by John Gardner
He was being banged hard, and regularly, in the back.
Someone was calling to him. A woman, her speech accented. He could not move or open his eyes, and his chest felt as though a mule had kicked him.
He tried to retreat into sleep, after all being asleep was being safe, and he had no desire to face anything unsafe.
“Wake up… Wake up, Mister… Sir, wake up.
Please wake up.” Definitely a Russian accent, and she seemed to be pounding on his back. Finally he struggled to the surface and found himself returning to a very alien world.
He sat in a cockpit. Rows of instruments and switches were in front of him and a canopy around him, but he was bound into the seat tightly. Rope crossed and recrossed his chest and arms. More rope cut into his wrists and his ankles, while even more was bound around his legs. It did not require genius to realise that he sat, absolutely secured, in the forward cockpit of the Tigre helicopter.
The voice, accompanied by banging, came from the rear, electronics/navigation officer’s position. “Wake up Wake up…” it droned on like a mantra.
He managed to turn his head just enough to catch sight of the dark hair and attractive face while her feet kept up their pounding on the back of the pilot’s seat.
“I’m here. I’m here, it’s OK.” His voice sounded slurred and he could feel the parched dryness of his throat. He tried to get his head around so that he could see more, but it was impossible so he concentrated on his restraints which did not seem to give an inch.
“Do something,’ the woman was pleading. “For heaven’s sake, do something.”
“I’m a shade tired. OK.” Pushing with all his strength, Bond managed to reach some of the switches with his face, clocking them on with nose, mouth and forehead. Some of the instruments illuminated and there was a whine as the engine began to spool up, the rotors chop-chopping above them.
A beeping noise attracted his attention and, with the ropes pressing into his flesh causing extreme pain, he leaned forward to peer at the instrument concerned.
It was a flashing display on the weapons’ control panel.
In red it flashed DELAY LAUNCH IN SECONDS TO 17 16 15.
Launch? He thought. Missiles? The chopper itself?
The numbers moved on relentlessly, and Bond wondered if this was his personal countdown to death - for him and the young woman behind him.
07 06…05…04.
The whole cabin began to shake violently and his ears popped as, with great streams of flame, a pair of missiles screeched off from under the stubby weapons bearing wings.
The two missiles moved so fast that by the time he had taken in what was happening, they were flickering flames a mile or so in the distance, running low over buildings, and the lights of St. Petersburg.
Then, in tandem, they lifted upwards, slicing into the sky, crossing each other’s trails.
Noises still came from the weapons’ control panel. A highpitched whine, followed by a growl and an urgent deet-deet-deet sound that he recognised and associated with a target acquisition warning.
Eyes down again and he saw another counter moving.
One set of figures remained set at 003.109.001. That would be the target position, and below it another series of numbers flowed, suddenly stopping at the same coordinates -003.109.001. A match, and he now knew where the target was located. He was sitting in it.
Far away, high in the sky to the left, the rockets had turned and were coming down, like perfectly aimed arrows, pointing directly towards them. He could feel the sweat trickle from his hairline as he frantically looked for the one way of escape. He yelled back at the girl. “I need a square red button. Probably lit up. Can you see it?’ “There.. To your right To your right..
His eyes flicked over and there it was with the words CAUTION EJECT above it, and out of reach.
With a final thrust, summoning all his strength and backing it up with a yell, he slammed his head towards the button and felt his right temple touch. Then the world changed again.
The rotors howled and were thrown away from the helicopter. There was a massive thump from beneath the long cockpit as it was launched into the air, a one-piece cabin capsule which shot to almost two hundred feet before parachutes were deployed.
At the apogee of its surge upwards, the capsule seemed to hover, not moving, in the air, and from below came the devastating explosion as the two missiles smashed into the frame of the helicopter, sending up a great fireball that, for a second, engulfed the capsule.
The girl was screaming behind him, and he knew that his own mouth was open, but could not tell if it was wide in a silent scream, or if he was also shrieking with fear.
The capsule drifted down and hit the earth with a heavy, bone-jarring thud. It was several seconds before Bond realised that the jolt of the ejector rockets, combined with the thud of landing, had loosened the ropes. He struggled, pushing and pulling until, finally, his arms were free, then his hands, so that he was able to reach down and release his legs.
He popped the canopy and began to climb out and along to the rear compartment where the girl sat in shock, bewildered and white knuckled as she clung to the arm rests of the seat. She was held down by straps with buckles at the back; her arms were secured to the seat, and there was a tight strap around her ankles.
He swung around, unlocking her section of the canopy, reaching out to her - swiftly undoing the straps. “Come on. Let me help you out.” He spoke gently, though he later realised that he was probably shouting as his ears were popping from the G forces to which they had been exposed during the ejection.
The girl grabbed his arm and he helped her to the soft earth.
Almost as they touched the ground, she lashed out, kicking at his shins and trying to escape from him.
“Stop!” He was shouting by now.
“No! Let me go. Take your hands off me!” She clawed at him with her fingernails.
“I’m trying to help you. Stop it now.” They were still grappling when the white spotlights of two helicopters nearly blinded them from above. Near at hand they could hear the wail of sirens and a voice on a loud hailer unit in one of the helicopters told them in Russian to stay exactly where they were.’… If you move, you will be shot where you stand,’ the voice continued.
“I think it would be a good idea to pretend we’re one of these damned statues,’ Bond said, gently wrapping the trembling girl in his arms.
The headquarters of Military Intelligence for the St. Petersburg area lie behind high brick walls near what was once Red Army Student Street. Within the walls the army keeps a large number of vehicles ranging from APCs and the smaller open-topped BTU-152u Command Vehicles, to tanks. The headquarters building is of a dour red brick, in stark contrast with the rest of the city which sports some of the most beautiful buildings and views in the whole of Russia, if not the world. Of all Russian cities, St. Petersburg was rebuilt to closely mirror its former glory following the terrible siege of 900 days during the War.
Bond and Natalya were taken straight to an interrogation cell: bare and uncompromising - the metal door slammed and locked behind them immediately. An unshaded light bulb hung from the ceiling and the furnishings were a simple metal table and three metal chairs. The table and two of the chairs were bolted to the floor. The third, Bond immediately discovered, had been brought in recently and was not secured.
There was no point in even searching for bugs, for they would be invisible these days without an electronic sweeper and even that would not guarantee results. He would have to risk talking anyway, for he needed to work on the girl and coax her back to normal. At the moment she cowered in a corner, her eyes full of fear.
Moving towards her, he said quietly, “We haven’t much time.” She crawled along the wall, moving away from him, almost shouting, “Stay away from me. Don’t come near or I’ll scratch your eyes out. Just stay away.
In the end, he managed to grab her by the wrists and pull her towards him. “Now listen,’
he spoke almost in a whisper - not gentle but flat, urgent and cold. “I work for the British Government. So, you can either take your chances with me, or put your life in the hands of your fellow countrymen - the people who killed everyone at Severnaya.
“Where’s Severnaya? I’ve never been to Severnaya.
“Your watch has.” He twisted her wrist, reading off the frozen time. “Seven-fifteen and twenty-three seconds in the evening. The very moment the electronics everywhere in the vicinity were stopped by the GoldenEye blast”
“The GoldenEye ?” she began, and he saw that she was starting to relent.
“I’d put money on the fact that you were the one who climbed up the remains of the big satellite dish to get out.” It seemed an age before she gave him a little nod of agreement.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Natalya Fyodorovna Simonova. Yes, I am a Level Two programmer, and I know what happened.”
“Natalya, that’s a lovely name. Who was the inside man on this?”
“Boris. Boris Grishenko.”
“Russian Federal Intelligence - the old KGB - or military?”
“A brilliant computer programmer, but I think probably old KGB. He acts crazy but he’s quite exceptional.”
“Was there anyone else?”
“Inside? No.”
“What about satellites. Are there any more?”
“Just one moment. It’s my turn to ask questions.” She appeared to have gained confidence. “Who are you?
Who are you really?”
“James…” he began, then a key rattled in the metal door which was thrown open and an armed guard preceded the Minister of Defence, Viktor Mishkin, into the cell.
Mishkin looked suave in a long dark coat with a sable collar over his sober dark suit. In his right hand he carried Bond’s automatic pistol, and his smile was the smile of a tiger.
“Well, good morning, Mr. Bond.” He held the gun as a child might hold a small flag, wiggling it in the air. “Sit, both of you.” Bond immediately grabbed the metal chair that was not bolted to the floor, while Mishkin took the chair opposite.
“In case you do not recognise me, I am Viktor Mishkin, Minister of Defence.” He hardly paused for breath, putting Bond’s pistol on the metal table in front of him. “So, how shall we execute you, Commander Bond? The usual manner: the bullet to the back of the head? Quick, painless and straightaway, now, so we can deny any knowledge of you?’ Bond raised an eyebrow. “No small talk or chit-chat, Minister?You’re not going to do a proper sinister interrogation? Nobody has time for these things any more.
Interrogation’s a lost art.”
“This isn’t the time to be flippant, Commander. I have one question only. Where is the GoldenEye?”
“I assumed you had it, Minister.”
“No. All I have is an English spy, a Severnaya programmer, and the helicopter they stole… “You only have what one traitor in your government wanted it to look like.’ Mishkin’s hand came down heavily on the table. “Who is behind your attack on Severnaya? Who ordered it?”
“Who had the access codes?”
“The penalty for terrorism is death, and I regard the pair of you as terrorists.”
“What’s the penalty for treason these days, Minister? A slap on the wrist and banishment to a country dacha, like the traitors who bungled the coup in “91?”
“Some died.”
“Supposedly by their own hand. You have another traitor close to you, Minister.” Natalya suddenly spoke, loudly and with a very firm voice. “Stop it. Stop it, both of you. You’re like children squabbling over their toys.” Bond looked at her, a smile around the cruel corner of his mouth. “Didn’t you know, my dear? The one who dies with the most toys wins.”
“Stop it. You know the truth as well as I do.” She looked at Mishkin. “It was Ourumov. General Ourumov and that woman - the one like a snake.
Together they killed everyone and stole the GoldenEye.” Mishkin threw back his head and gave a one note laugh.
“Ha, why would Ourumov do that?”
“Because there’s another satellite. Exactly the same as the one they used to destroy Severnaya.” Mishkin’s smile turned itself off, as though someone had thrown a switch. “This is true?”
“Absolutely true. The second one is code named Mischa, and somewhere out there is a second control complex.
A commotion at the door stopped them short. General Ourumov seemed to cannon into the room, slamming the door behind him. He looked unkempt, tired, unshaven and as though he had slept in his uniform. Sweat dripped from his face as if he had been running through terrible humidity and was very out of condition.
“Defence Minister… I must protest.” he blurted, struggling for breath.
“General Ourumov..
“This is my investigation. You are out of order!”
“From what I’ve just heard, General, it is you who is out of order.” Ourumov leaned forward and picked up Bond’s pistol from the table. “I think I’ve seen this weapon before!”
“Put it down, General.”
“In the hands of our enemy. Do you even know who the enemy is, Viktor? Do you?” Mishkin made a gesture, as though he were knocking an insect out of the way.
“Guard! The General is under arrest Escort him to.
The guard, a young soldier in his early twenties, paused for a second, then began to unholster his machine pistol - too late, for Ourumov wheeled and shot him. The guard was thrown against the wall, his chest torn out by the Glaser round.
Bond grabbed Natalya and dragged her down to the hard stone floor, trying to protect her with his body, as Ourumov turned and took off Mishkin’s head with a second shot.
“This ammunition takes no prisoners, does it? What a terrible state of affairs. Defence Minister Viktor Mishkin is murdered by the cowardly British agent, James Bond…” He worked the slide on the pistol, flipped the magazine from the butt, pocketing the ammunition and tossing the gun to Bond as his hand went towards the weapon holstered at his hip.
In turn, Bond is shot while trying to escape.” He levelled his pistol and began to shout, almost hysterically - Guards… Guards.
Quickly.” The pistol came up in his hand, but Bond had already moved, diving for the unanchored metal chair and hurling it at Ourumov, who caught it across his chest, falling backwards, the pistol going off and a bullet ricocheting around the cell. As it happened, so Bond was on Ourumov, his fist catching the general on the side of the jaw so that his head lolled back, unconscious.
Bond dragged Natalya - and the one loose chair - to the wall behind the door just before it clanged open, and two soldiers, both with machine pistols, barrelled into the room, and stopped short, staring at the bodies, completely shaken by what they had found.
Before the pair had a chance to react, Bond leaped forward, swinging the chair - left and right, hard, smashing into the faces of the two men, then catching Natalya by the wrist, he hauled her out of the cell stopping only to scoop up a machine pistol which had fallen from one of the now bleeding and unconscious soldiers.
They were in a long passageway studded with metal doors, like the one belonging to the cell from which they had escaped. At the far end of the corridor, steps led upwards and, still pulling Natalya with him, Bond headed towards them, reckoning that stairs going up probably meant there would be stairs going down. He was wrong.
Damn, he cursed. People on the run in buildings normally go up and he had wanted to break that psychological fact by getting down to a lower floor.
At the top of this short flight of stairs, another long corridor led to an open plan office. Three soldiers stood at the ready in front of the office, and, as he glanced back, he could see Ourumov, puffing and blowing, his pistol unholstered and accompanied by three more men, beginning to follow the fugitives.
He put a quick burst in the direction of Ourumov, and then fired a long burst at the three men in front of the office. He saw one man go down, and another fall on
to one knee as though wounded. The third ducked back into the office.
There seemed to be no way out, so he signalled to Natalya, making her flatten herself against the wall as he edged his way forward.
Three steps and they came to an archway on their left which appeared to be the entrance to yet another very dark and narrow corridor.
There was no option so he pulled the girl close and asked if she was all right.
“I will be if I live,’ she said with some spirit.
“Run like hell and don’t stop for anyone.” They set off at a sprint into the darkness.
Light gleamed at the far end and, as they came closer, he deciphered a red notice in Russian which said NO ADMITTANCE.
INTELLIGENCE ARCHIVES LENINGRAD AREA.
“Someone not keeping up with the times,’ he muttered.
A very stout metal door with a big lock barred their way.
“Keep going!” he shouted back to Natalya, firing a burst from the hip which blew out the lock and set a siren wailing.
They crossed into the archive area and Bond slammed the door behind them. They were now in a passage leading to a larger well-lit section, and lined with a series of cabinets teetering and leaning in an obviously unsafe manner.
He wished, fleetingly, that he had more time. He would have liked to have a squint at some of the files which were piled in bulk in those units.
As soon as they reached the end of the entrance hallway, he motioned Natalya to stand clear and put his shoulder against the last cabinet. It toppled easily against the next structure and set off a domino effect so that the cabinets and shelving crashed down against the door. Swiftly he crossed the little passage, did the same with the cabinets on that side, then turned his attention to the main archives.
Bond and Natalya found themselves in the uppermost section of three huge circular galleries, with what appeared to be a glass rotunda directly above them. Here things were more orderly. To his right he saw a large round segmented window between the neat and solidly built bookcases that circled the gallery. From behind there was a pounding as Ourumov’s men tried to batter their way in.
