Authors: Goldeneye
Presumably, he reasoned, there was an air lock behind the hatch for the use of any maintenance staff.
He grasped the wheel and began to turn, keeping his head down, expecting another fusillade of shots at any moment. There was a hiss as the hatch swung open, and he helped Natalya inside what appeared to be a chamber large enough to take two people. Another hatch with a wheel lay at the far end, so this had to be some kind of way in or out when the dish was below water.
A minute later, they were through the other side of the hatch, making their way down a rungged ladder which, in turn, led to a pillared catwalk, circling the control room.
He thought of the archives back at the Military Intelligence Headquarters. This circular control room was built on the same principle, but on a larger scale and with insulated metal, tiles and walls that held monitors, together with other complex electronics.
To their left were five or six long, high cylinders which presumably provided fuel for internal generators.
Below, on the bottom level, they could see Trevelyan and Boris seated at the firing console, and Trevelyan’s voice came floating up to them -“On my count, Boris.
Both men had their hands on the firing keys. “Three Two One.” They turned the keys and lights on the console started to wink from green to red. The display above read Weapon Armed. Time to Target 00:2132:26.
Natalya and Bond seemed to be rooted, horrified, to the catwalk, watching helplessly as Trevelyan uncovered the firing button and punched it, then laughed -“God save the Queen.” Now, with a surge of anger, Bond knew that Trevelyan had targeted England. Almost certainly London. He began to move, but Natalya caught his arm and pointed down to the middle level. A door had opened and a technician, wearing a parka with a fur hood and gloves, emerged from what they could see was a large room.
“The mainframe computer,’ Natalya whispered. “They’ll have a cooling system in there. It’ll be like a big refrigerator.” She had hardly got the words out when they saw uniformed, armed men heading up the steel staircase towards them. Bond pushed Natalya back into comparative safety behind a pillar when the section of guards began to open fire as they reached the upper level.
He fired two shots, and the first man on the catwalk spun around, grabbing air, and then the man behind him so that the pair slid back down the stairs.
Other uniformed men scrambled up the stairway and began to lay down withering fire. Bullets smashed off tiling, hit the fuel tanks or ricocheted from the walls. Bond attempted to return fire, but he was hopelessly outnumbered. He glanced round to assure himself that Natalya was all right, but she had gone. He peered around and thought he saw a figure somewhere below the catwalk, dangling and moving hand over hand directly underneath.
Natalya had quietly run from behind the pillar, taken a peep at the underside of the catwalk and seen that a series of rungs ran directly along it. Now she was hanging from them, reaching out and grabbing, moving from rung to rung, heading towards the door that led to the mainframe computer room.
Staying as close as he could to the wall, Bond ducked behind the first long fuel tank, slid his hand into a pouch on his belt and drew out one of the small magnetic mines Q had sent in the briefcase. Fuel was dripping from the bullet holes, and he dodged back, loosing off another couple of rounds, then attaching a mine to the next tank.
He continued, firing and retreating, giving himself time to place the electronically controlled mines under the tanks.
This continued until Bond realised that his pistol was empty and he would have to take the chance that Natalya was about to do something very constructive. Hopelessly outnumbered, he threw his automatic out onto the walkway, placed his hands above his head and walked out to face the knot of troops, hoping they at least had the discipline to cease firing.
As he moved out, he caught a glimpse of Natalya dropping from the underside of the catwalk and landing by the door which led into the mainframe computer room. He took his eyes from her for a second and faced his captors.
When he glanced down again, she had disappeared.
Her breath immediately condensed in the freezing atmosphere of the mainframe room. Natalya glanced around.
Without protective clothing she could only last for a few minutes in this place, so she hurried over to the long plastic keyboard, grabbing at the chair set in front of it.
Immediately her fingers touched the metal on the chair they froze and she had to pull them off, ripping skin from her hand as she did so.
Behind her she glimpsed the large stainless steel vats, each bearing the international Do Not Touch symbol with a ~200o mark.
Liquid nitrogen, she thought, the coolant for the mainframe, keeping it at a steady, very low temperature.
Carefully, Natalya seated herself at the plastic keyboard and began to work.
On the highest walkway, the section of troops to whom Bond had surrendered were frisking him: making him lean with his hands flat against the wall. From this position, he could clearly see the mines he had set under the fuel tanks, their little red lights winking to show they were armed and would detonate once he used the watch on his left wrist He tried to distract the men patting him down by keeping up a stream of abuse and turning his head away from the tanks.
They found no further weapons on him, so eventually Bond was frog-marched down the two flights of steel stairs and up to the console where Trevelyan worked with Boris.
“James!” Trevelyan turned in his chair, speaking in almost a jovial manner. “What a damned unpleasant surprise.”
“I always aim to please, Alec.” Trevelyan raised an eyebrow. “I suppose that’s the difference between us. I aim to kill.” His eyes hardened.
“Where’s the girl?”
“We’re not seeing each other right now.
“Really? My people said she was with you.” He turned to the guards. “Find her. She has to be in here somewhere.” Two of the men left quickly, the other two remained with Bond, placing the contents of his pockets on the console in front of Trevelyan. As they did so, Bond carefully scanned the monitors. He took in the long scrolling line of transfers from the Bank of England to various banks throughout the world. Then he felt his stomach lurch as he saw the global screen with satellite Mischa over Spain, on a direct course for London. The countdown clock kept going, standing at the moment at TIME TO TARGET He had around a quarter of an hour to stop what would undoubtedly be the greatest catastrophe ever to befall his country.
With this kind of urgency, there was only one thing he could do.
Without being too obvious about it, he let his right hand drift over to his left wrist If he activated the mines under the fuel tanks, everyone would die and the satellite would eventually drift down and burn out without firing its nuclear bomb to produce an electronic pulse of the capital.
He took in the fact that an elevator stood, with doors open, to the far left of the console, next to a technician who was monitoring the guidance system.
Trevelyan was sorting through the pocket litter on the console.
Keys, money clip, pen, coins. He gave the pen a quick examination, even clicking it once, scribbling with it on a pad before clicking it off again. Bond was relieved when he put the pen back on the console.
A few more clicks and he would not even have time to activate the mines.
Trevelyan’s hand suddenly shot up to Bond’s left arm.
“The watch please, James,’ yanking it from his wrist, then examining it with an indulgent smile. “How is old Q doing these days?
Up to his usual tricks, I suppose. I see you have the new model.’ Slowly he turned it over to reveal a tiny red pinpoint winking on the underside. “I still press here, do I?” He pressed the stem and then the small button to the right. The red light immediately stopped winking, and Bond knew that the arming devices in the mines themselves would also blink off and revert to their deactivated mode. He wondered how much fuel was still leaking from the tanks and reckoned that it would be a fair amount running down the catwalk, dripping all the way down to this, the lowest level.
In the mainframe computer room, Natalya, shivering with cold, typed as rapidly as she could and had all but completed her instructions when the two guards burst in on her. She managed to hit the Enter key, banging it hard, before they dragged her from the chair and led her off, down the stairs to where Bond stood under guard, and Trevelyan sat smiling happily. Boris continued with his work on the keyboard. Above, the global screen showed Mischa gradually moving closer to its target, and Bond looked from the screen to Natalya being brought across the floor. To his pleasure he saw the guards’ boots left damp stains as they marched towards him. The fuel must be spreading both ways.
Before the little party reached the console area, Bond relaxed.
“interesting little set-up you have here, Alec. I see that you break into the bank via computer and then make certain large sums of money are transferred - I presume just seconds before you activate GoldenEye which, of course, erases all records of transactions, together with the entire target. Very ingenious.”
“Thank you, James. High praise indeed, coming from you.
Bond gestured with his head. “Still nothing but petty theft, Alec. In the end you’re nothing more than a bank robber. A common thief. A common murderer also.”
“Hardly, James. You always did have a small mind. You see, it’s not just a question of bank records.” His eyes, now like a stormy sky, scanned Bond’s face. “It’s everything in every computer in greater London. Tax records. The stock market.
Credit ratings, land registries. Even criminal records…” He looked up at the countdown clock. “In eleven minutes and forty-three no two… one seconds, the United Kingdom will once more enter the Stone Age.”
“Followed by Tokyo, Frankfurt, New York, Hong Kong. A world-wide financial meltdown.” He looked as though he pitied Trevelyan. “All so that mad little Alec can settle a score with the world fifty years on. So you can settle an injustice done to your ancestors.”
“Oh, please, James, spare me any Freudian analysis. I might as well ask you if all those vodka martinis ever silence the screams of all the men and women you’ve killed…” He looked past Bond to the guards bringing Natalya towards them. “… Or do you find your forgiveness in the arms of all those willing women?” He slammed his hand hard onto the console. “England is about to learn the final cost of betrayal.’ Natalya had been brought close to them now.
“Welcome to the party, my dear Natalya.” Boris, hearing her name, swivelled his chair and saw her. “Natalya?” He sounded shocked.
“This isn’t just one of your games, Boris. Real people are about to die, you contemptuous little bastard.” She shrugged free of her captors and took a step forward, her palm hitting him hard on the left cheek and then a backhander to the right.
They roughly pulled her back and, in the tiny skirmish, the pen, given to Bond by Q, rolled onto the floor. Boris slowly reached down, picked it up and began to click it on and off.
Bond watched him, fascinated by the clicks. “Click-click’ one more and the device would be armed. But Boris merely started to roll the pen between his fingers.
“Where did you find her?” Trevelyan asked her guards.
“She was in the mainframe, sir.” Trevelyan scowled, then snapped at Boris, “Check the programme.” Boris chuckled. “She couldn’t put a bug in a simple game, let alone damage us. She’s a moron. A second level programmer. Anyway, she doesn’t have access to the firing codes.
All she knows about is the guidance system.
As he said it, Boris seemed to slow down, slurring the final words and, at that moment, an alarm began to beep, as though someone had tried to break into a car.
A technician, sitting at the far monitor, all but shouted, “Retro-rockets firing.” It was time for Natalya to smile, but Bond kept his eyes on Boris who now resumed clicking the pen. Three - the pen was armed. A further three times, disarming the pen.
Boris leaped across to the technician: hammering at the keyboard with his right hand. “She’s at ninety-seven miles and falling. I can’t regain control.”
“What the hell’s going on?” Trevelyan was up on his feet and moving towards Boris and the technician who looked bewildered.
“We’ll have re-entry in thirteen minutes,’ as he reached forward to set a re-entry clock. The timer flashed on in brilliant red digitised figures, and the Time to Target now read, Aborted. Time To Re-entry:
13:24.
In the stunned silence, Natalya spoke. “It’s going to burn up somewhere over the Atlantic.”
“You little bitch.” Boris was still trying to regain control from the technician’s keyboard. He moved his head up to speak with Trevelyan. “She’s changed the access codes.” As he spoke, Trevelyan, his face a rage, pulled his gun and stuck it in Boris’ ear.
Natalya giggled. “Go ahead, Janus. Shoot him, he means nothing to me.
Bond gave her a look of pleasure and muttered, “Standard operating procedure.”
“I can break her codes, move that damned gun away, Alec.’ Boris flapped at the pistol as though it were an insect, then turned back to the technician. “Load the guidance sub-routines. Now.
Quickly.” Then he started playing with the pen again.
Click-click Click -click Then a whole series of clicks so that Bond lost count, just as Trevelyan took his pistol from Boris’ ear and turned it onto Natalya. “Tell him. You hear me, girl? Tell him.” Boris was out of control, whirling and screaming at Natalya, “Give me those codes. Natalya, GIVE ME THE CODES.” Bond had no idea of the status of the pen that the crazy little computer specialist was waving in Natalya’s face. He lashed out with one arm, sending Trevelyan’s gun up and out of the man’s hand. He then brought his foot up in a kick boxer’s stance, kicking Boris’ wrist and sending the pen arcing into the air. For a precious second it seemed to remain stationary in mid air, then dropped, exploding just as it hit the spreading pool of fuel.
The explosion and sudden leap of fire around them made hands and arms come up: all trying to cover their eyes from the sheet of flame which shot up the stairs and wall back to its original source.