He picked up one of his telephones and asked for Simon to come over as quickly as possible. Bond had learnt by now that they used first names at Erewhon for everyone except the Officer Commanding.
"Commander Bond is with us,' he told Simon. "There's work for him, and he leaves for England tomorrow. You will escort him." An odd look passed between the two men before Rahani continued. "But, Simon, we have yet to see the gallant Commander in action. Would it be a good idea to put him through the Charnel House?"
"He'd like that, I'm sure, sir.
The Charnel House was a gallows-humour nickname for the gutted buildings they used for training against counter-terrorist forces.
Simon said he would set things up, and they walked the short distance to the area, where Simon left to make the arrangements. Ten minutes later, he returned, taking Bond inside the house.
Though the place was gutted and bore the marks of many simulated battles, it had been remarkably well built. There was a large entrance hall inside the solid main door. Two short passages to left and right led to large rooms, which were uncarpeted, but contained one or two pieces of furniture. At the top of a solid staircase was a wide landing with one door. Through this a long passage ran the length of the house with doors on the facing wall leading into two rooms built directly above those on the ground floor. Simon led Bond upstairs.
"There will be a team of four. Blank ammunition, of course, but real flash-bangs." Flash-bangs were stun grenades, not the most pleasant thing to be near on detonation. "The brief is that they know you are somewhere upstairs." Simon pulled out the ASP 9mm. "Nice weapon, James. Very nice. Who would think it has the power of a .44
Magnum?"
"You've been playing with my toys.
"Couldn't resist it. There - one magazine of blanks, and one spare. Use your initiative, James. Good luck." He looked at his watch. "You have three minutes.
Bond quickly reconnoited the building and placed himself in the upper corridor, since it had no windows.
He stayed close to the door which opened on to the landing, but was well shielded by the corridor wall. He was crouched against the wall when the stun grenades exploded in the hallway below - two ear-splitting crumps, followed by several bursts of automatic fire.
Bullets hacked and chipped into the plaster and brickwork on the other side of the wall, while another burst almost took the door beside him off its hinges.
They were not using blanks. This was for real, and he knew with sudden shock, that it was as he had earlier deduced. He was being thrown to the wolves.
RETURN TO SENDER
Two
MORE EXPLOSIONS came from below, followed by another heavy burst of fire. The second team of two men was clearing the ground floor. Bond could hear the feet of the first team on the stairs. In a few seconds there would be the dance of death on the landing - a couple of stun grenades or smoke canisters would be thrown through the door to his right, then lead would hose down the passage, taking him on that short trip into eternity.
Simon's voice kept running in his head like a looped tape: "Use your initiative . . . Use your initiative .
Was that a hint? A clue? There was certainly something of a nudge in the tone he had adopted.
Move. Bond was off down the corridor, making for the room to his left. He had some vague idea that he might leap from the window.
Anything to remove himself from the vicious hailstorm of bullets.
He took rapid strides into the room and, trying to make as little noise as possible, closed the door, automatically sliding a small bolt above the handle. He started to cross the floor, heading for the windows, clutching the useless ASP as though his life depended on it.
As he sidestepped a chair, he saw them - two ASP magazines, cutaway matt black oblongs, lying on a rickety table between the high windows.
Grabbing at the first, he saw immediately that they were his own reserves, both full, loaded with Glasers.
There is a fast routine for reloading the ASP, a fluent movement that quickly jettisons an empty magazine, replacing it with a full one.
Bond went through the reload procedure in a matter of five seconds, including dropping his eyes to check that a live round had entered the chamber.
He performed the reloading on the move, finally positioning himself hard against the wall to the left of the door. The team would leap in after the grenades had accomplished their disorientating effect, one to the left and one right. They would be firing as they came, but Bond gambled on their first bursts going wide across the room.
Flattening himself against the wall, he held the powerful little weapon at arm's length in the two-handed grip, at the same time clutching the spare magazine almost as an extension to the butt.
They were making straight for this room. As he reloaded, Bond had been conscious of the bangs and rattle of their textbook assault through the landing door.
Bullets spat and splintered the woodwork to his right. A boot smashed in the handle and broke the flimsy bolt, while a pair of stun grenades hit the bare boards, making a heavy clunk, one of them rolling for a split second before detonation.
He closed his eyes, head turning slightly to avoid the worst effect - the flash that temporarily blinds - though nothing could stop the noise which seemed to explode from within his own cranium, putting his head in a vice, and ringing in his ears like a magnified bell. It blotted out all external sounds, even that of his own pistol as he fired, and the death-rattle of the submachine guns as the two-man team stepped through the lingering smoke.
Bond acted purely by intuition. At the first movement through the door he sighted the three little yellow triangles on the dark moving shape. He squeezed the trigger twice, resighted and squeezed again.
In all the four bullets were off in less than three seconds - though the whole business appeared to be frozen in time, slowed down like a cinematic trick so that everything happened with a ponderous, even clumsy, brutality.
The man nearest Bond came through, leaping to his left, the wicked little automatic weapon tucked between upper arm and ribcage, the muzzle already spitting fire as he identified and turned towards his target. Bond's first bullet caught him in the neck, tearing through flesh, bone, arteries and sinews, hurling the man sideways, pushing him, the head lolling, as though it was being torn away from its body.
The second slug entered the head, which exploded, leaving a cloud of fine pink and grey matter hanging in the air. The third and fourth bullets both caught the second man in the chest, a couple of inches below the windpipe. He was swinging outwards, and to his right, realising too late where the target was situated, the gun in his hand spraying bullets towards the window.
The impact lifted the man from his feet, knocking him back so that, for a split second he was poised in midair, angled at forty-five degrees to the floor, the machine pistol still firing and ripping into the ceiling as a mushroom of blood and flesh spouted from the torn chest.
Because of his temporary deafness, Bond felt as though he stood outside the action, as if watching a silent film.
But his experience pushed him on: two down, he thought, two to go.
The second team almost certainly would be covering the entrance hall, and may even be coming to the assistance of their comrades at this moment.
Bond stepped over the headless corpse of the first intruder, his foot almost slipping in the lake of blood. It always amazed Bond how there was so much blood in one man. This was something they did not show in movies, or even news film - over a gallon of blood which fountained from a human body when violently cut to pieces.