‘... Station Y. State your message. Over.’
Thank God! Bond hunched over the speaker. ‘On no account implement Red Revenge. Repeat. On no account implement Red Revenge. Explanation will follow. 007 for London. Out.’
Bond left the voice asking for further information and started to run towards the gallery. Heat and smoke were now turning the control room into a death-chamber. The tanker was listing hard to starboard. It was difficult to keep his feet.
A violent explosion racked the control room and hurled Bond to the deck. The giant globe crashed on to the console and disintegrated. Severed wires spluttered angrily in the smoke-filled darkness. Bond started to claw his way to his feet and winced as a fragment of broken glass cut his hand to the bone.
‘James?’ Carter nearly fell over him before seizing his arm and dragging him towards the gap in the louvres. ‘The bow doors wouldn’t open. We'll have to blast our way out!’
Bond stumbled on to the gallery and peered through the smoke towards the dock. Water had risen fast and the starboard side of the quay was submerged. The bows of the Wayne swung free and men were swimming to reach the forward hatch. The area around her was crowded with crew members of the British, American and Russian submarines trying to help their wounded comrades aboard. Stromberg’s men were being held back at gunpoint. It was a scene of desperation and confusion that bordered on panic. Smoke, flames and the smell of battle and burning flesh. Injured men who were frightened of being left behind were crying out and trying to drag themselves towards the Wayne. Others were struggling to keep clear of the rising water.
Bond found one of Talbot’s men who was still alive and began to help him down the stairs. Below him, he saw two rats swim through the water and scramble on to a floating corpse. This was a hell by Hieronymus Bosch. Was this degrading slaughter what Stromberg had in mind when he planned the end of the world? Bond reached the bottom of the stairs and water swirled over his feet. The man in his arms was babbling incoherently and beginning to falter. Bond fought to keep his feet. Another explosion rocked the tanker and the list became more pronounced. The water was now up to his waist and running wild as if fretting to be free of its metal bonds. Into the brig it swirled, snatching up the relics of the last six hours of bitter struggle and battering them against the steel walls. The lights were going out one by one and the smoke lowering down upon the Stygian gloom. Bond remembered the obituary he had written for himself earlier - ‘drowned, burned, and buried’. With every second, the type became more readable. Keeping close hold on the man in his arms he advanced precariously towards the invisible quayside. The last berthing ropes of the Wayne had been slipped and she now rode free of the sunken jetty. Carter had scrambled to the stern and was looking back.
Another list and Bond felt the deck lurching away beneath him. He scrabbled like a skier trying to find an edge on a steep slope and then lost his footing completely. He trod water for an instant and then sank until he felt a firm surface beneath his feet. Bracing himself, he drove off it and surged through the water like a swimmer starting a back-stroke race. The survivor of Talbot’s raid was still keeping him unconscious company. Bond’s shoulders smacked against the side of the Wayne and strong hands snapped into the collar of his tunic. He was hauled up the side of the pear-drop hull and relinquished his grip on his countryman only when he saw that he was securely held by members of the Wayne's crew.
‘Get ’em below!’ Carter disappeared through the main access hatch and Bond struggled to his feet and followed him. Below, it was like a crowd scene from an Eisenstein film. Men were pressed shoulder to shoulder and the wounded found space between their feet. Carter fought his way to the control room and barked into the PA system. ‘All personnel below decks. Close hatches. Diving stations.’
Bond’s glazed eyes stared at the crowded metal walls pressing in on him and wondered if he had not exchanged a tomb for a coffin.
‘All personnel aboard, sir’ - there was an unhappy pause - ‘all that are left, that is. Hatches shut and clipped. Submarine ready for sea.’
Carter’s lips trembled and then he spoke urgently. ‘Torpedo room - Control. Load tube one with Mark 46 Torpedo. Engine Room - Control. Hold her steady.’
Bond looked at the faces about him. The sweat poured from them. The tension showed on each death-haunted feature.
‘Torpedo Room - Control. Open outer door on tube one.’
A man closed his eyes and his lips began to murmur a prayer.
‘Control - Torpedo Room. Outer door on tube one open.* The voice came from Texas. It was unwavering. Something
- or someone - thumped against the side of the hull. Carter’s fist clenched.
‘Match bearings and shoot.’
The man who was praying pressed a thin gold crucifix between finger and thumb. Bond noticed that the indentation on its transversals had been worn smooth. Two voices spoke out from the back of the control room.
‘Set.’
‘Shoot!’
The Wayne shuddered and Bond tensed. There was the passage of seconds and then a giant swell buffeted the submarine. The bows pitched into the air and men clung to any support that offered itself. Bond watched the deck tilt up in front of him and heard wounded men cry out in pain and panic as they were trampled underfoot. Almost instantly, a second shock wave hit the Wayne, as the back-surge rebounded from the quay. Bond crashed into Carter's back and the two men sprawled across the deck. Carter was on his feet first and brought the periscope hissing from the well. His hands snapped on the handles and his back arched. When he turned away, his face showed a grim triumph close to tears. He nodded to Bond.
‘Take a look.’
Bond pressed his eyes to the viewer. Ahead, the great doors tilted like lop-sided book-ends. A jagged bitemark showed where the torpedo had blasted a way through them. Bond could see the sky beyond. Behind him, Carter’s voice rang out triumphantly.
‘Take her out!’
Coming up for Air
‘Well?' said Bond.
Carter tapped the piece of paper in his hand. ‘The order’s been confirmed by Washington. “Destroy Stromberg’s laboratory with all possible speed.”'
Bond looked sceptical. ‘If it’s still there. I told you, it’s not attached to the sea bed. It can be moved.’
Carter frowned, sensing the unfamiliar lack of enthusiasm in Bond’s voice. ‘It was still there an hour ago. I’ve had an aerial reconnaissance report. No sign of life. No helicopter, either.’
‘They must have pulled out.’ Was Bond wrong or did he actually feel relieved that Anya might not be there? ‘How are you going to destroy it?’
‘Torpedos. If the layout is as you describe it, we’ll blast it through the opening in the caldera. Officially, it will be a spontaneous eruption of what was thought to be an extinct volcano. The Italian Navy will move in and close the area. Their government has been informed.’
‘Very neat.’