Christopher Wood - The Spy Who Loved Me

Carter looked at Bond’s injured arm and shook his head. ‘If there was a medal for stupidity I’d pin it on you right away.* Bond started to lift the tank and Carter stepped forward and held it so that he could slip his arms through the straps. ‘Remember what I said. An hour after you leave this vessel, I’m going to attack. You’ll have to wait for the Italian Navy to take you off. I have strict orders not to surface. We don’t want any reports of fishermen seeing submarines around at the time of the eruption.’

Bond nodded and fastened the third strap round his waist. ‘Message received and understood, Captain. Where do you want me?’

Carter’s jaw tightened. ‘I’m going to flood one of the missile tubes amidships. You’ll be inside it. I’ll open the outer door and you swim out. Will you be able to get enough lift with that equipment?’

Bond wasn’t certain but he nodded.

Fifteen minutes later he stood hunched in the 21-inch firing tube reserved for a nuclear missile. It was an agonizingly tight fit and the feeling of claustrophobia it induced exceeded anything that Bond had known. His face was pressed against the smooth circular tube and his scuba tank scraped the wall behind him. It was dark and hot and he felt like a man in a strait jacket. When the water started to pour in he wanted to scream. Instead, he pulled his mask down, spat inside it, and with his elbows pressed against his chest, rubbed the saliva over the mask. He settled it on his face and drew up the regulator tube, fitting the mouthpiece into his mouth.

He took a couple of breaths and felt the water rising above his waist. This was the moment of sheer death-knowing terror. The moment that the many men who had drowned with the rats on the Lepadus must have known. Supposing he couldn’t move? Supposing he remained stuck in the tube and the regulator failed? The water passed over his face, less icy than the fear that surged with it. A stream of bubbles rushed up and he tilted his head to see the hatch beginning to open. Three fathoms above his head there was morning light glinting down through the water. Now, pause, fight panic, flex the knees as far as possible. Push - but not too hard I Don’t lose momentum against the side of the tube. Bond felt the scuba tank dragging against the metal and paddled wildly. For a couple of seconds he seemed locked, and then his stretching hands clawed against the top of the tube and he was able to pull himself from the chrysalis of death.

Like a basking whale the three hundred feet of nuclear submarine stretched away on either side. Bond patted the hull as one might an obedient dog and began paddling towards the surface to make a sighting.

It took him ten minutes to reach the cove and his arm was aching painfully as he raised his head behind the protection of an offshore rock. There was no one about. The merest hiss of surf on the virgin sand. Bond wanted to rest but he knew there was no time. He had to drive himself forward. He came in close to the caldera and let the swell lift him on to an apron of pumice-stone rock made slippery by the passage of the sea and a coating of weed that rose and fell like the fur of an animal. He pulled himself ashore and tugged off his flippers, watching small striped fish dart in and out with the passage of the swirling sea. The sun was still low but already adding some lustre to the sinister grey of the wall that surrounded Stromberg's harbour.

Bond looked about him carefully and began to make his way up the loose shale of volcanic rock that ran away beneath his feet like whispers in church. It was like climbing up a pile of coke. He reached the lip and laid himself down with the mask and flippers beside him. He was breathing hard and his shoulder throbbed. Below him was a narrow defile plunging down into the dark waters of the caldera. Two hundred yards away, the lab rose like a mixture of oil-rig and space- probc launching-pad. There was no sign of life. The helideck was empty. The Riva was not moored alongside.

Bond turned his eyes towards the shore. No vessels were moored against the ramp. The shutters on the buildings were closed. To all intents and purposes, Stromberg had abandoned his headquarters. But ... Bond tried to analyse his presentiment rationally. Something told him that the place still contained life. He waited another minute, his keen eyes searching all corners of the caldera, and then crawled over the ridge and lowered himself into the defile. Now he was in shadow and the neoprene suit chafed uncomfortably. He picked his way down, scraping knuckles and bare feet as he tried to use every inch of protection that the crevasse offered. Within five minutes he was at the water’s edge. He looked at his battered Rolex Perpetual; nearly half an hour had elapsed since he left the Wayne .

Quickly sluicing his mask in water, he pulled it over his head and began to don his flippers. Within seconds, he was sliding beneath the surface. To his irritation, he found that there was water inside the mask so he let his feet sink and tilted his head back until he was looking up through the murky water. He pressed a hand against the faceplate and expelled air through his nose until the mask was clear. Now he drove forward, paddling hard with his feet, his arms straggling back along the length of his body. The only sound was of his breathing - a deep, hollow noise when he breathed in, a fluted thumping of bubbles as he exhaled. The sea was murky, close- textured, impenetrable to the eye. With every stroke of his legs, the tension mounted. Was some sonar device plotting his course through the water? Would a depth-charge soon drift lazily down to rip the flesh from his bones? He pressed on, seeking to cure fear with movement. The journey seemed endless. Had he by chance veered to one side of his target? No, there it was in front of him., the inverted dome vaguely discernible through the murk.

He looked behind warily but there was nothing save a trail of bubbles. Conscious that these might be seen if he was too near the surface, he dived beneath the hull before making his way upwards, brushing against the barnacle-encrusted side. The light grew in intensity and shoals of small fish veered sharply to one side like shimmering iron filings caught in the refraction of the sun. His head broke the surface and he pushed his mask back and spat out the mouthpiece so that he could fill his lungs with sweet gulps of fresh air. There was no sound except that of water nudging the landing stage. He paddled towards it and pulled himself aboard, wincing at the pain in his arm. He could feel the escaping blood making the inside of the neoprene suit slippery.

Unzipping the jerkin, he took out his Walther PPK. He then shed his diving gear, and without its cumbersome weight immediately felt better. He took several deep breaths and rose unsteadily to his feet. His respite on the Wayne had not been sufficient convalescence for the nonstop action of the last few days. He was drawing on his last resources of energy.

Moving his gear to the side of the pontoon, Bond began to ascend the stairway, pistol in hand. The catwalks and gantries which had once been lined with hard-eyed guards were now eerily empty. He came to the first stage and faced the lift. Some internal voice spoke up urgently and told him not to use it. He moved to port and found a metal stairway curving up round one of the four tubular columns supporting the structure. He followed it warily and came to a point where two enclosed galleries parted at right angles. One was in shadow and the other half-exposed to the rising sun. The sea murmured thirty feet below but there was a closer source of noise. From somewhere along the gallery that lay in shadow came the sound of voices.

Bond tensed and tried to pump new life into the pain- numbed fingers that were gripping the Walther. It was impossible to hear what the voices were saying but they sounded agitated and were talking over each other as if trying to press home an argument. Bond moved forward from the stairway and began to creep along the gallery. Somewhere above his head was a persistent creaking noise like a shutter stirring in the breeze. He passed one door and could tell that the voices were coming from the next room. One of them was speaking urgent Italian. He ducked below a porthole and saw that the heavy metal door was ajar. Two steps and he threw his shoulder against it and burst inside.