John Gardner - Man From Barbarossa

When they got down to the hold, Rampart was on the deck nursing his neck, and Stephanie looked on the point of screaming.

‘What the hell . . . ?’ Bond began.

‘Bory,’ she said, looking wild. ‘He’s trying to swim it. Said it was his country and his duty. Said he was in the Dynamo Sports Club!’

Rampart cursed. For the first time since they had met, Bond thought he even looked half-human. ‘He caught me by surprise. I’m sorry. The imbecile.’ The Frenchman shook his head and squeezed his eyes.

‘He’ll never last in that water.’ Bond started for the door. He knew the Dynamo Sports Club was KGB’s crack field and swimming team.

‘He just might.’ Stephanie was helping Rampart to his feet. ‘He said he’d been in KGB’s swimming team, and he’d done the course of cold water survival. He said he was 1988 swimming champion. He went on about very cold water slowing the heart rate, and if you stuck with it, you could ward off hypothermia for a long . . .’

The explosion was followed by a lurch. The ship’s deck seemed to move, and the klaxons began to howl almost immediately.

He heard Natkowitz revert briefly to his gentleman farmer mode, saying, ‘That’s torn it,’ and by the time he reached the deck there were two searchlights trained on the water behind the ship. As he looked aft, Bond saw the rearmost fishing boat overturned in the sea with the container on its side, the whole contraption wallowing and starting to sink.

My god, he’s done it, he thought. Then he felt the jerk and pull again, and realised his earlier prediction had been sound. The great weight of the rearmost pair of Scamps and Scapegoats was starting to pull at the next container. Already the bows of the second makeshift fishing boat were out of the water, disclosing the square bulk of the huge metal box beneath. If it continued, the total weight would draw the last container and then the minesweeper down with it.

For a brief and stupid moment, Bond considered using some of the DRX he had brought from the cache in his denim jacket. It would cut through the hawser like a child breaking a thread of cotton. Then he realised that what had happened would be best in the end. Let the Scamps and Scapegoats act as anchors to drag the whole diabolical crew to the bottom of the sea. It was almost poetic.

He turned to Natkowitz. ‘There are a couple of inflatables on each side,’ he shouted. ‘I’m going to deal with the ones here. You rip up the pair on the port side.’

‘Never mind,’ Rampart was already running. ‘I have a knife.’

As Bond reached the forward of the two inflatables, the middle container exploded. A yellow flash, outlined in orange, as the oblong box with its boat hull on top tilted over, turning turtle and already starting to slide into the dark water.

There was confusion on the deck and shouts coming from among both crew and Yuskovich’s remaining troops as he ripped the thick rubber of one inflatable and turned his attention to the other. But Stephanie and Pete Natkowitz had it half over the side. He saw Pete tug at the lanyard and the black shape floated down, hissing as it filled with air.

Natkowitz grabbed Stephanie by the shoulders and hauled her up over the rail. ‘Jump! Get down there!’ he shouted at her, and she disappeared with a little squeal of fear. Natkowitz followed her a second later, and Bond, poised for the drop towards the inflatable, suddenly saw with horror that the searchlights from the bridge had both centred on one small circle of ocean.

There, in the middle of the silver puddle, Boris Stepakov swam with long, lazy strokes towards the nearest fishing boat, its submerged cargo container already coming out of the water as the other sinking Scamps and Scapegoats dragged at it.

It seemed as though the weapons were firing from a long way off and a lazy stream of tracer floated towards the little figure who was now so close to his final target. The water boiled around him and his body was lifted half out of the sea by the impact. But, in his last seconds, Stepakov continued to go through the motions of swimming and his right hand came up in a great arc, his left rising to meet it, then pulling away with the grenade’s pin.

The next burst of fire threw him against the metal side of the container, and at that moment the third grenade exploded, tearing a long gash in the metal. Stepakov disappeared in the smoke, water and spray.

As Bond fell towards the water, he thought sadly that the man was certainly a swimming champion now. The icy flow rushed up to meet him, then Pete Natkowitz’s hands were around his shoulders, hauling him into the boat. At the rear, Stephanie wrestled with the motor, and Natkowitz’s face was turned upwards, his mouth open, shouting to Henri Rampart poised on the rail above.

The searchlights fluttered down, along the rail, chased by a clatter of bullets which ripped into the French major, knocking him along for six or seven feet before throwing him sideways. As he hit the water, the noise of helicopter engines seemed suddenly to blast from the sky. It was like the unexpected arrival of a violent thunderstorm on a clear day.

Stephanie had the inflatable’s motor going, and they began slowly to draw away from the minesweeper’s side. Other searchlights probed the ship now and Bond at first thought it must be the Iraqi Mi-10s arriving early.

Then he heard the Russian voice through a loud hailer from somewhere above. ‘Heave to, Two-Fifty-Two. Cease firing and we will take you off.’ The voice repeated its message three times, but all it got for its pains was a stuttering snarl of fire from the starboard 25s.

Bond heard Pete yelling to Stephanie, telling her to open the throttles, and he felt the craft move and buck in the water. They were about sixty yards away when another helicopter came in from for’ard, hurling death from a pair of rocket launchers. The inflatable keeled over to one side, swung and bobbed back as the rockets hit and the ship seemed to burst like a great rose, a centrepiece of scarlet leaping from amidships. As it bloomed in vivid crimson, reds and then pink at the extremities, Bond could have sworn he saw the long shape of Marshal Yuskovich entwined with Nina Bibikova hurtling upwards in the very centre of the fire, as though new-born from chaos.

They felt the hot blast, and a rain of metal, wood and spray fell all around them. Then the first chopper was heading back, hovering over them, the detached Russian voice coming through the loud hailer ‘Is that the English? Good, is it the English and French?’

They waved weakly, not knowing what to expect. Then the voice called, ‘Is Captain Bond with you? He has an important meeting in Moscow.’

21

MINSK FIVE

They were gathered in M’s office. London was almost as cold as it had been in Russia. It was the afternoon of January 17th. Twenty-four hours earlier, the coalition forces, led by the United States, had launched their aerial bombardment on Iraq. They called it Desert Storm. Tornadoes, Harriers, F-15s, F-16s, A-6s, Wild Weasels, and Tomahawk Cruise missiles had blasted at targets throughout the country. There was no sense of glee or delight, simply the old numbness that comes when nations are forced to take action against another nation. Nobody would relish death on the new, untested, electronic battlefield.

Bond had returned after a longer than expected stay in Moscow, and now, with Bill Tanner operating the tapes, he had gone through a lengthy pre-debriefing with his old Chief. Throughout the afternoon, M had sat, pipe clamped between his teeth, listening, with some relief, to the minutiae of the operation. They had covered almost everything, including the last things – from the seizing of the trial videos, the finding of the four graves near the second dacha, the luckless Guy, George and Helen, plus the war criminal Vorontsov, to Boris Stepakov’s posthumously awarded Hero of the Soviet Union.