For Special Services

  In an almost detached way, Bond became aware that he was functioning more slowly. His brain took longer to make decisions. Oxygen. Yes, that was it. He had oxygen. In the car: the oxygen kit which slid out from under the passenger seat.

  Now he was moving in slow motion, his brain repeating ‘Oxygen . . . Oxygen . . .’ over and over again.

  Bond’s hand reached out for the Saab’s door, wrenching it open, his body swerving, turning towards the interior. Then he felt himself sliding, going down a long gentle slope, a chute, which descended into greyness, growing darker and darker, until he seemed to hurtle into space and the world turned black, while all knowledge was blotted out.

  19

  FOUR-STAR GENERAL

  There was one tiny moment, on regaining consciousness, when James Bond knew who he was: James Bond, a field agent for the SIS, holding the special double-O prefix. Number 007.

  The knowledge lasted for a second or two and was accompanied by the sensation of floating in warm, pleasant water, as though suspended. He also heard a voice saying something about Haloperidol. He recognised the name – a drug, a tranquilliser, hypnotic in action. Then came the tiny prick, as a needle slid home. James Bond ceased to exist.

  Lord, what time was it? He had been dreaming. Vivid dreams, nightmares almost, about his time at the academy. There were voices in the dream. Mum and Dad, God rest their souls. Friends, training, then his first appointment after he was commissioned.

  General James A. Banker fumbled on the night table for his digital watch. Three in the morning. Shouldn’t have had that last whiskey. Must give it up. Since the new promotion there had been too many nights like this.

  He flopped back on to the pillows, sweating, and immediately fell asleep again.

  Watching, through the infra-red glass, Walter Luxor turned to Blofeld. ‘Going well,’ he squeaked. ‘There’s plenty of time. I’ll give him some war experience now.’ He pulled the microphone towards him, and began to speak, quietly, soothingly.

  Below them was a bedroom, very military in décor: an on-base senior officer’s room, functional, with only a few personal photographs and mementos to break its austerity.

  In the deep hypnotic sleep, General James A. Banker was not really aware of the whispering voice coming close to his ears, from the pillow.

  ‘Now, General,’ the voice said, ‘you know exactly who you are. You know, and remember, things about your childhood, your training, and your rise through the service. I shall tell you more about that rise now. More about your active service; and a lot more about your present job.’ The voice launched into a long, vivid description of the General’s work up to the time of Vietnam, then of his special duties during that war. There were acts of bravery; fear; desperate times and the deaths of friends. Some of the incidents were almost entirely relived, complete with sound effects: the sound of weapons and other people speaking.

  General James A. Banker muttered in his sleep, turned, then woke again. Lord, he felt terrible; and he had a job to do in the morning. Pretty important. He’d had more dreams. He could recall them as clearly as he knew his wife Adelle. Nam: he’d been dreaming about all the guts and blood and hell in Nam.

  He desperately wanted to call Adelle, but she was off into dreamland as soon as her head touched the pillow. Adelle got kind of huffy with him if he called in the middle of the night.

  The General wondered how long it would be before he found the right house for her. Was it this weekend she was coming down to have another look? He hoped he felt better than this by morning, otherwise he’d walk through that inspection like a zombie. Sleep. Must get more sleep. Another look at his watch. It was only four o’clock. Too early to get up. He’d try and grab a little more shut-eye.

  Gently, the General slid back into his jumbled dreams, and just as gently Walter Luxor, in the window overlooking the bedroom, started to talk again.

  He had only done this once before, and then he had more time. Putting a hand over the microphone he said to Bismaquer, ‘Not bad, you know. He really believes, deep down inside, that he is a four-star general. Very good for twenty-four hours’ work. I’ll reinforce it now.’ As Luxor spoke, the door to the bedroom below opened, and the large figure of Mike Mazzard appeared. Looking up at the unseen hiding place, and making a twirling motion, Mazzard tiptoed towards the bed, picked up the clock and altered it, as he had been instructed.

  Luxor began to talk again. He too felt tired. Usually, he knew, the technique took a lot longer than twenty-four hours, but as the subject only had to alter personality for a relatively short time, he was convinced it could be done with complete success.

  They had started almost as soon as Bond had been brought back to the ranch. Injections of Haloperidol and other hypnotics; followed by short in-and-out sessions of audio-hypnotic implant, first to give the subject complete disorientation, then to put him back together – with new memories and a new identity.

  The technique entailed small, frequent doses – implanting ideas and memories which would, they knew, be rejected within a day after the subject was brought around. But a day was long enough.

  Bond had been a thorn from the start. Someone who had to be isolated and destroyed as quickly – and, if possible, naturally – as convenient. So Blofeld had first instructed. But Blofeld’s mind could change, and with that flexibility, that mercurial brilliance, came great ideas.

  Originally they had planned for another candidate to play the general. Indeed, Luxor had practised this very technique on the man in question, right to the breaking point. The FBI man had died as a result.

  Then Blofeld had picked on Bond, having lured SPECTRE’S old enemy to Texas and put him off balance, watching his every move. Now, with the minutes ticking away and a very definite need for the new general to have at least three hours’ peaceful sleep, Luxor realised the wonderful irony of the whole scheme. Bond, as the general, would perish in Cheyenne Mountain, and many people would be highly embarrassed.

  Luxor talked on for another fifteen minutes, then switched off the microphones. ‘That’s as far as I dare go. He’ll be a little disoriented, but that’ll be put down to a hard night’s drinking. I’ve implanted that most firmly. At least you’ve got your four-star general. I would suggest, Blofeld, that you brief Mazzard personally. That man down there must die in the mountain, preferably while he still believes he is General James A. Banker.’

  Blofeld smiled. ‘The irony is complete. I’ll see to it. Close down now, and let him sleep.’

  General Banker at last got some rest. The dreams had gone, and he slept the sleep of the just. It was only as he became fully awake that he had another kind of dream, oddly erotic, about a woman with only one breast. He even thought she was leaning over him. At some point there was a voice too, though he could not make out if it was male or female. ‘James,’ the voice said, ‘my dear James. Take these pills. Here . . .’ A hand cradled his head, lifting, and he felt something in his mouth, then a glass to his lips. He was very thirsty and drank what was offered, without resistance. ‘They’ll take a few hours to work,’ the voice said, ‘but when they do, you’ll be your proper self again. God help you; and God help me for doing this.’

  When he was dragged fully out of sleep, by a sergeant serving his usual steaming black, sweet coffee, it was the only dream the General could remember. He was conscious that he had not slept well, but that was the wretched party last night.

  His mouth felt terrible, his stomach queasy; but at least he was well enough to do his job.

  The General shaved, showered, and began to dress. Sometimes, James, he thought. I don’t recognise you in this outfit. It was always amazing, for the General, to think he had come so far in the Service. But here he was, a four-star general, with plenty of combat experience, a beautiful wife, and an exacting job. To be Inspector-General, US Air/Space Defence, was quite something.

  The tap at his door heralded the usual appearance of his adjutant, Major Mike Mazzard, who entered quietly to the Genera
l’s call, saluting as he always did.

  ‘Good morning, General. How’re things today?’

  ‘Terrible, Mike. I feel like I’ve been dragged through several swamps, infected with swine fever, and swallowed something out of the latrine.’

  Mazzard laughed. ‘With respect, General, you’ve only yourself to blame. That party was really too much.’

  The General nodded. ‘I know, I know. Don’t tell me – and for heaven’s sake don’t tell my wife. I’m going to have to cut down, Mike.’

  ‘You want breakfast, sir? We can . . .’

  ‘Perish the thought, Mike. Perish the thought. Another good slug of coffee would help . . .’

  ‘I’ll fix it, sir. In here?’

  ‘Why not? Then we can go through today’s arrangements without interruption. I’m afraid you’re going to have to carry me through most of it.’

  ‘Tut-tut, General. A good Bostonian like you.’ Mazzard paused by the door. ‘You know something funny, sir?’

  ‘You think I should hear it?’

  ‘Well, it’s the Boston thing again. I heard one of the other officers talking. He said you were true blue Boston, and anyone could tell that by the way you spoke . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The funny thing, sir, was that he said, “Put General Banker in one of those bowler hats and a pinstripe, then give him an umbrella, and you’d think he’d walked straight out of a British bank.” ’

  The General nodded. ‘I get it all the time, Mike. Had a British journalist in Nam take me for one of their own. I’m not ashamed of it, though.’ He put on a sly smirk. ‘You want I should take lessons? Learn to say boid, and absoid, like in Brooklyn?’

  Mazzard grinned back and went out for more coffee.

  Outside the room, Luxor waited. ‘Well?’

  ‘Amazing.’ Mazzard shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t have believed it. Will it last?’

  ‘Long enough, Major Mazzard. Long enough. You have your orders from Blofeld?’

  ‘I’ll do it personally, and with pleasure. Don’t worry. Now, what about the General’s coffee?’

  About two hours earlier, a young Captain who worked in the Pentagon’s Space Intelligence Department had come on duty early. The skeleton night staff were still around but nobody took much notice of the Captain. He was known as an eager beaver.

  At this time in the morning, however, the main communications teletype machine – personal to his superior officer, the General in charge of Air and Space Defence Administration – was not in use. The young Captain held a set of keys, not only to his General’s office but also to the teletype machine.

  The little suite of offices was empty when the Captain let himself in, quietly locking the door behind him. He then unlocked the teletype and began to transmit.

  The first message was to the Officer Commanding Movements, US Air Force Base, Peterson Field, Colorado. The text read:

  BE PREPARED ONE SMALL ARMED CONTINGENT CONSISTING APPROX TWO OFFICERS FOUR SERGEANTS AND THIRTY ENLISTED MEN AT AIR SPACE ADMIN STAFF ARRIVE BY ROAD THIS MORNING STOP TWO GENERAL JAMES A BANKER INSPECTOR AIR SPACE DEFENSE ARRIVE BY HELICOPTER FLIGHT CLEARANCE FOUR-ONE-TWO TO RV WITH THIS GROUP AND PROCEED NORAD HQ STOP REQUEST YOU AFFORD ALL COURTESIES AND ASSISTANCE STOP ACKNOWLEDGE AND DESTROY STOP

  He signed the communication in the name and rank of his superior.

  Within ten minutes the acknowledge and wilco signal came back.

  The second message was addressed to the Officer Commanding NORAD HQ, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. It read:

  AS FAVOR I ADVISE YOU MY INSPECTOR-GENERAL – GENERAL JAMES A BANKER – WILL VISIT YOU TODAY FOR NON-SCHEDULED INSPECTION STOP PLEASE GIVE HIM EVERY COURTESY STOP DO NOT REPEAT NOR INFORM HIM OF THIS PREVIOUS WARNING STOP ACKNOWLEDGE AND DESTROY STOP

  This was also signed with the Captain’s superior’s name and rank. The acknowledge and wilco signal came back with one rider:

  REGRET OFFICER COMMANDING ON LEAVE FOR ONE DAY THIS DAY STOP I SHALL PERSONALLY SEE ALL IS IN ORDER STOP

  It was signed by a Colonel as acting commanding officer. The Captain smiled, shredded all his copies, then picked up the telephone to dial a number with a Texas prefix. When the number answered he asked if Captain Blake was there.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, I think you have a wrong number.’ The voice on the line was thin, reedy, with a slight squeak.

  ‘I’m sorry as well, but no harm’s done, sir. I must have misdialled. I hope I haven’t disturbed you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied Walter Luxor. ‘Goodbye, sir.’ General Banker and his adjutant, Major Mike Mazzard, walked out of the officers’ mess, receiving smart salutes from the two private soldiers on guard duty. They had been greeted by a number of other officers as they left. At least two of them had remarked to the General: ‘Quite a party last night, Sir.’

  ‘And I’m getting quite a reputation,’ the General grunted. ‘Nothing tonight, Mike, see to it. Early night. All right?’

  ‘As you say, sir.’

  The Kiowa helicopter was already sitting on the pad in front of the officers’ mess, its rotor turning idly.

  ‘Oh no,’ the General groaned. ‘We doing the whole trip in that, Mike?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, sir.’

  ‘Well, I just hope the flying weather’s good. I don’t think I’m well enough to stand too much bumping around today.’

  ‘Weather report’s excellent, sir.’

  They had sat together over a large jug of coffee while the General’s adjutant went over the day’s schedule.

  ‘Fly direct from here to Peterson Air Base, where there should be two trucks with around thirty enlisted men, some NCOs, and a couple of officers – Captain Luxor and another one. They’ll be there for show, unless you decide the main security of the norad Combat Operations Centre needs testing. Your car and the driver’ll be waiting as well, sir.’

  ‘Good. And we go straight to Cheyenne Mountain?’

  ‘We go to the Number Two Entrance. That is the best way, takes us straight to the main command post levels. You said in your memo that the object was to test readiness and examine the command post structure. That was the priority.’

  ‘Yes, I seem to remember . . .’

  ‘. . . that we were going to pull a fast one?’ Mazzard finished for him. ‘That’s right. The Space Wolf question.’

  The General frowned. ‘The memory’s going, Mike. Yes, wasn’t I going to ask them point blank to hand over the computer tapes to me for personal keeping?’

  ‘That was the idea. There’s a regulation regarding the SW tapes. They’re closed, restricted, and on the Most Secret list. Nobody down there has the right to hand them over, or even let you see them. The idea was to test reaction to an order from a very senior officer.’

  ‘Okay, we’ll see if it works.’ They were still talking about it as the General swung himself into the Kiowa helicopter, greeted the pilot and strapped himself in. Mazzard climbed aboard, after the General, and took the seat next to him.

  A few moments later, the rotor turned, and the small chopper lifted off, nose down, circling, then climbing – heading northwest towards Colorado.

  20

  CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN

  The General dozed a little during the flight and seemed less hung over by the time the pilot turned in his seat, pointing down. They were high in the clear, endless blue skies over Colorado. In the distance the mountain peaks reached up: serrated and sharp jags of rock.

  A few minutes later they descended towards Peterson Field and the General’s waiting convoy. Mazzard helped General Banker from the helicopter, asking if he wanted to inspect the men who were drawn up in front of their vehicles. The General took a perfunctory look, nodded and walked over, to be greeted by a painfully thin Captain whose face looked like a skull.

  ‘Captain Luxor, sir.’ The officer saluted, and led the General along the ranks.

  ‘Did I meet you before, Captain?’ The General stared hard at Luxor.

  ‘No,
sir.’

  As they went towards the staff car, with Luxor just out of earshot, General Banker muttered to Mazzard, ‘That Captain. I’m sure I’ve seen him before, Mike.’

  ‘You saw his picture, General.’ The Major spoke in an equally lowvoice. ‘In all the papers. Some hot-shot plastic surgeon did one hell of a job on him. Poor guy had his face burned off in Nam.’

  ‘Bastards,’ spat the General.

  The convoy was impressive: two motorcycle outriders, followed by an M113 Armoured Personnel Carrier, fully loaded with its two-man crew and section of combat troops, the heavy 12.7mm Browning manned at its curved swivel mounting.

  General Banker’s staff car rode behind the 113, while another APC boxed the car in from the rear.

  The staff car driver was not known to the General, who thought the man had probably been built from the leftovers of the Mount Rushmore carvings. Certainly his sergeant’s uniform appeared to be very tight on him, but he drove smoothly enough and showed all the correct courtesies. The General would have preferred his own regular driver, whose name eluded him at this moment.

  Major Mazzard sat in the rear with the General, while the hideously scarred Captain took his seat up front, next to the driver. The small convoy moved slowly away from the helipad towards the main gates of Peterson Field, the General’s pennant bright and flying from the offside wing matched, on the other side, by the stars and stripes.

  The barriers were raised without question, the guard turning out to present arms as the staff car swept through, while other officers and enlisted men came to attention, saluting as befitted the exalted rank of a four-star general.

  Within the hour they were travelling at a steady rate through the foothills, on restricted military roads. The area was well-policed by both air force and army, but nobody made any attempt to stop them or ask for documentation. The small police detachments simply came to attention as the convoy passed by. The General was impressed – two men on motorcycles, two more crewing each of the APCs. He also counted twelve or thirteen combat troops to each APC, including one young officer. Thirty-two men – possibly more. With his driver, Mazzard and the Captain, the force was at least thirty-five strong. Very good, and all armed with M16s and hand guns. Mike Mazzard, the Captain, and his driver also carried side arms. What General could have wanted for better protection?