Nix Panicus…

He fired almost before [McWho’s] unconscious body hit the ground, yelling to Lavender, ‘Stay quite still.’ Of the two men at the console, the heavy technician at the radar screen moved first, snapping his head up and going for his own gun a split second before his partner. As Bond squeezed the trigger it crossed his mind that this was one of the most foolhardy exploits he had ever attempted. Each bullet had to find its mark. One through the metal of the fuselage and bang would go the pressurisation. The long hours on various firing ranges paid off in full. In all, he fired twice: two burst of two — the ‘Double Tap’ as the SAS call it — the .357 ammunition exploding like a cannon in the confines of the cabin. Four bullets reached their individual targets. He could not blame Lavender for screaming as the first of her captors spun to one side, a bullet lodged in his shoulder. The second caught him on the side of the head, hurling him into eternity with a great spatter of blood leaping from the wound. Yet while the blood was still airborne, Bond had fired his second two shots. The man who had been resting with his eyes closed caught both rounds in the neck, toppling backwards, the sound of his gargling fall emerging from the after-echo of the shots.

Then there was silence except for a small whimper of fright from Lavender. ‘It’s okay, Dilly. The only way. Sorry it was so close.’

She looked in horror at the bodies, then took in a breath and nodded. Her guards lay dead, and her clothes dripped with their blood. She shivered and nodded again. ‘It’s okay, James. Sorry. It was unexpected, that’s all. How?..’

‘No time now. Got to do something about those bloody terrorist squads before anything else.’ Transferring the revolver to his left hand, 007 grasped the microphone on its snake-like, jointed stand. Now he would see how far logic went. Having heard the squads report in with their ‘Number one… War; Number Two… War’ there was, for Bond, only one way to stop the nuclear operation from proceeding. He pressed the transmit button and began to speak, slowly and distinctly: ‘Spoiler alert – removed for obvious reasons.‘ right through all six of the squads […].

‘Now we pray.’ He looked towards Lavender, still strapped helplessly in her seat. Bond’s hands went to the buckle on his belt in order to reassemble the small knife concealed in its various components — the knife he had used to strip off the section of the money belt in Perpignan. He worked calmly, though it was a frustrating business. As he glanced towards Lavender, smiling and giving her a few words of confidence, he saw the means to his quick escape were very near the girl, if only she were free.

The technician who had been watching the radar screen when Bond’s bullets had swept him from existence lay slumped in his seat, turned slightly towards Lavender. The man’s trouser leg had ridden up on the right side, revealing a long woollen stocking into which was tucked a Highland dirk, safe in its scabbard. Bond had fleetingly feared, when amongst the festive crowds in Perpignan, that death would come silently by means of a dirk like this. It was the obvious weapon for these people to carry. Now, just when he needed the weapon, it was out of reach. As he completed fitting his own small knife together, he drew Lavender’s attention to the dirk.

‘Just get on with that handy little gadget you’ve produced from Lord knows where, James.’ Her face betrayed her frantic state of mind. ‘Caber’s already been gone for nearly fifteen minutes. If you’re not free by the time…’

‘Okay, Dilly. Nix panicus, as my old Latin master used to say.’ He was already attacking the webbing straps binding him to the seat. The small blade was sharp, but its size did not make for speed: one slip and he could slash himself badly.

As he worked there were no sounds about them except for his own breathing counterpointed with that of the unconscious [McWho]. Bond wondered how badly he had damaged [McWho]. If his aim had been really accurate the man would now be dead from a shattered trachea.

The first cross-strap came clear, but he was still not free. Bond sawed away at the second belt — an easier task, for with the first strap gone, he had more room in which to move. It still seemed an age before the tiny blade ripped its way through the tough webbing. It only remained for Bond to unclip the seat belt and he was completely out of the harness, springing up and flexing his muscles to get the blood flowing again.

In a second he was with Lavender, on his knees, feeling under the anchored chair to find the release mechanism, which he unclipped, so that her restraining harness fell away. Another couple of seconds to undo the wrist strap and she too was free.