Goldeneye

by John Gardner

  Who knows what’s going to happen tomorrow.

  His hands stroked her body, legs, thighs, belly, breasts, neck and shoulders. “This is the island I really want to know,’ he whispered.

  “Then get to know it,’ she said. “And to hell with tomorrow.

  They came in very low off the sea, crossing the coast and cruising just above the jungle. The lush greenery below looked impenetrable, but they could occasionally glimpse the odd small clearing. There was no sign of life.

  “Turn ten degrees south and hold bearing one-eightfour.” Natalya had navigated all the way and brought them in right on track. She was just the kind of girl with whom Bond could have happily spent the rest of his life - smart, plenty of initiative, that sixth sense they called intuition, full of loyalty and a ferocious courage. She was not just a very attractive face and body, but a woman he could trust In a very short time, she had come to trust him.

  They both knew well enough that their lives depended on each other. They also knew that, within the next few hours, they might die together.

  Now, as they skimmed the deep green foliage, their heads and eyes were in constant movement as they searched for something that did not seem to be there even though Natalya insisted it was certainly very close to where they now flew.

  He caught a flicker of light some ten miles further on, and headed towards it. As they drew closer he was sure the light was that of the sun reflecting on water.

  Finally there, in the middle of the jungle, was a natural bowl, a huge inland lake, its water like glass, and so deep that you could see no trace of the bottom, except at its very edges where the water lapped against a thin strip of sand, before the ground rose softly into hills of vegetation.

  He turned the Piper Archer as they reached the far side of the perfect circle of water, knowing it was inconceivable that this could be nature’s doing. The lake was too flawless, too geometric, to be anything but man-made.

  He banked the aircraft within the bowl, one wing very low, almost reaching a rate five turn as he swung through three hundred and sixty degrees and then turned to follow through in the opposite direction.

  The little plane lifted over the jungle once more.

  “There’s nothing there. Absolutely nothing,’ Natalya said.

  “Let’s give it another go. I’ll take her down very close to the drink. Keep your eyes peeled.” He extended the aircraft’s flaps to allow himself to fly safely at a slower speed, just over the water; curving around the complete circle, looking down on the wingtip which seemed to be only a foot or so above the smooth blue-green tint of the lake.

  Still nothing. Maybe Wade was right, Bond thought.

  He put on power, then retracted the flaps and climbed, crossing the lake diagonally, then, after gaining height, he pulled her round again and began another run.

  “James! Look out! James!” she screamed.

  He saw it at exactly the same moment as she shouted.

  It came straight up from the deep water, breaking the placid surface with hardly a ripple, and his immediate reaction was that it was a largish fish. Now he pushed the yoke hard to the left, his feet firmly on the rudder pedals to keep the nose up in a desperate attempt to avoid what he thought was probably a 140mm rocket, and where there was one of those, more could easily follow as they usually came in distinctive seventeen rocket packs.

  He had never yet heard of a launch of this type of rocket from underwater, but it would not be difficult, and the aircraft was probably being targeted electronically by computer even as he banked right, turning the Archer onto an opposite track as the first rocket passed harmlessly to their left.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,’ he shouted, slewing the plane in the other direction. Wrong! Another rocket came hurtling from the water as he turned. It did not explode, but sheared off over half the span of his port wing.

  The Piper was too low and everything seemed to happen in slow motion once more. Bond over-corrected and then went out of control.

  He had the elevator, rudder, stabiliser and only one aileron. It was a matter of pure luck that, as he tried to correct again and bring the nose up, the belly of the aircraft struck the water.

  Hitting water in any aircraft is as good as slamming into a brick wall. They went from around seventy-eight knots to zero in a fraction of a second. He felt the underside of the plane being torn away - a ragged and horrific cracking noise; then the nose went down, the prop churning water.

  The shore line came up to meet them and what was left of the fuselage slid up onto the sand.

  Natalya had screamed when they were hit. Now, as they rose up the strip of sand, Bond threw one arm across her and his other forearm over his own face.

  Then the fire gushed from the engine.

  He did not recall hauling her from the wreckage, but the next he knew was that he had carried her into the jungle foliage and had put her down gently in a clearing.

  Her head lolled back, then her eyelids fluttered.

  He spoke her name, urgently, several times, and finally she was awake. “You OK?”

  “I think someone hit me with a hammer.” She raised herself from the ground and began to check that she could walk and move her limbs. Bond did the same. “I think we’re both in one piece.” He flexed his aching shoulders.

  “Or at least the pieces appear to be joined in the right places.” She nodded and then lost balance again, collapsing in a heap.

  Bond had been vaguely aware of something else going on in the background, but was still disoriented. Now he realised that a helicopter was hovering low over the clearing, a rope snaking from it and a figure rappelling down very quickly.

  At first he thought Jack Wade had been very quick off the mark in sending help. It was not until he moved towards the rope that he knew he had made a grave mistake.

  A boot lashed out and caught him in the face as Xenia Onatopp reached the end of the rope to which she was secured. He managed to get halfway to his feet before she lashed out at him again. Dressed in a tight combat suit with the omnipresent machine pistol strapped to her back, Xenia was on him like a wild animal, her legs closing around his chest, knocking the wind from him and clutching, causing great stabs of pain.

  “This time, Mr. Bond, the pleasure will be all mine.” His reply “Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Onatopp.” - was almost certainly not comprehensible as she scissored his ribs, bearing down on him.

  This time she had him. He could feel the crushing, and thought the bones would crack at any minute as he fought for breath.

  She started to scream orgasmically -“Oh, yes Yes Yes…” and only stopped as an arm slid around her neck. Natalya was on her back trying to pull her from Bond, but Xenia threw her off with one arm, shouting, “Wait for your turn. You’re next.” She had lost some of her grip in dealing with Natalya; enough for Bond to reach up behind her and get a hand around the machine pistol. His thumb hit the safety catch and he squeezed the trigger.

  He had no particular purpose, but the weapon sent a spray of bullets straight up, tearing into the side of the helicopter. The pilot was obviously caught off guard for he opened up the throttle and the machine moved rapidly forward, ascending as it did so.

  The line to which Xenia was secured went taut, pulling her away from Bond, who flicked her into a spin as she was lifted, at speed, across the clearing, heading straight for a tangle of tree limbs, where she was suddenly trapped in a V formation of thick branches.

  Above, the helicopter was dragged backwards by the anchor of Xenia’s body caught in the tree. The pilot tried to descend and regain control, but the tightness of the rope pulled the machine sideways, so that he suddenly lost it altogether. The machine tipped to one side at a dangerous angle, rapidly losing height and dropping into the trees.

  There was a terrible rending, then the fireball leaped up into the air.

  Natalya was beside Bond as he got to his feet, rubbing at his chest, still in pain and knowing that he had been only seconds from
death. He looked at Natalya, and then at Xenia’s body, crushed, with her face contorted horribly in agony.

  “She always did enjoy a good squeeze,’ he said.

  Far below the lake, in a complex similar to the one at Severnaya, Boris sat in front of a bank of monitors, his eyes riveted to one of the screens, his hands obsessively playing with a pen.

  This facility, unlike Severnaya, was built in three great tiers, walkways running around each section, screens and electronics everywhere.

  The monitor in front of Boris was reeling off numbers, marked as CURRENCY TRANSFERS. The figures were so large as to be almost incomprehensible. Billions of dollars were being moved from the Bank of England into a series of accounts in France, Switzerland, Brazil, Argentina, and some huge sums were even being switched into American banks.

  “Going well, eh?” Alec Trevelyan stood behind him.

  “And they won’t know until tomorrow.”

  “They will never know once we bring Mischa into play, my friend. What’s the status? Is the satellite in range?” Boris, looking more wild and unkempt than ever, pointed up at the long screen to his right which showed the orbit status with the red satellite symbol winking away above southern Africa.

  “About six minutes.” Boris gave a little cackle.

  “OK. Prepare the dish.” Boris slapped his hand onto the console and his lower lip jutted out. “No. Not yet. I am not ready.” But I am,’ Trevelyan snapped. “I’m taking no more chances. Prepare the dish, Boris, or you won’t live long enough to collect anything.” They waited in the clearing until they both felt recovered enough to explore the lake. “There has to be something here,’ Bond said. “Xenia wouldn’t have tried to use her bizarre skills on us unless we were near.

  Breaking from the jungle and onto the beach, they stopped at the jaw-dropping sight in front of them. The water was moving, rippling, and from it rose three tall telescopic masts, joined together by steel cables.

  “Should’ve come by submarine not by plane. Bond nodded to himself.

  “No wonder we didn’t see anything.” Natalya had a hand up to her mouth.

  Reaching their full extension, the masts locked into place.

  Suspended between them, exactly over the lake, they saw a latticed triangular structure with a catwalk trailing from it at a shallow angle into the water. Then the lake started to recede and, emerging from where the water had been, there came a massive parabolic shape, hundreds of feet in diameter.

  “Quite a large radio dish,’ Bond said.

  “Is that the famous British understatement?” Natalya asked.

  “Could be. Fancy climbing onto that thing? We can get up there by climbing that metal latticework.”

  “After you, James.” Far below them, inside the circular control room, Trevelyan had opened his briefcase and taken out the GoldenEye. Holding it out to Boris, he said, “The world’s greatest cash card. I can only hope that it won’t be rejected.” Boris, watching the monitors, reported, “Mischa on line.” Far away, the satellite, disguised as a piece of space junk, began to reveal itself: a silvery ULF antenna slid out, extending itself to around a distance of half a mile.

  Below the so-called lake, Boris asked, “Target coordinates, please.’ Trevelyan hesitated for one moment, then spoke like a commander on an electronic battlefield. “The target is London.” Boris started typing in sets of numbers to activate Mischa; and at that moment, Alec Trevelyan glanced behind him and caught sight of one of the external security screens. There he saw Bond and Natalya slowly climbing through the girders of the latticework, up onto the dish.

  He sighed. “The man just won’t take a hint.” He turned to an armed uniformed guard. “Go. Take them out before this begins to get really stupid.” The Edge of Catastrophe Looking up from the rim of the dish, Bond saw that the superstructure in the centre, some five hundred feet above, had begun to rotate.

  “He’s preparing to signal the satellite,’ Natalya warned him.

  “How do we stop him?”

  “Look, right up there, below the superstructure, there’s a maintenance room. If we can get in there, we can take out the transmitter, just above the antenna.” Then the shooting began.

  They could not see where the fire came from, but out there, clinging to the rim of the dish - a massive bowl where the lake had been - with the huge superstructure above its centre, they were sitting targets.

  Bullets clanged into the metal around them. Natalya flinched and lost her footing on the slippery dish, slick with water and algae.

  Bond tried to make a grab for her and failed, losing his own balance at the same time.

  They both slid down the basin, right to the centre, which was the stump of the dish, like a large blockhouse with a sealed hatch on their side. The waterproof seal, Bond guessed, could be activated from either side for there was a heavy spoked wheel in the middle.

  Presumably, he reasoned, there was an air lock behind the hatch for the use of any maintenance staff.

  He grasped the wheel and began to turn, keeping his head down, expecting another fusillade of shots at any moment. There was a hiss as the hatch swung open, and he helped Natalya inside what appeared to be a chamber large enough to take two people. Another hatch with a wheel lay at the far end, so this had to be some kind of way in or out when the dish was below water.

  A minute later, they were through the other side of the hatch, making their way down a rungged ladder which, in turn, led to a pillared catwalk, circling the control room.

  He thought of the archives back at the Military Intelligence Headquarters. This circular control room was built on the same principle, but on a larger scale and with insulated metal, tiles and walls that held monitors, together with other complex electronics.

  To their left were five or six long, high cylinders which presumably provided fuel for internal generators.

  Below, on the bottom level, they could see Trevelyan and Boris seated at the firing console, and Trevelyan’s voice came floating up to them -“On my count, Boris.

  Both men had their hands on the firing keys. “Three Two One.” They turned the keys and lights on the console started to wink from green to red. The display above read Weapon Armed. Time to Target 00:2132:26.

  Natalya and Bond seemed to be rooted, horrified, to the catwalk, watching helplessly as Trevelyan uncovered the firing button and punched it, then laughed -“God save the Queen.” Now, with a surge of anger, Bond knew that Trevelyan had targeted England. Almost certainly London. He began to move, but Natalya caught his arm and pointed down to the middle level. A door had opened and a technician, wearing a parka with a fur hood and gloves, emerged from what they could see was a large room.

  “The mainframe computer,’ Natalya whispered. “They’ll have a cooling system in there. It’ll be like a big refrigerator.” She had hardly got the words out when they saw uniformed, armed men heading up the steel staircase towards them. Bond pushed Natalya back into comparative safety behind a pillar when the section of guards began to open fire as they reached the upper level.

  He fired two shots, and the first man on the catwalk spun around, grabbing air, and then the man behind him so that the pair slid back down the stairs.

  Other uniformed men scrambled up the stairway and began to lay down withering fire. Bullets smashed off tiling, hit the fuel tanks or ricocheted from the walls. Bond attempted to return fire, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. He glanced round to assure himself that Natalya was all right, but she had gone. He peered around and thought he saw a figure somewhere below the catwalk, dangling and moving hand over hand directly underneath.

  Natalya had quietly run from behind the pillar, taken a peep at the underside of the catwalk and seen that a series of rungs ran directly along it. Now she was hanging from them, reaching out and grabbing, moving from rung to rung, heading towards the door that led to the mainframe computer room.

  Staying as close as he could to the wall, Bond ducked behind the first long fuel tank, slid his hand
into a pouch on his belt and drew out one of the small magnetic mines Q had sent in the briefcase. Fuel was dripping from the bullet holes, and he dodged back, loosing off another couple of rounds, then attaching a mine to the next tank.

  He continued, firing and retreating, giving himself time to place the electronically controlled mines under the tanks.

  This continued until Bond realised that his pistol was empty and he would have to take the chance that Natalya was about to do something very constructive. Hopelessly outnumbered, he threw his automatic out onto the walkway, placed his hands above his head and walked out to face the knot of troops, hoping they at least had the discipline to cease firing.

  As he moved out, he caught a glimpse of Natalya dropping from the underside of the catwalk and landing by the door which led into the mainframe computer room. He took his eyes from her for a second and faced his captors.

  When he glanced down again, she had disappeared.

  Her breath immediately condensed in the freezing atmosphere of the mainframe room. Natalya glanced around.

  Without protective clothing she could only last for a few minutes in this place, so she hurried over to the long plastic keyboard, grabbing at the chair set in front of it.

  Immediately her fingers touched the metal on the chair they froze and she had to pull them off, ripping skin from her hand as she did so.

  Behind her she glimpsed the large stainless steel vats, each bearing the international Do Not Touch symbol with a ~200o mark.

  Liquid nitrogen, she thought, the coolant for the mainframe, keeping it at a steady, very low temperature.

  Carefully, Natalya seated herself at the plastic keyboard and began to work.

  On the highest walkway, the section of troops to whom Bond had surrendered were frisking him: making him lean with his hands flat against the wall. From this position, he could clearly see the mines he had set under the fuel tanks, their little red lights winking to show they were armed and would detonate once he used the watch on his left wrist He tried to distract the men patting him down by keeping up a stream of abuse and turning his head away from the tanks.