Authors: John Gardner
The second was almost an afterthought, but in cipher.
PHOTOGRAPH OF USNI OFFICER WOODWARD FOIIOWS PAGE TWO And, sure enough, there was Daniel Woodward’s photograph with a number stamped beneath it. He looked into the face to see clearly that the Americans’ Daniel Woodward was certainly not the Woodward they had on board The invincible.
Bond went back to his cabin, clipped the holster to his belt, behind his right hip, inserted the Browning mm and sent for Bruce Trimble, Sergeant Harvey and four marines. Trimble arrived first, and Bond wasted no time in telling him they had at least an impostor, at worst a terrorist, in the shape of Dan Woodward.
“Was going to talk with you anyhow.” The massive Trimble looked menacing. “I been worned about that guy. Doesn’t mix, won’t be drawn.
Best get him in the brig.”
They went together - four marines with loaded weapons, Sergeant Harvey, Bond and Bruce Trimble who looked as though he would rather do the job single-handed.
Stan Hare told them that Woodward was in the cabin they all shared, so they took up assault positions and Bond raised his hand to knock. If possible he wanted to take the man clean, and with little violence, but, before his knuckles could tap on the metal door, the whole ship seemed to tremble under their feet, as though it had suddenly hit unexpected, and very rough water.
The jolt was so great that they were all thrown to one side. The explosion was not loud, more like a heavy-duty grenade exploding a long way off.
Then the warning klaxons started to wail.
The Rain in Spain Half an hour earlier, Petty Officer Blackie Blackstone sat in the Engine Room Control module, passing the time with the other members of his watch. None of them noticed that Blackstone idly kept scanning one particular section of the turbine controls those which would give indications of oil-temperature rise.
They had told him to expect the temperature on Number One turbine to start going up rapidly sometime between nine and eleven o’clock.
He spotted the first indicator at 09.45. Number One was showing a minute rise. By 10.00 it was really going up, and at 10.05 Blackie was able to give a startled cry - “Oil temp on Number One going into the red!” He moved towards the controls, checking off item by item, trying to locate any obvious fault. In fact he let his Chief Petty Officer discover the problem. It took less than a minute.
“It’s the bloody filters. Change Filter One on Number One Turbine, Blackie.”
“Done.” Blackstone went into the little store room behind the Control Room, signed for one filter and took a sealed package from the spare module rack.
“Want some help, Blackie?” the Killick asked.
“Nab. Take me a couple of minutes.” Blackie went into the Engine Room, making his way to the far side of the first turbine.
In case of accidents, he had already put the new, but doctored, filter, in its packaging on the shelf which held filters in the store room. As it was first in line, the filter would, naturally, be the one to be used if any emergency arose. They had told him that within five minutes, this filter would produce thick smoke and do a very small amount of damage which would cause the turbine to be shut down. The small pencil mark he had inscribed to identify this doctored package was there, so he had no worries.
Change the filter, he thought, then go back and wait for the panic.
Petty Officer Blackstone went through exactly the same sequence of events as he had done on the previous night: unscrewing the lugs and lifting the filter out with his long tweezers. He took the second, doctored filter in the tweezers and dropped it in place.
There was a great deal of smoke, then an explosion which lifted Blackstone off his feet, hurling him against the metal wall behind him and removing parts of his body as it did so. His last thought before his final sleep descended on him was “They said it would only be smoke.
They said there was no risk.” Orders were coming through the Tannoy system, spoken calmly but giving essentials - all fireproof doors to be closed up; damage control to their stations; all firefighting crews to the Engine Room. “This is not a drill! This is not a drill!” the disembodied voice repeated several times.
James Bond and his party were thrown around the passageway in front of the cabin door where they were preparing to take the substitute Dan Woodward into custody. Bond had been knocked off his feet by the lurch of the ship, and was just picking himself up, when the cabin door opened to reveal Joe Israel, looking puzzled. “Hey, what the hell’s going on? I was just He was cut off by Dan Woodward’s arm snaking around his neck.
“I think they want to have words with me, Joe.” Woodward was pressing against Israel. “Tell them I have a gun in your back.” He spoke loudly, but with confidence.
Israel let out a long sigh. “Okay. Yes, James, he’s pushing a large piece into my back, and I’ve no doubt he’ll take me out. I presume he’s not really “Desperate Dan Woodward? No, I’m not,” Abou Hamarik hissed. “This is most unfortunate, because I must now get off this ship alive. I would suggest Captain Bond takes me, unless he would like to see this wretched man blown apart. Now, just put down your weapons, all of you. Gently does it.Just put them down on the deck. This is really most inconvenient.”
“Okay.” Bond’s face was like stone. “Just do as he says. I don’t want to endanger Joe in any way.”
As he bent at the knees to place the Browning on the carpeted deck, he caught a slight movement out of the corner of his left eye.
Someone pressed against the bulkhead in the Russian section of cabins.
Around him the marines and Bruce Trimble also put down their weapons.
“Okay,” Hamarik whispered. “Now move away from the door.
I’m bringing the American out.”
Bond did not dare to even allow his eyes to flicker in the direction of the Russian section. He did not know which way this fake Woodward wanted to go, so he simply stood back against the far wall of the narrow passageway. “Do as I do,” he told the others. “Backs against the wall here.” They obeyed - a line of seven men against the wall, and a small arsenal of weapons on the deck. They frit stupid and there was not one of them who felt he should make some kind of move.
Bond sensed it and said loudly, “I don’t want any heroics. Don’t do anything stupid.”
Then, to Hamarik, “Where do you want to go?”
“Off this ship, but I would like to take another guest with me.
You have a girl called Deeley in custody, I think.”
“Yes.”
I will take her also, and you, Bond, will lead us.”
“Okay,” Bond shrugged. “If you want to get Deeley you’ll have to turn left out of the cabin door. You want me to lead you?”
“I want all of you in front of me. Move, the lot of you.”
“Do as he says.” It was a risk Bond had to take. Someone would now be behind the so-called Woodward, so maybe they could do something, even though, in the confined space, it would be a risk.
“Wait!” Hamarik snapped. “Just shuffle along the wall. When I’m out into the open, with Israel, I’ll tell you to turn and go in front of me. I shall want you in single file so you block off the entire passage ahead of me. Okay! Move!”
They shuffled along the wall, leaving the area in front of the cabin completely free. It made things easier for Bond for he now had an excuse to turn his head towards the cabin door, his eyes seeking the movement in the Russian section.
He had hardly moved his eyes when Hamarik pushed Israel in front of him and came into the open, turning left. As he came out, he glanced to his right and saw what Bond had already spotted.
Standing in the doorway separating the Russian and American quarters, was Nikki Ratnikov, her legs apart and a small automatic pistol held in front of her with both hands.
Hamarik gave a little curse, pushed Israel around, trying to get his body between himself and Nikki. Keeping Israel in a hard neck-choke he pulled in hard, pushing him to the left, and realising he had no option but to fire at the girl.
The shots crashed out, echoing like cannon blasts in the confined space. Both fired twice, and both hit their marks.
Hamarik’s left arm dropped from Israel’s throat as he cried out, took a pace backwards, tried to lift his pistol again, but was forced to clutch at his right shoulder which had suddenly spouted blood. He cried again, dropped the pistol and sank to his knees.
It was Bruce Trimble who got to him first, snatching his own weapon from the deck and holding it at arm’s length. “Stay where you are, you damned honky fraud!” But Hamarik was already unconscious, keeling over and sprawling onto the deck.
Bond moved forward towards Nikki. She stood like a statue in the doorway, pistol still extended, arms rigid, and feet apart. But the white roll-neck sweater she wore had turned crimson: a great, ugly spreading stain.
Bond was only two paces from her when he heard the ghastly rattle from her throat, saw the blood gush from her mouth and her body crumple to the deck. He knelt over the girl, his fingers feeling for a pulse in her neck. Nothing. “She’s dead,” Bond said, bleakly. He had liked Nikki, in spite of some suspicions, and all sudden deaths of young people were sad moments, particularly in this case, for Nikki Ratnikov had put her own life at risk for their lives.
“Well, this bastard’s still alive, and I reckon he can be patched up and made to talk.” There was no bitterness in Bruce Trimble’s voice as he walked towards the nearest bulkhead telephone to call the Sick Bay. Over his shoulder he said they would need a marine guard around the clock.
Bond got to his feet. “Take care of it for me, Bruce. I’ve got to see what’s going on.” Even in the few minutes of stand off and death, they were all aware that there had been some serious problem on the ship. The Tannoy had been active, and Sir John Walmsley, himself, had been issuing some orders. Bond made his way along the passage, turned the corner and climbed the companionway. Whatever else had occurred, he now had to break the news of Nikki’s death, and the fact that they had a second presumed terrorist on board.
Bassam Baradj scanned the sea with his binoculars. All being well, the operation would have started by now, and soon he expected to hear what course of action the Captain of Invincible would take.
He refocused the glasses on the freighter, Estado Novo, which was, at this moment, passing through the Straits of Gibraltar.
The large crate was still in place on the main deck, shielding the stolen Sea Harrier from view, and he knew the pilot, Felipe Pantano, was also aboard.
The freighter had followed instructions to the letter and Baradj had been in constant, ciphered, contact with the ship since it had made its short visit to Oporto. From there the Estado Novo had passed through the Straits and headed for Tangier, where, with much bribery and considerable ingenuity, Baradj had arranged for other cargo to be taken on board: mainly four AIM-J air-to-air Sidewinder missiles, and a large quantity of 10mm ammunition, belted and ready for installation for use by the two Aden guns already resting in their pods on both port and starboard of the Harrier’s fuselage. They had also taken on a considerable amount of fuel.
By tonight, Baradj thought, the freighter would be in place. If needed, the stolen Sea Harrier could be airborne, by using the vertical take-off technique, within five minutes of an order being received.
Baradj took one more look, then put the glasses in their case, turned and began to walk quietly back to The Rock Hotel. Earlier he had looked down on the airport to make certain his private helicopter had arrived safely. The pilot was to stay with the craft and Baradj knew it would take part in the final piece of his plan - the recovery of the huge ransom he expected to pick up from the sea. Of course the pilot had no idea that he was doomed,just as all members of his brainchild, BAST, were doomed, to the extent that they would have done the dangerous and difficult work with no reward. Twenty-four, maybe forty-eight hours, Baradj smiled, after that he would have a veritable king’s ransom.
He would also have disappeared from the face of the earth. He actually laughed out loud, thinking of the fanatics who would have given their souls for an opportunity like this, and how they would have wasted the money on guns and bombs, bringing more danger to their lives. He, Bassam Baradj - or to be truthful, Robert Besavitsky would use it for a really decent purpose: his own pleasure and security. Not yet, but in a year or so, he would emerge, with a new face and identity. He would own houses, estates, cars, yachts, private jets, companies which might even do some good for the world. He would make gifts: a new library here, or a museum there; maybe even scholarships. Yes, that was a new idea. Some good things must come out of the great crock of gold that waited for him. This would only be fair.
The sun shone and Baradj was happy. The sun was set fair for Gibraltar, though the weather report for the rest of the Spanish coast was not so good. Never mind, it would be good enough to do what needed to be done.
“I, for one, Sir John, do not care about what has happened. This is a unique meeting, and we do need a clear four days to complete our talks. Do I have to make it plain again? Four … clear .
days. That is what was arranged, and that is what we all expect.”
The Prime Minister looked towards the President of the United States and Secretary Gorbachev. An interpreter whispered the translation in Gorbachev’s ear. He nodded gravely, the birthmark on his forehead coming into view as the head bobbed and he repeated, “Da .
. . Da …
“Prime Minister,” George Bush spoke quietly. “I understand the problem, and I see you’re anxious because we are your guests. I agree wholly with you. We should stay aboard, we’ve lost almost one hour already. But I’d like to hear the options again.”
Sir John Walmsley gave a tiny sigh and nudged James Bond, who stood beside him. “I think Captain Bond should give you a little rundown,” he said, his voice that of a desperate man. “He is in complete control of your security, so he, as it were, carries the can.”
“Oh yes?” Bond thought before he spoke. “I think Sir John’s explained it very clearly.” He kept his voice deliberately low, and slow enough for the translator to do his work for Chairman Gorbachev.