‘Hurry! I am not renowned for my patience.’ Again, Strom- berg's hectoring voice. Bond climbed down the ladder to the deck wondering where it was coming from. On all sides, men with sub-machine-guns were covering them from quay and gallery. A rubber tube, attached to the bolt that had been fired through the hull, ran from the side of the Wayne to one of a number of gas cylinders stacked on a trolley. Beside the man with his hand resting alertly on the tap of the gas cylinder was another holding what looked like a pneumatic drill. This must be the gun for firing the gas bolts. The men wore the SS-and- fish insignia of the crew of the Riva and were dressed in the same blue uniform. Without exception they looked menacingly alert and well trained. Bond’s admiration for Stromberg increased in proportion to his fear and loathing. This man was capable of holding the world to ransom.
‘That is the Potemkin!' Anya hissed the words as she moved beside Bond with her head down. Bond said nothing but looked beyond the steel pillar to the submarine in front of him. He could just make out the lettering ‘— ger' Ranger! Thank God! But what about the crew? Had Stromberg murdered them? And this thought with the crew of the Wayne being lined up on the forward casing. What were they facing, a firing squad? Bond hesitated, wondering whether to spring at the nearest guard. But even if he wrested the man’s weapon he would be instantly gunned down from above. Best to wait and see.
‘Prisoners to brig.’
Bond tucked his chin in and breathed a sigh of relief. They were not going to be killed - not yet, anyway. The guards gestured with the muzzles of their weapons and the crew of the Wayne began to file down the gangway to the quayside. Bond looked ahead and saw three heavy steel doors in the bulkhead beneath the gallery that fronted the control room. There were two armed guards outside the doors and a cluster of disappointed faces showed through small square openings. ‘Why didn’t you send the marines?’ said a Cockney voice.
Bond waited until he was out of view of the bridge beneath the wide gallery and looked back down the length of the interior of the Lepadus. It was obvious now why she had a straight rather than a bulbous bow. He could see the line that marked the closure point of the two huge doors. Once again, he marvelled at the enormity of the concept. To produce something of this size and intricacy must have cost countless millions of pounds. What did Stromberg hope to recoup from such an outlay? It must be more than mere money.
‘Stop! ’ The voice echoed from the PA system like a rifle shot. The guards immediately thrust their weapons forward and the line of prisoners stumbled to a halt. Bond felt his heart miss a beat. What had happened? He glanced at Anya but she was looking down into the oily waters of the dock.
‘I believe we have unexpected guests. Guards, bring Mr and Mrs Sterling to the control room! ’ There was a deadly, mocking edge to the voice and Bond’s heart sank. How had they been spotted? And then he saw it3 turning slowly along its track like an electric fan. Mounted on a rail sixty feet above their heads was a TV scanner relaying images back to the control room. A guard stepped into the ranks and Bond recognized one of the men who had been at the laboratory. His face set into a mean leer and he jabbed his automatic into Bond’s stomach until the sight buried itself in flesh. ‘Vas-y!' Bond winced and resisted the temptation to brain the Corsican with his own weapon. Something told him he was going to need all the strength he had. Anya was plucked from the ranks and the two of them propelled towards a curved flight of stairs that led from the quayside to the control room. A torrent of jeers in Russian and English came from the grilles along the brig. Bond noticed that the doors were secured by wheels like the door of a bank safe. At least the crews of the Ranger and Potemkin sounded as if they were spoiling for a fight. He only hoped he could provide them with one.
The flight of stairs ended outside the starboard side of the control room and Bond looked through the giant steel louvres that stood open like a procession of screens, the gap between each one large enough to let a man walk through without turning his shoulders. The room was dominated by a twenty- foot-high globe, illuminated internally and revolving slowly. At various points on its surface, different coloured lights were flashing. Around the globe was a circular console manned by six technicians operating a galaxy of computers, print-out machines and transmission units. Behind the globe was a long bank of closed-circuit television screens watched by a team of monitors. Bond smiled ruefully. No wonder they had been seen. There must be no part of the vessel that Stromberg could not keep under the minutest observation. The man left nothing to chance.
‘Good day, Mr Sterling - or perhaps we can dispense with pseudonyms - Commander Bond and Major Amasova.’ Stromberg rose from a revolving armchair set in front of the globe so that it provided a view of everything that was happening in the control room. He glided towards them with his strange ghostly walk, looking at first glance like a venerable mandarin in a black tunic. ‘You have arrived just in time. I am about to instigate Operation Armageddon.’ Before Bond could speak, he turned aside and addressed a bearded man wearing the uniform of a merchant navy captain who was standing attentively in the entrance to the control room. ‘Proceed with launching, Captain.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The man turned on his heel and retired into the control room. Seconds later, his voice came over the PA system. ‘Attention all personnel. Stromberg Crews One and Two - embark your submarines. Repeat - Crews One and Two - embark your submarines.’
As Bond watched in amazement, the catwalks above the Ranger and Potemkin began to fill with men and the whole structure drummed with the sound of moving feet. Down they filed like two columns of ants making for the submarines.
Bond looked at Anya. Her expression mirrored his puzzlement. Armageddon? The supreme conflict between nations. The end of the world ?
A PA speaker crackled into life. ‘Both crews aboard, Captain. Missile onload completed.’ The hatch covers slid into place. The decks were smooth. The .water glistened like the surface of a swimming-pool.
Bond turned to Stromberg, who was looking down without expression. ‘What does it mean, Stromberg?’
Stromberg placed the tips of his fingers together in a gesture akin to prayer. He spoke softly. ‘The two submarines, generously donated by your respective governments, will shortly be putting to sea. They have been given their targets and by twelve noon they will have reached their firing positions. Shortly after twelve noon, New York and Moscow will cease to exist.’ He spoke in a precise, measured tone that was chilling. ‘I don’t have to tell either of you what that means. Reprisals for what both great powers will take as a premeditated sneak attack will be immediate. Nuclear war on an unprecedented scale will break out. The world as we know it will be obliterated.’
There was silence save for the lapping of water against the dockside. The Captain’s voice came over the PA system. ‘Open bow doors.’ Bond gripped the rail before turning to face Stromberg. ‘All right. How much do you want?’
Stromberg’s bland face was devoid of artifice. ‘Want, Commander Bond? What can you possibly give me?’
‘Personally, very little.’ Bond tried to control his temper. ‘But those I represent - those Major Amasova represents. They can give you a great deal. Name your figure.’
Stromberg shook his head as if not quite certain that he understood. ‘I think you arc talking about money. I am not interested in money. I have all I need.’