The Ian Fleming Files by Damian Stevenson, Box Set, Espionage Thrillers, European Thrillers, World War 2 Books, Novels Set In World War 2, Ian Fleming Biography, Action, Adventure Books, 7 Books, Spy Novels Page A

plane.
    Jones lunged for
Fleming’s cables and tried to untangle them but got his hand trapped. The taut
rope cut into his palm and scored a deep gash. Jones turned and hollered to the
cockpit. “His equipment’s caught!” He pulled a lever and alarms sounded.
    Outside the plane,
Fleming’s helmet was torn off by the powerful velocity and he could no longer
breath. His pack was sucked into one of the engines, blowing it out. Fumes and
toxic vapors stung his eyes. The plane slammed to the right, dipping savagely.
    A burst of flame
from the blown engine shot quickly over Fleming in a hellish backdraft. He
ripped off a patch on his suit, revealing a bowie knife. Its polished flint
glimmered in the moonlight. He struggled against the plane’s mighty downwash.
    McGhee’s voice could
barely be heard over the P.A. as he struggled to keep them on course. “Losing
altitude... Starboard engine gone...”
    Loose debris like papers and bits of clothing were sucked
out of the plane. A window imploded and howling air currents invaded.
    Jones pulled on the lines and tried to haul Fleming in
but the ropes were too taut, the wind velocity too powerful. He stumbled to the
emergency axe and shouted “I have to cut his lines!”
    McGhee looked out
the canopy and watched in horror as the cords tethering Fleming to the plane
whipped around the stem of the starboard propellers and pulled him in toward
the gyrating blades. “Hurry! He’ll be torn apart!”
    Jones smashed the
glass and removed the emergency hatchet, grasped it with both hands and brought
it crashing down on Fleming’s tethers as the plane buckled, causing him to miss
all three strands of rope. The axe head was embedded in the floor of the
fuselage. Jones pulled but couldn’t extract it.
    Fleming saw the
eye of the propeller as its draft sucked him in. He lunged his knife down at
the ropes but missed. The cords lashed further around the rotor stem, drawing
him closer to the props. He raised the knife as far back as he could and
slashed.
    SNAP! Two strands
gone! The last frayed cord brought him within inches of the prop blades which
almost grazed his face when he heard a sharp twanging sound. The twine split
under the strain and Fleming was violently jerked away, vanishing into the
ether. Jones peered down through a cloudburst and watched as Fleming descended
too fast then disappeared.
     
    Fleming tugged on
his rip cord as he tumbled through the howling air. Spiky snow topped trees
started to materialize below. He was moments from impact when... WHOOSH! His
canopy deployed and he was hauled skyward at a hundred miles an hour.
    The wind pulled
fiercely at his chute as he steadied himself and began drifting to a stand of
spruce pines situated on a slope, jutting up and stabbing the sky like
stalagmites. They were rooted against a cluster of giant rock buttresses on a
broad massif and just beyond the trees there was a narrow strip that seemed to
offer the best prospect of a smooth landing. He steered for the clearing, using
the trees as a guide, deftly manipulating his chute’s riser straps so that he
sailed over the pines toward the level plateau. But his approach was too fast
and he was about to bypass the massif into the mouth of an icy gulch.
    He kept his cool,
eased up on the straps and made a running stop, skidding, landing a mere inches
from the gulch lip. He tried to stand but slipped on the slick ledge. Rooted to
the spot, he caught his breath and slowly peered down at the jagged rock
pinnacles beyond the precipice. He grinned at his luck when a rogue gust of
wind caught his chute and lifted him off the ground. He scrambled to hook his
legs around a boulder and quickly disconnected his equipment.
    Fleming watched
his chute sail over the frozen gorge, took a deep breath and looked up. The sky
was empty. The Airspeed had vanished.
     
    It was 21:00 hours
G.M.T. in the control tower. Three hours since the Airspeed had departed.
Godfrey was playing cards with Hill. Miss