James Bond and Moonraker (3 page)

He glanced sideways and saw the co-pilot fifty yards below him and to the right. One of the man’s hands was reaching towards his shoulder. He must be about to pull the ripcord. Bond flung his arms and legs wide and tilted his hands like the wing flaps of an aeroplane. He felt himself slicing through air, and the co-pilot loomed up beside him. The man’s head turned and Bond saw his teeth flash white as his mouth opened in surprise. He had no time to react before Bond was on him, feeling the life-sustaining bulk of the parachute against his chest. That was what he wanted. Clinging to the man’s shoulder, he unleashed a crippling blow with the flat edge of his hand and felt the force transmit itself to the vulnerable area behind the ear. The man twitched like a stunned rabbit and offered no resistance as Bond fought against the sickening speed of their descent and the metal clasp that secured the parachute. After what seemed like minutes rather than seconds, he prized it open and pulled one of the straps away from an arm barely capable of resistance. He thrust his own arm through the loop and then kicked clear, dragging the rest of the parachute with him. This was the moment of ultimate despair. With both hands struggling to pull on the parachute and fasten the clasp it was impossible to keep stable in space. He felt himself spinning over and over, the ground beneath him and the sky above blicoming a crazy kaleidoscope as the wind tore through his clothing and dizzy pain whirred through his tortured brain as if stirring it with a white-hot spoon. And then the clasp clicked home and his fingers tore at the ripcord. For a terrible second it seemed that nothing was going to happen, and then the parachute broke open with a crackle like the spinnaker of an ocean-going yacht bursting forth to steal the wind. Bond’s headlong descent shuddered to a near halt and suddenly he was alone and drifting earthwards. To his right were khaki mountains with a distant impression of snow-capped peaks. Directly below him a dusty plain was bisected by a long straight road.

Bond raised his hands to his shoulders and prepared to steer himself towards the road. Marrakesh should not be too far away. It was a pity he did not have time for a night on the town. He thought back to his medical report and smiled grimly. There was clearly life in the old dog yet.

‘Ah, James. There you are.’ There was relief as well as a glow of welcome in the eyes of M’s private secretary.

Bond responded with pleasure to the bowl of winter roses on the desk and the faint upper-class fragrance of some scent he could not place. It was good to be home.

‘My flight was diverted, Moneypenny. What’s going on?’

There was no immediate response as Miss Moneypenny’s head was bent forward announcing his arrival. She flicked up the switch. ‘I don’t know. He’s got the Minister of Defence coming in at any minute. You’re to, go straight in.’ She called after him as he moved towards the door and the telephone on her desk started ringing. ‘Does the Chief-of-Staff know you’re back?’

Bond turned to nod towards the telephone. ‘That’ll be him telling you.’

He went through the door and closed it softly behind him. The layout of the room had not changed. The daik green carpet stretching like a putting green to the heavy, polished wood desk with M behind it. Only the big twin-bladed tropical fan, now stationary in the ceiling above the desk, added an incongruous note. Bond wondered how many times M had needed it during the previous summer.

M waved an impatient hand at the chair opposite his desk. ‘You’ve taken a damnably long time getting here.’

Bond sat down and gave a quick description of recent events. M’s jawline hardened. ‘Somebody obviously doesn’t like you. There was that business at Chamonix before your last mission, wasn’t there?’

‘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.’

‘You don’t think the Americans believe we had anything to do with it?’ asked Bond incredulously.

There was an awkward silence. ‘No,’ said Gray, ‘I don’t really think so. But sometimes things are said in the heat of the moment —’ he broke off and performed an agitated movement with his hands as if finding the subject almost too painful to discuss.

M’s voice rode in firmly. ‘The point is that the Americans hold us partially responsible for the loss of their shuttle. There’s a strong onus on us to find out what happened.’ He looked deep into Bond’s unflinching eyes. ‘That’s going to be your job.’

Bond nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’ He turned to Q. ‘The wreckage of the 747 yielded no clues?’

‘Nothing. Laboratory tests are still being conducted but I doubt if they’ll come up with anything.’

‘Where was the shuttle made?’

‘In California. By the Drax Corporation.’

‘Hugo Drax? The multi-millionaire? I didn’t know he was involved in the American space programme.’

‘It’s both an obsession and a philanthropic gesture,’ said M. ‘With NASA starved for funds, they can hardly refuse the money that Drax is prepared to pump in. He has a complex in California that has been turned over completely to the manufacture and testing of the Moonraker shuttle.’

‘With technical assistance from NASA, of course,’ said Gray.

Bond grappled with his incredulity. The funds that Drax must have at his disposal to shore up the American space programme could be nothing less than astronomical. ‘I think it might be politic if I paid Hugo Drax a visit. It would be an indication of our concern, and it would give me a chance to sketch in some background. I might be able to pick up a lead.’

‘Agreed,’ said M. ‘I want you to leave immediately. We’ll inform Drax of your arrival, and I’ll make a courtesy call to the C.I.A. We don’t want any more noses put out of joint.’ He turned to Gray to see if the minister had anything to add.

Gray stood up briskly as if eager to be on his way. ‘Thank you, Sir Miles. You will, of course, keep me in touch with all developments.’ He turned to Bond with an ‘England expects...’ expression on his face. ‘Good luck, Bond. I don’t have to reiterate how important this business is. We don’t want Anglo-American relations to take a pounding.’

‘No, sir.’ Bond inclined his head respectfully to the representative of Her Majesty’s Government, who turned to find that the usher had magically materialized with his overcoat. He was shown out and Bond imagined that the meeting was over. A glance from M stayed him in his tracks.

‘There’s one other thing, 007. Q Branch have come up with a new — er — item for you.’ The word ‘item’ was spoken without great warmth or respect. Bond had the impression that M would have preferred to say ‘gadget’. As the survivor of a number of naval engagements, M found it difficult to take seriously any weapon smaller than a twelve-inch gun.