she said. ‘Recent arrivals.’ She flashed her bewitching smile and advanced towards him with the drink on a circular silver tray.
Bond took it and felt the satisfying coldness of the glass against his fingertips. ‘Thank you.’ He turned his head and smiled as the girl slipped into the seat beside him. She leant back and drew up a knee provocatively. ‘Delicious,’ said Bond.
‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ said the girl.
‘I wasn’t talking about the drink.’ Bond raised the glass to his lips and drunk. As a substitute it was exceptionally good. He turned to the girl again. ‘I may never travel with anyone else.’
‘You’re so right, Mr Bond.’ A small automatic had appeared from beneath the silver tray and was pointing at the pit of his stomach. The blunt muzzle did not flinch.
Bond sighed. ‘You’re a grave disappointment to me. I was hoping for a look of surprise when I mentioned Transcontinental.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘You’re supposed to be employed by Transworld.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ The girl’s voice was brittle, within a decibel of breaking. She was under strain. Big strain. She had, been given a job at the very limit of her capabilities. It was doubtful whether she could carry it through. Bond realized that she was supposed to kill him. The skilfully executed ground-level hijack at Dakar Airport, the substitution of the crews. It had all been leading up to this moment. The girl’s lips were pressed tight together. She was trying to find the courage to pull the trigger.
Bond jerked the glass away from his mouth and the muzzle of the automatic tilted defensively. At the exact instant that the gun moved, Bond lashed out with the back of his fist and struck solidly against the hand that was holding it. The girl let out a cry of pain and surprise and the automatic spun across to the other side of the cabin. Bond clipped the girl smartly against the jaw and was launching himself for the gun when the door to the pilot’s cabin slid open. The co-pilot took in the situation at a glance and hurled himself forward to grapple with Bond. Bond was temporarily crushed against one of the seats and then broke free to unleash a right cross that bludgeoned the side of the man’s cheek. There was a sharp crack and a grunt of annoyance rather than pain, and the co-pilot came forward again. He was a big man with a parachute strapped to his back and it occurred to Bond that this was an adjunct well worth having in his present situation. He feinted to dive for the gun and as the co-pilot tried to intercept lashed out with his foot for the man’s groin. The aeroplane lurched and Bond’s blow was diverted by the thigh. He fell back, hitting the wall of the plane. Before he could move again, the co-pilot was on him, grappling for his throat. One hand made contact and the other reached above Bond’s head. There was a grinding noise and a rush of air that threatened to suck Bond from the cabin. The co-pilot had opened the emergency door that Bond was leaning against. Bond could feel himself poised on the brink of space with the terrifying void behind him. His hands stretched out to grip the sides of the door opening and the screaming wind tried to tear the clothes from his back. It was taking every ounce of strength that he possessed to stay where he was. The co-pilot saw that Bond was at his mercy and took a step back to deliver the blow that would launch him into space. It was at this instant that the plane entered an area of turbulence, and the floor tilted up towards Bond. He jerked himself sideways and as the.plane twitched again, braced his right shoulder against the edge of the door opening. His adversary was launched forward and Bond did no more than guide him into the space he himself had so recently vacated. There was hardly time for a scream of realization and fear to form itself in the man’s throat before he was hurtling earthwards, his arms and legs flailing against empty air.
Bond stood braced in the open doorway and looked down, feeling that the wind was pulling his hair out by the roots. Beneath him the co-pilot had conquered his initial panic and was planing down with arms and legs outspread in the classic free-fall position. Bond ground his teeth and prepared to pull away from the terrifying suction that was bent on prising free his grip. At that instant two powerful hands smote him on the shoulders and thrust him into space.
In a nightmare there is a horrible moment when the victim suddenly finds himself suspended in mid-air, his heart seeming to fall faster than the rest of his body. For Bond this was terrifying reality as he plunged earthwards. Far below him was a distant patch of brown which could be mountain or desert. It made no difference. Either would serve equally well as a graveyard. Bond fought panic and forced his arms and legs apart to try to achieve some stability in the air. One chance meeting with the crack Red Devils free-fall parachuting team when on a refresher course with the Parachute Brigade at Aldershot had hardly prepared him for the situation he now found himself in. There was a million miles between principle, no matter how well explained, and reality. This was not the moment he would have ch
osen to find out how good a pupil he had been.
Bond jerked back his head and felt himself planing through the air. His rate of descent had definitely been slowed. He was like a flat stone wavering from side to side as it sinks through water. He glanced down and saw the unsuspecting co-pilot beneath him. The man had still not opened his parachute. Bond felt a stab of hope. Could he possibly manoeuvre himself close enough to take the man by surprise? He screwed up his eyes against the whiplash of the wind and tried to remember the conversation he had had in the mess at Aldershot. Below him the peaks of mountains were clearly visible. He tilted his body sideways and felt himself starting to slide faster, like a Spitfire peeling off to attack. Not only the cold and the force of the wind were numbing: at every second he expected to lose control and find himself tumbling over and over until the force of impact dashed him to pieces on some jagged, sun-scorched peak of the Atlas Mountains. He folded in his arms and legs and started to drop vertically without the sideways motion. A breast stroke motion of the arms and legs, and he actually felt himself moving forward. It was possible to claw one’s way through the air like some clumsy wounded bird.
He glanced sideways and saw the co-pilot fifty yards below him and to the right. One of the man’s hands was reaching towards his shoulder. He must be about to pull the ripcord. Bond flung his arms and legs wide and tilted his hands like the wing flaps of an aeroplane. He felt himself slicing through air, and the co-pilot loomed up beside him. The man’s head turned and Bond saw his teeth flash white as his mouth opened in surprise. He had no time to react before Bond was on him, feeling the life-sustaining bulk of the parachute against his chest. That was what he wanted. Clinging to the man’s shoulder, he unleashed a crippling blow with the flat edge of his hand and felt the force transmit itself to the vulnerable area behind the ear. The man twitched like a stunned rabbit and offered no resistance as Bond fought against the sickening speed of their descent and the metal clasp that secured the parachute. After what seemed like minutes rather than seconds, he prized it open and pulled one of the straps away from an arm barely capable of resistance. He thrust his own arm through the loop and then kicked clear, dragging the rest of the parachute with him. This was the moment of ultimate despair. With both hands struggling to pull on the parachute and fasten the clasp it was impossible to keep stable in space. He felt himself spinning over and over, the ground beneath him and the sky above blicoming a crazy kaleidoscope as the wind tore through his clothing and dizzy pain whirred through his tortured brain as if stirring it with a white-hot spoon. And then the clasp clicked home and his fingers tore at the ripcord. For a terrible second it seemed that nothing was going to happen, and then the parachute broke open with a crackle like the spinnaker of an ocean-going yacht bursting forth to steal the wind. Bond’s headlong descent shuddered to a near halt and suddenly he was alone and drifting earthwards. To his right were khaki mountains with a distant impression of snow-capped peaks. Directly below him a dusty plain was bisected by a long straight road.
Bond raised his hands to his shoulders and prepared to steer himself towards the road. Marrakesh should not be too far away. It was a pity he did not have time for a night on the town. He thought back to his medical report and smiled grimly. There was clearly life in the old dog yet.
3
a.m. WITH M AND Q
‘Ah, James. There you are.’ There was relief as well as a glow of welcome in the eyes of M’s private secretary.
Bond responded with pleasure to the bowl of winter roses on the desk and the faint upper-class fragrance of some scent he could not place. It was good to be home.
‘My flight was diverted, Moneypenny. What’s going on?’
There was no immediate response as Miss Moneypenny’s head was bent forward announcing his arrival. She flicked up the switch. ‘I don’t know. He’s got the Minister of Defence coming in at any minute. You’re to, go straight in.’ She called after him as he moved towards the door and the telephone on her desk started ringing. ‘Does the Chief-of-Staff know you’re back?’
Bond turned to nod towards the telephone. ‘That’ll be him telling you.’
He went through the door and closed it softly behind him. The layout of the room had not changed. The daik green carpet stretching like a putting green to the heavy, polished wood desk with M behind it. Only the big twin-bladed tropical fan, now stationary in the ceiling above the desk, added an incongruous note. Bond wondered how many times M had needed it during the previous summer.
M waved an impatient hand at the chair opposite his desk. ‘You’ve taken a damnably long time getting here.’
Bond sat down and gave a quick description of recent events. M’s jawline hardened. ‘Somebody obviously doesn’t like you. There was that business at Chamonix before your last mission, wasn’t there?’
‘Yes, sir. I don’t think it was the Russians this time. After the Stromberg affair, I believe they’ll give me a few months’ respite.’
‘You could hardly expect an Order of Lenin,’ said M drily. ‘Whom do you suspect?’
‘Somebody with an old score to settle. There are a number of candidates.’
‘Yes.’ M nodded his agreement. ‘I hope you can steer clear of them for the duration of your next assignment.’
Bond pricked up his ears. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you had a moment to glance at the station reports?’ M picked his pipe out of the heavy copper ash tray.
‘No, sir. I came straight to you via the Chief-of-Staff.’
‘What do you know about the Moonraker?’
Bond flicked through the card index in his mind. ‘It’s an American space shuttle. Capable of being launched into space by rocket, orbiting the earth and re-entering the atmosphere to land like a conventional aircraft. They can be used to service permanently manned space stations.’
‘And the Americans are just about to phase them into use in the next stage of their space programme. Did you know that we had one coming over so that Q Branch could take a look at it?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Bond, the surprise showing on his face.
‘Good,’ said M grimly. ‘You weren’t supposed to know. Nobody was.’
‘May I ask why the mountain was coming to Mohamed?’ inquired Bond.
‘In these particular circumstances you may,’ said M, kneading the soft tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Q’s boys have come up with something they call S.H.I.E.L.D. —Space Heat Identification and Early Liquidation Device.’ His expression registered his disapproval of the title. ‘Damned if I know why. Everything has to have a brand name like a packet of soapsuds these days. Anyway, as the name implies, once installed in a spacecraft this system will ensure that no intercepting missile can get within miles of it without being destroyed. Apparently it’s infallible and the government refuses to let any details out of the country. The Americans are interested in it for their shuttle programme and that’s why they’ve come to us —’ M’s face grew grim. ‘Or rather —’ he broke off as the telephone rang, and put down his unlit pipe. ‘Very well. Yes. We’ll come immediately.’ He replaced the receiver and turned to Bond. ‘Right, 007. You can hear the rest in the Operations Room.’ He moved purposefully round his desk and Bond crossed.to the door and opened it. Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was any limit to the diverse range of projects that Q masterminded in his quartermaster’s department.
M looked down sternly at Miss Moneypenny as he went past her desk.
‘We’ll be in the Operations Room. I don’t want to be disturbed unless it’s critical.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She smiled at Bond as if grateful to find someone she could exchange a gesture of human warmth with. It had often occurred to Bond to ask himself what particular brand of loyalty bound Moneypenny to M. To be his personal amanuensis could not be the easiest job in the world. It was rumoured that M had once given Moneypenny a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry at Christmas, but this rumour was never substantiated. It was more
likely that he had wished her the compliments of the season with a grave nod that counselled caution against taking advantage of any opportunity for profligacy or licence. Bond also wondered why Moneypenny had never got married. She was a handsome girl and could never have lacked for suitors. Perhaps, like him, she had decided that she was irrevocably wedded to the service. Perhaps for both of them M represented a stern father figure who commanded all their respect and attention.
M led the way down the long corridor and turned left opposite the lift. Bond knew better than to expect him to say anything while they were walking. A gruff nod to a colleague was the only incident on the journey. M paused at the second door along the corridor and turned the handle briskly. The Operations Room was like a small cinema with rows of seats sloping down to a screen. There was a lectern and a blackboard taking up the space not occupied by the screen. Maps and other visual aids could be lowered like backdrops and controlled from the projection booth, which was independent of the main room.
Bond recognized the two men waiting in the room. One was Frederick Gray, the Minister of Defence, who was just being relieved of his Cromby overcoat by one of the ushers who vigilantly escorted all visitors to Transworld Consortium from the moment they crossed the threshold. He shook M’s hand without much warmth and nodded at Bond. The men had met before. The second man in the room was Q wearing a tweed suit that looked as if it had been borrowed from a gillie after a particularly energetic day’s deer stalking. He, too, nodded at Bond, and raised his arm in an awkward gesture of greeting. The usher withdrew discreetly.
James Bond and Moonraker Page 2