John Gardner - Brokenclaw

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 rejoinder, ‘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!’