“What kind of damage did that do?” the pilot asked the leader. The man peered out the windshield but couldn’t see a thing.
“I think we hit a wing, but we’re still flying,” he said. Then he noticed that the right propeller was behaving erratically. “That propeller—is it all right?”
The pilot looked at his controls. “No, we’re losing it. We’re going to crash. There’s no way we can get back to Kathmandu now.”
“What about Darjeeling?”
“Forget it,” the pilot said. “We’re in the Himalayas. I don’t know how to get there. We can try to save ourselves by turning back.”
The leader thought a minute, then said, “Okay, let’s try. Turn her around.”
The pilot couldn’t see a thing. He punched in new navigation coordinates, but something wasn’t right. The controls weren’t responding.
Navigation is completely out,” he said quietly.
“What do we do now?” the leader asked. His abrupt, authoritarian manner had completely vanished.
“Pray.”
Through the ice and snow that was assaulting the windshield, the two men saw a dark shape getting closer. Given the conditions, it was impossible to determine how far away the peak was, but they could see that it was a monster.
The pilot reacted and tried to turn away from it. The dark shape loomed even nearer until it filled the entire windshield.
“Pull up! Pull up!” the leader shouted.
“I can’t!” was the last thing the pilot yelled.
The plane hit a relatively flat ledge not far from the summit of Kangchenjunga, the third tallest mountain in the world. The wings were snapped off immediately and the fuselage slid along the rocky ice and caught fire. It smashed against a wall of rock and ice, rolled over twice, and finally settled on a slanting but near-level patch of glacier.
The impact, the freezing cold, and the lack of oxygen at such a high altitude were immediately fatal to nearly everyone aboard. Three people, however, extraordinarily survived the ordeal but were knocked unconscious. Their hell would begin shortly.
ELEVEN
THE GREEN LIGHT
THE WALTHER P99 ROARED WITH A BARRAGE OF AMPLIFIED NOISE.
The walls of the underground room bounced the crashing sound back and forth until he had emptied the magazine. James Bond remained with his arms outstretched and his grip firm, then’ slowly relaxed and ejected the magazine and placed the pistol on the counter. He pushed the button on the wall to his right to move the target.
The silhouette of a “bad man” slid forward on the track so that Bond could examine how well he had done. Each bullet had hit the bull’s-eye inside the outlined heart.
“Not bad, Double-O Seven,” the instructor said. Reinhardt was a veteran of the service, a man in his sixties who had refused early retirement and still worked part-time in the firing range in the basement of SIS headquarters. A Canadian of German ancestry, the instructor had come to England and joined the secret service during its glory days after the Second World War. Bond thought he was an excellent tutor, and at times felt that he owed his life to the man who had taught him a thing or two about weaponry.
“Not bad?” Bond exclaimed. “I blew his heart to bits, Dave.”
“Not bad” in Reinhardt’s book was to be interpreted as “excellent,” for Bond had never received higher praise from him. Reinhardt never handed out compliments. In fact, the instructor considered 007 the best shot in the entire building, but he believed that too much praise was anathema to the soul.
“But what did he do to you? He could very well have blown your head off,” Reinhardt said. He punched a button on the machine behind them. A computerized image of Bond appeared on the attached television monitor. The instructor pushed another button; the tape rewound to the beginning. Bond’s silhouette could be seen drawing his pistol, taking a stance, and aiming at the camera. Flashes of white light swarmed around the gun as he fired, but at the same time, red pinpoints began to dot his torso. The instructor pressed a button and froze the image.
“There, you see?” Reinhardt said. “He got you in the . . . shoulder, the right lung, and just below the neck. Not fatal, but enough to spoil your aim on your last few rounds. You’d have to go to hospital in a hurry, or you’d be dead within the hour.”
“My first shot would have killed him,” Bond countered.
“Perhaps,” the instructor acknowledged. He knew full well that Bond was right; he just didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a pat on the back. It was his way, and he was aware that Bond knew it.
Bond removed the Zeiss Scopz shooting glasses and Aearo Peltor Tactical 7 ear defenders, and wiped the beads of sweat off his brow. “I think that’s all for today, Dave, I need to get back upstairs,” he said.
“Fine, Double-O Seven. It’s good to see you haven’t lost your edge.”
“But you’re saying there’s room for improvement?”
“There’s always room for improvement, Double-O Seven. Never get it in your head that you’re the best shot on the planet. Look what happened to Billy the Kid.”
“What happened to Billy the Kid other than that he was shot by Pat Garrett?” Bond asked.
“He got careless and cocky. It was his downfall. That’s how Garrett got to him. Never think that you’re better than the other guy, or you won’t try as hard. You’ll let down your guard. Remember that.”
“Thanks, Dave. But isn’t it also psychologically helpful to have the self-confidence to believe you’re going to win, no matter what?”
“Of course! I don’t claim to make perfect sense when I tell you these things!” He chuckled. “You’re supposed to assimilate everything I say, even if it’s contradictory!”
Bond holstered his gun and said good-bye. He normally kept the old PPK in his shoulder holster and used the newer P99 for backup. The trouble was that the P99 was slightly bulkier and was less easily concealed beneath a jacket. A lot of men used the P99 in a shoulder holster, but Bond’s habits died hard. He loved the old PPK as much as he had once adored the Beretta. He would never be able to make a permanent switch.
He took the elevator to his floor and walked into the reception area. Using his key card to gain access to the work space, Bond said hello to one of the newer secretaries and made his way down the aisle toward Helena Marksbury’s desk.
Her back was to him as she typed; a phone receiver was cradled between her left shoulder and her ear. As he walked past, he lightly squeezed her other shoulder. She looked up at him, forced a grin, and waved slightly. Bond walked on into his private office.
It was an awkward situation. Obviously everything wasn’t back to normal. At least he felt better physically. His body had healed quickly He didn’t have to wear the harness around his torso any longer, and the cracked rib was a vague memory.
The in tray held a report from Foreign Intelligence regarding the search for Steven Harding. It was inconclusive, but preliminary findings indicated that he might have left Europe for North Africa or the Middle East. Bond thought that this wasn’t much of a leap in logic. The Union’s headquarters was rumored to be located in either of those two places. As for Lee Ming, the last word received at SIS was that Station I’s attempt to arrest him had failed. Word on his whereabouts was expected at any time.
Helena, now off the phone, stuck her head in the door and said, “I’m glad you’re back. M wants to see you in ten minutes.” She started to leave, but Bond stopped her.
“Helena.”
She paused and looked at him.
“Come in here,” he said.
She swallowed, made a face of resignation, then stepped inside the office.
“Are you handling this all right? You’re not thinking of transferring to another department, are you?”