Bond stepped in, grabbing at the Browning, twisting as he did so, aiming a heavy chop with the gun butt at the base of Speaker’s skull.
“Coffee,” Bond whispered to himself, “can instantly damage your health.” He was outside, sliding the gate closed, locking it and removing the keys.
He went through the outer door with care. There was nobody in the passageway, so he locked the door, and moved along the passage until he came to the first companionway which he went up at speed. He had one great advantage over the Wrens: one of the first things any officer does when reporting aboard a new ship is to make certain he knows the lay-out, and the best and quickest route to follow between any two points. Bond had spent almost an entire day learning the passages, bulkheads, companionways and catwalks of Invincible. He knew the way to the nearest heads which had ports above sea level, and he made this his first stop, unscrewing the lugs on one of the ports and hurling the key to the cells far out into the sea.
He moved as quickly as possible, taking great pains, stopping from time to time to listen for any sign of life. Wrens, he thought, should normally be identifiable at distance, but Clover Pennington’s Wrens had obviously been subjected to special training.
There were also only fifteen of them, and they would have to be well spread out across the ship.
He was making his way to the Crew Room in the forward part of the island, at main deck level. He moved by the fastest means, bypassing the more obvious places where Clover would have people posted. It was now 14.45, so, with luck, they would all be below the main deck and off the island, as they had been instructed.
It was as though the entire ship was deserted, for he saw nobody in his journey, and it was only when he got to the Crew Room that he realised Clover had left one girl on deck; though, he figured, she would have to get below on the dot of three. The door to the main deck was open, and the girl had her back towards him. It was the tall, tough blonde Leading Wren who had taken him to the cells, and it was obviously her turn with the H & K MP5 SD3. She held it as though it was her child, which was a bad sign with terrorists. Women of this persuasion were taught to regard their personal weapon as their child: and that was not just terrorism according to the top people’s espionage novelist. It was for real.
He looked around the Crew Room and finally found a G-suit and helmet which were roughly his size. Two-fifty in the afternoon. From the bulkhead door he could still see the Leading Wren, and behind her the Sea Harriers, the first of the four aircraft right on the ski-ramp, with one machine behind it, and a pair of others parked abreast. They were all obviously ready and armed, for the ribbons hung from the Sidewinders, slung under the wings.
Standing to one side of the bulkhead, his back to the deck, Bond put up the visor of his helmet and whistled loudly.
There was movement from the deck, so the Leading Wren had heard and been alerted. He whistled, shrilly again, and heard the answering footsteps as she crossed towards the Crew Room door. The footsteps stopped, and he could imagine that she was standing, uncertain, the H & K tucked into her hip and the safety off.
When she came, she moved quickly and was inside the Crew Room almost before Bond was ready for her. The only piece of luck that came his way was the fact that she moved to the right first, which is normal in right-handed people, and exactly why Bond had staked himself to the left, from her viewpoint on the main deck.
His arm went around her neck. This was one of those times when it did not pay to be squeamish, or to even think about what he was doing.
He only wished that it had been the psycho, Deeley.
She dropped the machine pistol, trying to claw at his arms, but Bond had already done the damage. Left arm around the neck from behind; push in hard; reach over and grasp the left biceps with the right hand, so that his right forearm went across her forehead. Now the pressure: fast, very hard, and lethal. He heard the neck go, and Felt her weight in sudden death. Then he grabbed at the H & K and ran out onto the deck, slipping the H & K to Safe, ducking under the wings of the aircraft until he reached the one on the ski-ramp. He went right around the aircraft, checking all control surfaces were free, nipping the warning ribbons from the Sidewinders, and pulling the caps off the front of the Aden gun pods.
The generator was in place, plugged in. He paused for a second, undecided. He could leave it in and be certain that he could start the engine first time or unplug and hope to hell there was enough charge on board. If he took the first option, there was danger in the take-off with the generator cable still attached.
He took the second way and unplugged the cord, then ran around the aircraft, climbing into the cockpit. As he lowered himself into the seat he imagined he could hear the sound of another aircraft.
He clipped the straps on and hauled down so that he was tightly secured. He lowered the canopy, and pressed the ignition, going through the pre-take-off drill in his head.
As he pressed the ignition, so there was a huge roar. Flame speared up from somewhere behind him, and he could hear the heavy thump of 10mm shells hitting parked aircraft and the deck around him.
As the engine fired, so the shape crossed directly over him. A Sea Harrier, very low, almost hugging the sea as it did a tight turn, pulling a lot of G, to circle and come in again.
In at the Kill
He did not really know if this was a full, coordinated attack on invincible, but, in the last seconds, logic told him exactly what it was - the fireworks promised by BAST if the 15.00 hours deadline was not met.
Take-off check: brakes on; flaps OUT; ASI “bug” to lift-off speed.
As always, the aircraft was alive, trembling to the idling of the Rolls-Royce turbofan.
Nozzle lever set to short take-off position at the 500 stop mark; throttle to fifty-five percent RPM; brakes off; throttle banged into fully open, and there it was, the giant hand pressing at his chest and face.
The Sea Harrier snarled off the ramp. Gear “Up”. ASI “bug” flashing and beeping; nozzles to horizontal flight; flaps to IN.
The HUD showing the climbing angle, right on 600, and a speed of 640 knots.
Bond broke left, standing on one wing as he pulled a seven G turn, the nose dropping slightly, then coming up with a twitch of the rudder.
One thousand feet, and to his right he saw Invincible, the aircraft and helicopters on her deck ablaze. Gas tanks going up to produce spectacular blooms of fire, and the other aircraft, low, almost down to the water, then putting her nose up and pulling into a hard, left turn.
Bond reached the outer edge of the turn, flipped the aircraft into a right-hand break, harder this time, his left foot pushing down on the rudder to keep level, then back on the stick to gain height as a bleep started to pulse loud in his headphones, and the trace on the radar showing another aircraft locking on behind him - behind and above.
He pulled back on the stick, put the nose towards the sky, and heard the rasping noise that warned a missile had been released.
His mind grabbed at the recent past, and the missile fired at him near the bombing range close to the Isle of Man. That could have only been an AIM-J Sidewinder. As close as this, a superior AIM-9L Sidewinder would have followed him to impact.
He punched out three flares, set his own HUD to air-to-air weapons, and flung the aircraft onto its back, easing up on the stick and feeling the red-out as the horizon disappeared below him and the sea came rushing up to meet him as he took the Harrier through an inverted roll.
The rasping beep disappeared, and the horizon came up again.
The flares had done their job, but he could not see the other Harrier and he was down to 2,000 feet again.
Turning In a wide full 3600, Bond searched sky and sea with his eyes, flicking to and fro between the view from his cockpit to the radar screen. In the far distance invincible’s deck was still littered with burning aircraft, and he thought he caught sight of a yellow fire bulldozer being handled in an attempt to clear the deck of the ravished hulks of “planes and he
licopters. Then he caught the flash, on the radar, far away, thirty or so miles out to sea. The flashing dot began to wink and he adjusted his course, losing height and slamming the throttles to full power, trying to lock on to the other Sea Harrier, obviously intent on making its getaway, and evading chase.
He was pushing the Harrier to its outer limits of speed, making a shallow dive towards the sea and keeping his course level with the flashing cursor on the radar screen. Without any conscious thought he knew who he was up against: knew it was the Sea Harrier which had gone missing on the day he had nearly had a missile up his six. The pilot could only be the Spaniard, though, at this moment, with the sea flashing below him and his eyes flicking between instruments and the horizon, he could not have named him.
In seconds, Bond realised he was, in fact, gaining on the other Harrier which was about twenty miles ahead of him now. He armed one of the Sidewinders, waiting for the lock-on signal, for he might soon be in range. Then the blinking cursor vanished.
There was a slight time-lag before Bond realised the other pilot had probably pulled up to gain height, rolled over and was high above him now, heading back towards him. He lifted the nose, allowing the radar to search the air, and, sure enough, the second Harrier was above and closing.
He put the aircraft into a gentle climb, all his senses jangling and ready for the rasp or the beep which would tell him the Spaniard had released a second missile the moment he came within range - the pilot’s name returned to his memory without any conscious thought Pantano.
Fifteen miles, and the aircraft were closing at a combined speed of around 1,200 knots. Seconds later, the marker on the HUD began to pulse and the beep in his ears told him he had locked on.
Bond released the Sidewinder, and saw the flashing cursor break to his left. The rasp came into his own ears, and he knew they had both fired missiles at the same moment.
He punched out four flares and turned left, climbing. Seconds later there was an explosion behind at about a mile. Pantano’s missile had gone for the flares. Then, without warning Bond’s aircraft shuddered and cracked as 10mm shells ripped into the fuselage behind him.
He stood the Harrier on its left wing, then reversed to the right.
Pantano had Viffed, slightly above him and at a range of around 1,000 feet. Bond armed another Sidewinder, heard the lock-on signal, and pressed the button. As he did so, another withering hail of 10mm shells ripped across his left wing and the Harrier juddered again, wallowed, then seemed to leap forward towards the great blossom of fire as the Sidewinder caught Pantano’s Harrier.
It was like a slow-motion film. One minute the aircraft was there, firing a deadly swarm from its Aden guns, then the white flash filled Bond’s vision and he saw the “plane break into a dozen pieces.
He overshot the destroyed Harrier, and saw only one complete wing, twirling and fluttering down like a deformed autumn leaf.
He reduced speed and turned, to set course for the coast, and as he did so, his Harrier grumbled, juddering and shaking. He fought the controls, realising that he had no true stability. The shells from the Aden guns had probably ripped away part of his elevators, and a section of tailplane.
Altitude 10,000 feet and falling. The Harrier was in a gentle descent and Bond could just about hold her nose at a five-to-ten degree angle. He was between twenty and thirty miles from the coast and losing height rapidly, hauling back continuously on the stick to stop the nose from dropping and the entire aircraft hurtling into a dive from which he could never recover.
The engine sounded as though someone had poured a ton of sand into it, and he had switched on the auto-signal which would allow the base at Rota to track him in. He was down to 3,000 feet before he saw the coast in the distance, and by then the whole Harrier was shaking and clanking around him as though it was about to break up at any minute.
The sink-rate was becoming faster, and Bond knew there was only one thing left.
He would have to punch out, and pray that the shells from the other Harrier had not damaged the Martin Baker ejector seat.
He wrestled with the stick and rudder bar, desperately trying to get the aircraft closer to the coast before getting out. The voice in his head started to repeat the procedure and what was supposed to happen.
The Martin Baker was a Type 9A Mark 2 and the firing handle was between his legs, at the front of the seat pan. One pull and, provided everything worked, the canopy would blow and the seat would begin its journey upwards at minimum velocity, before the necket-assist fired and shot the pilot, restrained in his seat, well clear of the aircraft.
The comforting words of some instructor at Yeovilton came back to him. “The seat will save you even at zero height, and with a very high sink rate.”
Well, he had a very high sink rate now, down to about 1,000 feet and at least seven miles from the coast. The Harrier wallowed, down to around 800 feet. His port wing dropped alarmingly, and he realised that he was at the point of stalling. Almost at that moment he caught the glint of helicopter blades, and realised it was now or never. Yet, in the few seconds before reaching down to the ejector handle, Bond pushed the port rudder hard, in an attempt to swing the aircraft away from the coast. He did not want this metal brick, still carrying dangerous weaponry, to plough into the land. The nose swung wildly, then dropped.
He knew the nose would never come up again, and he felt the lurch forward as the Harrier began what could only be a death dive.
Bond pulled on the ejector lever.
For what seemed to be an eternity nothing happened, then he felt the slight kick in his backside, saw the canopy leap upwards.
The air was like a solid wall as the rocket shot him clear of the falling, crippled Harrier. There was a thump and the sudden slight jar as the parachute opened and he was swinging safe and free below the canopy.
Below to his left he saw the white churning water which marked the spot where the Harrier had gone in. Then he heard the comforting sound of the US rescue chopper nearby.
He was now separated from the seat, and seemed to be dropping faster towards the sea, which came up and exploded around him. The buoyancy gear inflated and brought him to the surface as he twisted and banged down on the quick release lock which freed him from any parachute drag.
The helicopter plucked him out of the sea five minutes later.
It was early evening and the weather had picked up, the sun red, throwing long shadows across USNB Rota.
Bond sat in a small room, with a US Marine Corps Major, a Royal Marine Special Boat Squadron Major, Commander Mike Carter and Beatrice. On the table in front of them lay a complete set of plans, showing the layout of invincible.
An jor before, he had received a complete briefing, on a secure line from London. BAST had given them until dawn, around six in the morning. Then they would kill the first of the VIP hostages. They knew the message had been relayed to London from Bassam Baradj in his suite at The Rock Hotel, Gibraltar.
Varied options had been put forward. The Rock Hotel was well-covered. They had members of the SAS and local plainclothes men, plus one senior Secret Intelligence Service man watching out in case Baradj made a move. At first it had been thought they should make a full frontal and pull Baradj, for they knew he had a helicopter and pilot standing by at the airport.
Nobody had attempted to alert Baradj or his pilot, and the final consensus of opinion was that trying to take Baradj alive was dangerous.
“Remove their leader and those women will almost certainly kill.”
That was M’s personal view, and one shared by Bond.
Baradj had given them a latitude and longitude, a precise point at sea where the money had to be dropped and marked. If anyone approached him during or after the pick-up - which was to be byhelicopter, all three hostages would be killed.
Whatever else,” Bond had said, “he’s thought out the operation, and we just cannot risk taking the fellow on the Rock. If we couldn’t get him alive, it would be curtains for Mrs. T
, Gorby and President Bush.”
It had now been agreed that a rescue attempt had to be made long before anyone tried to get hold of Baradj. “We can con Baradj that we’re meeting the deadline, let him relax, then make a bid to get the hostages off.” Bond’s was the last word. The Ministry of Defence, SIS, the Pentagon and the Kremlin had agreed to a last-ditch rescue attempt. The local forces had also agreed that the planning and logistics should be left to Bond.
“Has anyone figured out how Baradj is communicating with Invincible?” he asked.
“He isn’t,” Mike Carter had said. “I suspect he’ll flash them a code word. A one time break in silence. Probably on a short wave from Gib. It’ll mean either they’re to stand by because we’ve agreed, or kill, because we’ve not agreed. Then there’s the other one - kill, we’ve doublecrossed him.”
“All we can do is listen out.” Bond’s jaw had set, and his eyes turned to that dangerous stone-like look as he tried to gauge how many things could go wrong.
Now, in the low hut on the USNB Rota, he was going through possible strategy and tactics. “It has to be a small force.” He looked around the room. I took out one of these harpies, which leaves them with fourteen - fifteen if the wretched man Speaker is active; sixteen if Baradj’s side-kick, Hamarik, is able to function, which I very much doubt. The situation will almost certainly be that their tame psycho, the woman posing as Leading Wren Deeley, will be locked in with the hostages - or, at least, close to them, with orders to start killing on a given signal. So, our first job will be to get down here.” His finger moved to the Briefing Room one deck down from the main deck. “This we must do without being detected if possible.” Then he gave a worried sigh, “I want you all to realise that I’m really only guessing. That Briefing Room is the place where they were having the conference meetings. I’d stake money on the three of them being kept in there, possibly with a guard on the bulkhead door. But it’s still only a guess. If I’m wrong and they’re being held somewhere else, then it’ll go wrong and I’ll take the blame.”
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