Not with a Bang but a Whimper (short story)
Cpt Nathan Algren
Posts: 6MI6 Agent
I wrote this up in about an hour or so. Therefore, the quality of the writing isn't very high and there is barely a plot worth speaking of (and in what little there is, at least one considerable hole exists). Nonetheless, the story is intended as a fun little romp. And who knows: maybe it could be expanded and turned into something interesting. If you'd like, make a suggestion and we can discuss it.
Ah yes, I do have one request: tell me which Bond you envisioned while reading it. :007)
~~~~
The lavish estate loomed through the opaque night at the onlookers, its fine details -- the sparkling bow windows, the arching roof, the red brick façade -- growing in perspicuity as the sedan motored up the weaving path toward it. Foliage surrounded the road on either side, consisting of shrubs and decidedly tall conifers. They were wet and still dripping substantively with that night’s precipitation.
Inside the car the scenery passed across the windows and was promptly swallowed up by the all-encompassing haze. The two passengers and the driver were silent, all of them focused on their destination, which now lie directly ahead. Due to the murky weather they had gotten lost several times during the trip, so it was a relief to finally have made it.
Their mission was simple: they were to make a delivery to one Singeon Smythe, the head of an Irish militia group. The delivery was intended to be simply a gesture of camaraderie and an indication of future cooperation, for it was militarily insignificant: just a sampling of NEM’s new economically accommodative explosive gadgetry. The meeting thus would be almost purely symbolic. Which is why NEM’s head man, Craig Blomberg, had chosen to undertake the mission in person.
Still, even though this Singeon Smythe’s files checked out in the security systems -- and did so impeccably -- Blomberg’s instinct told him something didn’t seem quite right. Perhaps it was the location of the meeting at this rather gaudy mansion in Scotland, or maybe it was the lack of steady communication throughout the trip, or the . . . well, had he some paper, he could write up a list. But, in any event, he would be prepared if things went awry. Subtly prepared, as always.
And really, what reason did he have to be troubled? After all, if worse came to worse, the nearest safe zone was only several miles away, across the harbor bridge. There his men were stationed, ready to assist and evacuate him back to headquarters. He had nothing to worry about; he put his fallible instincts to rest.
The sedan came to a stop in front of a wrought iron gate. They caught sight of a person in uniform and, two lingering minutes later, the gate began to open slowly with a hollow, metallic creak. They went through and drove across the wet cobblestone to a parking spot perpendicular to the mansion. The hum of the motor ceased and they stepped out onto saturated ground . . .
. . . where they were greeted by the point of a gun, its owner shrouded in darkness.
Craig Blomberg cursed himself.
The shadows spoke. “Good evening, gentlemen. Hope the ride wasn’t too problematic.”
A man stepped forward out of the blackness, a wry smile played across his face. Despite the dreariness of the weather and the humidity in the air, he seemed poised and cool; and his black dinner suit and white undershirt were unsullied and showed none of the effects of ill weather.
“Ah,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “and Madame.”
Blomberg’s woman cast a smile at this handsome, debonair man. It was rare that she was swept off her feet by first impressions. But when she was, ooh . . . !
“What in hell is this?” said the Arab who had been the driver. He glanced beside him to Blomberg. “You never--”
Craig Blomberg raised a hand to silence him. He cast their assailant a mind-scouring stare. “I take it this is an MI6 farce?”
“If you’re inclined to do so, yes,” the man replied casually.
In fact, MI6 had intended only to intercept a shipment of NEM explosives. The short term plan had been to send the shipment to Q Branch, where the weaponry would be studied, replicated and tested. Then, if deemed necessary, counteraction would be planned to prevent distribution of the weaponry -- likely by means of shutting down NEM completely, as the organization was still in its incipient stages. But now that Blomberg had come along for the ride, MI6 could accomplish both of its objectives . . . all in one fell deceptive swoop.
James Bond’s outstretched arm tensed, and his fingers tightened around the grip of his PPK. His tone became businesslike. “Now, please step away from that car.”
“Mr Singeon Smythe,” Blomberg said, his hand furtively slipping into his trousers as he obeyed the order, “it is a wonderful feeling to have the wool pulled over your eyes.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Blomberg turned to face him and smiled. A small, dull object rolled unnoticed down his pants leg and onto the ground beside his shoe. “Oh wouldn’t you?”
Bond’s eyes narrowed as he circumspectly studied Blomberg’s movements. He noticed Blomberg’s right leg begin to retract. He tensed. Suddenly, Blomberg‘s leg lashed out. Bond dropped to the ground and pulled the trigger of his PPK, which fired and echoed futiley in the night. A projectile arched past him. It ricocheted off the garden’s stone wall, hit the cobblestone ground, rebounded, and . . .
There was a great, earthshaking explosion. Windows shattered and a side of the mansion began to crumble. Bricks started spewing in a sooty stream to the ground, pouring down masses of rubble behind and beside Bond. Through the thick smoke that ensued Bond saw the three cohorts heading for their vehicle. He got up from the ground and sprinted toward them. The engine started up and growled. As the car began to pull out, Bond dashed in front of it, spread out his legs to ground himself and took aim at the driver. Abruptly, the headlights cut on and blinded his vision. He fired three shots into the windshield -- all of which failed to penetrate. Armored glass, he thought.
Bond vaulted out of the way as the sedan darted forward. He watched as it zoomed through the open gate and down the twisting path to the streets. Without wasting time, Bond rushed down the stairs to his car in the courtyard -- a company-owned Aston Martin DB5. He ignited the engine and tore down the path in hot pursuit.
---
The snaking path and the fog finally came to a terminus and the pursuit perdured in the dormant suburban streets. The sedan wasn't far ahead, but it seemed to be continually gaining speed.
As Bond chased it through a bend, he heard sirens begin to wail. He glimpsed in his rear-view mirror to see a squad of police cruisers trailing them.
Down the road Bond could see the highway coming up. And with it a protective concrete wall.
He took a swift glance at his speedometer. 98 mph. If he approached it at the right angle, he just might make it. Whatever chance he had of stopping Blomberg, he had to take it. He couldn’t let Blomberg reach the bridge on the other side of that highway. M had been very clear about that.
The wall was coming up at lightning speed. Bond eyed it, then turned a sharp right. The DB5 hit the wall with its front tire. He heard the shrieking of rubber. The car began to tilt sideways and drive up the wall. Bond jerked the wheel left. The rear tire spun up the wall as well. Then Bond hit the gas for all it had. For the next few seconds, the only sounds to be heard were the shrill whine of wind passing over the sleek hull and the DB5‘s tires running across ruts in the wall at colossal speed.
Then the wall ended . . . and the DB5 was hurtled down the road on two wheels.
Bond steered the swaying car toward Blomberg’s vehicle and hit its side windows with the DB5’s airborne tires. Fighting gravity to get out before the DB5 fell off, he burst his door open and leapt out onto the roof of the other car.
Immediately the wind fought against him, stinging his face and his eyes. He sprawled himself out on the roof and hugged onto it, face down, and started inching his way up to the front of the oblong vehicle. He felt the car start to swerve and heave. Behind him, he heard the ugly clamor of the DB5 careening and somersaulting down the road. Then, suddenly, the police sirens died. Bond allowed himself a glance back. His right eyebrow rose nervously: it was a nasty wreck of a scene to behold. The DB5 had careened into the windshield of a police cruiser, which had then swerved and crashed its cousins into the concrete barrier. That intoxicated Scottish police force gets into all sorts of trouble, Bond mused to himself.
Turning a rueful eye away from the trashed remains of his vehicle, Bond steadily continued his crawl up to the cab of the sedan.
Without warning the car made a sharp jerk to the right that nearly threw Bond off. As he slid over the side of roof’s sleek surface, Bond frantically fought for a grip, at last managing to implant his fingers into the groove of the roof where rainwater is funneled. He bent his knees upward to prevent his feet from skidding on the tarmac. Then, fingers straining, he heaved himself up and resumed his crawl.
Almost . . . Now! He pulled out the PPK from his coat pocket and, with all the strength he could muster, brought the butt of the gun down on the windshield. He heard the crisp rupturing of glass. The vehicle began to swerve more violently. He bashed it again. Crack!
Another strike and it shattered.
Bond descended to the hood of the car and, facing the broken windshield, opened fire with his PPK. The Arab chauffer was hit dead-center in the forehead. His head fell heavily to the dashboard and his foot pressed down fully on the gas. The car jerked forward and hurtled Bond inside.
As he picked himself up from the floor of the cab Bond received a swift kick to the head. Immediately, he rolled over on his back and caught Blomberg’s second plummeting foot in his hands. He twisted it sharply, breaking the skin around Blomberg’s ankle and causing his face to contort in agony. Then Bond surged off the ground, pulled Blomberg’s leg up to the ceiling, and hurtled him to the floor hard. On his back, the breath knocked out of his stomach, Blomberg merely smiled a bloody grin at the ceiling as Bond laid into him with his fists. With each brutal fistfall, his eyes were beginning to glaze over.
Unbeknownst to them, the speeding sedan had veered off the road. It was just about to plunge off a rocky hill and into the mountainous valley below . . .
---
When consciousness returned to James Bond, he found himself looking up at the floor of the sedan, bloody from the . . . how long ago had that been? He rubbed his forehead. His head was throbbing and his body ached. Suddenly he stiffened. He heard leaking and smelled petrol. Frantically, he began looking around the overturned cabin for a way out. On one side, the doors had been smashed inwards and were unable to be opened; on the other, they were blocked by a cluster of boulders and earth. Finally, Bond managed to crawl past the corpse of the driver and through the shattered windshield. Directly he was outside, he got to his feet and began to run for dear life.
Just as Bond was out of the clearing, his feet were swept out from under him. His chin struck the ground hard, causing his teeth to snap together with such force that he felt his brain rattling inside his skull. The next thing he knew he was being dragged violently back toward the wreckage of the sedan. Fingers dug deeply into his body, and he was hoisted atop a large, flat boulder, its surface already warm with the newly risen sun. Bond squinted up through the glare into Blomberg’s bleeding face, whose teeth were clenched in a forced grin. Behind him stood the girl, her black hair windswept and tousled. Bond stole a surreptitious glance at her, then closed his eyes in despair and breathed deeply. She was armed with his gun.
Blomberg’s voice pierced the silence. “I’m not a man who you double cross, Mr. Singeon Smythe,” he spat, raising the jagged metal instrument he had scavenged from the ruins of the sedan. He smirked. “It’s too bad that this must be the last lesson you ever learn.” His arm pivoted back to gain momentum, then . . .
A sharp gunshot rang out and echoed in the precipitous valley. Bond opened his eyes to see Blomberg grasping at the side of his stomach. An inquisitive look in his eye, Bond took Blomberg by the hand.
“You were saying about a lesson, Mr Blomberg?” he said, rising and leading a staggering Blomberg to the nearby cliff edge. “Oh, it’s Bond, by the way. James Bond.” He tapped him on the forehead. Blomberg slowly tipped backwards over the edge. Then, all at once, he plunged . . . to his then unavoidable death.
Bond strode back to the girl, his hand held out. “I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” he said.
She gave him her hand, smiling. “My name’s--”
“Not your companionship,” he interjected, slipping his Walther out of her hand.
She turned away from him and looked out beyond the ravine, at the early morning horizon. “I’ve been trying to get away from that monster for so long . . . He‘s held onto me like a slave, to represent him and his new organization. The first time I tried to escape his grasp, he found out and beat me severely; the next time, it was within an inch of my life. But when I saw you . . .” her voice trailed off. She turned to him. “When I saw you, I decided to break away for a third time.”
“Well,” said James Bond, as he took her hand and gazed into her passionate eyes. “You know what they say.”
“What’s that?” she asked, her lips moist with expectation.
“Third time’s the charm.” -{
Ah yes, I do have one request: tell me which Bond you envisioned while reading it. :007)
~~~~
The lavish estate loomed through the opaque night at the onlookers, its fine details -- the sparkling bow windows, the arching roof, the red brick façade -- growing in perspicuity as the sedan motored up the weaving path toward it. Foliage surrounded the road on either side, consisting of shrubs and decidedly tall conifers. They were wet and still dripping substantively with that night’s precipitation.
Inside the car the scenery passed across the windows and was promptly swallowed up by the all-encompassing haze. The two passengers and the driver were silent, all of them focused on their destination, which now lie directly ahead. Due to the murky weather they had gotten lost several times during the trip, so it was a relief to finally have made it.
Their mission was simple: they were to make a delivery to one Singeon Smythe, the head of an Irish militia group. The delivery was intended to be simply a gesture of camaraderie and an indication of future cooperation, for it was militarily insignificant: just a sampling of NEM’s new economically accommodative explosive gadgetry. The meeting thus would be almost purely symbolic. Which is why NEM’s head man, Craig Blomberg, had chosen to undertake the mission in person.
Still, even though this Singeon Smythe’s files checked out in the security systems -- and did so impeccably -- Blomberg’s instinct told him something didn’t seem quite right. Perhaps it was the location of the meeting at this rather gaudy mansion in Scotland, or maybe it was the lack of steady communication throughout the trip, or the . . . well, had he some paper, he could write up a list. But, in any event, he would be prepared if things went awry. Subtly prepared, as always.
And really, what reason did he have to be troubled? After all, if worse came to worse, the nearest safe zone was only several miles away, across the harbor bridge. There his men were stationed, ready to assist and evacuate him back to headquarters. He had nothing to worry about; he put his fallible instincts to rest.
The sedan came to a stop in front of a wrought iron gate. They caught sight of a person in uniform and, two lingering minutes later, the gate began to open slowly with a hollow, metallic creak. They went through and drove across the wet cobblestone to a parking spot perpendicular to the mansion. The hum of the motor ceased and they stepped out onto saturated ground . . .
. . . where they were greeted by the point of a gun, its owner shrouded in darkness.
Craig Blomberg cursed himself.
The shadows spoke. “Good evening, gentlemen. Hope the ride wasn’t too problematic.”
A man stepped forward out of the blackness, a wry smile played across his face. Despite the dreariness of the weather and the humidity in the air, he seemed poised and cool; and his black dinner suit and white undershirt were unsullied and showed none of the effects of ill weather.
“Ah,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “and Madame.”
Blomberg’s woman cast a smile at this handsome, debonair man. It was rare that she was swept off her feet by first impressions. But when she was, ooh . . . !
“What in hell is this?” said the Arab who had been the driver. He glanced beside him to Blomberg. “You never--”
Craig Blomberg raised a hand to silence him. He cast their assailant a mind-scouring stare. “I take it this is an MI6 farce?”
“If you’re inclined to do so, yes,” the man replied casually.
In fact, MI6 had intended only to intercept a shipment of NEM explosives. The short term plan had been to send the shipment to Q Branch, where the weaponry would be studied, replicated and tested. Then, if deemed necessary, counteraction would be planned to prevent distribution of the weaponry -- likely by means of shutting down NEM completely, as the organization was still in its incipient stages. But now that Blomberg had come along for the ride, MI6 could accomplish both of its objectives . . . all in one fell deceptive swoop.
James Bond’s outstretched arm tensed, and his fingers tightened around the grip of his PPK. His tone became businesslike. “Now, please step away from that car.”
“Mr Singeon Smythe,” Blomberg said, his hand furtively slipping into his trousers as he obeyed the order, “it is a wonderful feeling to have the wool pulled over your eyes.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
Blomberg turned to face him and smiled. A small, dull object rolled unnoticed down his pants leg and onto the ground beside his shoe. “Oh wouldn’t you?”
Bond’s eyes narrowed as he circumspectly studied Blomberg’s movements. He noticed Blomberg’s right leg begin to retract. He tensed. Suddenly, Blomberg‘s leg lashed out. Bond dropped to the ground and pulled the trigger of his PPK, which fired and echoed futiley in the night. A projectile arched past him. It ricocheted off the garden’s stone wall, hit the cobblestone ground, rebounded, and . . .
There was a great, earthshaking explosion. Windows shattered and a side of the mansion began to crumble. Bricks started spewing in a sooty stream to the ground, pouring down masses of rubble behind and beside Bond. Through the thick smoke that ensued Bond saw the three cohorts heading for their vehicle. He got up from the ground and sprinted toward them. The engine started up and growled. As the car began to pull out, Bond dashed in front of it, spread out his legs to ground himself and took aim at the driver. Abruptly, the headlights cut on and blinded his vision. He fired three shots into the windshield -- all of which failed to penetrate. Armored glass, he thought.
Bond vaulted out of the way as the sedan darted forward. He watched as it zoomed through the open gate and down the twisting path to the streets. Without wasting time, Bond rushed down the stairs to his car in the courtyard -- a company-owned Aston Martin DB5. He ignited the engine and tore down the path in hot pursuit.
---
The snaking path and the fog finally came to a terminus and the pursuit perdured in the dormant suburban streets. The sedan wasn't far ahead, but it seemed to be continually gaining speed.
As Bond chased it through a bend, he heard sirens begin to wail. He glimpsed in his rear-view mirror to see a squad of police cruisers trailing them.
Down the road Bond could see the highway coming up. And with it a protective concrete wall.
He took a swift glance at his speedometer. 98 mph. If he approached it at the right angle, he just might make it. Whatever chance he had of stopping Blomberg, he had to take it. He couldn’t let Blomberg reach the bridge on the other side of that highway. M had been very clear about that.
The wall was coming up at lightning speed. Bond eyed it, then turned a sharp right. The DB5 hit the wall with its front tire. He heard the shrieking of rubber. The car began to tilt sideways and drive up the wall. Bond jerked the wheel left. The rear tire spun up the wall as well. Then Bond hit the gas for all it had. For the next few seconds, the only sounds to be heard were the shrill whine of wind passing over the sleek hull and the DB5‘s tires running across ruts in the wall at colossal speed.
Then the wall ended . . . and the DB5 was hurtled down the road on two wheels.
Bond steered the swaying car toward Blomberg’s vehicle and hit its side windows with the DB5’s airborne tires. Fighting gravity to get out before the DB5 fell off, he burst his door open and leapt out onto the roof of the other car.
Immediately the wind fought against him, stinging his face and his eyes. He sprawled himself out on the roof and hugged onto it, face down, and started inching his way up to the front of the oblong vehicle. He felt the car start to swerve and heave. Behind him, he heard the ugly clamor of the DB5 careening and somersaulting down the road. Then, suddenly, the police sirens died. Bond allowed himself a glance back. His right eyebrow rose nervously: it was a nasty wreck of a scene to behold. The DB5 had careened into the windshield of a police cruiser, which had then swerved and crashed its cousins into the concrete barrier. That intoxicated Scottish police force gets into all sorts of trouble, Bond mused to himself.
Turning a rueful eye away from the trashed remains of his vehicle, Bond steadily continued his crawl up to the cab of the sedan.
Without warning the car made a sharp jerk to the right that nearly threw Bond off. As he slid over the side of roof’s sleek surface, Bond frantically fought for a grip, at last managing to implant his fingers into the groove of the roof where rainwater is funneled. He bent his knees upward to prevent his feet from skidding on the tarmac. Then, fingers straining, he heaved himself up and resumed his crawl.
Almost . . . Now! He pulled out the PPK from his coat pocket and, with all the strength he could muster, brought the butt of the gun down on the windshield. He heard the crisp rupturing of glass. The vehicle began to swerve more violently. He bashed it again. Crack!
Another strike and it shattered.
Bond descended to the hood of the car and, facing the broken windshield, opened fire with his PPK. The Arab chauffer was hit dead-center in the forehead. His head fell heavily to the dashboard and his foot pressed down fully on the gas. The car jerked forward and hurtled Bond inside.
As he picked himself up from the floor of the cab Bond received a swift kick to the head. Immediately, he rolled over on his back and caught Blomberg’s second plummeting foot in his hands. He twisted it sharply, breaking the skin around Blomberg’s ankle and causing his face to contort in agony. Then Bond surged off the ground, pulled Blomberg’s leg up to the ceiling, and hurtled him to the floor hard. On his back, the breath knocked out of his stomach, Blomberg merely smiled a bloody grin at the ceiling as Bond laid into him with his fists. With each brutal fistfall, his eyes were beginning to glaze over.
Unbeknownst to them, the speeding sedan had veered off the road. It was just about to plunge off a rocky hill and into the mountainous valley below . . .
---
When consciousness returned to James Bond, he found himself looking up at the floor of the sedan, bloody from the . . . how long ago had that been? He rubbed his forehead. His head was throbbing and his body ached. Suddenly he stiffened. He heard leaking and smelled petrol. Frantically, he began looking around the overturned cabin for a way out. On one side, the doors had been smashed inwards and were unable to be opened; on the other, they were blocked by a cluster of boulders and earth. Finally, Bond managed to crawl past the corpse of the driver and through the shattered windshield. Directly he was outside, he got to his feet and began to run for dear life.
Just as Bond was out of the clearing, his feet were swept out from under him. His chin struck the ground hard, causing his teeth to snap together with such force that he felt his brain rattling inside his skull. The next thing he knew he was being dragged violently back toward the wreckage of the sedan. Fingers dug deeply into his body, and he was hoisted atop a large, flat boulder, its surface already warm with the newly risen sun. Bond squinted up through the glare into Blomberg’s bleeding face, whose teeth were clenched in a forced grin. Behind him stood the girl, her black hair windswept and tousled. Bond stole a surreptitious glance at her, then closed his eyes in despair and breathed deeply. She was armed with his gun.
Blomberg’s voice pierced the silence. “I’m not a man who you double cross, Mr. Singeon Smythe,” he spat, raising the jagged metal instrument he had scavenged from the ruins of the sedan. He smirked. “It’s too bad that this must be the last lesson you ever learn.” His arm pivoted back to gain momentum, then . . .
A sharp gunshot rang out and echoed in the precipitous valley. Bond opened his eyes to see Blomberg grasping at the side of his stomach. An inquisitive look in his eye, Bond took Blomberg by the hand.
“You were saying about a lesson, Mr Blomberg?” he said, rising and leading a staggering Blomberg to the nearby cliff edge. “Oh, it’s Bond, by the way. James Bond.” He tapped him on the forehead. Blomberg slowly tipped backwards over the edge. Then, all at once, he plunged . . . to his then unavoidable death.
Bond strode back to the girl, his hand held out. “I’ll take that, if you don’t mind,” he said.
She gave him her hand, smiling. “My name’s--”
“Not your companionship,” he interjected, slipping his Walther out of her hand.
She turned away from him and looked out beyond the ravine, at the early morning horizon. “I’ve been trying to get away from that monster for so long . . . He‘s held onto me like a slave, to represent him and his new organization. The first time I tried to escape his grasp, he found out and beat me severely; the next time, it was within an inch of my life. But when I saw you . . .” her voice trailed off. She turned to him. “When I saw you, I decided to break away for a third time.”
“Well,” said James Bond, as he took her hand and gazed into her passionate eyes. “You know what they say.”
“What’s that?” she asked, her lips moist with expectation.
“Third time’s the charm.” -{