Above the boom and rattle of the guns outside the station, three blasts sounded on the diesel’s windhorn. Oddjob snarled angrily and leapt. Bond dived at full length sideways. Something hit him a gigantic blow on the shoulder and sent him sprawling. Now, he thought as he hit the ground, now the death stroke! He scrambled clumsily to his feet, his neck hunched into his shoulders to break the impact. But no blow came and Bond’s dazed eyes took in the figure of Oddjob flying away from him up the platform.
Already the leading diesel was on the move. Oddjob got to it and leapt for the footplate. For a moment he hung, his legs scrabbling for a foothold. Then he had disappeared into the cabin and the huge streamlined engine gathered speed.
Behind Bond the door of the quartermaster’s office burst open. There was the hammer of running feet and a yell ‘Santiago!’ – St James, the battle-cry of Cortez that Leiter had once jokingly allotted to Bond.
Bond swivelled. The straw-haired Texan, clad in his wartime Marine Corps battledress, was pounding up the platform followed by a dozen men in khaki. He carried a one-man bazooka by the steel hook he used for a right hand. Bond ran to meet him. He said, ‘Don’t shoot my fox, you bastard. Give over.’ He snatched the bazooka out of Leiter’s hand and threw himself down on the platform, splaying out his legs. Now the diesel was two hundred yards away and about to cross the bridge over the Dixie Highway. Bond shouted, ‘Stand clear!’ to get the men out of line of the recoil flash, clicked up the safe and took careful aim. The bazooka shuddered slightly and the ten-pound armour-piercing rocket was on its way. There was a flash and a puff of blue smoke. Some bits of metal flew off the rear of the flying engine. But then it had crossed the bridge and taken the curve and was away.
‘Not bad for a rookie,’ commented Leiter. ‘May put the rear diesel out, but those jobs are twins and he can make it on the forward engine.’
Bond got to his feet. He smiled warmly into the hawk-like, slate-grey eyes. ‘You bungling oaf,’ he said sarcastically, ‘why in hell didn’t you block that line?’
‘Listen, shamus. If you’ve got any complaints about the stage management you can tell them to the President. He took personal command of this operation and it’s a honey. There’s a spotter plane overhead now. They’ll pick up the diesel and we’ll have old Goldilocks in the hoosegow by midday. How were we to know he was going to stay aboard the train?’ He broke off and thumped Bond between the shoulderblades. ‘Hell, I’m glad to see you. These men and I were detailed off to give you protection. We’ve been dodging around looking for you and getting shot at by both sides for our pains.’ He turned to the soldiers. ‘Ain’t that right, men?’
They laughed. ‘Sure is, Cap’n.’
Bond looked affectionately at the Texan with whom he had shared so many adventures. He said seriously, ‘Bless you, Felix. You’ve always been good at saving my life. It was darn nearly too late this time. I’m afraid Tilly Masterton’s had it.’ He walked off up the train with Felix at his heels. The little figure still lay sprawled where she had fallen. Bond knelt beside her. The broken-doll angle of the head was enough. He felt for her pulse. He got up. He said softly, ‘Poor little bitch. She didn’t think much of men.’ He looked defensively at Leiter. ‘Felix, I could have got her away if she’d only followed me.’
Leiter didn’t understand. He put his hand on Bond’s arm and said, ‘Sure kid. Take it easy.’ He turned to his men. ‘Two of you carry the girl into the QM’s office over there. O’Brien, you go for the ambulance. When you’ve done that, stop over at the Command post and give ’em the facts. Say we’ve got Commander Bond and I’ll bring him right over.’
Bond stood and looked down at the little empty tangle of limbs and clothes. He saw the bright, proud girl with the spotted handkerchief round her hair in the flying TR3. Now she had gone.