It was a bumpy ride as the alley was some six feet too narrow for the T55. This was where the brute force and ignorance came into play, and to his surprise, he found that if the alleyway were too narrow, the tank took care of it, cutting a swathe of brick, dust and rubble from the buildings on either side, jerking and heaving its way along the old cobbled narrow street, finally bursting out onto a wider road - a T-junction with a wide canal facing him.
There was nothing he could do but pull the tank around to the left, in a series of jerks and motor noise.
The car had squealed left, and then right, onto a bridge crossing the canal, turning right. He started to make the right turn onto the bridge when he realised that it was impossible. The T55 had carved its way through the alley without any problems, but he could now see, through the smoke and brick dust filtering through the narrow driving slit, the bridge was a delicate and beautiful structure, built to take normal traffic, but a serious hazard for the tank, the weight of which it could not possibly carry.
He was pointing in the wrong direction, the hull swivelled to the right several feet from the entrance to the bridge.
Aloud, he said, “Let’s see how you can manage a oneeighty,’ touching brakes, holding the control column far over to the right, then putting his left foot hard down on the accelerator.
It was like a fairground ride. The tank swung around on its own axis, doing a perfect 180 turn, and as it completed the manoeuvre, he saw that the military were already chasing him - a pair of the jeep-like vehicles and two BTU-152us, fully loaded with troops who seemed to be sitting to attention in the long open back.
The two little jeeps had no chance. Their drivers, blinded by the dust and smoke, could not even see as they shot out of the alley exit and ploughed straight ahead, seeing the canal too late. They both tried to fly, which is not a good option in small jeep-like vehicles.
They remained airborne for a few seconds, then smashed hard into the dirty water of the canal, their occupants leaping and scattering into the water.
The pair of BTUs made the left turns, very close to each other and were on top of Bond’s tank before they knew it. He tried to weave out of the way, but hit one of the BTUs head on, swerved and just touched the side of the other vehicle - which was enough to push the troop carrier aside. As he moved forward at full speed, Bond was aware of men yelling as they were thrown from their stricken six-wheeler.
“Road hog,’ Bond muttered, craning forward to see Ourumov’s car ahead of him, moving in the same direction, but on the far side of the canal.
Inside the car, the General was panicking. “For God’s sake it’s only a slow old tank. Outrun him.”
“I’m doing my best, sir.” The driver was about as happy as the general.
In the back seat, Natalya glanced through the rear window and saw that the tank was making steady progress, almost running parallel with them on the opposite bank.
She smiled with glee, then turned and gave Ourumov a wolfish grin.
The general caught her look, did a double take, his face crimson with anger. “Shut up!” he barked at her, then saw they were approaching another bridge to their right. “Over that bridge,’ he screamed at the driver. “Cut in front of him. Over the bridge and straight on. He won’t have time to turn quickly. We can lose him.” Natalya’s smile faded as she saw six police and military cars racing up behind the tank on the far side. The police cars were making no secret of their presence - lights flashing and sirens wailing. The military vehicles, Armoured Personnel Carriers (APCs), were bristling with weapons.
Bond saw Ourumov’s car pull right, onto the bridge.
He floored the accelerator but the tank seemed to be already at its maximum speed and he could see that he could not expect to catch the car before it exited from the bridge and, presumably, head on down a road to his right.
He knew other transport was chasing him, even though he could not see them. The wail of the sirens, though faint in his ears, was detectable and lord knew what else was out there: he pictured APCs with anti-tank missiles which could easily blow him to fragments.
The car shot off the bridge, straight in front of him.
Bond slowed, stick hard over and his feet moving between accelerator and brake. This time he had complete control and the tank turned accurately into the street. Ahead he saw the car, held up, waiting to traverse a roundabout in the centre of which stood a huge gleaming statue of Czar Nicholas on a great winged horse.
For a moment, Bond thought he was going to catch up and be able to ram Ourumov’s car, but as he approached, so the car made its turn into the traffic flow.
“He who hesitates.” Bond muttered and took the tank straight on and right across the roundabout. Inside his metal capsule, he clearly heard the scream of braking cars and trucks desperately trying to avoid hitting the tank, and he mouthed a curse when the right track sliced into the front of a beer lorry. Some of the load bounced in front of the driver’s slit and he wondered what the final damage might be.
But, by this time, he was across the middle of the roundabout and felt the crushing bump as the hull hit the base of the statue, depositing the Czar Nicholas, still astride his winged horse, neatly over the long muzzle of the 100mm main gun.
From the back of the car, Ourumov saw what seemed to be an avenging angel bearing down on him. For the first time in years the general made the Orthodox sign of the cross, his eyes wide with fear.
Back at the roundabout, beer cans littered the road a temptation which proved too much to many of the drivers and pedestrians who leaped into the street to indulge in a feeding frenzy, grabbing at the cans, filling shopping baskets, or using pullovers and skirts as makeshift bags to carry as many of the coveted beer cans as possible.
Traffic was at a standstill and the entire scene was filled with a cacophony of horns and shouts from frustrated drivers: including the police and military.
For a while, at least, Bond was free of the pursuing authorities, but it could not last More by his instinct than the sirens, he realised that, somehow, more police had got behind him.
If he could have seen the convoy from the air, he would have known that the T55 was close behind the general’s car, and three police cars were fast gaining on the tank.
Bond was getting more experienced at handling the machine with every minute. He took a long, wide bend to the left and glimpsed a low bridge directly in front of him, about fifty yards away, with Ourumov’s car putting on speed, just passing under it.
He tried for more power; saw the arch come up, heard the mighty crunch and the bang as the statue hit the overhang, rolling back into the direct path of the pursuit cars.
By now he was starting to pick up communications on the police band. There was talk of setting up a road block with anti-tank weapons and a lot of firepower, though he had no idea where this was being done. It was obvious that it had to be somewhere along the route of the general’s car, which he saw, too late, was making a fast right-hand turn.
He slowed, but was too late and rumbled past the street down which the car had now disappeared. They were on the city’s outskirts and the housing was starting to thin out, but he slowed, preparing to take the next right turn, hoping against hope that he would find himself running parallel to Ourumov’s car.
Piling on the power, listening to the instructions regarding the road block and trying to maintain control of the tank, Bond realised that the next intersection was coming up fast He slowed and turned right, anxious to see if he would be able to sight Ourumov’s car. As he took the right into a wide street, he saw to his frustration that this was a dead end. Facing him was a three-storey office block.