The officer in command slowly stood up. ‘Very well, sir,’ he muttered and began to move around to the rear of the large console. Within a few minutes he had the big spools of tape in containers, on top of which he placed a number of flat metal boxes, containing the computer printouts. ‘Anything else the General requires?’ the officer asked.
‘No, that’ll be all,’ Mazzard answered for his General. ‘Just bring them over here.’
The Space Wolves Command Post officer started coming towards them in the dim light.
Then, with speed and complete surprise, General Banker moved, his body pivoting in front of the Colonel, one hand reaching out to wrench the Colonel’s pistol from its holster.
Even as he turned, the General let out a yell: ‘Stop! Don’t hand those over! The rest of you, grab the two officers with me. They’re not what they seem. Now! Get them now!’
It had all happened that morning, during the helicopter ride to Peterson Field.
The General, feeling decidedly queasy from the previous night’s party, had closed his eyes, intending to doze. But as soon as he relaxed, General Banker began to suffer a lightheadedness, followed by strange mental experiences.
At first he thought it was something very serious, like a heart attack. He felt faint, and images began to flash through his mind.
It was like a film running backwards, at great speed, intercut with odd details he could not properly identify. There were memories from recent days, just after his promotion; scenes from his time in Vietnam; and moments before that – as though the reel was taking him back to childhood.
The intercut images were very odd. A woman, with one breast had come to give him pills. At least he thought it was her, for he smelled her hair. Nena. Tara. Cedar. Bond. James Bond. 007.
The General opened his eyes and realised that he was not General James A. Banker at all. While he was still feeling lightheaded, the truth flooded into him, as though through an open window to his mind.
She had come and given him pills for this very purpose. Then and there, in the helicopter, Bond had not even attempted to work out how he had been drugged, and hypnotised, into another personality. All he could think of was how to keep in character until the best possible moment.
That moment was here, and now.
As he swung around, grasping the Colonel’s big Colt .45, Bond realised that Mazzard was reaching for his gun, yelling as he did so: ‘Don’t listen to the General! Don’t listen to him! The man’s crazy! Take no orders from him!’
Mazzard’s pistol came out of its holster a second too late. Bond’s arm was up, and the roar from his two shots came as gigantic, echoing explosions in the chamber.
Mazzard was lifted off his feet. His body hung aloft for a second, blood beginning to spout from his chest, then slammed back against the wall. Immediately, Bond turned, looking for Luxor.
The skeleton man appeared to have vanished.
With every ounce of authority he could muster, Bond shouted for the computer tapes to be returned. ‘Colonel, get your men into action, and fast. Those troops who came with me mean business. See to your defences.’
The Colonel hesitated for a moment. The Command Post reeked of cordite and death. Two of the other officers had drawn their weapons but seemed uncertain about what to do. From the moment of his arrival, Bond had recognised the workings of Bismaquer’s sinister drug. They had been within an ace of actually handing over the tapes. Now it was a question of making sure they were not taken by force.
Bond shouted orders again, this time demanding to know what had happened to Luxor.
‘He went . . . After you shot at . . . he walked away . . .’ one of the NORAD officers stammered.
‘Colonel, your defences. Get on to the nearest base. You’ll need help,’ Bond commanded, his voice sharp as a whip.
As though to underline the order, the entire chamber shook with the dull thud of an explosion from the direction of the main entrance.
A marine appeared in the doorway. ‘Anti-tank rockets being fired at the entrance block, sir,’ he shouted at the Colonel, who had already leaped to the nearest telephone.
There was another whoomp, sending a tremor through the mountain complex.
Bond looked at the marine. ‘The officer who came in with me?’
‘Sir?’
‘The one with a face like a skull . . .’
‘There were shots from here, and he ran past us, sir, saying he had to get help.’
The complex shook again, to another rocket burst.
‘That’s the help he was going for,’ said Bond. ‘Muster everyone you can. The Colonel’s getting word out. This base is under attack. It’s not a drill. It’s the real thing.’
By this time, they had all realised the danger. Bond turned to the Colonel. ‘They’ll try for a quick break-in,’ he said, willing himself to remain calm. ‘Blast their way through with anti-tank rockets . . .’
‘M72s by the sound of them.’ The Colonel looked ashen. ‘I don’t understand this. We nearly handed over . . .’
‘Don’t worry, Colonel, that’s not your fault. The point is that those bastards’ll smash their way in, hacking with knives if they have to. If that skull-face is out there, they’ll be even more determined. What’ve we got in the way of defence?’
The Colonel gave a couple of quick orders to his officers, who hesitated until Bond – realising the problem with Bismaquer’s drug – told them to carry on.
‘The guard out front is fighting back,’ said the Colonel, swallowing. ‘Doing quite well, I’d guess. We’ve got reinforcements coming in, but the problem is here. Within the mountain. They’ve blasted through the first doors, and the section into the reception area’s now catching it. I gather they’re close to the doors . . .’
‘And when those doors are down, the force that’s left’ll come piling through that narrow entrance. What’ve we got?’
‘A few grenades, the side arms, and a pair of AR18s.’
‘Get the Armalites, then. Quickly!’
The AR18, as Bond knew it, was the latest commercial Armalite weapon. It was fully automatic with a fire rate of 800 rpm, and magazines holding twenty rounds. He was at the Colonel’s heels as the two men made their way to the arms locker, set into the wall near the Main Operations Gallery doors.
The weapon felt good in Bond’s hands, and he grabbed magazines from the Colonel, stuffing them into his uniform jacket and slamming one into position on the gun.
As they turned away from the locker, a larger explosion ripped from the reception area, and several soldiers staggered back through the entrance to the main complex. One was the marine Bond had spoken to earlier.
‘They’ve broken through, blown the doors into reception,’ the man gasped, and Bond saw he was clutching a jagged tear in his shoulder, the blood trickling through his fingers.
As he reached the doors to the big, circular reception area, Bond briefly took in the carnage. The neat desks were shattered and bodies lay everywhere, some dead, others crying with pain from their wounds. From the main entrance directly opposite him, smoke poured into the reception area.
The assault would come down the narrow passage, one man at a time, Bond thought. He braced himself against the wall, gripping the weapon against his hip. From the corner of his eye, he saw the Colonel taking up a similar stance. One of the officers who had been with them in the Space Wolves Command Post was sprawled on his back within a few feet of them, a slash where his throat had been. It crossed Bond’s mind that Bismaquer already had a great deal to pay for.
Then, through the smoke, SPECTRE’S men started to enter the reception area.
The Colonel and Bond opened up at the same moment, sending a double spray of bullets into the hole which had once been a pair of sliding steel doors.
‘Like shooting fish in a barrel, General,’ shouted the Colonel, for SPECTRE’S troops came pounding down the narrow passageway and into the reception area like sheep being penned into an abattoir.
Their AR18s rattling, the Colonel and Bond scythed through the attackers as they appeared through the smoke. The bullets hurled them back, threw them aside, cut through them, until suddenly there was an unearthly silence.
Finally the smoke began to clear, and even Bond winced to see the damage they had done. Then he reloaded, bracing himself. From outside there came yet another explosion, then a shout.
‘Colonel? Colonel, sir? Any NORAD officer in there . . . ?’
‘Yes,’ the Colonel shouted back. ‘State your name and rank. What is it?’
‘They’re finished out here, sir. The other APC’s pinned down on the road by forces from the main entrance. It’s Sergeant Carter here.’
The Colonel nodded at Bond. ‘It’s okay, General. I know Carter.’
Bond thought it best that he remain a four-star general for the time being. At least that would stave off awkward questions. His main concern, now that Heavenly Wolf had been foiled, was Cedar Leiter. Then, once he knew what had happened to her, he would hunt down Bismaquer.
Outside, there was more carnage. Medical teams worked on the wounded and carried away the dead. The one APC was still burning, and there were great gaps in the cyclone fencing.
From down the road, out of sight, came occasional bursts of rifle and automatic fire.
‘How’s it going?’ The Colonel shouted to a three-man team crouched over a field communications radio. A sergeant answered him. More aid was on the way, and the other APC was now almost put out of action, the troops on their last legs.
‘Still can’t understand why we nearly gave the stuff away,’ the Colonel muttered almost to himself. ‘I don’t feel good about any of this.’
‘You will – eventually. Not your doing, Colonel. They had me as a sitting duck as well . . .’
The sergeant with the radio called to the Colonel that there was a civilian helicopter a mile away. ‘A woman. Keeps making calls, asking permission to put down. Wants to know if we’ve got a Mr Bond with us, sir.’
‘Let her down,’ Bond ordered, still pulling rank. ‘I know what that’s all about. Bring her in here.’
It could easily be Bismaquer, holding a pistol to either Cedar’s or Nena’s head. But this was his only quick route out. Alternatively, it could be a fast lead to Bismaquer, and Bond could not resist that. He remembered there had been a helicopter following the convoy on the way in.
‘That okay, sir?’ the radio man called to the Colonel.
‘If the General says so. Yes.’
Bond went over to the radio sergeant. ‘You don’t like ice cream, do you, sergeant?’ he asked, having just witnessed the man clear a four-star general’s order with his immediate, known superior.
Reaching for the hand mike, the communications man shook his head. ‘Hate the muck, sir. I can’t even look at it.’ He gave Bond a puzzled look as he started to call in the helicopter.
Bond quickly explained to the Colonel that he must get away, saying he would contact him as soon as possible. ‘Any problems, call the White House. Say you ran into a Mr Bond. They’ll clear it, I think.’
The Colonel was obviously dazed as he watched the little white metal insect dropping gently into the compound, neatly sliding to one side at the last moment in order to avoid the burned out APC – a final memorial to Bismaquer’s ruined attempt on the security of Cheyenne Mountain.
The small helicopter was a faithful model – a modern twin-seater version of the old Bell 47. Bond could see only one figure seated within its perspex bulb. It was certainly not Bismaquer. This figure was slim, in white overalls and helmet.
She already had the door open and was swinging herself down as Bond reached the machine.
‘Oh James. Thank God. Oh, thank God you’re safe.’
Nena Bismaquer wrapped her arms around Bond’s neck, clinging to him, as though she could never bear to let him out of her sight again.
Tired as he was, worried about Cedar’s safety, and anxious to discover if Luxor had escaped, and where Bismaquer had hidden himself, James Bond still felt it might be a good thing never to let go of Nena.
21
BLOFELD
It was already growing dark as the helicopter flew in low over the Louisiana swampland. Nena craned forward at the controls, trying to spot the landmark she said would be there.
They had stayed for only a few minutes in the compound of the NORAD base while Bond shot questions at her. What had happened? How did she manage to get there? Did she know what had become of Cedar?
Flushed and excited, Nena gave him the answers as quickly as he fired the questions. In the early days at the Rancho Bismaquer, her husband had given her lessons in the helicopter. She had taken her pilot’s licence a year ago. It had been her personal salvation.
Wakening in the night – a good forty-eight hours ago – she heard noises. Bismaquer was nowhere upstairs, so she crept down and saw Luxor with some other men. They had Cedar with them.
Then her husband arrived; orders were given. She had no idea what was going on but heard talk about Bond being taken away in the other helicopter. She also heard Bismaquer tell them where they were to rendezvous when it was all over. ‘I still don’t know when what was all over. They talked about Cheyenne Mountain, that’s all. Lord, you look so dashing in that uniform, James. Now, I need to know what’s been going on.’
He would tell her later. Now he needed the urgent facts. Where was Bismaquer? What happened to Cedar?
‘He’s taking her to Louisiana. I know exactly where – and Luxor’ll head for the same place.’ Her face, glowing with pleasure until then, suddenly darkened. ‘It’s horrible, James. I know what they’ll do to her. Markus took me there once. I never thought I’d go again. The people know me there, and – if we hurry – we should make it well before Markus arrives with Cedar. They’re going by road. It was always she they wanted dead, James. I know that. He wanted you alive, but Cedar was to die. I just hope to God we’re in time, because I can guess what he’ll do to her now.’
A few minutes later they were airborne, and now, after a long steady flight, the swamps and bayous slid by in the dusk beneath them.
Bond was pleasantly surprised by Nena’s standard as a pilot. She handled the helicopter with skill and great flair, as though she was used to flying it every day.
‘Oh, I take it out when I can,’ she said with a laugh. ‘It’s always been a way of getting clear of Markus for a while. Funny, I always knew that, when I finally left him, it would be in the chopper.’
She had switched on the main landing lights, slowing almost to a hover, peering down, then, suddenly, exclaiming, ‘There! That’s the place. On that spit of land, right between the two bayous.’
Bond thought that, even allowing for the light, the house seemed pretty run down.
‘Just wait.’ She laughed again. ‘Markus keeps a couple of people there to look after it. The outside’s only a shell – like some conjurer’s box that fits over the real thing. It’s a palace inside.’
She tilted the little Bell, to come in low, telling Bond that she thought there was a place on the far side of the bayou where she could put down. ‘Markus keeps a number of marsh hoppers around; only I don’t want to take the one nearest the road. It’d be best if he doesn’t know we’re here.’
Bond went along with that. The one thing he needed was total surprise, for the final confrontation with Bismaquer, the new Blofeld. He wondered what would happen to SPECTRE now that the expensive, and ingenious, attempt on the Space Wolf secrets had collapsed on them.
‘I haven’t thanked you yet.’ He turned to look towards Nena, who was concentrating on the ground below.
‘For pulling you out of Cheyenne Mountain?’ The helicopter faltered, then gently let down. Nena clicked off the switches. The engine died, and they sat there, the rotor cleaving the air, making its whupping noise as it slowed to a stop.
‘No, Nena, for what you did after they’d gone over me with the drugs and hypnotism. How did you get i
n to give me the antidote?’
She paused, ‘Oh, that? Well, I had to do something. It was clear they had you doped up to the eyeballs. I just had to pray I’d chosen the right stuff.’
‘Well you did – and it worked. Very quickly really. You saved the day, Nena. You really stopped it all from working, stopped Markus’s and Luxor’s plans.’
The darkness closed in on them, like a wall. Nena had to switch the lights on again.
‘You’ll tell me what it was all about, James, won’t you? Everything. I only heard parts of it. It seemed very complicated to me – difficult and daring. Would they really have got a lot of money for whatever they were after?’
‘Billions.’ Bond closed the subject. ‘Now, let’s find this marsh hopper. I’m ravenous, need a bath and could do with a rest before I come face to face with your venomous husband.’
‘Yes,’ she said, unbuckling her straps. ‘Yes, he is pretty venomous, isn’t he?’
They found the marsh hopper exactly where she said it would be. A small, narrow-beam spotlight was fitted to the front, and Nena switched it on after the motor fired.
As they reached the water surrounding the old rotting house, a light flashed out from what appeared to be the porch. Bond went for the .45, but Nena put out a restraining hand.
‘It’s okay, James. Only a deaf mute Markus keeps on the place. Named Criton.’
‘Admirable,’ muttered Bond.
‘Criton, or the woman, Tic – she’s a first-rate cook. You won’t have to worry about food, James. Yes, I can see him now. It’s Criton guiding us in.’
The marsh hopper came alongside a small pier, the sullen-looking deaf mute nimbly stepping down to help tie the craft to the pier. Criton gave Nena a little bow but took no notice of Bond, who kept the .45 at the ready, to be on the safe side.
She had been right about the house. Going up the crumbling and rotten wooden steps to the main door, Bond kept his reservations, but, once inside, it was a different matter. You immediately forgot the camouflage, for the interior was beautiful: expensively immaculate.