Christopher Wood: James Bond and Moonraker

‘There’s one other thing, 007. Q Branch have come up with a new — er — item for you.’ The word ‘item’ was spoken without great warmth or respect. Bond had the impression that M would have preferred to say ‘gadget’. As the survivor of a number of naval engagements, M found it difficult to take seriously any weapon smaller than a twelve-inch gun.

Q was impervious to any intonation that M chose to employ. He removed a small box from his pocket and withdrew what at first glance appeared to be a narrow leather strap for a wrist watch. ‘Extend your arm please, 007.’

Bond did as he was asked, and the strap was fastened round his wrist. On closer inspection he noticed that it was made like a miniature cartridge holder. Some objects were tucked into the small leather slots. Sartorially it was not something he would have chosen to wear, and he looked at Q questioningly.

‘We’re shortly going to be issuing this as standard equipment,’ said Q. ‘Standard, that is, to double-0 prefixes. It’s activated by nerve impulses from the wrist muscles.’ He positioned Bond to face one of the cork panels on the other side of the room. ‘Extend your arm and jerk your wrist back.’

Bond did as he was told and there was a sharp crack like a twig breaking. A small dart was embedded in the cork so as to be almoit invisible.

Q held the lid of the box up to Bond. ‘There are ten darts in here. Five blue-tipped, with armour-piercing heads, and five red-tipped. They have a cyanide coating that causes death in less than thirty seconds.’

Bond looked at his wrist and shook his head. ‘Very novel, Q. You really must make an effort to get them into the stores for Christmas.’

4

HUGO DRAX AT HOME

Bond came down the corridor from the 747 at Los Angeles Airport feeling a familiar sense of jet-lagged irritation that he had to relive half a day of his life. Still, at least nobody had pushed him out of the aeroplane this time, and the cold buffet in first class had been a welcome change from the usual overheated plastic food made particularly unbearable by the bestowal of fatuous titles in gastronomic French. There had even been a well-chilled bottle of PulignyMontrachet rejoicing the eye with the 1971 printed on its damp label.

‘Will James Bond, passenger from London, please make himself known at the British Airways desk.’ Bond heard the message as he came out into the open concourse. and stepped aside from the mass of passengers streaming like lemmings to see if their baggage had accompanied them on the flight. A clean-cut young man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and a button bearing the legend ‘I’m happy when you’re happy’ was waiting behind the British Airways desk with an upturned pencil poised for action. Beside the desk stood a girl of surpassing beauty who could only have been American. Her two rows of perfect teeth were not only white but reflected enough light into the eyes of the beholder to dazzle. The large blue eyes were widely spaced and balanced the longish, straight nose and the warm, generous mouth. The blonde hair which shone like spun silk bounced as if animated by the aura of good health that radiated from every chromosome of her body. As Venus rose off Paphos on the island of Cyprus, so could this girl have appeared out of the sea off Malibu and stalked ashore to take her natural place as a Californian beach goddess. She was wearing a white one-piece uniform that looked like a mechanic’s overall and accentuated her copper tan. From a distance Bond was not certain whether the uniform was worn for fashion or expediency. When he got nearer he saw the word Drax emblazoned on one of the pockets beside an insignia which appeared as a double spire within intersecting orbits. Bond’s interest quickened. The girl looked at him expectantly.

‘Mr Bond?’ There was a faint but discernible edge of hope in her voice that was not unflattering.

‘That’s right.’

‘Hi. I’m Trudi Parker. Mr Drax sent me to fetch you.’ Her manner was relaxed and friendly. There was none of the obsequious formality that Bond was used to receiving when being met at airports.

‘That’s very thoughtful of him,’ said Bond. He prepared to follow the last of the departing passengers from his flight but Trudi held out a slim hand. ‘If you give me your baggage tags I’ll have your stuff sent on. We’re not going that way.’

The young man behind the counter twisted his pencil through his fingers and received the tags as if they were precious gifts. Bond decided that the name Drax clearly stood for something in this part of the world.

‘Follow me.’ Bond did as he was told and found it no hardship. Trudi moved beautifully, rising on to the balls of her feet as if she was about to launch into a dance routine with each step. Her shoulders were broad and well muscled, with one arm slightly more developed than the other. Bond surmised that she did a lot of swimming and probably played a club-standard game of tennis. She led the way into one of the satellite corridors that bore no letter or flight number, and they descended a ramp and emerged into bright sunshine. At a few hundred yards’ distance were the banks of commercial aircraft nuzzling by their satellite corridors like calves at a bulk feeder. Directly ahead, across the runway, was a helicopter of a gyrodyne design that Bond did not recognize. Proudly emblazoned along the side were the words DRAX AIRLINES and the symbol that adorned Trudi’s uniform.

‘Are you my guide and mentor?’ asked Bond.

‘I’m your pilot.’

Bond made a good job of conquering his surprise. California was no place to be accused of sexism. ‘I don’t recognize the helicopter.’

‘There’s no reason why you should. It’s the prototype of a model that Mr Drax is developing.’

‘I didn’t know he owned an airline.’

‘He’s big in communications,’ said Trudi casually. ‘He owns a couple of railways in South America. Then there’s the steamship company in Japan and his trucking business. I don’t really know the half of it. I should think only Mr Drax and maybe some of his accountants do.’ She nodded to another helicopter that was standing by with a Drax pilot in the cockpit. ‘He’ll be along with your bags in a few minutes.’

‘I feel very well looked after,’ said Bond.

‘That’s the idea.’ She gestured towards the helicopter. ‘I guess you’ve flown in one of these before?’

‘Quite a few times,’ said Bond.

‘Good, then I don’t have to give you the reassurance bit.’

‘You mean, we’re just going to take off?’ asked Bond. ‘What about passport formalities? I’ve just flown in from England.’

‘When you’re a guest of Mr Drax, things become very informal.’ Trudi smiled engagingly. ‘Mr Drax wouldn’t invite anybody if it wasn’t in the best interests of the U.S.A.’

‘He seems a law unto himself,’ said Bond.

Trudi climbed into the cockpit. ‘He’s a very successful man. Americans respect success. Not only that, they trust it.’ She waited until Bond was strapped in beside her and then spoke swiftly into the radio, asking for permission to take off. Seconds later they were climbing steeply and spinning away towards the north. Bond looked about him for signs of the much-trumpeted Los Angeles smog and wondered if it was as difficult to run down as a genuine London pea-souper. Below him was an impression of long straight streets running across each other like latticework, whilst broad freeways curved to the horizon. It was like the layout of a giant snakes and ladders board.

‘How far have we got to go?’ asked Bond.

‘A couple of hours. Is this your first time in California?’

Bond admired the relaxed skill with which Trudi controlled the helicopter. As a man who liked nothing better than to be behind the wheel of a fast car, he had always responded to an attractive woman who knew how to handle a machine.