‘Yes, sir. I don’t think it was the Russians this time. After the Stromberg affair, I believe they’ll give me a few months’ respite.’
‘You could hardly expect an Order of Lenin,’ said M drily. ‘Whom do you suspect?’
‘Somebody with an old score to settle. There are a number of candidates.’
‘Yes.’ M nodded his agreement. ‘I hope you can steer clear of them for the duration of your next assignment.’
Bond pricked up his ears. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you had a moment to glance at the station reports?’ M picked his pipe out of the heavy copper ash tray.
‘No, sir. I came straight to you via the Chief-of-Staff.’
‘What do you know about the Moonraker?’
Bond flicked through the card index in his mind. ‘It’s an American space shuttle. Capable of being launched into space by rocket, orbiting the earth and re-entering the atmosphere to land like a conventional aircraft. They can be used to service permanently manned space stations.’
‘And the Americans are just about to phase them into use in the next stage of their space programme. Did you know that we had one coming over so that Q Branch could take a look at it?’
‘Absolutely not,’ said Bond, the surprise showing on his face.
‘Good,’ said M grimly. ‘You weren’t supposed to know. Nobody was.’
‘May I ask why the mountain was coming to Mohamed?’ inquired Bond.
‘In these particular circumstances you may,’ said M, kneading the soft tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. ‘Q’s boys have come up with something they call S.H.I.E.L.D. —Space Heat Identification and Early Liquidation Device.’ His expression registered his disapproval of the title. ‘Damned if I know why. Everything has to have a brand name like a packet of soapsuds these days. Anyway, as the name implies, once installed in a spacecraft this system will ensure that no intercepting missile can get within miles of it without being destroyed. Apparently it’s infallible and the government refuses to let any details out of the country. The Americans are interested in it for their shuttle programme and that’s why they’ve come to us —’ M’s face grew grim. ‘Or rather —’ he broke off as the telephone rang, and put down his unlit pipe. ‘Very well. Yes. We’ll come immediately.’ He replaced the receiver and turned to Bond. ‘Right, 007. You can hear the rest in the Operations Room.’ He moved purposefully round his desk and Bond crossed.to the door and opened it. Not for the first time, he wondered whether there was any limit to the diverse range of projects that Q masterminded in his quartermaster’s department.
M looked down sternly at Miss Moneypenny as he went past her desk.
‘We’ll be in the Operations Room. I don’t want to be disturbed unless it’s critical.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She smiled at Bond as if grateful to find someone she could exchange a gesture of human warmth with. It had often occurred to Bond to ask himself what particular brand of loyalty bound Moneypenny to M. To be his personal amanuensis could not be the easiest job in the world. It was rumoured that M had once given Moneypenny a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream sherry at Christmas, but this rumour was never substantiated. It was more likely that he had wished her the compliments of the season with a grave nod that counselled caution against taking advantage of any opportunity for profligacy or licence. Bond also wondered why Moneypenny had never got married. She was a handsome girl and could never have lacked for suitors. Perhaps, like him, she had decided that she was irrevocably wedded to the service. Perhaps for both of them M represented a stern father figure who commanded all their respect and attention.
M led the way down the long corridor and turned left opposite the lift. Bond knew better than to expect him to say anything while they were walking. A gruff nod to a colleague was the only incident on the journey. M paused at the second door along the corridor and turned the handle briskly. The Operations Room was like a small cinema with rows of seats sloping down to a screen. There was a lectern and a blackboard taking up the space not occupied by the screen. Maps and other visual aids could be lowered like backdrops and controlled from the projection booth, which was independent of the main room.
Bond recognized the two men waiting in the room. One was Frederick Gray, the Minister of Defence, who was just being relieved of his Cromby overcoat by one of the ushers who vigilantly escorted all visitors to Transworld Consortium from the moment they crossed the threshold. He shook M’s hand without much warmth and nodded at Bond. The men had met before. The second man in the room was Q wearing a tweed suit that looked as if it had been borrowed from a gillie after a particularly energetic day’s deer stalking. He, too, nodded at Bond, and raised his arm in an awkward gesture of greeting. The usher withdrew discreetly.
‘Thank you for coming, Minister,’ said M. ‘007 knows the background to the Moonraker visit but not the immediate cause for our concern. I’d be grateful if you would recapitulate, Q.’
Q nodded and was quickly at the rostrum. The others took seats in the back rows of the theatre. Bond sat apart from M and the minister, feeling the tingle of expectation that always arrived at the start of a new job. He was keyed up, waiting for the words to emerge from Q’s mouth.
‘The Moonraker was being transported from California on the back of a 747. The 747 has crashed in Alaska.’
Bond’s expression bore witness to the gravity of the news. ‘Accident?’
M did not turn his head. ‘Listen to what Q has to say and form your own opinion.’
Q pressed a button on the lectern and the lights dimmed. He pressed a second time and a picture flashed up on the screen. It showed the wreckage of what was apparently an air disaster strewn over the side of a rocky, snow-covered mountain side.
‘No survivors,’ said Bond. It was not a question.
Frederick Gray turned and looked Bond straight in the eyes. ‘No Moonraker,’ he said.
Q continued before Bond could say anything. ‘NASA experts have been over every inch of wreckage with a fine toothcomb.’ He broke off as more photographs of twisted, scorched metal appeared on the screen. ‘There is no trace of the space shuttle.’
Bond could hardly believe what he was hearing. ‘Are you suggesting that the Moonraker was hijacked in mid-air?’
‘There seems to be no other explanation,’ said M. ‘The Moonraker was on the 747 when it left California.’
‘There was no wireless communication before the crash?’
‘None.’
‘And the crew of the 747?’
‘All the bodies have been recovered. A positive identification will probably not be possible in every case, but there’s no reason to believe that any of them were involved in what happened to the shuttle.’
‘It looks like the Russians,’ said Bond. He thought of his statement in M’s office. Not much of a respite. ‘What better place for them to pull off a hijack? Five hundred miles and they’re over the Bering Strait and home and dry.’
‘The American early-warning. systems are particularly sensitive in that part of the world,’ said M. ‘They picked up nothing.’
‘They must have taken a risk and flown low.’
‘Quite a risk,’ said M. ‘A space shuttle is hardly designed for hopping icebergs.’
‘Do you think there’s somebody else involved, sir?’ asked Bond.
‘It’s a possibility,’ said M. ‘Though I agree with you. The Russians must remain the prime suspects.’
‘The whole situation is exceptionally embarrassing,’ said Gray stiffly. ‘The Moonraker was coming to us because H.M.G. didn’t want to let our technical know-how out of the country. I don’t think the Pentagon took very kindly to that. Now this happens. To make matters worse, the navigator in the 747 was an R.A.F. chap. It all adds up to something approaching an international incident.’