Goldeneye

by John Gardner

  Moving closer to the window, Bond glanced out to see a view of the military vehicle park far below. Too far. He craned closer to look straight down and wondered if what he had in mind was possible. Then he became aware that the pounding had ceased on the door behind them, making him even more alert. Crossing to the wooden balcony rails he peered over to see Ourumov, flanked by his men, coming onto the gallery below them.

  He motioned Natalya to back off silently and get into the window opening, then he looked down again and saw, with a lurch to his stomach, that the floors of the galleries had been built with several layers of strong thick Lucite.

  He could see to the circle below, and knew it was only a matter of time before Ourumov and his troops would spot them as they peered upwards through the transparent flooring.

  As though his thought triggered the action, Ourumov shouted, pointing up at them and bullets began to plough their way into the glass-like floor, ripping and sharding the material.

  “Run,’ he yelled at Natalya. “Follow me!” and they set off to circle the entire upper gallery, Bond wildly looking to see if there were any alcove or passage which would make them safer.

  As they ran so the bullets stripped out the flooring like several pneumatic drills, following them around the gallery, making it impossible to turn back, for the thick Lucite was already shredding behind them.

  Natalya stumbled, half fell, slowing her forward movement. No bullet hit her, but the floor gave way, tearing to pieces behind her, so throwing up her arms and screaming, she fell through the jagged hole, straight into the arms of the soldiers below.

  Bond cursed, momentarily wondering if he should drop down and try to save her. She had a great spirit and had already shown that she had the guts and determination to keep going.

  He hardly paused, knowing that he would be letting his heart rule his head if he stopped now, for the bullets continued to open up the floor behind him. He would soon be running out of space, for he had almost completely covered the entire ring of the gallery, but four strides ahead he caught a glimpse of a metal safe inlaid between the shelving, with room for him to climb on to it. They would have to blow the thing out from under him with explosives that would wreck the entire building if he could make it.

  He judged the distance and then took off, going for a high jump, landing in a heap on top of the recessed safe as the fire from below removed the floor he had just left, and continued to stitch holes in what remained of the gallery.

  He saw that he was now almost directly opposite the big circular window which looked down on the vehicle park. He took a few deep breaths, unbuckled the belt Q had given him, feeling for the safety catch and moving it to the off setting, twisting the belt around his right wrist

  Lifting his arm, he aimed at what appeared to be solid stone on the far edge of the rotunda, high above. He took a deep breath, counted to three and pressed the firing mechanism on the buckle.

  The belt bucked in his hand as the pine shot out, trailing its high tensile cord. It was over in a flash, but Bond felt it was all happening in slow motion as he held his breath, praying that the tiny piton would hold.

  It hit the base of the rotunda with a solid thwack, and one quick pull on the belt told him that it was buried firm and deep into the stone.

  Another intake of breath, and Bond took up the slack, then launched himself from the top of the safe, swinging in a wide arc, right across the gallery, straight towards the circular window.

  He was aware of the strain on the belt and his arm; of the air cleaving as he swept through it; and, for a second, the long drop down through the other galleries below.

  He struck the window in the centre, feet first, letting go of the belt and lifting his hands to cover up his face.

  Then came the shattering crash as the window caved outwards and James Bond smashed through it, dropping over forty feet to the hard ground. As he went down, he thought of the many good things he had experienced in his life and the last face which crossed the screen of his mind was that of Natalya Simonova. Sadly, in a split second, he thought she might have been the best thing of all. Now he felt as insignificant as a tiny speck of dust floating through sunlight.

  It was probably one of the heaviest bets Bond had ever wagered.

  When he had stood by the big circular window after they had entered the top gallery of the archives, he had seen, parked directly below him, a military truck with its tarp in place. Nobody was in sight, so he worked out the odds on it having been moved as evens. If it had been driven away during the chase around the gallery, it would be a hard landing bringing at the least serious injury: more probably, death.

  A confirmed gambler, he had weighed the odds and, having seen no sign of life around the lorry, had bet on it being in place. So, he came shooting out of the window in a shower of glass and, glancing down, saw he had won.

  The truck was still in position. It was not the softest landing he had ever made, but it was safe enough and the most difficult part but for a couple of bruises - was getting down from the top of the tarpaulin to ground level.

  Once there, on the hard paved walkway surrounding the Military Intelligence Headquarters, he melted into the shadows, making his way across to the vehicle park.

  &he knew At some point, he knew, the main gate would have to be opened and he would just have to take his chance. He had very little ammunition left so it was a case of picking the right vehicle.

  He softly moved up and down the lines, rejecting the small jeep-like scout cars, the APCs and the smaller BTU-152us with their open tops and room for some eight men.

  There was movement coming from the main entrance, so he flattened himself against a cumbersome T55 tank, watching as Ourumov and one of the soldiers from the HO dragged Natalya towards a car and threw her roughly into the back. Ourumov sounded furious and had a weapon in his hand.

  Natalya was making a lot of noise as she was pulled to the unmarked black car. She had already taken in the fact that Bond was not lying, crushed and broken, outside the building, so she clung to the hope that her new friend had somehow escaped and was already preparing a rescue. By the time they manhandled her into the car nothing had happened and her optimism began to fade.

  Over in in the vehicle park, Bond turned and found himself looking at the rear of the T55 tank. He frowned and wondered, then made up his mind and moved.

  Natalya could smell the sour, unwashed body of Ourumov, crammed next to her in the car. The soldier drove, heading for the main gate with its barber’s shop red and white poles. They slowed for only the minimum amount of time it took for the guards at the gate to identify Ourumov, then - with the general shouting for the driver to move as fast as he could - they shot out of the gate, rubber burning as the car fishtailed, skidding into a left turn, building up speed as they ran parallel to the wall of the vehicle park.

  When it happened, Ourumov jerked and actually cried out in dismay.

  The wall on their left seemed to disintegrate and the prow of the powerful T55 lurched through the debris onto the road directly behind them. It slewed from side to side, but still followed, at its flat out speed.

  In the car there was a touch of terror in Ourumov’s voice as he shouted to the driver to move it. The fear which now came as a stench from the general was founded on an incident during the Afghanistan campaign when he had been in a tank, similar to the T55 that rumbled at their heels. Ourumov’s tank had taken a direct hit and the general was only one of two people to get out alive. In his darker dreams he could still hear the screams coming from the rest of the crew as the metal coffin burst into flames. He had shown a not unnatural fear of tanks from that time.

  Bond had sighed with pleasure when he fitted himself into the driving seat of the T55 and switched on, pulling the small knob that controlled the starter, hearing the engine immediately rumble into life. He looked around and saw there was a fuel gauge showing full; the rest of his quick course in tank driving was one of trial and error, testing the long metal
lever controlling the gears and the thick control column which, he discovered, turned the machine somewhat violently, slowing the tracks on one side and speeding those on the other so that it staggered to left or right. The brakes and accelerator were easy enough to find, and the only problem he faced there was that they were transposed from those of a normal car - brake pedal on a long stalk for the right foot and accelerator on the left.

  He had no time to examine, let alone use, the array of electronics, but he did know that he could not drive the beast and fire the 100mm gun that sprouted some twenty-nine feet from the turret. There was a machine gun in reach alongside the driver’s seat. He could not use that while Natalya was still in the car, so he concentrated on a straight chase. With luck, if he could control the machine, he might just run Ourumov to earth - literally.

  What he had not bargained for was the lack of vision through the forward slit. Somewhere within reach there was probably a periscope so that he could view the rear, but, for the time being, he needed all his concentration to learn how to handle a T55. It always looked so easy when you saw those tank battles in movies, but he had quickly discovered that unless you knew what you were doing, the tank had a tendency to drive you rather than the other way around.

  He had also not taken in the noise factor. Inside the brute there was a bone jarring vibration from the tracks, and the noise was amplified by the interior which seemed to act as an acoustic chamber.

  One of the first things he had done on hitting the street was to reach for the driver’s headphones and clamp them on, then hit the search button on the radio in the hope of locking on the police band. His Russian would probably be enough to follow any chatter concerning road blocks and the like. The rest was - in the words of an old sergeant major he had once known “Brute force and ignorance’.

  As well as controlling the tank, dealing with the extreme noise and vibration, not to mention the limited sight lines, he had to watch for the unexpectedly high volume of traffic which was out in force this evening. Twice he had almost squashed a couple of cars, now he saw Ourumov’s car take a right and he followed, cutting the corner at an angle so that the tank’s hull lifted and there was an unpleasant buckling and crunching sound as he flattened a row of parked cars. As the hull came down again, Bond saw the car had hit an intersection crammed with traffic and was reversing rapidly, touching the sides of other parked cars as it went, sending sparks from the bodywork as it weaved backwards, then taking another right turn into an alleyway.

  He gunned the motor and, this time, made a perfect right turn, tapping the brakes and hitting the accelerator with the control column hard over. Too late he saw that, while the alley was big enough for the car, it certainly gave no leeway to the tank. He was committed, though, so he straightened up and increased speed.

  It was a bumpy ride as the alley was some six feet too narrow for the T55. This was where the brute force and ignorance came into play, and to his surprise, he found that if the alleyway were too narrow, the tank took care of it, cutting a swathe of brick, dust and rubble from the buildings on either side, jerking and heaving its way along the old cobbled narrow street, finally bursting out onto a wider road - a T-junction with a wide canal facing him.

  There was nothing he could do but pull the tank around to the left, in a series of jerks and motor noise.

  The car had squealed left, and then right, onto a bridge crossing the canal, turning right. He started to make the right turn onto the bridge when he realised that it was impossible. The T55 had carved its way through the alley without any problems, but he could now see, through the smoke and brick dust filtering through the narrow driving slit, the bridge was a delicate and beautiful structure, built to take normal traffic, but a serious hazard for the tank, the weight of which it could not possibly carry.

  He was pointing in the wrong direction, the hull swivelled to the right several feet from the entrance to the bridge.

  Aloud, he said, “Let’s see how you can manage a oneeighty,’ touching brakes, holding the control column far over to the right, then putting his left foot hard down on the accelerator.

  It was like a fairground ride. The tank swung around on its own axis, doing a perfect 180 turn, and as it completed the manoeuvre, he saw that the military were already chasing him - a pair of the jeep-like vehicles and two BTU-152us, fully loaded with troops who seemed to be sitting to attention in the long open back.

  The two little jeeps had no chance. Their drivers, blinded by the dust and smoke, could not even see as they shot out of the alley exit and ploughed straight ahead, seeing the canal too late. They both tried to fly, which is not a good option in small jeep-like vehicles.

  They remained airborne for a few seconds, then smashed hard into the dirty water of the canal, their occupants leaping and scattering into the water.

  The pair of BTUs made the left turns, very close to each other and were on top of Bond’s tank before they knew it. He tried to weave out of the way, but hit one of the BTUs head on, swerved and just touched the side of the other vehicle - which was enough to push the troop carrier aside. As he moved forward at full speed, Bond was aware of men yelling as they were thrown from their stricken six-wheeler.

  “Road hog,’ Bond muttered, craning forward to see Ourumov’s car ahead of him, moving in the same direction, but on the far side of the canal.

  Inside the car, the General was panicking. “For God’s sake it’s only a slow old tank. Outrun him.”

  “I’m doing my best, sir.” The driver was about as happy as the general.

  In the back seat, Natalya glanced through the rear window and saw that the tank was making steady progress, almost running parallel with them on the opposite bank.

  She smiled with glee, then turned and gave Ourumov a wolfish grin.

  The general caught her look, did a double take, his face crimson with anger. “Shut up!” he barked at her, then saw they were approaching another bridge to their right. “Over that bridge,’ he screamed at the driver. “Cut in front of him. Over the bridge and straight on. He won’t have time to turn quickly. We can lose him.” Natalya’s smile faded as she saw six police and military cars racing up behind the tank on the far side. The police cars were making no secret of their presence - lights flashing and sirens wailing. The military vehicles, Armoured Personnel Carriers (APCs), were bristling with weapons.

  Bond saw Ourumov’s car pull right, onto the bridge.

  He floored the accelerator but the tank seemed to be already at its maximum speed and he could see that he could not expect to catch the car before it exited from the bridge and, presumably, head on down a road to his right.

  He knew other transport was chasing him, even though he could not see them. The wail of the sirens, though faint in his ears, was detectable and lord knew what else was out there: he pictured APCs with anti-tank missiles which could easily blow him to fragments.

  The car shot off the bridge, straight in front of him.

  Bond slowed, stick hard over and his feet moving between accelerator and brake. This time he had complete control and the tank turned accurately into the street. Ahead he saw the car, held up, waiting to traverse a roundabout in the centre of which stood a huge gleaming statue of Czar Nicholas on a great winged horse.

  For a moment, Bond thought he was going to catch up and be able to ram Ourumov’s car, but as he approached, so the car made its turn into the traffic flow.

  “He who hesitates.” Bond muttered and took the tank straight on and right across the roundabout. Inside his metal capsule, he clearly heard the scream of braking cars and trucks desperately trying to avoid hitting the tank, and he mouthed a curse when the right track sliced into the front of a beer lorry. Some of the load bounced in front of the driver’s slit and he wondered what the final damage might be.

  But, by this time, he was across the middle of the roundabout and felt the crushing bump as the hull hit the base of the statue, depositing the Czar Nicholas, still astride his winged horse, neatly
over the long muzzle of the 100mm main gun.

  From the back of the car, Ourumov saw what seemed to be an avenging angel bearing down on him. For the first time in years the general made the Orthodox sign of the cross, his eyes wide with fear.

  Back at the roundabout, beer cans littered the road a temptation which proved too much to many of the drivers and pedestrians who leaped into the street to indulge in a feeding frenzy, grabbing at the cans, filling shopping baskets, or using pullovers and skirts as makeshift bags to carry as many of the coveted beer cans as possible.

  Traffic was at a standstill and the entire scene was filled with a cacophony of horns and shouts from frustrated drivers: including the police and military.

  For a while, at least, Bond was free of the pursuing authorities, but it could not last More by his instinct than the sirens, he realised that, somehow, more police had got behind him.

  If he could have seen the convoy from the air, he would have known that the T55 was close behind the general’s car, and three police cars were fast gaining on the tank.

  Bond was getting more experienced at handling the machine with every minute. He took a long, wide bend to the left and glimpsed a low bridge directly in front of him, about fifty yards away, with Ourumov’s car putting on speed, just passing under it.

  He tried for more power; saw the arch come up, heard the mighty crunch and the bang as the statue hit the overhang, rolling back into the direct path of the pursuit cars.

  By now he was starting to pick up communications on the police band. There was talk of setting up a road block with anti-tank weapons and a lot of firepower, though he had no idea where this was being done. It was obvious that it had to be somewhere along the route of the general’s car, which he saw, too late, was making a fast right-hand turn.