John Gardner - Win, Lose Or Die

“I think we’d have heard if the radar at Yeovilton actually lost me at any point,” he smiled confidently at Hamarik who gave a gentle nod.

The Spaniard’s Harrier had come within three miles of Bond just as the latter was making his bombing run. “I locked on to him, and let the missile go,” he told Hamarik. “After that I was busy with my own bombing run, and the little bit of deviousness which followed.” Hamarik shrugged, making an open-handed gesture. “I fear friend Bond escaped,” he smiled, as if to say “it is difficult to win every battle.

Pantano gave a heavy sigh, obviously annoyed with himself.

“I’m sorry. I did all I could. Damn. Damn the man.”

“Please do not concern yourself. There is plenty of time for us to deal with Captain Bond. A pity we could not combine two birds with the one proverbial stone. But, I promise you, Felipe, he will go. In fact that is essential.”

Pantano smiled, showing a small goldmine of fillings, before he went through the final phase. His bombing run had been normal up to the time when he climbed away. “I simply pulled into a 300 climb to show myself to the radar. At 1,000 feet I let all the flares go, switched off my radar and banged on the ECM.” The ECM (the Electronic Counter Measures Pod) is used to confuse ground radar and missiles.

“This was not foolproof, of course, but I went down to zero feet and set the course you had given me. It was pretty exciting, I can tell you. I was just feet above the water. There were times when I was getting salt spray on the wind shield, and even with the heater and wipers going full blast I couldn’t budge all of it. Also, I had the throttle banged wide open and the altimeter “bug’ was screaming at me.

I had it set to minimum - one hundred feet - and it went crazy. It was more like a boat ride than flying.” The Harrier had run right out into the Atlantic, then turned towards the Bay of Biscay. Two hundred miles later, Pantano had slowed to a hover beside the waiting Estado Novo.

There was ample room to make a vertical landing, and almost before he was out of the cockpit, the crew had started to erect false sides which eventually made up the huge container standing on the forward deck.

“Good,” Hamarik’s oily smile greased over his face. “You have done well. Now, all we have to do is make certain the machine is fully fuelled, overhauled, and fitted with the other weapons. Then, you will be ready for stage two of your part in the operation we are to call LOSE. There is meant to be humour in that. Operation LOSE means that the major powers lose all that is dear to them, for what country can function without their personal gyroscopes?”

“I don’t follow that part of it.” Pantano did not press the point, though he was obviously intrigued.

“You don’t follow it because you do not know what is really at stake.” The greased smile again. Then Hamarik rose from his chair.

“Come, let us eat and talk of good things. We have a small gift for you on board. She is from Egypt and, I am told, enjoys the same kind of trivial pursuit as yourself. Food first, for you will require energy.

James Bond was flying for most of the Saturday and the wardroom was almost empty when he went in to dine at around eight in the evening. He entered the ante-room and was surprised to see Clover, in a smart, almost military-looking dress - beige with brass buttons and darker beige piping around the shoulders and collar.

“How are you tonight, then, Clover?” He smiled, as though the lencing of the previous evening was now well forgotten.

“I’m fine, sir.” She returned the smile though she spoke formally. “I was waiting to try and get a word with you.”

“Right. How about dinner?”

“That’s really nice. I’ll get my coat, can we Bond shook his head, putting an arm out to stop her. “There are few people in the wardroom on a Saturday night, Clover.

Let’s see what they have for us there. I seem to remember that on the ratings’ messdecks of a Saturday evening, it was always “Herrings in’.” He recalled it well enough from the days when, as Officer of the Watch, he had to do rounds of the messdecks. “Herrings in” was the name they always gave to the large tins of herrings in tomato sauce, a favourite among both ratings and Petty Officers. Bond could never understand it. The food looked and smelled revolting to him, but there were never any complaints on Saturday nights. He presumed things had changed since then.

The only people dining in at that time were the Officer of the Watch and the Royal Marines Duty Officer, who both nodded deferentially to Bond as he led Clover to a couple of chairs distant to the other two officers. The Wren stewards served them with the only choice on the Saturday night menu - smoked salmon, followed by grilled steak. Bond took his steak rare and, refusing the pommesfrites, ordered a small green salad.

They talked idly, circling the problem both knew existed, until the main course had been served. It was Clover Pennington who took the lead “I wanted to apologise for last night.” She turned her eyes away and blushed as she spoke.

“Apologise for what?” Bond stared at her until she had to make eye contact.

“I broke all security regulations, sir. I shouldn’t have mentioned either invincible or Landsea “89. I’m sorry, it just seemed natural, particularly as I knew you were being drafted as well.”

“You’re quite right.” Bond was almost sharp with her. “To have gained the rank of First Officer you should really have learned all the lessons of security by now. I have to be honest with you, Clover, I’ve always had great reservations about young women with either loud voices, or runaway tongues. The Royal Navy isn’t known as the Silent Service for nothing. We’ve an almost unblemished reputation for keeping mouths closed and ears open.

“I know, sir. I’m sorry. I just thought that if I got my apology out of the way, perhaps Bond could not make up his mind whether she was just a garrulous woman, or an upper-class gold digger.

“Perhaps what?”

“Well, last night we “I think you’d do well to forget about last night. At least until the matters on your conscience are over.” In case he was being too harsh, Bond gave her a tight smile. “Let’s see how it all goes.

After that, anything’s possible. We could meet socially. No problem there.”

Clover Pennington looked suitably crestfallen, pushed her plate away, made a muttered excuse and left the wardroom.

Bond quietly finished his meal, went into the ante-room, took a small brandy with his coffee, then headed back to his quarters.

Tomorrow was a free day, but for him it would be a full one.

He left the Royal Naval Air Station just after eight, having eaten his usual breakfast. Bond was beginning to realise what had attracted him to the Navy in the first place. He was a man of routine, and enjoyed the privileges that came with rank. But now, rank was put to one side. He wore civilian clothes, and drove the BMW with caution, keeping his eyes on the rear-view mirror. Even though he was in England, this was an operation and any contact with his real Service was a clandestine matter where Field Rules applied.

He drove to Cheddar, pleased that on this late autumn Sunday there were few other people on the road. Certainly he appeared to be free of any surveillance as he turned off the main road and headed towards a modern house on the edge of an upmarket estate.

The double garage-doors were open and Bill Tanner stood by the crimson Lancia already drawn back from the automatic doors. It took Bond less than a minute to change cars, reversing the Lancia out while Tanner nodded and drove the BMW into the garage. No other cars came near and Bond crammed an unlikely fishing hat on his head, and slipped dark glasses over his eyes. No words were exchanged, but, as he turned the Lancia back towards the main road, Bond saw the garage-door coming down to hide his own car.