On His Majesty's Secret Service (4)
“I believe introductions are in order,” said Bond.
The woman pilot skimmed low over the roofs of Berlin, looking for a place to set down her damaged plane. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re the jerk who ran into my plane.”
“My pilot had it the other way around,” Bond said lightly.
“Then he’s a jerk too,” the woman growled, dodging a church steeple. “You guys climbed to meet me. Somebody needs to learn to read a flight plan.”
Further arguing seemed counter-productive. “My name is Bond. James Bond.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” said the woman, extending a hand. “Susan B. Anthony.” She smiled self-deprecatingly. “No relation,” she added.
Bond shook her hand. She had a very firm handshake. “No relation to whom?”
“Jerk,” growled Susan.
Bond reached across her to point at a body of water. “That lake,” he said. “It’s the only sane place to attempt a landing.”
“That’s the Muggelsee,” said Susan. “It’s on the wrong side of the Russian zone boundary. I don’t think the Soviets are in a very understanding mood these days.”
“Right you are, then,” said Bond amicably. “You might have better luck reasoning with the ground.”
Susan grumbled, then sticked over and made for the distant patch of blue.
There was no actual wall between the Allied and Russian sectors; there were street closures with sawhorse markers manned by guards, but foot and rail traffic between the zones was essentially open. The plane skimmed a few hundred feet above the boundary. Bond saw frenetic activity on both sides as the American and Soviet guards, all on high alert already, radioed for further instructions.
“One hopes nobody has an itchy trigger finger down there,” Bond said, just to make conversation.
“Yeah, me too,” said Susan. “Today we’re carrying kerosene.”
“Ah,” said Bond, suddenly not in the mood for small talk.
“That was some trick you pulled back there,” Susan continued. “What are you, one of them airshow acrobats or something?”
Bond made a decision. “Actually, what I am is something we should probably talk about now,” he said. “I don’t appear on the transport manifest for any plane, so I won’t have an easy time if the Soviets pick me up, and anybody with me won’t be treated any better.”
Susan cackled. “You’re a spy!” she hooted. Susan punched Bond in the shoulder. “Hot damn, I knew you weren’t any kind of flyboy as soon as I saw you. I’ll be damned!”
“Listen,” said Bond, “a single pilot could experience equipment failure, ditch in a large body of water and be excused. Even the Soviets won’t fault that, especially since you’re a lady pilot.”
“I’d like to know what the hell that’s supposed to mean,” said Susan dangerously.
“It means that when we ditch, I’ll swim away undetected, and you’ll deny there was ever anybody else in your plane. You should be back across in the American zone in no time.”
The plane swooped towards the large lake in the middle of the Soviet sector. Its surface was very still, and ducks swam in large groups. “That’s great,” said Susan, “only there’s the small matter of my plane. Somebody’s got to pay for that.”
“Come now,” said Bond. “This is hardly the time to argue over such things.”
“Listen, spyboy,” said Susan, “either I get your word that you Brits are gonna pay for my plane, or I might just feel like failing to omit some details when we land.”
Bond saw no harm in lying. “It’s a deal,” he said.
“Shake on it,” insisted Susan. They shook hands again. Susan’s grip was incredibly firm.
The plane streaked down towards the blue surface of the lake. “Brace up,” Susan suggested. James buckled in, put his feet up on the dash and cradled his head in his hands.
The plane splashed down with its nose up; it hydroplaned across the surface and hardly submerged at all. The landing was hardly much rougher than touchdown on an ordinary field. Every duck in the lake took flight, and several anglers on the farthest shore stood up to get a better view.
“We’ll have to chance their not noticing me,” said Bond. “Until later, Ms. Anthony.”
“You owe me a plane, bub,” said Susan. “Don’t forget.”
“I could never forget,” said Bond. He cracked open the door to the cabin; the water lapped a foot below him. Bond slipped into the dark water. It was shockingly cold, but Bond was now in his element. He had made amphibious assaults at night in the waters of the Baltic, and that was much worse than this.
Bond surfaced in the shadow of the plane’s wing, drew several deep breaths, and then dove. He kicked strongly a dozen feet down and then struck out for the nearest shore. Bond concentrated on calming himself, on swimming strongly while conserving energy, and on marshaling his oxygen to make it last as long as possible. He swam for several minutes in this fashion, and just as the burning in his lungs became too much to bear, he saw dark shapes looming in the half-light. They were the pilings of a dock.
James made it to the dark below the dock before surfacing and gulping in air. He could hear sirens; the Soviets were already descending on the lake, and a rowboat had been commandeered on the far side so that a squad of Soviet troopers could row out and take Susan into custody. Bond felt a small twinge of guilt for leaving her alone and in the hands of the Russians, but he knew that she would be much better off alone. Besides, Bond thought, Ms. Anthony was obviously a woman who could take care of herself.
Bond peeked out from under the dock. There were no cars on the road on his side of the lake. He waded through the reeds and walked up on shore, water streaming from his clothes. Bond pulled up short of walking up to the road; a soft cough came from behind him on the dock.
There was a man standing there - a middle-aged man wearing a bergfuhrer hat and a fishing vest. He had a rod over one shoulder and a string of trout in the other. Bond stared at the fisherman and the fisherman stared at Bond. Bond broke the ice, holding his hands a yard apart.
“Grosse fisch,” he said, shrugging wistfully.
The fisherman grunted sympathetically and nodded. Bond splashed up to the road, crossed the street and disappeared into an alley before the man could ask any more questions - and potentially hear Bond’s atrocious German accent.
Alone in the alley, Bond considered his options. He was on the wrong side of the boundary, with no known allies able to render assistance. He had no gun, no shoes, only one sock, and his clothes were soaked. The Soviets were on high alert - although if Susan stuck to her story, they likely wouldn’t be looking for him, but that was small comfort.
Bond shrugged internally. There was nothing for it but to avoid detection and attempt a crossing.
The woman pilot skimmed low over the roofs of Berlin, looking for a place to set down her damaged plane. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re the jerk who ran into my plane.”
“My pilot had it the other way around,” Bond said lightly.
“Then he’s a jerk too,” the woman growled, dodging a church steeple. “You guys climbed to meet me. Somebody needs to learn to read a flight plan.”
Further arguing seemed counter-productive. “My name is Bond. James Bond.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” said the woman, extending a hand. “Susan B. Anthony.” She smiled self-deprecatingly. “No relation,” she added.
Bond shook her hand. She had a very firm handshake. “No relation to whom?”
“Jerk,” growled Susan.
Bond reached across her to point at a body of water. “That lake,” he said. “It’s the only sane place to attempt a landing.”
“That’s the Muggelsee,” said Susan. “It’s on the wrong side of the Russian zone boundary. I don’t think the Soviets are in a very understanding mood these days.”
“Right you are, then,” said Bond amicably. “You might have better luck reasoning with the ground.”
Susan grumbled, then sticked over and made for the distant patch of blue.
There was no actual wall between the Allied and Russian sectors; there were street closures with sawhorse markers manned by guards, but foot and rail traffic between the zones was essentially open. The plane skimmed a few hundred feet above the boundary. Bond saw frenetic activity on both sides as the American and Soviet guards, all on high alert already, radioed for further instructions.
“One hopes nobody has an itchy trigger finger down there,” Bond said, just to make conversation.
“Yeah, me too,” said Susan. “Today we’re carrying kerosene.”
“Ah,” said Bond, suddenly not in the mood for small talk.
“That was some trick you pulled back there,” Susan continued. “What are you, one of them airshow acrobats or something?”
Bond made a decision. “Actually, what I am is something we should probably talk about now,” he said. “I don’t appear on the transport manifest for any plane, so I won’t have an easy time if the Soviets pick me up, and anybody with me won’t be treated any better.”
Susan cackled. “You’re a spy!” she hooted. Susan punched Bond in the shoulder. “Hot damn, I knew you weren’t any kind of flyboy as soon as I saw you. I’ll be damned!”
“Listen,” said Bond, “a single pilot could experience equipment failure, ditch in a large body of water and be excused. Even the Soviets won’t fault that, especially since you’re a lady pilot.”
“I’d like to know what the hell that’s supposed to mean,” said Susan dangerously.
“It means that when we ditch, I’ll swim away undetected, and you’ll deny there was ever anybody else in your plane. You should be back across in the American zone in no time.”
The plane swooped towards the large lake in the middle of the Soviet sector. Its surface was very still, and ducks swam in large groups. “That’s great,” said Susan, “only there’s the small matter of my plane. Somebody’s got to pay for that.”
“Come now,” said Bond. “This is hardly the time to argue over such things.”
“Listen, spyboy,” said Susan, “either I get your word that you Brits are gonna pay for my plane, or I might just feel like failing to omit some details when we land.”
Bond saw no harm in lying. “It’s a deal,” he said.
“Shake on it,” insisted Susan. They shook hands again. Susan’s grip was incredibly firm.
The plane streaked down towards the blue surface of the lake. “Brace up,” Susan suggested. James buckled in, put his feet up on the dash and cradled his head in his hands.
The plane splashed down with its nose up; it hydroplaned across the surface and hardly submerged at all. The landing was hardly much rougher than touchdown on an ordinary field. Every duck in the lake took flight, and several anglers on the farthest shore stood up to get a better view.
“We’ll have to chance their not noticing me,” said Bond. “Until later, Ms. Anthony.”
“You owe me a plane, bub,” said Susan. “Don’t forget.”
“I could never forget,” said Bond. He cracked open the door to the cabin; the water lapped a foot below him. Bond slipped into the dark water. It was shockingly cold, but Bond was now in his element. He had made amphibious assaults at night in the waters of the Baltic, and that was much worse than this.
Bond surfaced in the shadow of the plane’s wing, drew several deep breaths, and then dove. He kicked strongly a dozen feet down and then struck out for the nearest shore. Bond concentrated on calming himself, on swimming strongly while conserving energy, and on marshaling his oxygen to make it last as long as possible. He swam for several minutes in this fashion, and just as the burning in his lungs became too much to bear, he saw dark shapes looming in the half-light. They were the pilings of a dock.
James made it to the dark below the dock before surfacing and gulping in air. He could hear sirens; the Soviets were already descending on the lake, and a rowboat had been commandeered on the far side so that a squad of Soviet troopers could row out and take Susan into custody. Bond felt a small twinge of guilt for leaving her alone and in the hands of the Russians, but he knew that she would be much better off alone. Besides, Bond thought, Ms. Anthony was obviously a woman who could take care of herself.
Bond peeked out from under the dock. There were no cars on the road on his side of the lake. He waded through the reeds and walked up on shore, water streaming from his clothes. Bond pulled up short of walking up to the road; a soft cough came from behind him on the dock.
There was a man standing there - a middle-aged man wearing a bergfuhrer hat and a fishing vest. He had a rod over one shoulder and a string of trout in the other. Bond stared at the fisherman and the fisherman stared at Bond. Bond broke the ice, holding his hands a yard apart.
“Grosse fisch,” he said, shrugging wistfully.
The fisherman grunted sympathetically and nodded. Bond splashed up to the road, crossed the street and disappeared into an alley before the man could ask any more questions - and potentially hear Bond’s atrocious German accent.
Alone in the alley, Bond considered his options. He was on the wrong side of the boundary, with no known allies able to render assistance. He had no gun, no shoes, only one sock, and his clothes were soaked. The Soviets were on high alert - although if Susan stuck to her story, they likely wouldn’t be looking for him, but that was small comfort.
Bond shrugged internally. There was nothing for it but to avoid detection and attempt a crossing.