DISSOLVE AND RETURN
Bond shook himself fully awake from his reverie to hear the Secretary of State pounding the presidential desk and shouting furiously at its occupant: “So you’re telling me that the Homeland Security Secretary, a Cabinet member, a former Democratic governor, is shacked up with a . . . ”
“Yes,” interjected the President miserably, “with a criminal mastermind, with a Bulgarian Nazi, with the head of SPECTRE, with a felon . . . ”
“Enough of this irrelevant blather,” said the Secretary of State. “She’s shacked up with a REPUBLICAN. That’s more than enough. She’s a two-timing, double-crossing, little bitch, and we shouldn’t waste another moment on her sorry little ass. Give me the button. I’ll push it myself.”
The President looked across at Bond and the Colonel. They both nodded. He himself nodded to the Secretary of State. He glanced sideways at his wife and Valerie Jarrett. They shrugged. With an agonized expression, he reached out and pressed the button. With a whoosh four rockets rose from the underground silo and soared across the White House Lawn towards Capitol Hill.
As they stood gazing at the rocket trails, an intern ran into the Oval Office.
“I don’t know if this is important, Mr. President, but we just received news that Todd Akin entered the Homeland Security Department and asked for asylum 15 minutes ago.”
“ABORT, ABORT, ABORT,” shouted the three women simultaneously.
“These are the new Terminator Five rockets,” replied Colonel Jones. “They operate on the principle that any instructions received after firing are probably deception tactics. They can’t be recalled.” And as if to confirm his words, sounds of explosions and police sirens could be heard across the city.
They left the President in the Oval Office, his head once more in his hands. Bond and Colonel Jones strolled towards the elevator. Bond was already picturing M’s reaction when he presented his report. It would leave the explosions they had just heard at the starting gate. Colonel Jones seemed to understand and handed him a Havana cigar.
“A bad show all round,” said Bond.
“I wouldn’t entirely say that, Mr. Bond,” replied the Colonel philosophically as he stepped into the elevator. “One two-timing bitch eliminated, one political embarrassment rubbed out — and rubbed out by the side he was benefiting — and one costly scandal of a rocket attack on Washington by Washington. I think I should be able to make something of all that on the campaign trail.” And he ripped off his moustache and wig to reveal the straight-arrow WASP features of Governor Mitt Romney.
Bond was not quick enough to prevent the elevator closing. But he pressed the alarm, and as it sounded, he shouted through the metallic doors: “Do you expect to escape?”
“No, Mr. Bond, I expect to be elected,” replied Romney. The elevator shuddered slightly, and then instead of descending to the ground floor, it shot up through the White House roof and, its booster rockets falling away, soared southwards towards the Caribbean.
Bond stood there for a moment looking at the tangled remains of the elevator shaft. He drew despairingly on his cigar, quite a decent Imperiale Corona Semper Fidel. Romney was not without taste. Too late he realized that the criminal mastermind had somehow purloined one of Q’s celebrated Disorientation Cigars, always a hit at MI6’s Christmas parties. They exploded without warning and covered the smoker in indelible purple dye.
Then everything went purple.
(To be continued.)
— John O’Sullivan is editor-at-large of National Review.