James Bond and Moonraker (2 page)

Before the first officer could obey the order there was a deafening roar and the 747 lurched as if swatted in mid-air by an invisible hand. The cabin trembled and the roar increased in intensity.

‘What the hell’s happening?’

‘The shuttle’s taking off!’

‘It can’t —’ The voice broke off as it was overtaken by the terrible reality. An eldritch wail nearly split their eardrums and a blinding light burned their staring eyes as if the door of a blast furnace had suddenly been wrenched open before their faces. The orbital engines of the Moonraker achieved full combustion and a ball of flame engulfed the cabin, scorching the screams out of the crew’s throats. Like an insect poised after delivering its deadly sting, the Moonraker shuddered in mid-air and the fiery exhaust from its tail continued to play on the cabin of the stricken 747.. Almost simultaneously it roared away in a steep climb. The nose of the 747 drooped and flames raced the length of the fuselage. Like a heavy cinder it started to fall out of the sky.

Admiral Sir Miles Messervy, K.C.M.G., alias M, gazed thoughtfully out of the window of his eighth floor office overlooking Regent’s Park. The office belonged to Trans-world Consortium but this was also an alias for an adjunct of the British Ministry of Defence which might have been termed—the Secret Service. ‘Might have been’ if M had nothing to do with the appellation. He would have found such terminology too showy and dramatic for his puritan, sea dog tastes. He preferred the obscurantism of Trans-world Consortium and had even regretted, though accepted the wisdom of, the change from the organization’s original title of Universal Export. He reached out across the redleather-topped desk and helped himself to a pipeful of tobacco from the polished brass fourteen-pounder shell base that served him as a memento of his naval days and a tobacco jar, in that order.

There was an atmosphere of brooding menace in the air that perhaps communicated itself from the clouds lowering over the park. Perhaps not. M was uneasy. He felt his eye drawn to the telephone on his desk as- if receiving some telepathic message that it was about to ring. Just below the receiver was a light that glowed red when a top secret call was being placed from the upper echelons of the Ministry of Defence. The light came on when kings died and presidents were assassinated.

As M watched, the telephone rang and the light glowed red.

M’s pulse did not change an iota. He held his half-filled pipe in his left hand and picked up the receiver. ‘M here.’ He listened to the urgent, harassed voice on the end of the telephone and the lines at the corner of his clear, grey eyes deepened. ‘Very well, Minister,’ he said finally. ‘We’ll get on to it.’ He replaced the receiver and paused to reflect for an instant before flicking up the switch on the intercom that connected him to his secretary.

Her voice came through immediately. ‘Yes, sir?’

M took a deep breath and spoke with a voice long since purged of all emotion. ‘Moneypenny. I want 007. As fast as you can get him.’

The face was dark and clean-cut with a three-inch scar showing whitely down the right cheek. The eyes were wide and level under straight, rather long black brows. The hair was black, parted on the left, and brushed so that a thick black comma fell over the right eyebrow. The longish straight nose ran down to a narrow upper lip below which was a wide and finely drawn but cruel mouth. The line of the jaw was firm and ruthless.

The man was wearing a dark blue alpaca suit, a Sea Island cotton shirt and plain black shoes made for him by John Lobb of St James’s Street, London. His tie was black and hand-knitted and a trifle thinner than contemporary fashion dictated. But James Bond was impervious to the transient fads of the male fashion world. Such details were of no interest to him. He pulled out a gunmetal cigarette case and considered his fiftieth cigarette of the day. As he looked down at the scuffed metal he could almost see the report of his last medical check-up which M had slid across the desk, one eyebrow raised above those damnably clear grey eyes:

The officer admits to a daily consumption of alcohol in excess of half a bottle of spirits of seventy proof or above. He also smokes an average of sixty non-filter cigarettes per day. These cigarettes are specially made for him from a mixture of Turkish and Balkan tobaccos with a higher nicotine content than ordinary brands. On examination, this regimen [Bond smiled at the recollection of the word ‘regimen’] is beginning to have the expected effect. The tongue is furred. The blood pressure raised at 180/100. The liver is becoming palpable. There is no diminution in the frequency or severity of the occipital headaches referred to in a previous report. The spasm in the trapezius muscles has increased in intensity and the ‘fibrositis’ nodules are becoming more manifest.

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 chosen 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.