John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“Room Service.” It was the unpleasant voice of Donald Speaker, who, a second later, appeared in front of the bars, a tray in one hand, keys and a Browning mm in the other. Bond thought it was probably his own Browning. On the tray was a plate of cold cuts and salad, with a large mug of steaming coffee next to it.

“I might have known you’d turn coat.”

“Oh, I had it turned a long time ago, James Bond. Money isn’t everything, but it helps the world go round. I’m not a political traitor: just avaricious.” He skilfully operated the key in the lock and Bond relaxed, trying to work out the best, and safest, move.

“Anyway, Speaker continued, “you can’t expect these girls to do it all. Girls can’t do a man’s job.” He slid back the barred entrance and stood in the opening, the tray held by his left hand and balanced on his right wrist, the Browning held tightly and pointing directly at Bond, a mite too steadily for comfort. “Just step right back against the wall. Move fast if you like. It would be a great pleasure to kill you.

“I’ll do it slowly and correctly,” Bond smiled. “I’m not quite ready for the chop yet.” He took one short step backwards, then made his move. Swivelling to his right, out of the Browning’s deadly eye, he turned and brought his left leg up in a shattering kick at the tray.

His aim was slightly off, but the effect was what he wanted for the kick lifted the tray at almost the correct point, bringing the steaming mug of coffee up in a scalding spray, straight over Speaker’s face.

The interrogator’s reaction was one of the most natural things Bond had ever seen. First, he dropped both tray and gun; second his hands flew up to his face; third, and concurrent with the first two, Speaker screamed - loudly and painfully.

Bond stepped in, grabbing at the Browning, twisting as he did so, aiming a heavy chop with the gun butt at the base of Speaker’s skull.

“Coffee,” Bond whispered to himself, “can instantly damage your health.” He was outside, sliding the gate closed, locking it and removing the keys.

He went through the outer door with care. There was nobody in the passageway, so he locked the door, and moved along the passage until he came to the first companionway which he went up at speed. He had one great advantage over the Wrens: one of the first things any officer does when reporting aboard a new ship is to make certain he knows the lay-out, and the best and quickest route to follow between any two points. Bond had spent almost an entire day learning the passages, bulkheads, companionways and catwalks of Invincible. He knew the way to the nearest heads which had ports above sea level, and he made this his first stop, unscrewing the lugs on one of the ports and hurling the key to the cells far out into the sea.

He moved as quickly as possible, taking great pains, stopping from time to time to listen for any sign of life. Wrens, he thought, should normally be identifiable at distance, but Clover Pennington’s Wrens had obviously been subjected to special training.

There were also only fifteen of them, and they would have to be well spread out across the ship.

He was making his way to the Crew Room in the forward part of the island, at main deck level. He moved by the fastest means, bypassing the more obvious places where Clover would have people posted. It was now 14.45, so, with luck, they would all be below the main deck and off the island, as they had been instructed.

It was as though the entire ship was deserted, for he saw nobody in his journey, and it was only when he got to the Crew Room that he realised Clover had left one girl on deck; though, he figured, she would have to get below on the dot of three. The door to the main deck was open, and the girl had her back towards him. It was the tall, tough blonde Leading Wren who had taken him to the cells, and it was obviously her turn with the H & K MP5 SD3. She held it as though it was her child, which was a bad sign with terrorists. Women of this persuasion were taught to regard their personal weapon as their child: and that was not just terrorism according to the top people’s espionage novelist. It was for real.

He looked around the Crew Room and finally found a G-suit and helmet which were roughly his size. Two-fifty in the afternoon. From the bulkhead door he could still see the Leading Wren, and behind her the Sea Harriers, the first of the four aircraft right on the ski-ramp, with one machine behind it, and a pair of others parked abreast. They were all obviously ready and armed, for the ribbons hung from the Sidewinders, slung under the wings.

Standing to one side of the bulkhead, his back to the deck, Bond put up the visor of his helmet and whistled loudly.

There was movement from the deck, so the Leading Wren had heard and been alerted. He whistled, shrilly again, and heard the answering footsteps as she crossed towards the Crew Room door. The footsteps stopped, and he could imagine that she was standing, uncertain, the H & K tucked into her hip and the safety off.

When she came, she moved quickly and was inside the Crew Room almost before Bond was ready for her. The only piece of luck that came his way was the fact that she moved to the right first, which is normal in right-handed people, and exactly why Bond had staked himself to the left, from her viewpoint on the main deck.

His arm went around her neck. This was one of those times when it did not pay to be squeamish, or to even think about what he was doing.

He only wished that it had been the psycho, Deeley.

She dropped the machine pistol, trying to claw at his arms, but Bond had already done the damage. Left arm around the neck from behind; push in hard; reach over and grasp the left biceps with the right hand, so that his right forearm went across her forehead. Now the pressure: fast, very hard, and lethal. He heard the neck go, and Felt her weight in sudden death. Then he grabbed at the H & K and ran out onto the deck, slipping the H & K to Safe, ducking under the wings of the aircraft until he reached the one on the ski-ramp. He went right around the aircraft, checking all control surfaces were free, nipping the warning ribbons from the Sidewinders, and pulling the caps off the front of the Aden gun pods.

The generator was in place, plugged in. He paused for a second, undecided. He could leave it in and be certain that he could start the engine first time or unplug and hope to hell there was enough charge on board. If he took the first option, there was danger in the take-off with the generator cable still attached.

He took the second way and unplugged the cord, then ran around the aircraft, climbing into the cockpit. As he lowered himself into the seat he imagined he could hear the sound of another aircraft.

He clipped the straps on and hauled down so that he was tightly secured. He lowered the canopy, and pressed the ignition, going through the pre-take-off drill in his head.

As he pressed the ignition, so there was a huge roar. Flame speared up from somewhere behind him, and he could hear the heavy thump of 10mm shells hitting parked aircraft and the deck around him.

As the engine fired, so the shape crossed directly over him. A Sea Harrier, very low, almost hugging the sea as it did a tight turn, pulling a lot of G, to circle and come in again.

In at the Kill

He did not really know if this was a full, coordinated attack on invincible, but, in the last seconds, logic told him exactly what it was - the fireworks promised by BAST if the 15.00 hours deadline was not met.

Take-off check: brakes on; flaps OUT; ASI “bug” to lift-off speed.

As always, the aircraft was alive, trembling to the idling of the Rolls-Royce turbofan.

Nozzle lever set to short take-off position at the 500 stop mark; throttle to fifty-five percent RPM; brakes off; throttle banged into fully open, and there it was, the giant hand pressing at his chest and face.