John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“Rulers of their own nay-vee-s,” Bond parodied the Gilbert and Sullivan song from HMS Pinafore.

A young officer chuckled, and, as the first chopper, another Sea King, came in and put down, taxiing forward at the instructions from the deck-handling officer, the Commander joined in, singing, “For they are monarchs of the sea.”

The second machine touched the deck, it was a big Mil Mi-i4

in the Soviet Naval livery of white and grey (NATO designation Haze) making a din they could hear up on the bridge above Flight Operations. Bond repeated his line, “Rulers of their own Nay-vee-s,” adding, “I think that one really ha,s, brought along all of his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts.

As the rotors slowed to idle, so the final craft did a rather fancy rolling-landing, touching down right on the stern threshold.

This looked like an update of the Bell model 212, and carried US markings, but no designation and no Navy livery. Nobody in Flight Operations had seen anything like it. “I want those choppers off my deck fast,” the Commander barked at the young officer acting as communications link with the deck-handling officer. Then he turned back to Bond, “We’ve got two Sea Harriers out there, fully juiced and carrying operational equipment: real bangs, Sidewinders, tomm cannon, the works. Don’t know what’s behind it, but the Captain gave the orders. Round the clock readiness, with a four-minute ability to switch them for unarmed Harriers. Bloody dangerous if you ask me.”

The three helicopters were discharging their passengers with speed, each machine being met by a senior officer, a bosun, and several ratings: the senior officer to salute, the bosun to pipe the admiral aboard, and the ratings to secure any luggage. Admiral of the Fleet Sir Geoffrey Gould; Admiral Edwin Gudeon, United States Navy; and Admiral Sergei Yevgennevich Pauker, Commander-in-Chief of the Soviet Navy, together with their staffs and bodyguards were aboard invincible.

Half an hour later, Bond was ushered into the Captain’s day cabin.

The three admirals were standing in the centre of the cabin, each nursing a drink, and Rear-Admiral Sir John Walmsley greeted Bond with a smile, turning to the assorted brass from the Royal Navy, United States Navy and the Soviet Navy. “Gentlemen, I’d like you to meet Captain Bond who is in charge of your security arrangements while you’re aboard invincible. Bond, this is Admiral of the Fleet, Sir Geoffrey Gould.” Bond stood to attention in front of the smooth-looking, impeccable officer. “Captain Bond,” Gould had a voice which matched his looks: he was one of those people who always look neat and freshly barbered.

“I’m sure we’ll all be safe in your care. I have two Flag Officers who have had experience in these matters . .

“Gentlemen, Captain Bond is to meet your personal start’ as soon as I’ve introduced him to you,” Walmsley broke in quickly.

“I must stress that while you are guests aboard my flagship, your people will take their orders directly from Captain Bond. This is essential to your well-being, and the safety of those who will, eventually, be part of Stewards’ Meeting.”

“Sure, if that’s the way you want to play it. But I’ve got four guys with me,” Admiral Gudeon’s voice was the unpleasant growl of a cantankerous man who always liked his own way, and was never wrong. “I guess they’ll be able to look after me without you doin’ much to help them.” Bond did not know if the Admiral meant to be rude, or whether it was merely a long-cultivated manner. “Bond? Bond…?” the American continued. “I knew a Bond, way back at Annapolis. You got any American relatives?”

“I think not, sir. Many friends, but no relatives - not as far as I know, anyway.” Rear-Admiral Walmsley moved a foot, kicking Bond’s ankle sharply. But Gudeon seemed oblivious to the tongue-in-cheek answer.

“And,” Walmsley quickly pushed Bond along the line, “our most senior officer here. Admiral Sergei Pauker, Commander-in -Chief of the Soviet Navy.”

“An honour, sir.” Bond looked the man straight in the eyes.

Pauker had the rosy cheeks of a Mr. Pickwick, but there the likeness ended. The eyes were grey and cold, showing no emotion.

Dead eyes, overhung by frosty eyebrows. He had a small mouth, but it did form itself into a surprisingly friendly smile. The main feature of the face, ruddy cheeks apart, was a huge aquiline nose.

“Bond,” he pronounced it “Bound”. “I think somewhere I have heard the name before. Have you, perhaps, served in your embassy in Moscow?”

He spoke excellent English.

“Not exactly in the embassy, sir.” Bond gave an almost imperceptible smile.

“But you are known there, I think. In Moscow, I mean.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me, sir.”

“Good. Good.” The humour disappeared from his face and the eyes glazed over.

There was no offer of a drink, and Rear-Admiral Walmsley ushered Bond out of the room, like a farmer getting an errant sheep into a van.

“The security people are in Briefing One,” he whispered.

Briefing One was Qe primary Air-Group Briefing-Room on the port side, amidships and two decks below the officers’ quarters. It had been cleared for an hour, so that the security teams could get together, and Bond entered it quickly, going straight into his prepared routine. “My name’s Bond, James Bond. Captain, Royal Navy,” he began, then stopped abruptly. The one woman among the ten large men, was enough to stop anyone or anything.

She also spoke before anyone else. “Captain Bond. I am First Naval Attache to Admiral Pauker. My name is Nikola Ratnikov.

My friends call me Nikki. I hope you are to be my friend.

You could feel the unsettling tension spark through the room, and it was obvious that Nikola Ratnikov had been showing the cold-shoulder to the rest of her colleagues, which must have been irritating to say the least. Comrade Attache’ Ratnikov would have given a tweak to the loins of even a devout monk, and it would not matter whether the monk was Roman Catholic, Protestant, Buddhist, or Russian Orthodox. She had that indefinable quality about her manner, features and body which made all heterosexual men turn to look twice, and, possibly a third time, if they had the energy left.

Nikki Ratnikov wore a well-tailored Soviet Naval Woman Officer’s uniform, which is not flattering to all. There again, Nikki could have made sackcloth and ashes look like Dior. When she moved towards him, hand extended, even Bond felt his knees tremble slightly. She had short, ash-blonde hair, cut in what used to be called a pageboy style, but, from where he stood, it looked like a tempting golden helmet, framing a face of classic beauty.

It was not the kind of face that Bond usually went for. He preferred slightly blemished good looks, but Nikki’s eyes held his for almost a minute, and it was longer before he let go of her hand.

“Hallo, Captain Bond, we’ve met before.” It was one of the Special Branch men, all done up in a Lieutenant’s uniform, complete with the gold trimmings of a Flag Officer. “Brinkley,” he added.

“Yes, of course. Yes, I remember you. Ted Brinkley, right?”

“On the button, sir.” The Special Branch man looked for all the world like a Special Branch man in fancy dress, as did his partner, Martin - “My friends call me “Moggy”’ - Camm.

He did the rounds of the other security men. Few had resorted to the bad disguises of the Branch men, and they looked like a very heavy team. The Americans introduced themselves as Joe, Stan, Edgar and Bruce. Bruce was a very tall black officer with an exceptionally bone-crushing handshake, and looked as though he could probably stop a tank with his chest. Joe and Stan seemed to be made-to-measure, off the peg, standard issue “bullet catchers”. Edgar - “Call me Ed” - was in a different mould: lean, mean, tense with obvious staying power and taut muscles, he had the battered good looks of one who had seen plenty of action in his time. Bond had him down as the brains of the outfit.