John Gardner - Seafire

He reached out, grabbing at a rope dangling from Mare Nostrum 's stern, and hung on, the sea still grappling with him as if it were a human thing, a primeval being turning him around and then throwing him upward. Mare Nostrum was pitching and rolling with the boiling sea, and he finally got both hands on the rope, dragging himself up and over the stern.

There were shouts and noises coming from for'ard around the wheelhouse, and he had no guilt about what he was about to do. Unholstering the pistol, he slipped off the safety and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Connie? Connie Spicer?"

"What the hell…?" Connie lumbered from the wheel-house, peering back toward him, clinging on to keep his balance on the still-pitching deck.

Bond fired four shots, two and then another two, grouped nicely around the chest area. Spicer did not cry out or even look surprised, but went in the blink of an eye from alive to dead. His body, lifted by the bullets as they slammed home, seemed to rise slowly and levitate parallel to the deck as though hanging there before it was flung against the guardrail over which it pitched.

Vesta Motley was screaming, and he could see Fritz on the deck where Connie had stood, holding out his hands in supplication.

"It's me." Bond ran forward, the deck still moving under his feet. Over the bows he could see the sea bubbling white, with pieces of debris beginning to be thrown up. As he ran, he wondered how he could see all this in the darkness of the night, then saw that the big tanker, even half a mile away, had two searchlights playing on the water.

"Mr. Bond!" Anton Fritz's mouth hung open as he saw the tall figure trying to run toward him.

"Yes! Now, start those bloody engines for me. I've a previous appointment to keep!"

"What happened?" from Rexinus within the wheelhouse.

"Never mind what happened. I just saved you from death by fire. Get those throttles wide open and head out of the harbor. Fast as you can."

"Was that the submarine?" Rexinus had gone from panic to sudden cool, pushing the throttles forward so that Bond had to grab at the wheelhouse doorway. The bows lifted, turned to circle the huge looming supertanker as Rexinus swung the wheel to take them out of the harbor.

"I want you to take her around the headland. I've got to make some kind of landing on the ocean side, as near to the rocks below El Morro as you can."

"Aye-aye," Rexinus shouted back. Then repeated, "The submarine? What happened to the submarine?"

"I think the crew must have been eating too much Indian food." Bond did not even smile. He was bracing himself against the wheelhouse and sliding a new magazine into the butt of the ASP 9mm converted Browning.

They were rounding the headland now, where the walls of the lowest part of El Morro reach down toward the rocks. "How near do you want to get?" Rexinus shouted.

"As near as you can manage. I've got to make it to those grassy slopes on the other side of the rocks."

"Don't think I'll quite be able to get you right in."

"I'll get over the rocks myself. Just bring her in as close as you can."

Fritz and Vesta Motley were speechless, soaking wet and white with fear. Then the bullets came, smashing into the woodwork on the deck as an automatic weapon opened up from the lower wall of El Morro.

"Far enough!" Bond yelled. "Get down. I'm going over the side." He saw the surf and the rocks coming up to meet him, climbed over the guardrail, and, as the boat dipped on the turn, dropped into the white foam.

It was luck rather than skill that got him over the jagged rocks. As he went into the water the tide was pulling back, gathering itself for another journey inland to slap into the shore. He was able to put his arms around one of the larger, slippery boulders and ride out the crashing waves until the sea drew back again, allowing him to move in over the old sea-worn stones. Halfway and he found another point between two rocks, where he hung on as the sea vented its force on him. The tide sucked back again, and on the third attempt, he made it over the final barrier and onto the rough grass above.

As he lay on all fours, winded and gasping for breath, a figure rose from the ground in front of him and snapped, "Who goes?"

He stayed exactly where he was, but absolutely still. "Bond," he said. "Captain James Bond, Royal Navy."

"Thank heaven it's you, boss. Dodd. Jim Dodd. Captain 22nd SAS. We've been waiting half the night for you." He put one arm under Bond's right armpit and helped him up. "The other lads are just up here. The bad boys've got automatic weapons in the fort, but I think we can deal with them without too much bother. You up to a little flight, boss?"

"Yes, Jim. Just let me get my breath back. You brought the Powerchute?"

"Five of them, chief. Four for us and one for you. Got some other surprises as well. Decent chaps, those Delta Force lads. Letting us have first crack. Old Tarn and his people – there's three of them altogether – were up there on the lowest emplacement of this amazing fortress, but I think they've moved up to the top now. Delta Force said they'd keep an eye on the other two sides. If we don't finish them, they will. Very decent." He spoke in a whisper, and Bond was breathing more normally now as they reached the towering old walls, from which another figure seemed to detach itself.

"That you, boss?"

"Yes, and I've found Captain Bond for us, so we're all set."

"Good, they were shooting at that boat."

"I know," Bond grunted. "I was aboard."

"The explosion?" Dodd asked. "That you as well? Submarine bought it?"

"Yes."

"Too much curry again?"

"I've already done that joke." He stopped as the remaining three SAS men crowded around. "Actually a little too much plastique. I sort of overindulged."

Dodd motioned for silence. "Easy mistake to make, sir. Let's show you what we've got," he said brightly.

They moved in close to the wall. There, hardly visible, were the five Powerchutes, the actual parachutes made of matte-black material. "You have flown one of these, boss?"

"Yes. At the same place you learned, Jim."

"Only wanted to make certain, because we've added a couple of little refinements." He shone a flashlight, which gave out diffused light, onto the framework. "Landing light, for starters. Usual halogen job, mounted up front under the forward strut." He lifted the tubing to show a wide, light aircraft landing light. "Operated from this little panel over on the right, just behind the throttle; there's a compass up there as well, and a panel on the left for goodies. Flash-bangs here, three of them. Abreast of the flash-bangs we have smoke – you're familiar, yes?"

"Very familiar." He leaned down and touched the little smoke bombs.

Dodd hardly paused. "Then in the forward section we have flares." He lifted out one of the seven-inch-long silver cylinders. "Nice flares, because they double as incendiary rounds, if you follow. Just point and pull the little ring. Like opening a can of beer."

"I'm glad to say I've never opened a can of beer, but I follow very well, old boy. How many of those do we carry?"

"Only four, I fear. Particularly if you need somewhere to mount the old Heckler and Koch."

"I'll sit that one out, if you don't mind. Stick to the pistol. Done me quite well over the years, though they aren't making this model anymore."

"A man's favorite weapon is the one he'll do most damage with. Ginger here's got a twelve-gauge shotgun." He indicated one of the SAS Troopers. "Wonderful with it. Bring down a budgerigar at twenty paces and a man at twenty yards, on the wing – I mean Ginger would be on the wing.

"Now, communications. Headset with a throat mike. The whole thing's self-contained: radio in the right side of the headphones. Just talk and listen. Okay?"