by John Gardner
Four stakes had been firmly driven into the ground and Bond was pushed down, his back against the earth, between the stakes. He felt his wrists and ankles being secured, he thought with strong leather thongs, which were in turn affixed to the stakes. His body was now spreadeagled, the thongs pulled tight, on the ground directly in front of the cage. He could smell the fat which was smeared on his body and hear the wolves start to growl as they became more excited.
‘This is your last opportunity, Captain Bond. You’re sure we cannot make you change your mind?’
‘Go to hell where you belong, Brokenclaw Lee, son of a Chinese tailor and a Blackfoot whore,’ he shouted.
For a second, he had the pleasure of hearing Brokenclaw lose his composure and shout in outrage – ‘Kill!’
There was a rattling noise and, lifting his head, Bond saw a section of the cage slide upwards.
Then the wolves came bounding and howling into the arena.
16
AWESOME
Commander Edwin Rushia, United States Navy, had done many strange and dangerous things in his time, but never anything like this.
‘It’s just on the off chance,’ M had told him.
‘If they did it to Wanda’s father, they could just as well do it to Bond,’ Bill Tanner said. ‘Mind you, with all the delays, we could be too late anyway.’
But he was not too late. They had kitted him out in camouflaged fatigues and given him an M40A1, the Marines’ sniper’s rifle complete with long-range sights. This last was only handed over after he had assured them of his skill with weapons.
Grant had questioned him thoroughly on this point. ‘If you’re not any good, you could be risking everything.’
Rushia, who was only a couple of years Grant’s senior, looked at him in a quiet, reflective manner before saying, ‘Son, when I was a kid in Jewel Junction, Iowa, I’d go hunting with my old Daddy. When I tell you I could take the eyes out of a rabbit at fifty yards, maybe you’ll believe me.’ So they also gave him a 9mm DA 140 automatic, a development of the famous Browning Highpower.
‘Feel like a guerrilla,’ Rushia commented.
‘You look like a gorilla,’ Bill Tanner drawled. He had come to like and respect this slow-speaking, humorous and intelligent man.
They had also provided a pair of small ultra-light binoculars and a compass.
Rushia gathered one or two things that were his own idea and stuffed them into a backpack, before being handed the main weapon.
When the doctor, whom Franks had dredged up from the depths of the ship, handed over the package, carefully wrapped in tinfoil, Rushia had taken hold of it gingerly as though it were a bomb.
‘For heaven’s sake, don’t let any humans near those,’ the doctor had said. ‘There’s enough chloral in them to put an army out for a couple of weeks. Better to overdo it than give standard doses. We don’t know the stamina of the beasts.’
We don’t know if I’m going to get within spitting distance of them either, Rushia thought. Then they went over the maps for the last time, took him up on deck and loaded him into a helicopter.
They flew in very low over the sea, hovering just off the PCH to let him down the rope dropped from the main door. Rushia hit the ground with adrenaline pumping, moving fast into the rocky area sloping away from the highway.
It proved to be five miles of very heavy going. The ground undulated, and he thought that seeing it from the air did not prepare you for dealing with the real thing. It took almost two hours, as he was careful to dodge between rocks and keep his eyes skinned for sentries or look-outs which he was pretty certain Brokenclaw would have posted around the western limit of the property. But there were none, and when he finally reached a rock-strewn bluff overlooking the house, Rushia saw why.
A short distance below him, men worked hard to clear the wreckage of a helicopter. He only hoped to heaven that Bond had not perished in what must have been a nasty crash. Something had to happen soon. It would be dusk in less than two hours.
Carefully he scanned the entire area through the binoculars. The wolf pen was way over to his right, but he thought there was a useful piece of high ground from which he could operate. It took a good half-hour of painstaking movement to bring him to the chosen site – the top of a mound which was heavily scored with rocks and boulders.
Below, about a hundred yards away, he could see with his naked eyes the long wolf pen and the big low cage in which the beasts prowled. They looked, he thought, mightily excited, but, if he were to do the job properly, he would have to risk being seen, or even caught. Hunkering down behind the rocks, he removed the pack and laid everything but the side-arm on the ground. Lastly, he pulled on the pair of surgical gloves they had given him and opened the pack, bringing out the foil-covered package. ‘Don’t want you licking your fingers after handling that stuff,’ the doctor had told him. Now he glanced at his watch. It had taken a very long time to get this far. By his reckoning around five hours had passed since M had first asked him if he would undertake the job. The Special Forces unit must already be on the way, but what of Bond? It might already be too late for him.
Loosening the pistol in his holster, Ed Rushia slowly rose from the rocks and moved quickly down the slope towards the wolf pen. The small gate at the extreme end of the enclosure was fastened only by a simple bolt, and he was through and walking quickly towards the cage in a matter of seconds.
The seven wolves inside the edge itself seemed to become excited, even agitated, as he approached, recoiling slightly at the smell which came from them.
They were magnificent. Big and with long grey coats, occasionally giving a throaty growl as they started to crowd towards the bars of the cage.
Some six feet from the bars, Rushia squatted down, listened for any odd sounds and then unwrapped the package, disclosing the dozen juicy and bloody steaks which had been doctored with chloral.
When he tossed the first steak through the bars there was pandemonium as the beasts fought over the food. So he quickly followed up with the other steaks, running along the outside of the cage and throwing them in, one at a time, so that they would land in different spots.
In all, it took around five minutes, and the wolves were still fighting and grabbing at the red meat. He had done all he could, so Rushia moved swiftly back along the enclosure, through the gate which he bolted, then up the hundred yards to his little eyrie where he made himself comfortable, settling behind the rifle in case it became necessary for him to turn from Navy commander to sniper first class.
Occasionally he viewed the wolves through the scope. They still prowled to and fro, though he noticed that at least one of the brutes had started to stagger as he walked, while another had lain on the floor of the cage. From time to time one or the other of them would emit a howl, a cross between a cry of anxiety and a yawn.
Then he heard the noise floating from the other side of the clump of trees. People were approaching.
Later, Rushia was to say that the total barbarity of the next few minutes left him cold and unable to move. The little party came into sight, the huge figure of Brokenclaw Lee walking slowly so that the elderly Chinese could hobble beside him with the help of a cane, Bond being led by two uniformed men, while another pair followed behind. Then came the two Chinese, one a big bruiser of a man with a bandaged head, the other emaciated and carrying a bucket.
Rushia froze as he saw what was intended, feeling nauseated as Bond was stripped and the massive Brokenclaw daubed him with what looked like grease from the bucket. They manhandled Bond into the wolf run and Rushia suddenly became very angry. The nausea turned to cold hatred and he lifted the rifle, zeroing on to Brokenclaw Lee himself, then lowering the weapon to watch with horror as they pegged his friend on to the ground and moved quickly back to the outside of the enclosed run.
He heard Bond’s shout loud and clear. ‘Go to hell where you belong, Brokenclaw Lee, son of a Chinese tailor and a Blackfoot whore.’
Then Lee’s rejoind
er, ‘Kill!’
He even heard the section of the cage rattle upwards and saw four of the wolves come bounding out making little half-hearted howling sounds.
Rushia turned the rifle towards the wolves, then lowered it once more as he saw what was happening.
The first beast to come from the cage seemed to slide to a halt and blink around him, his head moving and snout lifting, sniffing the air. Then the wolf took a couple of staggering paces, as though drunk, before he rolled over on his back giving tired little howls.
Similar things were going on among the other wolves. One found the leap from the cage into brightness too much. It skidded to a halt, legs buckling from under it, while the other two wolves just wandered aimlessly, staggering and uncertain of where they were or what they should do.
One was still asleep in the cage, and the final pair came slowly into the arena.
Brokenclaw was shouting something, as though trying to urge his killers into action. Rushia heard the words, ‘Not been fed since last night . . .’ float upwards.
‘Wrong,’ he said aloud.
One of the final pair had just stretched out in a warm patch of sun, while the other, Rushia saw with some anxiety, was inching its way unsteadily towards Bond. He raised the rifle again, then began to chuckle. The wolf had reached the junction of Bond’s thighs and was licking at whatever Brokenclaw had smeared there. But the licks were desultory and looked like small signs of affection. At last, with Brokenclaw heading towards the gate into he enclosure, the animal just curled up against Bond’s legs, laid his muzzle on a thigh and relaxed into unconsciousness.
The cross-hairs on Rushia’s scope were spot on Brokenclaw’s head as he pulled open the gate and as he pulled so the action appeared to set off the first explosion.
It came like a dull double crump, a column of smoke billowing up from the far northern extremity behind the house.
Brokenclaw turned, his face registering amazement. Then came the second explosion, nearer at hand, less than fifty yards on the other side of the copse. Below him, Rushia watched the sudden chaos – Brokenclaw shouting orders, the old Chinese staring about him utterly bewildered, while the men with weapons started to run back towards the house.
Ed Rushia fired once, putting the bullet almost at Lee’s feet, but the big man was moving very quickly now, out of the enclosure and back towards the house, dragging the little old Chinese man with him.
At that moment two big Blackhawk helicopters seemed to rise from the direction of the road and hover at either end of the boundaries, while ropes snaked down and troops abseiled to the ground. As soon as the first waves were out, the helicopters moved upwards, making room for the second wave.
By this time Rushia was on his feet and running down towards the enclosure, arms and legs going every which way as he raced towards the spreadeagled form of Bond.
‘You cut that a little fine.’ Bond took a deep breath. In spite of his outward calm, Rushia had little doubt that 007 was almost at the extreme point of shock. He cut through the leather thongs, rolled the sleeping wolf from his friend’s leg and said, ‘Good grief, James, you smell like a polecat.’
‘The damned fat they spread on me. Let me out. Let me get to my clothes and for heaven’s sake give me a weapon.’
Rushia followed him. Rarely had he seen anyone dress so quickly. When he was fully clothed, Bond grabbed the pistol from Rushia’s holster. ‘You’ve got a rifle, so you’re okay,’ he shouted as he dashed towards the noise coming from the direction of the house.
There were dull crumps which Bond correctly identified as flash-bangs – stun grenades – and the occasional shot was underscored by the quick rattling bursts of automatic weapons.
He reached the far side of the hangar of trees. Smoke was pouring from the southern exit to the bunker, and as he neared it, a uniformed figure, the face covered with a breathing mask, shouted a muffled, ‘Halt! Drop the gun! Now!’
‘Custodian!’ Bond yelled, hoping the assault team had been given their respective code names.
‘Okay, sir. Captain who?’
‘Bond,’ he shouted. ‘James Bond. Now let me get in there.’
The mask was obviously fitted with a speaker device, for the Special Forces man could be heard clearly. ‘Best not try it without a mask, sir.’
‘Well, get me one.’ Bond’s adrenaline was pumping, and he was aware that most of the firing had stopped.
‘James.’ It was his old friend Bill Tanner in camouflage fatigues, a pistol in his hand. ‘I think they’ve got the lot.’ He was puffing a little as he reached Bond who made an immediate grab for the smoke mask that dangled from Tanner’s waist.
‘Let me see for myself,’ he shouted, slipping the mask across his face and adjusting the straps.
‘Put that on.’ Tanner shoved a Special Forces armband around Bond’s wrist and up his right arm.
When he reached the southern exit, troops were already bringing people out, but he saw neither Brokenclaw nor Bone Bender Ding among them. ‘Hold them back, I need to get in,’ he snapped at the officer in charge.
‘Who’s asking?’ the man sounded belligerent.
‘Custodian!’ he snapped. ‘Captain Bond, Royal Navy.’
‘Okay, you’re cleared, sir.’ The Special Forces officer sounded no less belligerent, but held back the line of prisoners being herded out.
As he proceeded into the corridor, he looked at every face in the line of men being prodded and shoved into the sunlight above. The deeper he went the more anxious he became. Not only was there no sign of Brokenclaw, Ding, or even General H’ang, but he had not set eyes on anyone remotely looking like one of the Navy prisoners. Nor Chi-Chi. All his instincts told him that it was far from over yet.
In the room that had been Lee’s study, several officers and enlisted men were gathered around the table looking at a drawing of the complex maze of tunnels.
No smoke lingered here, so Bond took off the mask and quickly introduced himself. ‘Unless you’ve taken people out of the north exit, you haven’t got them all, not by any stretch.’
‘We know that, Captain Bond. There are still some down there. Here.’ His finger traced one of the offshoots from the main corridor. ‘But we haven’t identified it.’
Bond’s mind raced back. He had been taken from the secure room where they had left Chi-Chi. Yes, the passage was small and had led straight into the main corridor. Chi-Chi had said something about a false wall and a narrow passage. ‘I think I know.’ He did not even wait for anyone to follow him but dived through the door and dashed down the stairs, heading along the northern corridor. The passages sprouted to left and right then about two hundred yards into the tunnel, he saw the start of an oblong passage leading to the left. It looked as though nobody had bothered to extend it, for six paces inside, it was blocked by what seemed to be a solid brick wall. Chi-Chi had said something about kicking a brick at the lower left side. Looking down it was plain that the brick in question protruded slightly. Bond kicked and the whole wall slid away, revealing a lighted passage. A figure moved thirty yards down, shouting and turning at the same moment.
Frozen Stalk Pu lifted a handgun, but Bond already had two shots away, and Pu levitated for a second before being flung back to sprawl on the floor.
There were cheers from further down the passage. The Naval prisoners, he presumed. Someone shouted, ‘That bastard Ding’s with the girl.’
Bond’s feet hardly touched the ground as he covered the distance to what he now recognised as the secure room where he had last been with Chi-Chi. Pistol at the high port, he lashed out at the door and leaped into the room.
There was a blurred image of Chi-Chi, now quite naked, cowering in a corner, but the next thing he knew was a ferocious kick which sent his pistol flying.
Bond dropped and rolled, coming up to face the grinning, gold-toothed Bone Bender Ding. ‘Now you fin’ out why they call me Bone Bender,’ the giant hissed.
Bond moved in, but Ding was fast and
very good. Feinting left, his foot lashed out catching Bond’s shin and toppling him to the floor. He was on his feet again quickly, but Ding performed an almost balletic pirouette. His body seemed to hang sideways in the air for a second as both feet slammed into Bond’s chest, one after the other.
Bond staggered against the wall; his chest seemed on fire and he had difficulty breathing.
Ding smiled and bounced from one leg to the other. ‘One on one bit different for you, eh?’
Bond did not even see the right leg lift and straighten, slamming into his chest again, knocking the breath from his body. Yet instinct warned him of the left leg which he was just able to sidestep and grab, giving the foot a quick wrench. He knew this was mostly luck – against a man like Ding, he was out of his league.
Ding was indeed up and coming in at him again. A right hand smashed forward, the arm straight, knuckles like iron grazing Bond’s cheek. ‘Chi-Chi, where’s the gun?’ he whispered. But the Chinese was coming in again, putting the entire weight of his body into a swift curving jump, turning to smash into Bond sideways.
As he hit the wall, Bond heard Chi-Chi whisper, ‘Here. By me, James.’ Before he could even glance in her direction, Ding was swinging into his Ninja kicks again, the heels of each foot making contact, one to the shoulder and the other to the face. They felt like bullet shocks and he reeled against the wall, just in time to see one foot come up. For the second time, he managed to grasp the foot and wrench it, first one way, then the other, going with the body and then against it.
Ding gave a growl of anger as he slewed over on to the bare concrete floor. He took a few seconds to get back on his feet and Bond only needed a blink of time. The pistol he had taken from Rushia was close to where Chi-Chi was trying to push herself through the wall.
He dived towards it as Ding’s foot came whistling within an inch of his head. He saw the big Chinese back away, then gather himself for what would be the final lunge that would send his entire weight and body smashing into Bond. Ding seemed to rise in the air and hurtle towards his target as though propelled by a rocket.
