It was, in the end, the storm which helped them. Like most desert weather, the change was both extreme and spectacular. As they kept close to the boundary walls with their screens of trees, the thunder and lightning swept in on a raging wind – a massive thunderhead, like an anvil, hanging directly over Rancho Bismaquer. In its wake came torrential rain.
They could hardly see through the windscreen, even with the wipers going full speed; but the storm appeared to have driven the watchful guards to cover. Sitting it out, about half a mile from the mono-rail depot, Bond waited for the first break as rain lashed against them, buffeting the car like rifle fire on the armour plating.
Cedar said that, as far as she knew, the mono-rail was in place. ‘They had some plan to take cars out early in the morning,’ she told him, explaining that her own escape had been made more difficult by the advent of more men, and guards, at the house.
‘In the end I screwed up my courage and went for a walk. Markus saw me and asked what I was doing. I just told him I needed some air. I took off like a jack rabbit after that. Haven’t run so fast since I was a sophomore in college and the captain of the football team dated me.’
‘Did he catch you?’ Bond asked.
‘Of course, James. I slowed down after a while. Why not? He was cute.’
At this point in the conversation, the rain appeared to ease slightly.
‘This is it.’ Bond spoke quickly, giving her instructions. ‘Drive like the devil. Don’t worry about any shooting; we can’t be hurt in here. As long as you can see through the rain, go straight for the mono-rail ramp and drive right in.’
‘Do you know how to run a mono-rail?’ Cedar shouted, as they took off.
Bond said there was always a first time for everything.
They got within a couple of hundred yards of the rail depot without being spotted. Then, some security guard must have glimpsed them through the rain.
Bond saw the car pull out behind them, then lost it again as a squall drove a great wet shower between the two cars. Then another appeared, from the right, just as they were racing alongside the depot, Cedar’s head pushed forward, almost on the windscreen, as she searched for the ramp.
The two sets of headlights – behind, and to the right – appeared and disappeared through the rain. Then the Saab rocked as a bullet struck the armour on Bond’s side. Another two squashed into the thick, impenetrable, toughened glass of the driver’s window.
But the weather saved them. The rain, which had eased for a moment, suddenly turned on a last downpour, as though giant buckets were being emptied from the skies.
‘There,’ Cedar shouted, realising they were practically alongside the ramp and overshooting it. Grimly peering through the windscreen, she backed up, changed into first, and smoothly set the Saab’s wheels on the covered way leading to the mono-rail.
Bond wondered if the chase cars would find their way through the shield of rain, or even if they realised where the Saab was heading. Cedar had the headlights on now in the dark tunnel, and there appeared to be no one behind them.
A minute later, the Saab’s lights picked up the big metal sliding doors, and they bounced into the transporter van, coming to a standstill right in place on the restraining rails.
Bond shouted for Cedar to get the doors closed as he sprang from the Saab, praying that the entrance to the driver’s cabin was not locked. As he passed through into the cab, he heard the satisfying thud of the doors closing. Now it was a matter of using common sense and sorting out the controls.
The rain still lashed down, driving against the big windows of the cabin. A small fixed seat perched in front of a flat bank of levers and instruments. To Bond’s relief, they all appeared to be marked. A red button, with two switches below it, was designated as Turbine: On/Off. He tripped the switches and pressed the button as he scanned the other controls. The throttle was a metal arm which swept in a half-circle across spaced terminals. The braking mechanism was near his feet, with a secondary device to the right of the throttle. He found the speed indicator, the windscreen wipers, the lights, and a series of buttons marked Doors: Automatic. Close/Open.
Pressing the red button brought a comforting throbbing whine as the turbine turned over. Bond slammed down all the automatic door buttons on the Close circuit, switched on the wipers and lights, released the brakes, and tentatively moved the throttle arm.
He did not expect such a sudden reaction. The train jerked, took the strain, then moved with oiled smoothness from the depot. Cedar was at his elbow now, peering out of the big forward windows, trying to see the track through the rain as the big headlight cut into the downpour.
Bond increased the power, then up another notch, watching the speed gauge rise to seventy miles per hour. At eighty, they seemed to be clearing the storm. It was dying away as fast as it had come, for the rain was now only a slight drizzle, and the long single track became visible in the bright cutting cone of light which arrowed from the train’s nose.
On either side, the protective, electrified fencing rose intimidatingly, prompting Cedar to ask what they would do at the far end.
‘They’ll be ready and waiting. Shotguns, the electrified fences, everything. Worry when we get there.’
Again Bond increased the power and then wondered aloud if the train could stand the shock of going right through the far station. ‘If we were in the car there’d be protection.’
‘Not if the whole thing capsized,’ Cedar said. ‘You’d telescope us all, James. There’re bound to be bumpers at the other end.’
‘And they’ll be waiting,’ Bond reflected.
The mono-rail sliced on, speed rising, as though they were floating on a soft cushion of air. There was no vibration, and now that the rain had cleared they had perfect forward vision.
Bond thought for a few moments. They had been travelling for roughly ten minutes. Gently he eased back on the throttle, then told Cedar to get her revolver and the Nitefinder glasses from the Saab.
While she was gone, he eased back even more on the throttle, feeling the train slowing in a gentle vibration.
‘I’m going to switch the main lights off in a minute,’ he told Cedar when she got back. ‘There’s only one way to do this. Use the Nitefinders, and stop well short. You’ll hold the fort here while I go in: up the track.’
It was pitch black outside, beyond the beam of the great spotlight. In the far distance, the storm raged on and an occasional great sheet of lightning flared and faded.
Bond strapped on the glasses, took out the VP70, placed it on the instrument shelf, and continued to slow the turbine. Then he switched off the lights.
Now they slid along, slowly, in complete darkness. Cedar stood by Bond, one hand resting on his arm as he looked out through the Nitefinders. The track curved slightly, and he would have to judge how far they were from the desert depot. About a mile, he thought, bringing down the throttle another notch, then cutting it altogether and gently applying the brakes.
The driver’s cabin had its own sliding door which would, presumably, unlock when the other doors were set to Automatic/Open. There should also be rungs from the cab that would take him down for part of the way at least. After that, it would be a long drop.
With his usual economy, Bond told Cedar exactly what he proposed. ‘I have night eyes with these things,’ touching the Nitefinders: ‘After I’ve unlocked the doors, the turbine has to be switched off, and you’ll be left alone here while I go quietly up the track.’
‘James, be careful of those protective fences.’ Cedar’s voice betrayed her state of mind.
‘Don’t worry about that. Nothing’ll concentrate my mind so well as that damned fence.’
In the darkness, Bond watched through the glasses for any movement in front of the train.
‘If they’re waiting – and I’ve no doubt they will be – I should imagine the Brothers Grimm will be intrigued by the fact that we’ve stopped short, and with no lights. If I’m lucky, at least one of them?
??ll come looking, which is what I need. Once I’ve dealt with them, switched off the current and opened the gates, I’ll be back fast. Your job is to stay here and kill – I mean kill – anyone who attempts to board. I’m the only one that you let back into this contraption. Okay?’
She agreed, with a very firm ‘Yes’.
Bond activated the automatic door buttons and turned off the turbine. As he had hoped, the cabin door slid open easily. He peered down, spotting the rungs leading to the underside of the cabin.
‘Okay, Cedar. Be as quick as possible.’
Adjusting the Nitefinders to their maximum brightness and range, Bond swung himself from the cabin and started to descend.
At the bottom of the train itself, he paused, craning his neck to see along the track. He estimated the drop to be around fifteen feet. There was a good twelve feet between the great concrete pillars that held the track and the electrified fence.
Grasping the bottom rung, Bond allowed his body to fall free. He dangled in mid-air, swinging slightly, until he had controlled the oscillation of his body, then glanced down into the blur below, positioned himself and let go. The ground was flat and firm. Bond landed neatly, knees bent, not even staggering or rolling. As his feet touched the earth, so the automatic came out, and he froze, still and silent, peering through the goggles, ears straining.
The night seemed unnaturally quiet, and there was that particular clear, sweet smell of the desert after rain. No movement ahead. Holding the pistol against his thigh, Bond started forward, keeping close to the high, pillared concrete track supports, and noting, with some relief, that there were rungs – for maintenance he supposed – on every third pillar.
Every now and then Bond stopped, to listen and take a longer look. Despite being a big man, he could walk with that silent, stalking manner of a cat. Within ten minutes, the desert depot was clearly visible ahead.
They had turned the lights off, to make the train’s approach difficult, and there was definitely movement ahead of him now. One tall figure slowly walked towards him, staying close to the pillars. The man carried a shotgun, not under his arm but at the ready, held professionally away from the body, the butt a few inches from the shoulder and the barrel pointing downwards.
Bond sidestepped, flattening behind a pillar. Soon the approaching man was clearly audible – an expert, Bond judged, for the sound came only from the man’s low, controlled breathing.
The hunter must have instinctively sensed danger. About a foot from Bond’s pillar, he stopped, listening and turning. Then Bond saw the barrel of the shotgun come into view.
He waited until the man cleared the pillar before making a move – quick as a cobra, and just as deadly. Bond’s heavy automatic was balanced firmly in the right hand. His arm came back, then shot forward with all the force that 007 could muster. As the punch came out of the darkness, the hunter sensed activity. Not soon enough, Bond’s wrist turned so that the full force of the punch lay behind the barrel of the VP70 – the arm fully extended at the point of impact, which landed on target, just below the man’s right ear.
There was a sudden hiss as the victim expelled air from his lungs, then a ghost of a groan before he fell backwards. Bond grabbed out at the unconscious man, but it was too late. The tightly-meshed protective fence danced with a flash of blue fire which, in turn, played around the man’s body as he fell against the heavy wires, jerking and kicking as the massive voltage poured through him.
The smell of burning and singed flesh floated into Bond’s nostrils, almost making him retch. But in a moment, it was over and the depot guard lay still, thrown away from the fencing, his gun – a Winchester pump – almost between Bond’s feet on the earth.
Even through the Nitefinder glasses, the flash from the electrified fence left traces of light floating in Bond’s vision. All thought of surprise had gone. Blinking to clear his eyes, Bond dropped to one knee, picked up the Winchester and replaced his automatic in its holster.
The pump-action Winchester was loaded and ready. As his hands touched the weapon, Bond heard a cry less than fifty yards up the track.
‘Brother? You okay, brother? You git him?’
The other guard, twin giant to the dead man, was thumping along the little path between pillars and fence, flushed out by the flash and noise. Bond lifted the Winchester, holding the oncoming figure in the centre of the barrel, and called out, ‘Stay where you are. Drop the gun. Your brother’s had it. Stop now.’
The man did stop, but only to aim his own Winchester in the general direction of Bond’s voice. Before the first shots came, Bond ducked behind the pillar, coming out at the other side and lining up the shotgun again.
The man charged on, firing at random, hoping, in rage, for a lucky shot. Bond fired once, low and accurate. The target’s legs seemed to be pulled back from under him, the force of the shot dragging the whole body face down. There was a long shriek of pain, followed by a whimper; then silence.
Gently, Bond searched the body of the electrocuted guard. No sign of keys there, so he walked forward gingerly, not knowing what reinforcements Bismaquer might have ordered to man the desert depot.
The other guard was unconscious but would live. His legs, peppered with shot, bled badly, but there was no jetting from severed arteries.
Bond went over him thoroughly. No keys either. The guards, he decided, must have been caught off-balance and left the keys in their little blockhouse, which also controlled the electric protective fencing. It was either that, or there were others waiting, ready to trap Bond and Cedar.
He took his time approaching the end of the line, repumping the Winchester, crabbing sideways on, towards the low buildings.
Silence. Not a movement, as Bond reached the platforms, where the big motor ramp extended, ready to meet the mono-rail.
He stayed close to the buildings, well in the darkness, watching.
Nothing.
At last, Bond broke cover, walking quickly to the blockhouse, where lights still burned. It was deserted. There seemed to be no sign of life anywhere inside the fence or out on the desert track.
The keys lay on a table near the big fuse boxes and main switches that controlled the fences. In less than a minute, Bond had thrown the master switch, picked up the keys and – after hurling the Winchester at the fence to make certain it was no longer live with electricity – unlocked the main gates, pulling them back fully so that they could drive the Saab straight off the train and through.
If luck held, they would be in Amarillo and telephoning the people who mattered within an hour.
He ran, fast, all the way back. The injured guard was still not conscious but had begun to groan. His brother lay silent, reeking of burned clothing and flesh.
At last, Bond saw the train, ahead and above him. Its great curved sides hung over the edge of the platform, supported by the pillars. Without pausing, Bond swarmed up the nearest metal rungs. There was a space on the platform, about three or four feet of stressed steel with concrete overlay between the edge of the pillar and the big rail.
Standing upright, Bond crabbed his way along this catwalk until the front of the train towered over him. With just room to kneel, he could see around the long drooping side of the mono-rail. The cab door was still open, its rungs leading down to the point below him where he had swung and dropped before.
Now, the cab’s rungs were just out of reach. Straightening up, Bond shuffled back a couple of steps, then leaned forward with his hands close together, as far to the left of the train’s metal front as he could get without slipping.
The angle of his body was obviously too steep, so he gently edged his feet forward, flexing the knees, his eyes not leaving the line of rings – elongated D shapes – coming down from the cabin. If he let his hands slide now, Bond would simply fall headlong from the platform holding rail and train.
He needed a little more agility this time. Once his hands released their grip on the smooth metal, he would have to spring, trying to leap tow
ards the cabin rungs, grabbing as he went in the hope of maintaining a firm hold.
A deep breath, flexed knees again, then a hard push away from the platform, using all his skill to place the weight of his body forward, near to the train’s side. One hand touched a rung, one palm – but not quite firmly enough. He was falling, arms flailing and hands snatching at the rungs as they streaked by him. It only took a second, but the fall gave the impression of suspended time. Then his whole body jarred – an arm almost wrenched from its socket – as his left hand closed around the penultimate rung.
Bond remained swinging by one arm for a second or two, until at last he had a firm grip with both hands. He waited another second to catch his breath, and then began a steady ascent.
As his face came level with the cab door, Bond called out: ‘It’s okay, Cedar, I’m back. We’re on our way.’ He hoisted himself into the cab, a trifle breathless.
Cedar was not in the cabin. Nor did she answer when he called to her again.
Bond leaped towards the control panel, to activate the light switches. The whole train lit up, and as it did so, the cabin door slammed closed inexplicably. He reached across, hauling on the manual handle, but without result.
Turning, Bond once more called for Cedar. He had the pistol out again as he made his way back into the vehicle compartment. The Saab stood as they had left it. But still no trace of Cedar. Then, as he stood there, the door to the cabin – and the one at the far end – slammed shut.
‘Cedar?’ Bond yelled. ‘Where are you? Have those bastards got you?’
A disembodied voice answered, making his flesh crawl. ‘Oh yes, Mr Bond. Mrs Penbrunner will not get away any more than you. Why not relax, Mr Bond? Relax and have a rest.’
It was the voice of Walter Luxor, thin and strangled, from a loudspeaker system. It took Bond a few seconds to recognise the other phenomenon – an odour in the air, oddly pleasant but stinging to the nostrils. Then he saw the faint cloud, like thin smoke, rising from tiny grilles in the floor: gas; some form of gas; and he understood.