553 replies to this topic

[MkB]

I'm afraid I'm a retired Bond-fanfic writer...

[Bryce (003)]

'Tis the season to be dangerous...

Dusting off something and incorporating some Skyfall inspired notions with a nod and a wink.

"THAT'S THAT THEN"

Bryce IS Back!

[tdalton]

I might give one a try. I've got an idea for a short little sketch of a story that might be able to be developed into something.

[Harry Fawkes]

Once again, I'm out of it. Dead. Kaput. Spent. Got the loop around my neck.

 

As much as I'd love to, I can't and won't.

 

I can't even find the 'power' to conclude Royal Gambit, let alone come up with a Christmas piece for this Christmas (lololololol).

 

So, to conclude, I'm gonna sit this one out and whilst I'm at it, I'll be enjoying all of yours.

 

Bring 'em on ladies and gentlemen and let's have a good one.

 

Harry

[chrisno1]

Sadly no time. Too busy with 'Gulfstream'. Will enjoy reading any contributions as always.

[Jim]

I'm afraid I'm a retired Bond-fanfic writer...

Me too.

[Harry Fawkes]

Hey Jim and MkB, ever hear the saying Never Say Never Again?

 

LOL

 

By the way, I'm soon to be retired meself.

[MHazard]

Well, I'm sorry to hear MkB and Jim are retired and Harry is soon to be.  I don't know if I'm retired or not.  If I had an idea for something I haven't done I'd write it, but I may have accomplished as much as I can (whatever that was) in the Bond fan fiction genre.  Although I would never say never...  There's been some very fine offerings over the years on the Holiday Bond theme, including from Joyce Carrington and an old one from Scrambled Eggs (just examples, not exhaustive).  It sounds like we may have another offering of the adventures of Bryce (both fictionally and in real life living the lifestyle so we don't have to) but it would be great if we had some additional Holiday Bond to relax with (Bryce shouldn't have to carry the whole load and it's a long holiday season).  I was always intrigued by the notion of how does James spend his holidays, especially the post OHMSS Bond as you would think this would be a particularly unpleasant time of year.  Come to think of it, given that he was an orphan maybe it was always sort of rotten-or maybe not-perhaps Christmas with Aunt Charmian was special.  Anyway, I'm not going the young Bond route, so I'm out of ideas.  But one thing that's always interesting is the way in which each author's take on Bond (or the Bond universe) reflects their own perspective-it's sort of a window into the author.  So, if there are any Bond authors who haven't tried this yet, we'd appreciate the opportunity to read your efforts.  In any case, Merry Christmas to Bond fan fiction authors, veteran and new. 

[terminus]

I'm not sure I'll be able to participate, but I will enjoy reading the stories posted.

[Bryce (003)]

Well....

 

Here's the Christmas tease. A taste of Kate and lead into TTT.

 

Hope you all enjoy.

 

She has, sadly, passed, but I'll give a screen icon (who could have damn well been a Bond girl IMO) her due.

 

SHARON TATE IS Katherine Bryce

 

IN...........................

THE BEST OF DAYS

 

She stood at the window of her seventeenth floor office watching the rain pour across the skyline of the city. Crossing back over to the desk, there was a soft rap from the open door as her assistant, Alexa, popped her head in–

 

“Line two…It’s the garage.” She made a gritted tooth grin.

 

Nodding, Katherine Bryce (aka: Jillian Peters to the rest of the world) set down the tumbler of scotch and pressed the speaker button. She often wondered if she owned the car or it owned her.

 

It was a 1970 Maserati Ghibli Spyder convertible in a deep blackish-blue with a light tan interior and a 4.7 liter V8 engine with a custom five-speed manual transmission. The “Blue Bitch”, as she had dubbed it, was a shark on the road and she had fallen in love with it at first sight eight years earlier at a classic auto auction.

 

The transaxle was rattling largely do to Kate’s driving it hard and fast. They could get the part, but she wouldn’t have it back at the end of the day. Her response and tone were nothing short of disdain and frustration. The chief mechanic offered excuses as to the delay but she would hear none of it and cut him off with two options;

 

Either the crew could work into the night and the car would be delivered to her residence with a full tank of fuel or thirty percent of the total would be deducted and she would collect it herself. The proposition was, clearly, non-negotiable. Wisely, the manager came on the line and agreed that the car would be at her home by ten o’clock. She ended the call and sat back in her chair and pondered the options for getting to her townhome. Alexa came in and smiled as she gestured to the phone;

 

“I’m guessing the boys at the shop will be working late?”

 

“I gave them very reasonable terms.”

 

“Oh yes, I’m sure you did. Guillotine or firing squad?”

 

“Nothing so archaic and I’m just too tired to drag my flamethrower across town.” She finished her end of the day glass of yet another one of her late father’s unfeasibly aged scotch and stood up stretching as a series of creaks and pops emanated from her neck and back. Alexa cringed as she took her glass and some documents from the desk before saying goodnight.

 

With the heavy weather only seeming to grow worse, getting a taxi at the end of the day was going to be more of a chore then it was worth. The subway would be swamped with not only the regular commuters, but also now the usual bus riders and any tourists trying to avoid the rain. As it would drop her off only a few blocks from her building, taking the bus would be the best option.

 

It had not been a good day let alone the week as a whole. Her most recent client was on the fence about the designs of the lobby of their new building. She had spent well over three weeks on the drafts and design based on their request, but now someone had opted for a possible different look from another firm. If they balked, she would be compensated for her work but the commission if it went ahead was equal to nearly a third of her annual income.

 

She looked again at her desk and the postcard Gala Brand had sent her from Edinburgh and thought about how nice it would be to just laze about the manor, sip scotch, soak in her tub, play golf and leave the world behind. If the deal went through she was strongly thinking and if not deciding already that a few weeks back in Scotland was in order. She also missed John. He had last texted that he was off “taking to the seas”. An assignment of some sort which was probably more interesting than a rainy night in Toronto.

 

She exited the building bundled up in her all-weather, yet stylish, winter coat and had wisely slipped off her grey Ferragamo flats opting for a pair of running shoes from her gym bag.

 

Wet and crowded streets greeted her as she made her way through the masses down to the already over populated bus stop. One bus, fully packed had managed to thin the throngs of people and the next was on its way.

 

Once aboard, she had immediately collapsed her travel size umbrella and found, rather amazingly, an empty aisle seat. The bus was oddly sparse of passengers and she quickly discovered why. Several young men in their early 20’s had pretty much taken over the rear of the bus across the back bench and seemingly daring anyone to take an available seat near them.

 

Pay it no mind girl. Just four stops and then home to a bath and a weeks worth of TV shows stored on her digital cable box….and some more scotch and some of her favorite Chinese food from Li Wong’s.

 

She had just placed her order via text when a voice came from the rear. One of the “lads”.

 

“Hey Red…That’s a nice phone…What’s your number?” His fellow cohorts laughed.

 

The curse of the Bryce ancestry is simply this: The mouth works before the brain has time to stop it.

 

Pocketing her phone and not turning, she went to her genetic roots; “Only two digits…Like your I.Q.”

 

Dammit Kate…Quit channeling John…Then again, he would have already shot everyone and gone back to smoking by now…Maybe I should start carrying…

 

The bus came to a stop as the one lad had just begun to rise. She could walk the rest. One of the boarding passengers was an elderly and somewhat frail looking Asian woman with silver hair and cane. Kate stood offering her seat. The woman nodded. No sooner had she stood, when the lad had taken the seat. The Asian lady paused and Kate let out a soft sigh rolling her eyes as she turned to face him.

 

“Excuse me. I offered that seat to this lady. It’s spoken for.”

 

“F*** you.” He didn’t even look up and then put his leg up on the back of the seat in front of him.

 

Kate asked if she had heard him correctly and he repeated himself. She turned back to the Asian woman and smiled sweetly as she set down her bag.

 

“Watch that for me would you?”

 

Turning back, she paused and then it happened.

 

Grabbing the blokes extended leg and by his heel, she flung him up and over the back of the seat. He landed in a heap and she advanced stomping his chest and then kicking him across the jaw.

 

His mate lunged and, with the distinct sound of switchblade snapping open, came at her from his seat. Passengers gasped.

 

The strike came in and, as opposed to what an ordinary person would do, Kate stepped forward turning her body and her back into the bastard’s torso as her hand clasped his hand and wrist.

 

Stomping her foot down on the top of his left foot and keeping it there like a tent stake, she quickly found the pressure points on the back of his hand and top of his wrist. The knife dropped away.

 

The thug grimaced in pain and she paused;

 

“Never bring a knife to a fist fight.” Her eyes held no remorse for what followed.

 

Maintaining her grip on his hand with her right, she drove her left elbow into the man’s nose and immediately snapped her left leg up behind connecting squarely into the “lads” between his legs with her heel.

 

As he dropped, she gripped him by hair and collar driving him down the aisle.

 

The last of the trio advanced and, bracing herself on one support pole and the back of one seat, she shifted her weight and planted her left leg and fired out her right directly into the man’s jaw.

 

His head snapped back and the eyes rolled upward as he dropped to his knees before pitching forward.

 

Two groaning and one out.

 

Kate turned back to awe struck passengers as she collected her bag from the Asian lady. She paused and then patted her waist;

 

“My apologies…Wrong time of the month….I just wasn’t in the mood.”

 

The bus erupted with applause and laughter.

 

The Asian woman took her offered seat after a bow to Kate and then smiled and gave her a “thumbs up”.

 

At the next stop, Kate stepped off with an assurance from the driver;

 

“Miss, it’s the damndest thing, the cameras on board haven’t been working for the last five minutes. You have a fine night.” He offered her a grin with a nod.

 

Back in her townhouse, she had taken three Advil capsules before slipping into the shower. As she had poured herself a well earned dram, there was a tap at her door.

 

In her favorite grey leggings and a classic Dr. Who T-shirt, she had grabbed the Charter Arms Bulldog snubbed nosed .44 magnum revolver from beneath its place near the door. She had cocked the hammer and kept it behind her right thigh.

 

Two men stood there. One was a young Chinese boy with a delivery bag and the other being Marco from the garage.

 

She took the food and paid and then turned to Marco;

 

“Nice timing. I’ve had a Hell of a day and commute.”

 

He quickly explained that that he had a taxi waiting and that her car was downstairs. Two of his boys were toweling it off of any rain and that it had a full tank. He also offered a day pass for the international race track that would give her a chance to make sure the “Bitch” was up to scratch.

 

She thanked him and assured him that she’d be doing just that within a few days.

 

Once back in her kitchen, she had loaded up a bowl full of hot and sour soup and then a plate piled high of rice, chicken lo-mein and sweet and sour pork with some hot mustard.

 

A large bottle of sparkling water, a single snifter of Johnny Walker Gold and a cold can of Coca Cola completed the scene along with a spoon and her chopsticks.

 

Slipping on her cashmere socks, she settled back grabbing her remote and bringing the flat screen to life.

 

CNN had a breaking story…The tagline caught her eyes and the spoon dropped from her hand.

 

“ROYAL COUPLE RESCUED FROM TERRORIST ASSAULT ON QUEEN MARY 2…..BRITISH INTELLIGENCE AGENTS FOIL PLOT….15 BELIEVED DEAD….”

 

She dashed to her mobile and entered a secure prefix and then waited for what seemed an eternity. Tanner’s voice greeted her albeit cryptic;

 

“A jet has been charted for you. A driver will pick you up in thirty minutes.”

 

“Bill! What the bloody Hell is happening?"

[Dustin]

Welcome back!

[Bryce (003)]

I never left.

 

[Joyce Carrington]

And I'm glad.

 

Great stuff, sir!

 

(It may be no surprise that I dig Kate and her attitude. )

 

But well done on the set-up. You dragged this reader into the right atmosphere. That's good writing.

 

[Bryce (003)]

Thanks luv!

 

Yes, Kate's character is an amalgamation of many of the great ladies I've known and know with a touch of 003 of course.

 

The line about the "family curse" still makes me laugh when I read it.

 

I should have TTT up by Monday for a holiday read for all. At this point though, it will certainly be a two part (possibly three) because it's running wild. Not a bad thing, but writing with part of the scenes and story set in retrospect is something new for me.

 

All should be revealed before 2013.

 

Right then...Carry on!

[Dustin]

Splendid!

[terminus]

Oh, gosh, Bryce. Excellent as ever.

 

Got me enthused and seeing if I can scribble out an Alec North short in two sittings to post before I head away on Friday!

[terminus]

 

This is the opening of what I started working on last night - unlikely to be finished before I go away tomorrow lunchtime:

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was brutally cold outside, but the heating had been turned up and inside Southern Eleven, the temperature was borderline tropical. The cocktail had been perfectly shaken - the gin, limoncello and apple juice of the mojito-esque Gin and Jazz combined perfectly with a touch of mint and a lot of ice, the bottle of imported Blue Moon admirably chilled - and the food had been ordered.

0011 watched his dining companion from across the table. Diego Ramirez, a journalist for El Mundo - one of the, if not THE, leading Spanish newspapers - had taken a sabbatical from his work in his home country to work on his long promised book in the United Kingdom. The book, an expose on Ramirez' time as a war correspondent in Afghanistan and Iraq, had come to the attention of both MI5 and MI6 - and both were worried by the secrets that could be spilled, should the complete truth be told. In an unusual move of unilateral cooperation, the Admiral and Jonathan Evans, the Director of MI5, had agreed a joint operation - in which MI6 would take the lead. After a brief, but no doubt careful, deliberation, the Admiral has asked Alec North to go into the field and make contact with Ramirez - partly due to his familiarity with Manchester and partly because if seduction was eventually required, the Admiral at least wanted compatible players.

Direct contact had been made two days earlier - the scene had been 'Mollys', a bar on Canal Street with a rustic yet almost Edwardian feel and although North didn't regularly smoke (the medicals enforced by the Admiral would never alow it) he had asked if the journalist had a cigarette he could borrow and, with one handed over, he had choked back the nicotine as - seemingly out of politeness - he had made conversation. The conversation had led to flirtation - the flirtation had led to the two men spending the night together in North's hotel room at the Midland Hotel.

North had, obviously, given his usual cover of being a Fashion Consultant in the city on business. His mustard v-neck shirt from local fashion boutique Each To Their Own, fitted perfectly to showcase his physqiue, his perfectly fitted black trousers and freshly polished boots complimented the shirt. A few dozen push ups, sit ups and squats before he had left the hotel had merely backed up the extensive workout he had done that morning prior to recieving his assignment in London and flying into Manchester.

With the journalist sleeping peacefully in the bed beside him, he had slipped out of the bed to where Ramirez had deposited the satchel he had been carrying in the bar. Within, as North had gathered from a brief search earlier that night, was an iPad, iPhone and the usual assortment of pens, rubber bands, half empty packet of boiled sweets, pen drive and a well thumbed paperback by Charles Axworthy (Also one of North's favourite authors, though the obviously enjoyed novel brought back memories of one of his temporary flings - air-steward Axel Fortemente. What was it with him and Mediterranean men, anyway, he pondered.) but only now could he boot up the iPad and break the password using a device designed to piggyback the pads wifi signal provided by Q-Branch.

The contents of the pad were soon open for his perusal - but as had been suspected, but hoped against, nothing was revealed. No information on any nefarious arms deals, nothing on any troop maneuveres that Ramirez might have been privvy to during his foreign assignments. Frustrated, North had thumbed through the rest of the contents of the tablet, stumbling on the journalists calendar providing details of appointments and meetings. He rolled it back over the previous week, to search any appointments that might raise some sort of line of enquiry or suspicion.

North had to come out of this assignment with something to show to the Admiral. Athena had pretty much admitted that the senior officer had been under immense pressure since pulling the strings to take point in this mission. Both budget-wise and the chaos that could ensue with them wallowing into MI5 territory.

There was only one item that caught his eye, it might have been nothing - it certainly seem to be such - but the phrase PRIPYAT caught his attention. It had been the town where the Chernobyl reactor had been located - now a deadzone drenched in deadly radiation. Could the information that Ramirez was about to expose have something to do with the Chernobyl disaster? He returned the contents of Ramirez' bag and slipped the Q-Branch blackberry (nicknamed the Q-Berry by some plebs riding the front desks, at least it was a mark above the previously coined iQ-Phone that had been testdriven a few years earlier but abandoned after the Hydt Affair in South Africa) out of his trouser pocket, thumbing in a text to the duty assistant at MI6, Karen Darvill, who would run the search immediately.

SEARCH. CODEWORD - PRIPYAT. INC/EXC. CHERNOBYL, RAMIREZ. REPORT. ASAP. HIGHEST IMPORTANCE.

This meant he wanted a report of what the word Pripyat turned up when searched alongside Ramirez and Chernobyl, with one and not the other, and with neither. It would take the woman a few hours to boot the search through the MI6 computers, let the intuitive software determine categorys of importance and then for the duty staff to decide what clearly wasn't pertinent to their mission.

The following morning, as Ramirez was showering, a call on the rooms phone informed North that there was a delivery for him and room service would be right up. It was delivered by a smartly dressed young Indian man, who didn't request a tip but merely handed over a thick envelope and left down the corridor. North wanted to peruse the contents, but couldn't do this in front of Ramirez in case the journalist cottoned onto the fact that he had been ferreting through his personal effects during the night.

"Let me see what you've got for me, Karen," muttered North as he pulled on a tight white t-shirt and jeans over Emporio Armani trunks and a pair of plain blue converse high-tops. Simple, but generally stylish. Ramirez nodded in approval as he stepped out of the shower. Dressed only in a towel, the Spanish mans hairy chest was on display - North grinned with memories of the previous evenings activities.

"How long are you in the city?" questioned North. "I'm here for a few days. Back in London for Christmas ..."

"I live here, for the moment," replied Ramirez. Then, with a slight hesitation. "Perhaps, if you've got nothing better to do, we could meet again before you go - get some food, a few drinks, perhaps enjoy each other once more?"

North nodded.

"What a good idea," he said, locking the Spaniard into a deep kiss.

 

 

 

[Alexander]

Thought I'd have a bash at this.

 

http://debrief.comma...d/#entry1243479

[volante]

Merry Christmas and a Happy New 2013

 

If you have any spare time over the festive period, please take a look at this year's Christmas story.

 

Someting VERY new for me. A screenplay.

The  story is currently being shot by Paul Cusack Studios, so there is a very good chance that you will get to see the story in film in 2013.

 

Act one, is a reworked piece from Bombshell.

 

Act two will follow between Christmas and New Year (When I get bcak from holiday)

 

Enjoy.

[Bryce (003)]

Fine news Volante! Cheers all around!

 

Terminus - Well done and thank you for yet again making me a published author! Fine work of your own though. Nice detail and good flow. I look forward to more. You can be assured you'll be getting a cameo, also, oddly in the "Bryce universe" Vallance no longer runs "five" and I was kicking around some names. You've given me one to incorporate now.

 

Alexander - What a lovely piece and you really paint a picture in both dialog and details. Nice pacing overall. I've had the pleasure of firing a vintage Thompson. I've also tasted some fine Grappa in my time. Fantastiic bit though. Really enjoyed it.

 

Back into my own work and, as Fleming would break for lunch, I'll do so for dinner at Guido's especially now that I'm craving some good Italian food after Alexander's story. BTW Alexander, that says something about your writing. Whenever I've read Fleming's description of a meal, I get hungry for the same. I'm serious...I've been known to run out and buy caviar at eleven o'clock at night.

 

Quarter to 2pm here. Okay, off from CBn and back to my notes after a quick re-read and proof.

 

Cheers all and again, thanks for your contributions. Damn good stuff!

 

Tally Ho!

[chrisno1]

A quick report on the three contributions which I read with a glass of port on Christmas Eve:

 

The Best of Days had a good tone and an authorial voice which kept me interested. The attention to the everyday was very good - and unusual as Bond Fan Fiction tends to obsess with the fantastic. It appears to be the start of a longer project. I wasn’t sure about the asides, which, not being familiar with Bryce’s work, made me feel as if I’d missed out on a whole bunch of information. A sterling effort.

 

Volante’s Risque was an awkward read. I’ve never read a proper screenplay and have no idea how much detail is included, but I thought Paul’s descriptions were too intricate for a screenplay. Rather it was a shooting script, which includes the camera angles, zooms, character reactions, edits, musical accompaniment, etc. that the director wants in his final product. That made it tough to read fluently. As always, a good scenario, some nice dialogue touches and the expected black humour. This too feels unfinished.

 

Buon Natale from Alexander was a period piece which resembled (very vaguely) the finale of Skyfall. I enjoyed it immensely. The flavor of Sicily and its characters cut through the narrative and the dénouement was simple and swift. The plot didn’t need such depth - I thought the archaeological angle was unnecessary - but despite this it’s a successful three-hander. The author tells us enough about Bond, Angelina and Don Dominguez to propel the story, but no more; it’s very controlled. The story needs a re-read to get the punctuation right, but it was a very tight short piece that developed character, supplied menace and intrigue and ended with a smile. Very good.

 

Sorry, Terminus, I haven't got around to your contribution, but I will.

 

Happy Christmas

Chris

[Alexander]

Thanks chaps, glad you enjoyed it. Incidentally Chrisno1 - interesting you read Buon Natale as a period piece. You can read it as a period piece or a modern day story set after Skyfall... I think either works.

 

Although, since Bryce can cast Sharon Tate as his heroine, I'll cast Stanley Baker - one of the best "could have been" Bonds -  as my star.

 

Bryce - Someone on this thread mentioned that fanfic gives an insight into the fanfic author - certainly get an insight into your taste in women here. And from what I can make out, you have very fine taste indeed.

 

Terminus - In contrast, I suspect we've a certain amount of insight into your taset in men! Not what i was expecting.... but not unpleasant (as the sailor said to the bishop).

 

Both evocative pieces with a suitable relish for detail.

 

Volante - apologies but I have to agree with Chrisno1, I find the screenplay tricky to read.

 

Merry Christmas all.

Edited by Alexander, 27 December 2012 - 12:45 AM.

[Bryce (003)]

Apologies to all.

 

Christmas, house guests and vistors, taekwon-do training (working for my red belt), random stewardess (frequent flyer miles and a LAYover *cough*) and cooking.

 

The holidays....

 

Finally back to my blue mountain roast and an empty house.

 

TTT is pretty epic. Fine tuning part one and I need to call Joyce.

 

Maybe something up later today.

 

Alexander and chrisno1 - Thank you kindly for your comments.

 

chrisno1 - Yeah...You probably have missed out on some details. Scroll back through this entire thread. It should give you the bigger picture. If you bother Joyce enough she'll tell about real life experiences. High speed driving through the desert in the Jaguar, gambling (and winning) in Monte Carlo, shaving cream, Matt Helm movies 'til dawn, firing uzi's...Yes, truth IS stranger than fiction....and Charles Axworthy IS John Bryce....Which can be slightly scary...But damn if it isn't fun.

 

Back to work on this first bit.

 

Cheers all and again, wonderful and creative stuff to be enjoyed here. Thanks.

 

003

 

EDIT: Parting thought as was pointed out to me by a friend who read one of the pieces "The High Road" - Noting when I wrote it, it was well before Skyfall - "A seasoned double-o traveling with a woman in a vintage british car that's armed to the teeth to his family manor in Scotland...Christ, the Bond producers owe you money."

 

Damn straight! I wouldn't mind being compensated for 40 years of positive PR either.

[Dustin]

I had an idea weeks ago that pretty fast became too much to handle for me, or for this type of project for that matter. But the urge to find something fitting kept me close company and on Christmas Eve I think I had the right inspiration. Ought to be showing up by Monday.

[volante]

Guys, the second and final part of the screenplay for RISQUE went in for submission today.

 

Hey, if you found it difficult to read, imagine how difficult I found it to write. This is not my forte.

I used the GOLDFINGER screenplay as a benchmark for detail.

But I must confess I don't have the eye of the director to understand just how much detail is needed (I did ask for advise, but didn't get much assistance)

I trust that Paul Cusack will have better luck when filming.

Oh and by the way I wrote a theme tune (Dennis Waterman style) as well.

Still, one thing to cling to, I won't be doing another one.

 

2013 will see NEVER THE DEATH taking shape. Until then, Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to all CBnr's

[Alexander]

Guys, the second and final part of the screenplay for RISQUE went in for submission today.

 

Hey, if you found it difficult to read, imagine how difficult I found it to write. This is not my forte.

I used the GOLDFINGER screenplay as a benchmark for detail.

But I must confess I don't have the eye of the director to understand just how much detail is needed (I did ask for advise, but didn't get much assistance)

I trust that Paul Cusack will have better luck when filming.

Oh and by the way I wrote a theme tune (Dennis Waterman style) as well.

Still, one thing to cling to, I won't be doing another one.

 

2013 will see NEVER THE DEATH taking shape. Until then, Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to all CBnr's

 

 

Did you use a screenwriting software or just type straight into Msword (or something similar)?

 

If you didn't already know - Celtx is a really good free software that would have made it easier. Does all the formatting for you.

 

And Happy New Year!

[Bryce (003)]

Happy 2013 all....

 

THAT’S THAT THEN

 

Heavy fog.

 

Appropriate.

 

The Admiral sat in front of the blank screen.

 

Hell.

 

He glanced as Athena entered with a cold pint of Guinness and set it down. Her eyes were still red. Three weeks and no word. He himself could not believe it but acceptance was a part of the world he had committed to.

 

How should it read?

 

Damn.

 

MI6 – INNER OFFICE – EYES ONLY

 

It is with great regret that I am to inform you of the following here within our house.

 

Commander Jonathan S.E. Bryce RNVR/CMG – 003, Wing Commander Matthew M.  O’Shawnassey RAF – 004, Major Joyce C. Carrington BA – 009 are all, at time of writing, missing and presumed dead.

 

Lieutenant Gala Brand SB – 005 remains in an induced coma and has yet to regain consciousness but her outlook is better and the swelling has been reduced by such actions per medical evaluation.

 

The combined efforts of the agents of this division during the operation known as “Destiny” did, without question, foil an attempt by a terrorist group to detonate a nuclear device aboard the Cunard Lines ship Queen Mary 2 during a transatlantic crossing whilst protecting the Royalty on board.

 

SBS teams dispatched were not put to sea in a timely manner and it should be noted that it was against the relentless yet official protest of liaison officer Harry Fawkes who stood his ground and, in my opinion, had his challenge of Whitehall directives. Had they listened, perhaps I would not be writing this as such.

 

He read through it twice between two sips from the pint. Athena still stood before the leather topped desk. Gesturing towards the bar, he smiled;

 

“Pour yourself anything and sit down…Please Athena."

 

She crossed and did just that. After adding some ice to the nearly three measures of Grey Goose, she then opted for a splash of cranberry juice from the small refrigerated cabinet below. She looked up. Her eyes continued to sparkle though somewhat hazed. Taking a long pull, she locked a stare with him;

 

“No….I am not in denial either…The three of them…They can’t…ARE NOT…..” Her voice trailed off.

 

The Admiral didn’t buy it either. In the aftermath it had been clear. Twenty dead. All of them baddies. The device was in the possession of the Americans. The yacht that had been trailing the ship was gone. An explosion had seen to that.

 

The Royal’s had been lifted immediately. Hell, William’s own brother had been flying the helicopter that plucked him and the Duchess from the forward deck. Brand was found floating on debris but there were no others. Of the weeks that followed, bits and pieces had been few and with the current swells and depth, it was difficult to decipher what or who was left. The only answers where in that of the mind of the one witness.

 

The CCTV cameras aboard the ship had captured some amazing bits from when the bridge had been taken. Within a matter of fifteen minutes, the eight men who had seized control seemingly found themselves at odds.

 

In digital color, the men had been taken out in what looked like a movie. It was, however, all too real. Two had dropped immediately and there was a great commotion. Bryce had appeared quite suddenly, weapon in hand, and fired point blank at a third whose head exploded in a fine red mist. Two others had moved in and knocked 003’s pistol away, but he countered delivering a flurry of blows to both sending one slumping to the floor and then exchanging punches and kicks in a myriad of fighting styles with the other before flinging the man out of the frame and launching himself over the helm controls in the same direction.

 

Five men in less than twenty seconds. One man in a tuxedo.

 

It had also been the only image of Bryce that, aside from the salon images, appeared in any of the footage.

 

On the port side promenade deck, 009 had her hands full. The time code had determined that the agent’s mutual counter strike had been coordinated. They were soldiers first. Spies second.

 

The sight of a thug crashing onto the deck through a pane glass window had been sudden.

 

Brand appeared stepping through and kicked the man across the jaw snatching up his pistol and running aft, away from the camera, in what looked to be a lovely grey cocktail dress. Before she had disappeared, Carrington had come through with another thug grasping her and driving her to the railing.

 

Once there, she had broken his grasp and double chopped him on either side of his neck before driving her knee into his groin and then clipping him across the jaw with her elbow. This was followed by a step kick which drove him back and what looked to be a very solid left cross. The figure reeled and she grabbed his collar and had then flung him over the side.

 

Immediately, she had snatched up a machine pistol, an Uzi, and then threw herself against the wall. Sparks lit up the deck near her. Checking the weapon as she crouched, she spun out on one knee raising it to her shoulder and fired two quick bursts. A couple of advancing thugs were blown off their feet. At that she stood about sweeping her perimeter and then snatched two additional magazines from the unconscious one Brand had put down. She also had grabbed what looked to be a mobile from the figure before stomping him twice to the head. She ducked back through the broken glass and out of sight.

 

That was the last any camera had caught of Joyce Carrington.

 

The third night aboard had been the traditional formal night as the ship approached the midway point in its crossing. It was during the late dinner that the trouble had begun. Passengers had noted that the engines had stopped and even the staff and officers had exchanged looks of concern.

 

As two officers moved towards the exit, both Bryce and Carrington had casually followed. Across the grand salon, Brand had stood arm in arm with O’Shawnassey at the Royal couple’s table. He had offered a proper bow and she a traditional curtsey. The Prince had stood and offered a hand to both as did the Duchess. There was some conversation and the Duchess appeared to be taking an interest in some of Brand’s jewelry. Whether monarchs or spies, girls were still girls. The Prince had gestured to one of the waiters who handed a glass to O’Shawnassey.

 

The Admiral gave a slight grin at this point. Two of his agents chatting away with Royalty and both presenting proper courtesy. The sort of thing that wasn’t taught anymore.

 

The “screening room” as it was nick-named was, pretty much, just that. A large nearly seven meter flat screen set into the wall and two technicians on either side controlling the images or direct camera exchange. Essentially, either used as a war room scenario or as a diagnostic tool for examining evidence after the fact.

 

The latter was the case that evening with all seats filled and standing room only. The Prince and Duchess were safely at the Palace. Their own debrief would follow later. It had been less than eighteen hours and the QM2 – the ship’s international designation – was being escorted back to Southampton by two RN destroyers and flanked by one American attack class submarine. Three more ships including one submarine had remained in the area and retrieved Brand giving her immediate medical attention. A ten man SBS squad lead by Fawkes remained on the QM2 and Lloyd’s had signed off on the refund for all passengers, and, minus some cosmetic repairs to the ship, she would sail again in two weeks time.

 

 

All that remained was the footage being screened and to be sifted through.

 

 

When the trouble presented itself, it had happened during the dinner. Six men in tactical paramilitary garb wearing masks and toting Uzi and HK assault weapons. Two each had come in from either side of the salon and two from above atop the staircase with one of them firing a burst into the ceiling.

 

Four men at the Royal’s table had stood, drawn pistols and immediately formed a blockade in front of the couple and two others standing near a galley access door lead them out through it in less then ten seconds.

 

Brand had immediately gone to the side of the staircase and O’Shawnassey had moved low amongst all the other tables. As the two above came down the stairs, Brand had lunged reaching through the banister grabbing one at the ankles. The thug pitched forward and proceeded to tumble down the staircase. Moving with purpose 004’s hand went in his jacket and his left reached behind his hip raising his Beretta and drawing his PPK in one movement. His first two rounds dropped the second one on the stairs. Brand had produced her own pistol and put two into one of the other men on the main floor. Another turned to fire when the Royal’s men had opened up on him with trained precision and 004 had spun in one motion towards the last two firing both pistols two handed. The first had dropped having been slammed into the wall by five rounds.

 

Having retrieved the HK from the man at the bottom of the stairs, Brand had taken her aim and fired one three shot burst which had taken the last one dropping him like a rag doll.

 

Five down, one incapacitated. Of the Royal’s remaining team, one was speaking into a two-way and the others checking to fallen men as did O’Shawnassey with Brand sweeping the room with the HK eyeing all exits for any additional threats. She was an oddly attractive sight with the weapon and mane of raven hair.

 

It was this point before any additional footage had been screened that the Admiral called for a halt and then addressed the room.

 

“Gentlemen and ladies present, there’s clearly more pieces to be put together, but it cannot be denied that my agents with the combined effort of the Royal detail did put a stop to what could have been a catastrophe of epic proportions. Our continued investigation will determine what, how and why we have arrived where we are today. I thank you for time and will keep you advised of any and all developments. A complete media blackout is in effect.”

 

With that, the group had mumbled and then left. The PM’s aide had spoken briefly directly with the Admiral; “You’ve clearly got your plate full. Be at number 10 by 1400. Bring along anything else you’ve found. Also, he’d like to know why four double-o agents happened to be aboard. See you then.”

 

The Admiral watched him leave and then gave orders to the tech staff to research it all and give him the highlights. He then moved to Athena sending her back to his office to have her bring up all the depositions from the Royal’s security men as well as the ship’s officers.

 

Lastly, the chief technical officer and latest addition to Q Branch, a Miss Anne Reilly, had approached him suggesting the utilization of some experimental facial recognition software. He gave her the go ahead as it made sense and her intuitive notions had proved her worth to the division in the mere three weeks since she had come aboard.

 

As he rode the lift up, he thought back to the catalyst of what had put all four aboard.

 

A simple request from 003 in August.

 

******

 

It had been unseasonably hot in London and thankfully all the mayhem of both the Olympic Games and, prior to that, the Jubilee, had finally rid the city of tourists and crowds.

 

Bryce had returned from an assignment in Buenos Aires and come directly from Heathrow. The operation had gone off well and discreet. The best kind.

 

With the help of the station chief there, a fine chap named Nicolas who knew both his country and city like his daily sink, he and 003 had recovered a few missing STA rockets from an arms dealer and also managed to “leave him to dry” in the eyes of some of the cartels that operated in Argentina.

 

After the debrief in the office, 003 had a good glass of scotch in him and just one cigarette. Then he had gone back down to his own and dictated his initial debrief to Loelila and written up his own as well. Later, he returned and Athena had sent him in.

 

“Sir, I’d like to take some leave at the end of the year, just ten days or so.”

 

“For the Holidays then...Fine. Just remember, you’re never ‘off duty’.”

 

Bryce had smiled; “Never on the firm’s time Sir and I accepted that the moment I signed on with the Navy.”

 

“Cheers then John...May I ask what your plans are?”

 

“Asking permission from me...That’s a first.”

 

The Admiral had laughed leaning back in his chair; “I suppose it is.”

 

“Matt and I were chatting while I came back in. Aside from assignments that have had us working together and grabbing a bite or a pint here and there, we really haven’t had a “boy’s night out” in some time. We’ve known each other for nearly twenty-five years and been in the section for almost twenty of those and oddly enough, we haven’t resigned, been dismissed or been killed.”

 

“So?”

 

“We’re taking to the seas for the New Year. I’ve got us booked on Queen Mary 2 for their transatlantic. A pair of their more pricey suites adjoining one another....Largely because he snores like a broken chainsaw. It can be annoying if one is not sleeping alone and with six nights on the water, I’m not buying ear muffs for any company I may have. Should be the other way around for his benefit and envy.”

 

He had laughed aloud pondering how many times over the years that the two men had shared quarters in the field. He approved the request adding it should also, of course, be submitted in writing. Bryce agreed and they shook hands.

 

Later, in November, word had come from the Palace. Although not announced to the press, the Royal couple would be on the same cruise. Once aware, Bryce had come directly to the office somewhat miffed and said he’d cancel his and O’Shawnassey’s plans. The Admiral had offered the other option as he explained it.

 

“I know you two bastards wanted this and at this point were looking forward to it. You should still go. I was thinking of having Carrington sent along, but I can only imagine the mayhem that would create with the three of you. Brand is back from her Germany assignment in a few days. She did well on that. I’m pleased and our man Heiko, head of station, spoke highly of her. Her German is getting all but fluent. At any rate, I told the powers that be that I would send a Double-O along.”

 

“What? The Palace asked for one of us?”

 

“You were at the top of the list and by name. You made a memorable impression when I attached you to that detail back in the day.”

 

Bryce’s mind knew what he was saying and his own memory flashed back to the charm of the Prince’s mother. He’d even shared a dance with her once upon a time and then, fighting his own grief, walked that long mile behind her casket and thought only of her boys. Now they were men. He’d vowed then that no harm would come to them. Not on his watch. The Admiral continued;

 

“They’ll have the usual eight man team watching over them. 0011 is working an op right now, but 005 should be available. You and 004 should make your presence known to the security division and the two man team that sails with the line.”

 

While not widely known, with world tensions and piracy making a rebirth in the modern day, cruise ships had become major targets. As the Cunard line operated worldwide with their three flagships, aboard each and with every sailing were a pair of Royal Marines to insure the safety of both ship and passengers. Outside of the community, it wasn’t the sort of thing advertised on the line’s website or brochures.

 

"Sir, I've nothing against 005, but wouldn't North be better suited for the task. He's proved his worth and I'm aware of his current assignment."

 

"Just because you're the senior ranking officer of the section 003, it doesn't mean you can call the shots."

 

"Merely a suggestion Sir. I do agree that a female agent would be less conspicuous than another armed bloke aboard."

 

"0011 has his orders. Miss Brand will have her own and they all come from me."

 

"As with everything Sir."

 

That had been that....

 

As with any travel though, as the Admiral now reflected at his desk presently, plans were “subject to change.”

[Harry Fawkes]

And now down to some Bryce (OO3). Now this I was looking forward to by no small measure. Will post review soon.

[volante]

 

Guys, the second and final part of the screenplay for RISQUE went in for submission today.

 

Hey, if you found it difficult to read, imagine how difficult I found it to write. This is not my forte.

I used the GOLDFINGER screenplay as a benchmark for detail.

But I must confess I don't have the eye of the director to understand just how much detail is needed (I did ask for advise, but didn't get much assistance)

I trust that Paul Cusack will have better luck when filming.

Oh and by the way I wrote a theme tune (Dennis Waterman style) as well.

Still, one thing to cling to, I won't be doing another one.

 

2013 will see NEVER THE DEATH taking shape. Until then, Merry Christmas and a very Happy New Year to all CBnr's

 

 

Did you use a screenwriting software or just type straight into Msword (or something similar)?

 

If you didn't already know - Celtx is a really good free software that would have made it easier. Does all the formatting for you.

 

And Happy New Year!

Wish I'd known that before. LOL

[Dustin]

Took much longer than I thought. No title for this.

 

 

 

The telephone rang at half past four, right in the middle of a perfect Christmas Eve afternoon. Her husband Thomas had just turned down the volume of the radio while he and Anne laughed at some joke Anne's German boyfriend had told, and Christine, their eldest daughter, engaged in a mock fight over a plate of Nuernberg gingerbread with her brother. The house was full of laughter since the kids - now grown up themselves - had arrived this noon. Even Ollie was sitting in his dog basket, for once content with the prospect of Mark or Anne later taking him out and throwing a ball for him until he would lose interest in the game. The smell of their Christmas Eve dinner was hanging in the air, mingled with the punch's, the atmosphere was full of almost childish joy and she thought 'This is it! The perfect moment. Oh, if only I could hold it!' Then she heard the telephone in the hallway ringing.

Due to the laughter, the radio and the various cheers and voices only she heard it. Thomas just started an old anecdote he must have told a hundred times already, his children protesting in unison, and their German guest looking confused at Anne for help. Nobody else had noticed the phone, so she rose from the table and went for the hallway.

Just before it could ring a third time she reached for the receiver and suddenly had the strangest feeling. She knew it would be him, without a doubt. Her hand over the phone she paused for a second. 'Let it ring, don't answer.' she thought. Then she chided herself a fool. With one swift motion she lifted the receiver and half-turned back towards the dining room and her family.

'Vivian.'

'Hello Gala. Merry Christmas to you - it's me, James!'

Dizziness tugged at her stomach, giving her head a swimming feeling as if she already had too much of the punch. Suddenly Gala felt the seven metres towards her place at the dinner table had grown into much more, a distance stretching now all the way back into time, covering almost 19 years. The last time when she had heard his warm voice, felt her stomach tremble - with what; expectation, fear, hope? - and her heart beating in her throat.

'Gala, I'm here at the airport waiting for my flight. In two hours I'll be away from that grisly holiday season. You know what Andersen said, just living is not enough. One must have sunshine, freedom and a little flower. I'm having the freedom to escape into the sunshine for a few days. Would you like to come with me and be my flower again? Are you game?'

His words now seemed to come from far away. In the background she could hear a voice over a tannoy announcing some flight to Brussels now boarding. Her uncovered ear picked up the giggle of Thomas and her kids and she had the strange sensation of being stuck outside herself, stuck in her own past. Gala Vivian, née Brand, was 33 again, Christine and Anne just gone to St Swithun's and her husband Thomas away on a "training course". At that point in her life James Bond had called her the last time, inviting her to an adventure more daring and perhaps more dangerous than she wanted to admit to herself, even today.

Back then she had wondered how he was able to pick exactly the right time, to hit her at a moment when her defences were down and her resistance to his charms nonexistent. Now the same question formed in her mind 'Oh James, how do you always seem to know just when to call?'  But she said nothing. Her breathing became laboured; with every gulp of air she now inhaled a moment of that joyous, dreamlike, ecstatic week she had had with this man at the French Riviera. That feeling of carefree lightness and innocent pleasure was back again, perhaps stronger than she had felt it at the time.

That week now seemed to her like one long and incredibly satisfying afternoon, filled to the brim with love and enjoyment like no part of reality ever could. And yet it had been just that; for a short time the banal requirements of normality had seemingly been suspended by the desire and sheer joy of life they both had shared.

Until that morning when she woke alone, a note on his pillow saying "Something has come up. Please forgive me. J.".

Waking up like this belonged to her most horrible memories - and by god, she had a few as James himself could attest to - the pain of it still giving her stomach a cramp. So she was almost surprised to hear no trace of trembling in her voice when she said 'And a Merry Christmas to you, too. But you must have gotten the wrong number.' and replaced the receiver on the phone.

She walked back to the dining room, the entire 19 years in a few brisk paces; how odd and how mercifully easy it was to return to the here and now, all old sores firmly closed, with hardly a mark to show. Thomas gave her a quizzical look but Gala just smiled at him and he continued telling his story to their guest. Within seconds she was caught up again in the atmosphere of their Christmas Eve as if there had been no call.

Only a little later when she was looking at her son Mark frowned and asked her 'Mum, you OK?'

'Yes, luv. I'm fine!'

And Gala really was. Glad to see her son's concern in the green eyes he had gotten from his father, along with the fair hair.

'Couldn't be better!'





                                                                                                   *********************************







 'And a Merry Christmas to you, too. But you must have gotten the wrong number.' and the line went dead. With a frown Bond replaced the receiver on the coin-box. Well, it had been a shot in the dark, he hadn't really expected her to say yes. Not immediately at any rate. But he felt mildly irritated she had dismissed him so easily. He knew Gala could be downright cold. And yet he had hoped for a little trace of sentimentality in her demeanour, a little smile in her voice about the pleasant surprise of an unexpected call from an old friend. But there had been nothing, not the slightest bit. Well, it had been a long time and he couldn't blame her. Perhaps she really had forgotten about him?

Anyway, what now? Hours to kill and a long flight ahead, with the necessity to avoid unwanted conversation. Visit Smith's and get that new Deighton, BERLIN GAME, and perhaps that American's everybody was so keen on lately, a strangely titled book, something with pets. Then to the bar and start his private Christmas do with a couple of large drinks. Yes, that would do. There was still plenty of time to find company at Nassau. But a good read on a long flight was much harder to come by in Bond's experience. He stubbed out his cigarette and went about his Christmas schedule.