Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

  ‘Those people have brains,’ said Dawson. ‘No one wants to tangle with a driving army—not even Favel’s. He may be as reasonable as you say, but reasonableness doesn’t show from behind a gun. It’s wiser to wait here and see what happens next.’

  Wyatt commenced to pace up and down the foyer and Dawson watched him, seeing the irritability boiling up. He said abruptly, ‘Got a cigarette—the cops took mine.’

  ‘They took mine, too.’ Wyatt stopped his restless pacing. ‘There should be some in the bar.’

  He went into the bar, found a pack of cigarettes, stuck one in Dawson’s mouth and lit it. Dawson drew on it deeply, then said, ‘When are you expecting this hurricane of yours?’

  ‘It could be tomorrow; it could be the day after. I’m cut off from information.’

  ‘Then take it easy, for Christ’s sake! Favel’s on his way, and your girl-friend is tucked away safely.’ Dawson’s eyes crinkled as he saw Wyatt’s head swing round. ‘Well, she is your girl-friend, isn’t she?’

  Wyatt did not say anything, so Dawson changed the subject. ‘What do you expect Favel to do about the hurricane? The guy’s got a war on his hands.’

  ‘He won’t have,’ promised Wyatt. ‘Not in two days from now. And if he stays in St Pierre he won’t have an army, either. He’s got to listen to me.’

  ‘I surely hope he does,’ said Dawson philosophically. ‘Because he’s the only chance we have of getting out of here.’ He lifted his left hand clumsily to take the cigarette from his mouth and knocked it against the edge of the table. He winced and a suppressed sound escaped his lips.

  Wyatt said, ‘We’d better have a look at those hands.’

  ‘They’re all right.’

  ‘You don’t want them turning bad on you. Let’s have a look at them.’

  ‘They’re all right, I tell you,’ Dawson protested.

  Wyatt looked at Dawson’s drawn face. ‘I want to look at them,’ he said. ‘Things that are all right anywhere else go sour in the tropics.’ He began to unfasten one of the bandages and his breath hissed as he saw what it covered. ‘Good Christ! What did they do to you?’

  The hand was mashed to a pulp. As he slowly drew the bandage away he saw, to his horror, two finger-nails come away with it, and the fingers were blue with one huge bruise where they weren’t red-raw as beefsteak.

  Dawson lay back in the chair. ‘They held me down and beat my hands with a rubber hose. I don’t think they broke any bones, but I’ll not be able to handle a typewriter for quite a while.’

  Wyatt had once caught his finger in a door—a trivial thing but the most painful happening of his life. The fingernail had turned blue but his doctor saved it, and he had been careful of his hands ever since. Now, looking down at Dawson’s raw hand, he felt sick inside; he could imagine how painful the battered nerve-endings would be. He said glumly, ‘Now I can stop being sorry I killed Roseau.’

  Dawson grinned faintly. ‘I never was sorry.’

  Wyatt was puzzled. There was more to Dawson than he had thought; this was not the same man who had tried to steal a car because he was scared—something must have happened to him. ‘You’ll need some embrocation on that,’ he said abruptly. ‘And a shot of penicillin wouldn’t do any harm, either. There’s a place across the street—I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ said Dawson in alarm. ‘That street is not the safest place in the world right now.’

  ‘I’ll watch it,’ said Wyatt, and went to the door. Opposite was an American-style drugstore; it had been broken into already but he hoped the drug supplies had not been touched. Before going out, he carefully inspected the street and, finding no movement, he stepped out and ran across.

  The drugstore was in a mess but he ignored the chaos and went straight to the dispensary at the back, where he rummaged through the neat drawers looking for what he needed. He found bandages and codeine tablets and embrocation but no antibiotics, and he wasted little time on a further search. At the door of the drugstore he paused again to check the street and froze as he saw a man scuttle across to hide in a doorway.

  The man peered out behind the muzzle of a gun, then waved, and three more men ran up the street, hugging the walls and darting from door to door. They were not in uniform and Wyatt thought they must be the forward skirmishers of Favel’s army. Gently he opened the door and stepped out, holding his hands above his head and clutching his medical supplies.

  Strangely, he was not immediately seen, and had got half-way across the street before he was challenged. He turned to face the oncoming soldier, who looked at him with suspicion. ‘There are none of Serrurier’s men here,’ said Wyatt. ‘Where is Favel?’

  The man jerked his rifle threateningly. ‘What is that?’

  ‘Bandages,’ said Wyatt. ‘For my friend who is hurt. He is in the hotel over there. Where is Favel?’

  He felt the muzzle of a gun press into his back but did not turn. The man in front of him moved his rifle fractionally sideways. ‘To the hotel,’ he ordered. Wyatt shrugged and stepped out, surrounded by the small group. One of them pushed through the revolving door, his rifle at the ready, and Wyatt called out in English, ‘Stay where you are, Dawson—we’ve got visitors.’

  The man in front of him whirled and pressed his gun into Wyatt’s stomach. ’Pren’ gar’,’ he said threateningly.

  ‘I was just telling my friend not to be afraid,’ said Wyatt evenly.

  He went into the hotel, to find Dawson sitting tensely in his chair looking at a soldier who was covering him with a rifle. He said, ‘I’ve got some bandages and some codeine—that should kill the pain a bit.’

  Favel’s men fanned out and scattered through the ground floor, moving like professionals. Finding nothing, they reassembled in the foyer and gathered round their leader, whom Wyatt took to be a sergeant although he wore no insignia. The sergeant prodded the dead soldier with his foot. ‘Who killed this one?’

  Wyatt, bending over Dawson, looked up and shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, and turned back to his work.

  The sergeant stepped over and looked at Dawson’s hands. ‘Who did that?’

  ‘Serrurier’s police,’ said Wyatt, keeping his eyes down.

  The sergeant grunted. ‘Then you do not like Serrurier. Good!’

  ‘I must find Favel,’ said Wyatt. ‘I have important news for him.’

  ‘What is this important news, blanc?’

  ‘It is for Favel only. If he wants you to know he will tell you.’

  Dawson stirred. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I’m trying to get this man to take me to Favel. I can’t tell him there’s going to be a hurricane—he might not believe it and then I’d never get to see Favel.’

  The sergeant said, ‘You talk big, ti blanc; your so important news had better be good or Favel will tear out your liver.’ He paused, then said with a grim smile, ‘And mine.’

  He turned to issue a string of rapid instructions, and Wyatt sighed deeply. ‘Thank God!’ he said. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  SIX

  The highest point of Cap Sarrat was a hillock, the top of which was forty-five feet above sea-level. On the top of the hillock was a 400-foot lattice radio mast which supported an array of radar antennae. From the antenna right at the top of the tower accurately machined wave-guides conducted electronic signals to a low building at the base; these signals, amplified many millions of times, were then projected on to a cathoderay screen to form a green glow, which cast a bilious light on the face of Petty Officer (3rd Class) Joseph W. Harmon.

  Petty Officer Harmon was both bored and tired. The Brass had been giving him the run-around all day. He had been standing-to at his battle station for most of the day and then he had been told off to do his usual job in the radar room that night, so he had had the minimum of sleep. At first he had been excited by the sound of gunfire reverberating across Santego Bay from the direction of St Pierre, and even more excited when a column of smoke arose from the t
own and he was told that Serrurier’s two-bit army was surrounding the Base and they could expect an attack any moment.

  But a man cannot keep up that pitch of excitement and now, at five in the morning with the sun just about due to rise, he felt bored and sleepy. His eyes were sore, and when he closed them momentarily it felt as though there were many grains of sand on his eyeballs. He blinked them open again and stared at the radar screen, following the sweep of the trace as it swept hypnotically round and round.

  He jerked as his attention was caught by a minute green swirl that faded rapidly into nothingness and he had to wait until the trace went round again to recapture it. There it was again, just the merest haze etched electronically against the glass, fading as rapidly as it had arisen. He checked the direction and made it 174 degrees true.

  Nothing dangerous there, he thought. That was nearly due south and at the very edge of the screen; the danger—if it came—would be from the landward side, from Serrurier’s joke of an air force. There had been a fair amount of air activity earlier, but it had died away and now the San Fernandan air force seemed to be totally inactive. That fact had caused a minor stir among the officers but it meant nothing to Harmon, who thought sourly that anything that interested the officers was sure to be something to keep him out of his sack.

  He looked at the screen and again caught the slight disturbance to the south. As an experienced radar operator he knew very well what it was—there was bad weather out there below the curve of the horizon and the straight-line radar beam was catching the top of it. He hesitated for a moment before he stretched out his arm for the telephone, but he picked it up decisively. His instructions were to call the Duty Officer if anything—repeat, anything— unusual came up. As he said, ‘Get me Lieutenant Moore,’ he felt some small satisfaction at being able to roust the Lieutenant from whatever corner he was sleeping in.

  So it was that when Commander Schelling checked into his office at eight that morning there was a neatly typed report lying squared-up on his blotting-pad. He picked it up, his mind on other things, and got a jolt as the information suddenly sank into him like a harpoon. He grabbed the telephone and said hoarsely, ‘Get me Radar Surveillance—the Duty Officer.’

  While he waited for the connection he scanned the report again. It became visibly worse as he read it. The microphone clicked in his ear. ‘Lieutenant Moore…off duty?…who is that, then?…All right, Ensign Jennings, what’s all this about bad weather to the south?’

  He tapped impatiently on the desk as he heard what Jennings had to say, slammed down the telephone and felt the sweat break out on his brow. Wyatt had been right—Mabel had swerved to pay a visit to San Fernandez. His body acted efficiently enough as he selected all the information he had on Mabel and packed the sheets neatly into a folder, but a voice was yammering at the back of his mind: It’s goddam unfair; why should Wyatt be right on an unscientific hunch? Why the hell didn’t Mabel stick to what she should have done? How in God’s name am I going to explain this to Brooks?

  He entered the radar section at a dead run and one look at the screen was enough. He swung back on Jennings and snapped, ‘Why wasn’t I told about this earlier?’

  ‘There was a report sent to your office by Lieutenant Moore, sir.’

  ‘That was nearly three hours ago.’ He pointed at the thickening green streaks on the bottom edge of the radar screen. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Jennings. ‘There’s a bit of bad weather blowing up.’

  ‘A bit of bad weather?’ said Schelling thickly. ‘Get out of my way, you fool.’ He pushed past Jennings and blundered out into the sunlit corridor; He stood there indecisively for a moment, then moistened his lips. The Commodore must be told, of course. He left the radar section like a man heading for his own execution with Ensign Jennings staring after him with puzzlement in his eyes.

  The officer in Brooks’s outer office was dubious about letting Schelling in to bother the Commodore. Schelling leaned over his desk and said deliberately, ‘If I don’t get to see the Commodore within two minutes from now, you’ll find yourself pounding the anchor cable for the next twenty years.’ A small flame of satisfaction leaped within him as he saw that he had intimidated this officer, a weak flame that drowned in the apprehension of what Brooks would, have to say.

  Brooks’s desk was as neat as ever, and Brooks himself sat in the same position as though he had never moved during the last two days. He said, ‘Well, Commander? I understand you want to speak to me urgently.’

  Schelling swallowed. ‘Er…yes, sir. It’s about Mabel.’

  Brooks did not move a muscle, nor was there any change in his voice, but an air of tension suddenly enveloped him as he asked evenly, ‘What about Mabel?’

  Schelling said baldly, ‘She seems to have swung off her predicted course.’

  ‘Seems? Has she or hasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, sir; she has.’

  ‘Well?’

  Schelling looked into Brooks’s hard grey eyes and gulped. ‘She’s heading right for us.’ He became alarmed at the Commodore’s immobility and his tongue loosened. ‘She shouldn’t have done it, sir. It’s against all theory. She should have passed to the west of Cuba. I don’t know why she turned and I don’t know any other meteorologist who could tell you either. There are so many things we don’t…’

  Brooks stirred for the first time. ‘Stop prattling, Schelling. How long have we got?’

  Schelling put the folder down on the desk and opened it. ‘She’s a little over a hundred and seventy miles away now, and she’s moving along at eleven miles an hour. That gives us fifteen, maybe sixteen, hours.’

  Brooks said, ‘I’m not interested in your reasoning—I just wanted a time.’ He swung round in his chair and picked up a telephone. ‘Give me the Executive Officer…Commander Leary, I want you to put Plan K into action right now.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘As of 08.31 hours. That’s right…immediate evacuation.’

  He put down the telephone and turned back to Schelling. ‘I wouldn’t feel too bad about this, Commander. It was my decision to stay, not yours. And Wyatt didn’t have any real facts—merely vague intuitions.’

  But Schelling said, ‘Maybe I was too rigid about it, sir.’

  Brooks waved that away. ‘I took that into my calculations, too. I know the capabilities of my officers.’ He turned and looked out of the window. ‘My one regret is that we can’t do anything about the people of St Pierre. But that, of course, is impossible. We’ll come back as soon as we can and help clear up the mess, but the ships will take a beating and it won’t be easy.’

  He looked at Schelling. ‘You know your station under Plan K?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You’d better get to it.’

  He watched Schelling leave the office with something like pity in his eyes, then called for his personal assistant. Things had to be done—all the many necessary things. As soon as he was alone again he walked over to a wall safe and began to pack documents into a lead-weighted briefcase, and it was only when he had completed his last official duties on Cap Sarrat Base that he packed the few personal effects he wanted to take, including a photograph of his wife and two sons which he took from a drawer in his desk.

  II

  Eumenides Papegaikos was a very frightened man. He was not the stuff of which heroes are made and he did not like the position in which he found himself. True, running a night-club had its difficulties, but they were of the nature which could be solved by money—both Serrurier’s corrupt police and the local protection racketeers could be bought off, which partly accounted for the high prices he charged. But he could not buy his way out of a civil war, nor could a hurricane be deflected by the offer of all the gold in the world.

  He had hoped to be taken to Cap Sarrat with the American women, but Wyatt and the war had put a stop to that. In a way he was thankful he was among foreigners—he was tongue-tied in English but that served to camouflage his fears and uncertaintie
s. He volunteered for nothing but did as he was told with a simulated willingness which concealed his internal quakings—which was why he was now stealthily creeping through the banana plantation and heading towards the top of the ridge overlooking the sea.

  There were noises all about him—the singing cicadas and a fainter, more ominous, series of noises that seemed to come from all around. There was the clink of metal from time to time, and the faraway murmur of voices and the occasional rustle of banana leaves which should have been still in the sultry, windless night.

  He reached the top of the ridge, sweating profusely, and looked down towards the coastal road. There was much activity down there; the sound of heavy trucks, the flash of lights and the movement of many men under the bright light of the moon. The quarry, where they had left the car, was now full of vehicles and there was a constant coming and going along the narrow track.

  After a while Eumenides withdrew and turned to go back to the others. All over the plantation lights were springing up, the flickering fires of a camping army, and sometimes he could distinguish the movements of individual men as they walked between him and the flames. He walked down the hill, hoping that, if seen, he would only be another soldier stumbling about in the darkness, and made his way with caution towards the hollow where they had dug the foxholes. He made it with no trouble but at the expense of time, and when he joined Julie and Mrs Warmington nearly an hour had elapsed.

  From the bottom of her camouflaged foxhole Julie whispered cautiously, ‘Eumenides?’

  ‘Yes. Where’s Rawst’orne?’

  ‘He hasn’t come back yet. What’s happening?’

  Eumenides struggled valiantly with the English language. ‘Lot peoples. Soldiers. Army.’

  ‘Government soldiers? Serrurier’s men?’

  ‘Yes.’ He waved his arm largely. ‘All aroun’.’

  Mrs Warmington whimpered softly. Julie said slowly, ‘Serrurier must have been beaten back—kicked out of St Pierre. What do we do?’