Never Dream Of Dying

by Raymond Benson

  Bond jumped from the table and ran through swinging double doors into the kitchen. Another bullet shot past him, ricocheting off the wall. As he ran through, Bond swept a dozen metal pots and pans off a counter with his arm, knocking them all over the floor behind him and creating a terrible racket. The cook was horrified and shouted something to him in French. Bond went out of the back exit just as Eyepatch burst in, hampered by the clutter on the floor.

  As he came out of the kitchen, Bond ran into none other than Tylyn.

  “James?” she said, panicked. “What was that noise? My God, your face! What’s wrong?”

  But he kept running.

  “James!” she called after him.

  He reached the deck rail and looked over it, down to a lower level. It wasn’t too far, so he climbed over it. Before dropping down, he met Tylyn’s eyes and said, “I’m sorry. Some day I’ll explain.”

  Bond let go of the rail and dropped twenty feet to the next deck, crashing into a chair to break his fall and startling several people who were reclining in the sun. He got to his feet and rolled, then got up to run again. Tylyn ran to the rail above and called to him. “James!”

  Then Julius Wilcox appeared from nowhere and was at her side, aiming a gun at the running figure on the deck below. Tylyn, enraged, pushed the ugly brute. “What are you doing? ”

  Wilcox reacted with a snarl and shoved her to the deck.

  Bond ran to the edge and looked down at the water below. The portable dock was on this side, thank God. He climbed over the rail and prepared to dive into the Mediterranean. He holstered his gun and tore off his jacket.

  Wilcox aimed and fired just as Bond performed a neat swan dive, sailing forty feet to the water.

  He swam hard for the dock. Already the guards had been alerted and were swarming down the Starfish’s various staircases and ramps, ready to intercept Bond. But he made it to the dock first. He climbed out of the water, ran to the first 47 Lightning powerboat, untied it, and jumped in. It took him a few seconds to examine the controls and start the engine.

  The boat’s engines created a huge wake and a tremendous roar that could be heard over the entire setting. Bond maneuvered the boat away from the dock and steered it toward Corsica. However, two thirty-eight foot Lightning sportboats manned by guards came around the tanker and were headed in his direction. Bond made a hook, turning the boat sharply to the left. He sped back toward the center of the setting, where the director and stunt crew were just beginning to shoot part of the chase.

  Duling called “Action!” as Rick Fripp sat at the controls inside a 42 Lightning sportboat near the burning tanker. He had access to the trigger mechanisms for every explosive he had planted. Two “pirates” in costumed 42 Lightnings sped out from another direction and started to chase a disguised 29 Fever piloted by Betty and Stuart Laurence’s stunt double.

  The guards made it to the dock and jumped into two of the remaining boats. They revved up noisily and took off after Bond, who was headed directly for the center of the action.

  Bond bore down on the accelerator, increasing his speed to almost 100 miles per hour, sped into the scene, and started to gain on Betty’s boat.

  Duling shouted, “Hey! What’s going on? Who is that?”

  The guards’ boats jumped into view and then the gunfire began. Bullets shot across the water, breaking the surface with dozens of jabbing spurts.

  “This wasn’t in the rehearsal!” Duling shouted into his walkie-talkie.

  The assistant director asked if he wanted to cut.

  Duling replied, “No! Keep the cameras rolling. This looks great!”

  Bond sped forward, overtaking Betty’s boat, but it wasn’t long before Wilcox and one of the guards appeared in another powerboat. They zoomed in from the side, seemingly out of nowhere. Wilcox was now armed with a submachine-gun. He let loose a barrage of ammunition at Bond’s craft, shooting several holes in the side and into the engines. The boat kept going, though, straight for one of the “derelict” boats that had been constructed for the movie. Bond increased his speed and prayed that he could remember how to perform a particular maneuver. He turned the wheel and his boat did a marvelous barrel roll, jumping out of the water and somersaulting at high speed in mid-air. The Lightning barely missed the top of the obstacle and then landed on its hull with a splash.

  Everyone on the Starfish, who had by now appeared on the various decks to watch the scene, applauded. What a terrific stunt! Who was that driver? Excellent action choreography! It looked so real!

  Fripp, now in communication with Wilcox by walkie-talkie, barked instructions to his pyrotechnics people, stationed in small rowboats at various stages in the setting.

  “Yes, damn it!” Fripp shouted. “Fire them now! I don’t care if he’s too close!”

  Bond steered his boat toward one of the obstacles, hoping that it would provide some cover from the gunfire. He got within thirty meters of it when it suddenly exploded with intense force. Bond hit the deck as shrapnel and burning debris flew over his head. Without looking he made another hook to the right so that the boat wouldn’t sail right into the burning mess. Once he was clear, he stood and gained control of the boat again.

  Fripp shouted more orders into his walkie-talkie. Explosives had been rigged in the water at various intervals to simulate cannon balls hitting the surface. These began to go off as Bond sped over them.

  Christ! Bond thought. It’s like going over a minefield. He had to get out of the setting as quickly as possible, but he was surrounded on all sides now. The other boats were closing in and there was nowhere else to go.

  “Ha!” Wilcox shouted. “We’ve got him now.”

  Bond looked around for an escape route. The only possible place to go was into the burning tanker. Bond turned the boat toward it, prayed that Collette had followed his instructions, and stepped on the gas. The engines roared as the boat shot toward the tanker.

  “This is better than I had hoped!” Wilcox said. Fripp thought the same thing, for he shouted more orders into his walkie-talkie.

  “Yes! Blow the tanker! Blow it now!” Wilcox yelled.

  Fripp pulled the lever.

  Bond knew that he had to reach full speed before attempting this particular move and he didn’t have a lot of room to do so. He accelerated, gripped the wheel, and concentrated on the water ahead of him. The speedometer was at 112. The tanker was meters away.

  No time left. It had to be now.

  Bond hit a wave with perfect timing and performed a flawless “stuff,” a stunt in which a boat dives completely under the water.

  The Lightning disappeared under the surface just as the tanker blew to pieces. It was a deafening explosion, causing all the spectators in the area to flinch and hold their ears. A huge fireball erupted as the tanker broke into a dozen pieces. Monstrous clouds of black smoke poured out of the wreckage.

  Tylyn, aboard the Starfish, screamed as she saw Bond’s boat vanish into that maelstrom. The other people gasped, certain that they had just seen a stuntman killed in action. Dan Duling was aghast and speechless. The tanker was destroyed and he never got the right shot. And who was that guy in the boat?

  The next ten minutes were pure chaos. The rescue boat and medic sped to the scene to look for Bond, but they found nothing. His Lightning surfaced on the other side of the tanker, but Bond wasn’t in it. The dive underwater had saved the craft from being destroyed, but it had been streaked and scraped by burning metal.

  They searched for thirty minutes. Bond’s body was nowhere to be found. Had he been vaporized in the blast?

  Wilcox pulled his boat over to where Fripp was stationed.

  “Do you think that got him?” Fripp asked the ugly man.

  “It looks like it, doesn’t it?” Wilcox replied. “Let’s keep looking and make sure.”

  A half-hour later, Essinger had Wilcox in his office aboard the Starfish.

  “What the hell gave you the authority to blow up my tanker? We needed that for the g
oddamned movie!” Essinger said through clenched teeth.

  “Relax,” Wilcox said. “The Union will cover your costs. We’ve been after that guy for a long time. Besides, I thought you said that you were going to take care of him.”

  Essinger fumed. “He … he got the better of my men.”

  “Apparently.”

  “It seems he got away from you, too, Wilcox,” Essinger spat.

  Wilcox didn’t reply. He merely stepped close to Essinger and clutched the man around the neck with a strong grip. He squeezed, cutting off Essinger’s oxygen and sending bolts of pain into his throat.

  “Listen, friend,”Wilcox whispered. “Don’t ever talk to me like that again. If you do, I’ll rip out your larynx and make you eat it. Do we understand each other?”

  Choking and turning blue, Essinger managed to nod.

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Ye-es-ss!” Essinger stammered.

  Wilcox released him and the producer fell to his knees. The ugly man moved away and heard a commotion in the corridor outside.

  “Get up, someone’s coming,” he said. “Be cool, Essinger.”

  Wilcox managed to stand just as Tylyn, near hysterics, burst into the cabin.

  “What the hell is going on?” she demanded. “James is dead! Your goons just killed him!”

  Essinger, a consummate showman, did his best to assume a calm demeanor, cleared his throat, and said, “My ‘goons’, as you call them, were merely trying to catch him, darling. I’ve been meaning to tell you something about your friend, Mister Bond.”

  Tylyn couldn’t comprehend her husband’s seemingly unconcerned attitude.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  He had to clear his throat and rub it again. “You see, dear,” Essinger continued, “Mister Bond isn’t a journalist. He never was.”

  “What?” she snapped.

  “He’s a criminal, Tylyn.” He held her by the shoulders, attempting to talk sense into her. “He wanted to sabotage our production. He’s one of those industrial spies who work for other movie companies. He was hired to cause Pirate Island to shut down. That’s why he got close to you—so he could be in proximity to inflict a great deal of damage. I just got off the phone with Rick. He says that the tanker is destroyed and we never got the shot we needed for the movie. That’s going to cost us a lot of money.”

  “I don’t believe you!” she screamed. She turned to Wilcox. “And you! Who the hell are you?” She turned back to her husband. “Who is this man, Léon? Why has he been hanging around you so much? He doesn’t work for you, does he?”

  “Mister Wilcox is a … financial advisor,” Essinger said. “Now darling, we must try to forget this and get on with making a movie.”

  “To hell with your movie!” Tylyn shouted. “James is dead! ”

  Essinger almost shrugged. “I know, it’s a pity. Luckily we’re insured. But that will teach the other studios not to go messing with Léon Essinger, eh, darling?”

  “You’re a liar!” she said with venom, struggling to get out of his grasp.

  “It’s true, Tylyn,” he said. “The man was a killer. A hired gun. Whatever he promised you or told you, they were all lies. I’m sorry.”

  Tylyn broke away from him, put her arms around herself, and sobbed. Essinger moved toward her to comfort her, but she backed away, shouting, “Leave me alone!” She turned and ran out, tears streaming down her face.

  After a moment, Wilcox said, “She could hurt us.”

  Essinger spat, “She won’t be with us long.”

  Wilcox paused before suggesting, “You might need to make sure that she attends the screening in Cannes. At this point there’s no guarantee that she will.”

  Essinger, still upset about Wilcox’s threat, the loss of the tanker, and his wife’s reaction to the spy’s death, merely nodded.

  “I’ve already taken care of that,” he said.

  As soon as the boat dived beneath the tanker, Bond used his arms and legs to springboard his body out of the boat. The trick was to stay suspended in the water so that the boat passed beneath his body without hurting him. Then, as soon as it was clear, he had to dive as deeply as he could to avoid the impact of the blast.

  An impact it was. The force of the explosion was like a sledgehammer, slamming into Bond with a fist of fury. Completely dazed, he floated motionless for a few seconds, then began to drift up toward the mayhem.

  Snap out of it! Bond shouted to himself. Swim!

  Summoning every ounce of strength in his battered body, Bond willed himself to paddle with his arms to halt his ascent. Then he straightened, aimed his nose downward, and swam toward the bottom of the sea.

  Bond opened his eyes to the stinging, murky water. He swam harder, forcing his body to work on automatic while he concentrated on finding what Collette had conveniently dropped in the water on the perimeter of the setting just before sunrise.

  He reckoned that it was a good forty or fifty meters to the landmark, or rather, the watermark. A buoy floated inconspicuously at the perimeter on the north end of the setting, and that’s where he and Collette had decided would be the safest place for Collette to bring his boat and get as close as possible to the Starfish.

  Bond’s lungs were burning like hell. How long had he been holding his breath? A minute or two? He had to have air soon. But was he still too close to the tanker?

  When he thought that he had swum at least twenty meters away, Bond had no choice but to risk it. He surfaced and gulped a glorious breath of air and immediately dived back underwater. Bond hoped everyone would be focused on the tanker and would not have noticed him.

  The oxygen energized him. He kept swimming toward the buoy, confident now that he would make it. The tide was much stronger than he had expected, but with a steady stroke he eventually reached the target. When he was able to grasp the side of the buoy, Bond surfaced again and took some breaths. Resting momentarily, he looked back at the chaos. Boats were zipping this way and that, the perimeter was covered in black smoke and he could hear a lot of shouting.

  How would he explain this to Tylyn? he wondered. Would he ever see her again and have a chance to explain?

  Possibly not, thought Bond. And what good had he accomplished? What had he learned? Not much, only that they were carrying what he believed to be the stolen CL-20. Reporting it to the authorities was useless, for the Union would surely take care to hide it better. They were obviously attempting to smuggle it somewhere, probably into France. What he needed to do was regroup and formulate a new plan of attack. He had to discover what they were up to before he could credibly blow any whistles.

  With a heavy heart, he turned his back on the destruction and began to work his way around the buoy with his hands until he was on the side facing the open sea. There, tied onto one of the buoy’s handholds, was a rope, pulled taut into the water. The weight at the other end was not so much as to topple the buoy. Bond took another breath and descended the rope, hand over hand, until he came to the magnificent machine tied at the bottom.

  “Ariel” was a K-10 Hydrospeeder, an innovative self-propelled diver propulsion unit that had recently been developed in America and was now being sold as an aquatic novelty to Caribbean holiday resorts. Bond had first seen one in Belize, where a diving colleague named Gaz Cooper sold and demonstrated them. Q Branch had licensed the technology and built a hydrospeeder with a few extras.

  It was basically an underwater bicycle with a built-in re-breathing system. It was the size of a small motorcycle, but with no wheels. Instead it had two short wings that jutted out near the bow. The two motors were aft. The diver sat on a curved seat and leaned forward until his chest was resting on the top of the hydrospeeder.

  Bond took the re-breather first and inserted it into his mouth. The lovely oxygen flowed when he turned the valve. Collette had been thoughtful enough to leave a facemask tied to one of the controls. Bond put that on next, doing his best to flush out the water. Then, he sat on the v
ehicle and started it. Finally, he untied the rope and he was off.

  A man riding a hydrospeeder could stay underwater for nearly two hours. Seated on the vehicle, a diver’s body hydro-dynamically completed the form of its design as his hands were used to manipulate the independently operated wings that controlled pitch and roll. The feet pushed on independent motor controls for the left and right motors, varying the yaw and speed. Embedded in the hydrospeeder was an oxygen tank. The vehicle had an electrical engine, delivering about 2000 watts for two hours. Dive data was available at a glance on the dashboard, which was flat in front of the diver’s face.

  Normally, it could travel up to five or six knots, but Major Boothroyd had increased that speed to ten with the aid of a turbo booster he had installed in-between the two original motors. Other extras included twin harpoon guns in the front, a mechanism for releasing small mines in the water below the vehicle, smokescreen capability, superior high-intensity headlamps and a second re-breather, although the hydrospeeder wasn’t really built for two. Like most of the vehicles made by Q Branch, Ariel was also equipped with her own tracking signal and a self-destruct feature.

  Bond studied the compass on the dashboard and the blinking light that marked the GPS coordinate of his destination. It would take him an hour to get there.

  The hydrospeeder gracefully moved through the water, some fifty feet below the surface. It was an exhilarating feeling. He had enjoyed the thrill when he had first tested the hydro-speeder in Q Branch’s tank at MI6. Now, out here in the wide-open sea, he was able to give her a full workout. He could roll and spin, dive up or down, or ascend and descend in a straight vertical line.

  There were plenty of fish around, mostly grouper and painted comber, gliding along with Bond over the sponges that grew plentifully on the surfaces of rocks. The famous Corsican vibrant red coral was also abundant in the area. The bottom was covered with various types of seaweed. Some of it was brown, a lot of it was green, and a portion was red. As always, the alien landscape of an underwater vista never failed to mesmerize Bond. He was in his element.