John Gardner: Seafire

They went quickly through a series of signals and the general order of battle. "Best if we start at the top and work down, I think?" Dodd queried.

"There's a damned great wide smooth ramp that goes from the top to the second level, then you can just hop over the walls to the Atlantic side, or out on the headland. Even down into that parade ground – patio they call it. You've been around the place, I presume?"

"Lord, yes. We went round on the same day you did – with the nice young lady and the fellow with the game leg."

"Really? You should have introduced yourselves."

"Didn't like to intrude, boss. Bad form, you know. Incidentally, what's happened to the nice young lady and the American gentleman with the limp?"

"I was going to tell you about them after we deal with friend Tarn, but since you ask…" He proceeded to give a quick rundown of the situation regarding Flicka and Felix, ending with, "How far can your modified Powerchutes go?"

"How far away is the Tarn house?"

"Thirty-five miles as the crow flies."

"No problem. Let's get this over first. Swoop down on them like the Ride of the Valkyrie."

Together, they examined the map under the flashlight and worked out a course that would take them on a straight line for Tarn's villa.

"Let's go, then." Dodd clapped Bond on the shoulder. "Let's get the bastards, eh?"

They started engines and took off, each with a small light blinking in order to line up, with Bond leading and the others fanning out behind him. First they circled away from El Morro, then turned, gaining height, then beginning their descent toward the upper gun platforms, sweeping in, watching for movement, which Dodd spotted first, on the wide ramp that led down from the San Juan side of the topmost emplacements. Someone to Bond's right fired off a burst from an automatic weapon, which brought some wild shooting from the three people they could see scurrying for cover.

Their shots went wide, and Bond considered that they must have thought the attack was coming via a horde of bees. The snarl of five little engines had to be a psychological advantage.

As he pulled up, he glimpsed two of the figures running out into the middle of the parade ground, their hands held high and waving handkerchiefs. He recognized Cathy and Anna. Cathy and Anna coming to the end of the road.

He turned sharply to get a closer look and saw Dodd on his right, following him down. As he began the run across the parade ground, fire suddenly erupted from one of the arches – he thought the one leading to the chapel. One of the girls spun around, clutching at the air, while the other was lifted off her feet and flung to one side, like an old toy that Tarn had finished with.

"That's how you repay loyalty, is it, Max?" he yelled, knowing that Tarn would not hear a word he was shouting. He piled on the power, making a very steep climbing turn that would eventually bring him back over the area where the two girls lay. As he straightened out, he saw one of the SAS Powerchutes approaching the girls from the opposite direction when a long ratchet of automatic fire came hurtling out from the archway in which he thought Tarn was hiding. He saw the soldier fall back from the framework and the engine disintegrate under the hail of fire. The whole machine just fell apart to crash burning near the great water cistern.

"Right, you bastard," Bond muttered. "This is for the SAS." His hand felt for one of the small flares. He took the Powerchute down as far as he dared and aimed directly into the archway.

The flare exploded in a bright white flash, and he could see Tarn, struggling with a weapon, hugging the side of the wall. Then he broke cover and began to run helter-skelter back up the ramp. Bond would have put money on Max Tarn having left another weapon up on the top emplacement.

Glancing to left and right, he saw the other three 'chutes were close on his heels, so he spoke clearly, "Lights, Valkyries. Lights!" All four landing lights came on at once as they dropped behind the running man who had just reached the top of the ramp and was beginning to stumble toward the center of the large platform.

As he closed up behind Tarn, Bond saw that two of his companions had put on speed and were overtaking him. They hovered in front of Tarn, who had got to his feet and was moving to left and right, trying to dodge the snarling Powerchutes. Then he wheeled right around and Bond realized what was going on.

The other three SAS men had begun to circle Tarn, but they had left Bond inside the circle, turning and lighting the way, enclosing Tarn, who was like a trapped animal. He put his machine into a tighter turn, holding it and leaning far to his left to keep turning. As he did so, he reached down for another flare. There was no particular feeling of guilt or elation. This man had killed thousands by ferrying and smuggling weapons, placing them into the hands of unprincipled people. His future plans were untenable, so he deserved to die the worst possible of deaths.

He waited, letting his quarry dodge this way and that, trying to escape the relentless lights on the other Power-chutes. Only when he was ready, calm, and cool did Bond take aim and pull the ring.

The flare arced from his hand, catching Tarn in the chest, spraying out a blossom of phosphorus as it did so. He wheeled around again, taking aim with another flare. By now Tarn was rolling on the hard ground trying to put out the flames, which would not go out. The second flare caught him just below the neck, spreading its chemical down the already burned front of his clothes. As he pulled away, Bond thought he could hear the screaming, which sounded like a plea for someone to put him out of his misery. He seemed to be blundering around – a walking, moving ball of fire heading for the edge of the gun platform with its sheer drop below.

One of the SAS men finished it. The shotgun blast tore away the back of Max Tarn's head. For a moment he seemed to keep moving in a red mist that was eaten by the flame. Then he fell across the battlements and, headless, disappeared over the edge.

As they turned and took up formation on Dodd, heading out across the island, setting course for the house near Ponce, Bond heard the sound of singing in his ears. His companions had their heads back and were giving a somewhat tuneless rendering of Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyrie."

They flew at around fifteen hundred feet, straining their eyes to make sure they could see one another. It was not the easiest of flights, as the gentle trade winds that cool the island seemed far from gentle from their position in the open on what was a very basic cockpit.

About halfway across, the moon came up and gave them more visibility. Bond would have found the flight exhilarating if it had not been for his concern for Flicka. He had done all he had sworn to do. Tarn was dead, along with some of his closest henchmen and -women. There would be no return to Tarnenwerder; no chants of "Heil Tarn" from a hypnotized mob bent on setting the clock back to the days of insanity.

He accepted this as part of his vocation. Danger had lurked beside him for as long as he could remember, and he wondered how he could possibly carry on if anything had happened to Flicka.

"The hill's coming up," he told the other three through the throat mike the moment he saw the area where he had stood among the trees with Flicka and Felix only a short time before.

Dodd had already seen the treeline, and responded, "Roger. Cut engines."

Suddenly they were floating, silent but for the air and breeze around them as they crested the rise and saw Tarn's villa lit up below them.

Maneuvering the parachutes, they formed a line astern: Dodd in front, with Bond and the others close behind. The shots came just as the fourth man was putting down to the left of the swimming pool, well inside the rectangle of the villa.