Christopher Wood - The Spy Who Loved Me

Another list and Bond felt the deck lurching away beneath him. He scrabbled like a skier trying to find an edge on a steep slope and then lost his footing completely. He trod water for an instant and then sank until he felt a firm surface beneath his feet. Bracing himself, he drove off it and surged through the water like a swimmer starting a back-stroke race. The survivor of Talbot’s raid was still keeping him unconscious company. Bond’s shoulders smacked against the side of the Wayne and strong hands snapped into the collar of his tunic. He was hauled up the side of the pear-drop hull and relinquished his grip on his countryman only when he saw that he was securely held by members of the Wayne 's crew.

‘Get ’em below!’ Carter disappeared through the main access hatch and Bond struggled to his feet and followed him. Below, it was like a crowd scene from an Eisenstein film. Men were pressed shoulder to shoulder and the wounded found space between their feet. Carter fought his way to the control room and barked into the PA system. ‘All personnel below decks. Close hatches. Diving stations.’

Bond’s glazed eyes stared at the crowded metal walls pressing in on him and wondered if he had not exchanged a tomb for a coffin.

‘All personnel aboard, sir’ - there was an unhappy pause - ‘all that are left, that is. Hatches shut and clipped. Submarine ready for sea.’

Carter’s lips trembled and then he spoke urgently. ‘Torpedo room - Control. Load tube one with Mark 46 Torpedo. Engine Room - Control. Hold her steady.’

Bond looked at the faces about him. The sweat poured from them. The tension showed on each death-haunted feature.

‘Torpedo Room - Control. Open outer door on tube one.’

A man closed his eyes and his lips began to murmur a prayer.

‘Control - Torpedo Room. Outer door on tube one open.* The voice came from Texas. It was unwavering. Something

- or someone - thumped against the side of the hull. Carter’s fist clenched.

‘Match bearings and shoot.’

The man who was praying pressed a thin gold crucifix between finger and thumb. Bond noticed that the indentation on its transversals had been worn smooth. Two voices spoke out from the back of the control room.

‘Set.’

‘Shoot!’

The Wayne shuddered and Bond tensed. There was the passage of seconds and then a giant swell buffeted the submarine. The bows pitched into the air and men clung to any support that offered itself. Bond watched the deck tilt up in front of him and heard wounded men cry out in pain and panic as they were trampled underfoot. Almost instantly, a second shock wave hit the Wayne , as the back-surge rebounded from the quay. Bond crashed into Carter's back and the two men sprawled across the deck. Carter was on his feet first and brought the periscope hissing from the well. His hands snapped on the handles and his back arched. When he turned away, his face showed a grim triumph close to tears. He nodded to Bond.

‘Take a look.’

Bond pressed his eyes to the viewer. Ahead, the great doors tilted like lop-sided book-ends. A jagged bitemark showed where the torpedo had blasted a way through them. Bond could see the sky beyond. Behind him, Carter’s voice rang out triumphantly.

‘Take her out!’

Coming up for Air

‘Well?' said Bond.

Carter tapped the piece of paper in his hand. ‘The order’s been confirmed by Washington. “Destroy Stromberg’s laboratory with all possible speed.”'

Bond looked sceptical. ‘If it’s still there. I told you, it’s not attached to the sea bed. It can be moved.’

Carter frowned, sensing the unfamiliar lack of enthusiasm in Bond’s voice. ‘It was still there an hour ago. I’ve had an aerial reconnaissance report. No sign of life. No helicopter, either.’

‘They must have pulled out.’ Was Bond wrong or did he actually feel relieved that Anya might not be there? ‘How are you going to destroy it?’

‘Torpedos. If the layout is as you describe it, we’ll blast it through the opening in the caldera. Officially, it will be a spontaneous eruption of what was thought to be an extinct volcano. The Italian Navy will move in and close the area. Their government has been informed.’

‘Very neat.’

‘What’s the matter, James? You’re not exactly bursting with enthusiasm. Don’t you want to get Stromberg?’

Bond pulled himself together. ‘Of course I do. I just want to ask you one favour. Before you destroy Atlantis I’d like the chance to get aboard by myself.’

Carter jerked his head heavenwards in a gesture of exasperation.

‘Hell, James! Are you mad? I told you my orders. “Destroy Atlantis with all possible speed .” That didn’t come from the Sweetbrush PTA.’

‘An hour.’ Bond’s voice was calm but it had a hard edge to

it. ‘If I’m not back within an hour you can send the whole hellish structure to the bottom.’

Carter’s reply veiled his concern for Bond. ‘You’re trying to get me court-martialled, James.’

Bond’s face did not lighten. The tone remained firm. There was no hint of supplication. ‘An hour. That’s all I need.’ Carter looked into the hard gun-metal eyes seared with red lines of pain and fatigue. ‘What is it, James? Stromberg or the girl?’ The tight, cruel line of Bond’s mouth divided like a trap being sprung. ‘Let’s say both.’

Bond never discovered the speed they made through the Straits of Gibraltar and past the Balearics but he estimated that it must be in excess of forty knots. He was, however, able to catch up on some important items of world news over the ship’s radio. A mysterious tidal wave had lashed the west coast of Ireland causing considerable damage but mercifully few deaths. A number of ships had been lost. A similar natural phenomenon in the area of the Windward Islands had savaged the east coast of Barbados and caused widespread damage in the islands of St Lucia, Martinque and Dominica. Both disturbances were said to be the results of seismic eruptions on the ocean bed and demonstrated that when it stirred itself, nature could reproduce a cataclysm of almost man-made proportions. Bond wondered drily whether informed scientific opinion would be able to link these eruptions with that which was shortly going to take place on the coast of north-east Sardinia. Amongst natural disasters of this magnitude, a report of the sinking of one of the world's largest and newest tankers, the Lepadus , was hardly given news space. Bond knew that the sight of the great iron coffin sliding beneath the sea would stay with him for ever. Despite the evil purpose for which it was built there was a grandeur about the concept and execution of the Lepadus that commanded respect. To see a mighty ship die was always sad, especially in a dense pall of black smoke and a sizzling flame-scarred sea.

The Straits of Bonifacio were entered at dawn and the Wayne , still under water, veered to starboard. Bond sat in Carter’s cabin wearing a neoprene wet-suit and checking his diving gear. The suit was a good fit. Tight enough to show the bulge of the Walther PPK in its oilskin bag against his left shoulder. Bond fitted the regulator to the neck of the scuba tank, tightened the wing nut that held it in place, and opened the air valve. He sucked a few breaths from the tank to make sure that it was feeding air and looked up to see Carter standing in the doorway.

‘I think we’re there. You’d better come up and take a look.’ Bond picked up the tank, flippers and mask and followed Carter to the control room. He gripped the handles of the periscope and looked towards the familiar snaggle-tooth outline of the rocky coast. Seen from a distance and the right angle, the jagged circular outline of the caldera was easily recognizable. Streaks of white surf showed at the entrance through the rocks. Bond shivered and turned the periscope to port. A small cove bit into the cliffs and there was a suspicion of white sand. A steep climb and you would be on the lip of the caldera. He relinquished the periscope. ‘That’s it. They’ve got an early warning device at the entrance to the harbour so I’m going to make for the cove alongside. Can you take me in any closer? There’s quite a current.’