Wyatt's Hurricane / Bahama Crisis

by Desmond Bagley

  Headquarters was a series of holes in the ground. Headquarters was a hurry of officers. Headquarters was a widening circle of effects with Favel as the calm centre.

  Wyatt could not get to see him right away. He did not mind because he had weighed up Favel and knew that he was not forgotten and that Favel would see him in time. There were priorities and Wyatt was not among the first. With Dawson, he hovered on the outskirts of the busy group and watched the activity. Men were being sent up into the Negrito in ever increasing numbers and Wyatt hoped that Favel knew what he was doing.

  Causton had vanished, presumably about his work, although what greater disasters he could find for his eager readers Wyatt could not imagine. Dawson was impatient. ‘I don’t see the point in waiting round here,’ he grumbled. ‘We might as well just sit back there in our hole.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want Favel to make a mistake now,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ll stick around. You can go back if you like, and I’ll join you later.’

  Dawson shrugged. ‘It’s the same here as anywhere else.’ He did not move away.

  After a while a tall Negro walked over to Wyatt and he was astonished to see, on closer inspection, that it was Manning, his face smeared with the all-pervading mud. ‘Julio would like to see you,’ he said. His face cracked into a grim smile. ‘You certainly called the shot on that hurricane.’

  ‘It’s not over yet,’ said Wyatt shortly.

  Manning nodded. ‘We know that. Julio is doing a hell of a lot of forward planning to see what we can salvage out of this mess. That’s what he wants to talk to you about. After you’ve seen him I think I can find you a bite to eat; you’re not likely to get any more until we’ve got rid of bloody Mabel.’

  Favel received Wyatt with the same quirk of the lips curved in a half smile. Incredibly, he looked smart in a clean shirt and had found time to wash, although his denim pants were stiff with mud. He said, ‘You did not exaggerate your hurricane, Mr Wyatt. It was every bit as bad as your prognosis.’

  ‘It still is,’ said Wyatt bluntly. ‘What about those troops you’ve sent up the Negrito? They’ll get caught if they’re not careful.’

  Favel waved his hand. ‘A calculated risk. I find I am always forced to make these decisions. Let us look at the map.’

  It was the same map on which Wyatt had sketched out the supposedly safe areas up the Negrito. It was damp and mud-smeared and the crayon lines had run and blotched. Favel said, ‘Messengers were selected to report back here during this break in the hurricane and they’ve been coming in during the last half hour—not as many as I would have liked, but enough to let me know the broad situation.’

  His hand hovered over the map. ‘You were right to tell me to get the people off the valley bottom—the whole valley is flooded from the mouth to about here.’ He sketched in the area quickly with a pencil. ‘That’s about eight miles. The Gran Negrito has broken its banks and there is yet more water coming from the mountains down the Gran Negrito itself and down the P’tit Negrito. The bridges are down and the roads under water.’

  ‘It looks a mess,’ said Wyatt.

  ‘It is,’ agreed Favel. ‘This road, the short cut to St Michel up the Negrito, is pretty clear. At this moment it’s the only usable road in or out of St Pierre. Because it hangs on the side of the valley it missed the floods. There are a few blockages such as fallen trees, and the three bridges are not too safe. Men are clearing it now and looking at the bridges. Other men are digging in for protection against the second half of the hurricane. As soon as it is over they will come out and do whatever final repairs are necessary on those bridges.’

  Wyatt nodded. That sounded reasonable.

  ‘Now, Mr Wyatt, how long is St Pierre going to be flooded?’

  Wyatt looked at the map. ‘What’s this line you’ve drawn here?’

  ‘That’s the extent of flooding that exists now—as far as we can tell.’

  ‘That’s on the twenty-foot contour—we can extend that.’ He took the pencil and drew a quick, curved line. ‘It takes in half the city, a lot of Cap Sarrat, all the flat ground here including your airfield, but there’s not much east of here because of the higher ground by this headland. All that area is under water because of the present low pressure, but as soon as Mabel moves on things will return to normal very quickly.’

  ‘So we can go down into St Pierre as soon as the hurricane passes.’

  ‘Yes, there’ll be nothing to stop you.’

  ‘What about the flooding in the Negrito—how long will that take to subside?’

  Wyatt hesitated. ‘That’s a different matter. The river has backed up from the mouth and it’s still blocked by the floods here, in Santego Bay. Then there’s all the water coming down from the mountains to make things worse and it will all have to drain to the sea on the original river course. That’s going to take a long time, but I couldn’t tell you exactly how long.’

  ‘That is what I thought,’ said Favel. ‘My estimate is a week, at least.’ His finger traced a line on the map. ‘I’ve sent a regiment up the St Michel road with instructions to spread out along the ridge over the Negrito and dig in. When the hurricane has gone they will go down and conduct the people over the hills to the St Michel road, bringing them back that way to avoid the floods.’

  He looked up. ‘Others of that regiment will push on to St Michel and down the coast. There are other towns on San Fernandez besides St Pierre. Sending those men now is risky but it will save two hours, and a lot of lives can be saved in two hours, Mr Wyatt.’ He shook his head. ‘We will need medical supplies, blankets, clothing; we will need everything it takes to keep men alive.’

  ‘The Americans will be coming back,’ said Wyatt. ‘Commodore Brooks will have radioed for assistance. I’ll bet they’re loading up rescue planes in Miami right now.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Favel. ‘Do you think the airfields will be usable?’

  ‘That’s hard to say. I should think your own airfield will be written off, but the military airfield at the Base is built for heavy weather so it may be all right.’

  ‘I will have it checked as soon as the hurricane is past,’ said Favel. ‘Thank you, Mr Wyatt—you have been of great service. How much longer have we got?’

  Wyatt stared at the grey sky, then looked at his watch. He felt the faintest of zephyrs blowing on his cheek. ‘Less than an hour,’ he said. ‘Call it three-quarters of an hour, then the wind will come again. I don’t think there’ll be much rain this time.’

  Favel smiled gently. ‘A small blessing.’

  Wyatt withdrew a little way and Manning thrust an open can into his hand. ‘You’d better eat while you can.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Wyatt looked about. ‘I don’t see your pal Fuller around.’

  A look of pain crossed Manning’s face. ‘He was killed,’ he said in a low voice. ‘He was wounded in the last attack and died during the hurricane.’

  Wyatt did not know what to say. To say that he was sorry would be inadequate, so he said nothing.

  Manning said, ‘He was a good chap—not too good with his brains but dependable in a tight corner. I suppose you could say I killed him—I got him into this.’

  It came to Wyatt that others had their guilts as well as he. It did not make him feel any better, but it gave him more understanding. He said, ‘How did it all happen?’

  ‘We were in the Congo,’ said Manning. ‘Working for Tshombe—mercenaries, you know. That job was coming to an end when I got on to this job and I asked Fuller if he’d like to come along. The pay was so bloody good that he jumped at it, not that good pay will do him much good now.’ He shrugged. ‘But that’s in the game.’

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘There’s not much left here,’ said Manning. ‘Julio asked me to stay on, but I don’t think he really wants a white man to play any big part in what’s going to come next. I hear that there are jobs open in the Yemen, working for the Royalists—maybe I’ll go across there.’

  Wyatt looked
at this big man who spoke of working when he meant fighting. He said, ‘For God’s sake, surely you can find easier ways of making a living?’

  Manning said gently, ‘I don’t think you’ve got it, after all. Sure, I get paid for fighting—most soldiers do—but I pick the side I fight for. Do you think I’d have fought for Serrurier?’

  Wyatt groped for an apology and was glad to be interrupted by Dawson, who came over and said excitedly, ‘Hey, Dave, I think there’s something you ought to know. One of these guys has just come down from the Negrito—he says there’s an American woman up there. At least, that’s what I think he says; this is a bastard of a language.’

  Wyatt swung round. ‘Which man?’

  ‘That guy there—the one who’s just finished talking to Favel.’

  Wyatt strode over and grasped the man’s arm. ‘Did you see an American woman in the Negrito?’ he asked in the island patois.

  The man turned an exhausted face towards him and shook his head. ‘I was told of her. I did not see her.’

  ‘Where was this?’

  ‘Beyond the St Michel road—down in the valley.’

  Wyatt tugged at him urgently. ‘Can you show me on the map?’

  The soldier nodded tiredly and suffered himself to be led. He bent over the map and laid down a black finger. ‘About there.’

  Wyatt looked at the map blankly and his heart sank. Julie would not be there, so far down in the Negrito. The party had gone along the coast road. He said, ‘Was this an old woman?—A young woman?—What colour hair?—How tall?’

  The soldier blinked at him stupidly, and Dawson cut in, ‘Wait a minute, Dave. This guy’s beat, he can hardly stand up.’ He pushed a bottle into the man’s hand. ‘Have a snort of that, buster; it’ll wake you up.’

  As the man drank from the neck of the rum bottle Dawson looked at the map. ‘If this guy has come from where he says he has, he’s come a hell of a long way in double-quick time.’

  ‘It can’t be Julie,’ said Wyatt in a depressed voice. ‘That note she left in the Imperiale said they were going up the coast road.’

  ‘Maybe they didn’t,’ said Dawson. ‘Maybe they couldn’t. There was a war going on at the time, remember.’ He stared at the map. ‘And if they did go to where they said, they’d get mixed up with Rocambeau’s army when it retreated. If Rawsthorne had any sense he’d move them out of there fast. Look, Dave; if they travelled in a straight line over the hills they could get into the Negrito. It would be one hell of a tough trip, but it could be done.’

  Wyatt turned again to the man and questioned him again but it was no use. He had not seen the woman himself, he did not know her age or her colouring or anything more about her than that an American woman had been seen up the Negrito. And Wyatt knew that this meant nothing, not even that she was American; to these people all whites were American.

  He said drearily, ‘It could be anybody, but I can’t take a chance. I’m going up there.’

  ‘Hey!’ said Dawson in alarm, and made a grab at him but could not get a grip because of his ruined hands. Wyatt threw him off and began to run for the road.

  Manning came up behind and said, ‘What’s the matter?’

  Dawson choked. ‘All hell’s going to break loose in half an hour and that obstinate guy is taking off for the Negrito—he thinks his girl’s up there.’

  ‘The Marlowe girl?’

  Dawson looked after Wyatt. ‘That’s the one. I’ll be seeing you—someone’s got to look after that crazy idiot.’

  He began to run after Wyatt, and Manning began to run too. They caught up with him and Manning said, ‘I’m a fool, but I think I can get you up there faster. Follow me.’

  That brought Wyatt up short. He stared at Manning, then followed, as Manning led the way back to a place further along the ridge where there was a low stone structure. ‘This is where I’ve been hiding during the hurricane,’ said Manning. ‘I’ve got my Land-Rover inside; you can take it.’

  Wyatt went inside and Dawson said, ‘What is this thing?’

  ‘An old gun casemate—perhaps three hundred years old. It was part of the harbour fortifications in the old days. Favel wouldn’t come in here—he said he wouldn’t have better protection than his men. But I had Fuller to look after.’

  They heard the engine roar as Wyatt started up and the Land-Rover backed out. Dawson jumped in, and Wyatt said, ‘There’s no need for you to come.’

  Dawson grinned. ‘I’m a goddam lunatic, too. I’ve got to look after you—see you safely back to the nuthouse.’

  Wyatt shrugged and rammed the gear-lever home. Manning shouted, ‘Try not to bend it; it belongs to me, not the corporation.’ He waved as the Land-Rover lurched past him, its wheels slipping in the mud, and he looked after it with a thoughtful expression. Then he went back to headquarters because Favel would need him.

  When they got on to the road the going was easier, and Dawson said, ‘Where exactly are we going?’

  The Land-Rover bounced as Wyatt pressed on the accelerator. ‘We go as high up overlooking the Negrito as we can,’ he said. ‘To where the road turns off to go down to the coast and St Michel.’ That was where he and Julie had admired the view and drunk weak Planter’s Punch. ‘I hope the bridges are all right.’

  Dawson tried to wedge himself in as the Land-Rover swung recklessly round a corner. ‘How far is it?’

  ‘We ought to get there in half an hour if we can keep moving fast. Favel said the road was blocked by fallen trees but he was having it cleared.’

  They began to climb and Dawson looked over to the left. ‘Look at that goddam river. It’s like a sea—the whole valley is under water.’

  Wyatt concentrated on the road. ‘That’ll be salt water, or very brackish. It won’t do the agriculture any good.’ He did not even give it a glance; all his attention was on his driving. He was going too fast for this road with all its bends and climbing turns, and he tended to swing wide at the corners. It was unlikely there would be anything coming the other way but the chance was there. It was a chance he was prepared to take for the sake of speed.

  Dawson twisted and looked back anxiously at the sea. It was too far away for him to see the waves but he caught a glimpse of the distant horizon before the Land-Rover slid round the next corner. It was boiling with clouds—great black masses of them splintered with lightning. He looked sideways at Wyatt’s set face and then up at the wet road coiling and climbing along the southern slopes of the Negrito Valley. This was going to be a near thing.

  The plantations on each side were ruined, the soft banana plants hammered flat into a pulpy mass on the ground by the blast. The few plants left standing waved shredded leaves like forlorn battle flags, but it was doubtful if they would survive the next few hours. The sugar-cane was tougher; the stiff canes still stood upright, rattling together in the rising wind, but the verdant green top leaves had been stripped away completely and the plants would die.

  They turned another corner and came upon men marching stolidly up the road. Wyatt swerved to avoid running them down, lost speed and cursed as he had to change gear. The soldiers waved as they passed and Dawson waved back. He hoped they found shelter soon—this was no time to be on an open road.

  Then they came to the first bridge spanning a watercourse which was normally dry but which now gushed water, a spouting torrent that filled the narrow gash in the hillside and streamed under the bridge to hurl itself in a waterfall down the almost sheer drop on the other side of the road. There were men standing by the bridge who looked up in amazement as the Land-Rover came up and Wyatt made a gesture with his arm to indicate he was going to cross. A sergeant shrugged and waved him forward and Wyatt drove slowly on to the bridge.

  Dawson looked over the side and held his breath. He thought he could feel a vibration as the fast-moving water slapped at the underside of the bridge and he hoped fervently that it had not been weakened. There was a sheer drop down there of over a hundred feet and he had never had a head for heights.
He closed his eyes and opened them a few seconds later when he heard Wyatt change gear to find the bridge was behind and they were continuing the long climb.

  Every minute or so Wyatt flicked his eyes to the sky. The clouds were thickening as the southern edge of the hurricane drew closer. The few remaining banana plants still standing streamed their tattered leaves and he knew the big winds were not far away. He said, ‘We’ll probably get to the top just in time.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Then we take shelter below the crest of the ridge. We should have company—Favel pushed a regiment up there.’

  ‘That seems goddam stupid to me,’ commented Dawson. ‘What good can it do?’

  ‘It’s a matter of organization. The people down in the valley don’t have it—they’re undisciplined and fragmented, and they’ll be worse after the hurricane. If Favel can get a disciplined group among them as soon as the wind dies he can save a lot of lives. Ever heard of disaster shock?’

  ‘I can’t say I have.’

  ‘When a disaster hits a community the survivors come out in a state of shock. They’re absolutely helpless. It’s not merely a question of not wanting to help themselves—they’re not capable of it. They just sit around, absolutely numb, while hundreds of them die for lack of minimal attention—things as elementary as putting a blanket over an injured man just don’t get done even if the blanket’s there. It’s a sort of mass catalepsy.’

  ‘That sounds bad.’

  ‘It is bad. It happens in war, too, in cases of heavy bombing or shelling. The rescue organizations like the Red Cross or the special alpine teams they have in Switzerland know that the only thing to do is to get people in from the outside as fast as possible.’