Bagley, Desmond - Wyatts Hurricane

by Wyatts Hurricane

  I

  Causton grunted. "It seems to me there's something wrong with your theory. What about this wiggly one?"

  "lone? I was talking about her only yesterday. It's true she wriggled like a snake, but if you smooth her course you'll see that she fits the theoretical pattern. But we still don't know exactly what makes a hurricane change course sharply like that. I have an idea it may be because it's influenced in some way by a high-altitude jet stream, but that's difficult to tie in because a hurricane is very shallow -- it doesn't extend more than a few thousand feet up. That's why contact with land destroys it -- it will batter itself to death against a ridge, but it does a lot of damage in the process."

  Julie looked at the lines crawling across the chart. "They're like big animals, aren't they? You'd swear that lone wanted to destroy Cape Hatteras, then turned away because she didn't like the land."

  "I wish they were intelligent," said Wyatt. "Then we might have a bit of luck in predicting what they're going to do next."

  Causton had his notebook out. "Next thing -- what causes hurricanes?"

  Wyatt leaned back in his chair. "You need a warm sea and still air, and you will find those conditions in the doldrums in the late summer. The warm air rises, heavy and humid, full of water vapour. Its place is taken by air rushing in from the sides, and, because of the earth's rotation, this moving air is given a twist so that the whole system begins to revolve."

  He sketched it on a scrap pad. "The warm air that is rising meets cooler air and releases its water vapour in the form of rain. Now, it has taken a lot of energy for the air to have lifted that water vapour in the first place, and this energy is now released as heat. This increases the rate of ascent of the air -- the whole thing becomes a kind of vicious circle. More water is released and thus more heat, and the whole thing goes faster and faster and becomes much bigger. As much as a million tons of air may be rising each second."

  He drew arrows on the scrap pad, spiralling inwards. "Because the wind system is revolving, centrifugal force tends to throw the air outwards, and so the pressure in the centre becomes very low, thus forming the eye of the hurricane. But the pressure on the outside is very high and something must give somewhere. So the wind moves faster .and faster in an attempt to fill that low pressure area, but the faster it moves the more the centrifugal force throws it outwards. And so we have these very fast circular winds and a fully fledged hurricane is 'born."

  He drew another arrow, this one moving in a straight line. "Once established, the hurricane begins to move forward, like a spinning top that moves along the ground. This brings it in contact with more warm sea and air and the process becomes self-sustaining. A hurricane is a vast heat engine, the biggest and most powerful dynamic system on earth." He nodded to the chart on the wall. "Mabel, there, has more power in her than a thousand hydrogen bombs."

  "You sound as though you've fallen in love with hurricanes," said Julie softly.

  "Nonsense!" Wyatt said sharply. "I hate them. All West Indians hate them ."

  "Have you had a hurricane here -- in San Fernandez?" asked Causton.

  "Not in my time," said Wyatt. "The last one to hit San Fernandez was in 1910. It flattened St. Pierre and killed 6,000 people."

  "One hurricane in nearly sixty years," mused Causton. "Tell me -- I ask out of personal interest -- what is the likelihood of your friend Mabel coming this way?"

  Wyatt smiled. "It could happen, but it's not very likely."

  "Um," said Causton. He looked at the wall chart. "Still, I'd say that Serrurier is a much more destructive force than any of your hurricanes. At the last count he's caused the death of more than 20,000 people on this island. A hurricane might be pleasanter if it could get rid of him."

  "Possibly," said Wyatt. "But that's out of my province. I'm strictly non-political." He began to talk again about his work until he saw their interest was flagging and they were becoming bored with his technicalities, and then he suggested they' adjourn for lunch.

  They lunched in the Officers' Mess, where Hansen, who was to join them, was late and apologetic. "Sorry, folks, but I've been busy." He sat down and said to Wyatt, "Someone's got a case of jitters -- all unserviceable aircraft to be made ready for flight on the double. They fixed up my Connie pretty fast;

  I did the ground tests this morning and I'll be taking her up this afternoon to test that new engine." He groaned in mock pain. "And I was looking forward to a week's rest."

  Causton was interested. "Is it anything serious?"

  Hansen shrugged. "I wouldn't say so -- Brooksie isn't the nervous type."

  "Brooksie?"

  "Commodore Brooks -- Base Commander."

  Wyatt turned to Julie and said in a low voice, "What are you doing for the rest of the day?"

  "Nothing much -- why?"

  "I'm tired of office work," he said. "What about our going over to St. Michel? You used to like that little beach we found, and it's a good day for swimming."

  "That sounds a good idea," she agreed. "I'd like that."

  "We'll leave after lunch."

  "How's Mabel?" asked Hansen across the table.

  "Nothing to report," said Wyatt. "She's behaving herself. She just missed Grenada as predicted. She's speeded up a bit, though; Schelling wasn't too happy about that."

  "Not with the prediction he made." Hansen nodded "Still, he'll have covered himself -- you can trust him for that."

  Causton dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. "To change the subject -- have any of you heard of a man called Favel?"

  "Julio Favel?" said Hansen blankly. "Sure -- he's dead."

  "Is he now!"

  "Serrurier's men caught up with him in the hills last year. There was a running battle -- Favel wasn't going to be taken alive -- and he was killed. It was in the local papers at the time." He quirked an eyebrow at Causton. "What's the interest?''

  "The rumour is going about that Favel is still alive," said Causton. "I heard it this morning."

  Hansen looked at Wyatt, and Wyatt said, "That explains Serrurier's nightmare last night." Causton lifted his eyebrows, and Wyatt said, "There was a lot of troop movement in the town last night."

  "So I saw," said Causton. "Who was Favel?"

  "Come off it," said Wyatt. "You're a newspaperman -- you know as well as I do."

  Causton grinned. "I like to get other people's views," he said without a trace of apology. "The objective view, you know; as a scientist you should appreciate that."

  Julie said in bewilderment, "Who was this Favel?"

  Causton said, "A thorn in the side of Serrurier. Serrurier, being the head of government, calls him a bandit; Favel preferred to call himself a patriot. I think the balance is probably on Pavel's side. He was hiding in the hills doing quite a bit of damage to Serrurier before he was reported killed. Since then there has been nothing -- until now."

  "I don't believe he's alive," said Hansen. "We'd have heard about it before now."

  "He might have been intelligent enough to capitalize on the report of his death -- to lie low and accumulate strength unworried by Serrurier."

  "Or he might have been ill," said Wyatt.

  "True," said Causton. "That might be it." He turned to Hansen. "What do you think?"

  "All I know is what I read in the newspapers," said Hansen. "And my French isn't too good -- not the kind of French these people write." He leaned forward. "Look, Mr. Causton ; we're under military discipline here at Cap Sarrat, and the orders are not to interfere in local affairs -- not even to appear interested. If we don't keep our noses clean we're in trouble. If we survive Serrurier's strong-arm boys, then Commodore Brooks takes our hides off. There have been a few cases, you know, mostly among the enlisted men, and they've got shipped back to the States with a big black demerit to spend a year or two in the stockade. I was going to tell you this last night when that guy Dawson busted in."

  "I'm sorry," said Causton. "I apologize. I didn't realize the difficulties you people must have h
ere."

  "That's all right," said Hansen. "You weren't to know. But I might as well tell you that one thing that is specifically discouraged is talking too freely to visiting newsmen."

  "Nobody likes us," said Causton plaintively.

  "Sure," said Hansen. "Everyone has something to hide -- but our reasons are different. We're trying to avoid stirring up any trouble. You know as well as I do -- where you find a newsman you find trouble."

  "I rather think it's the other way round," said Causton gently.. "Where you find trouble you find a newsman -- the trouble comes first." He changed the subject abruptly. "Speaking of Dawson, I find that he's staying at the Imperiale. When Miss Marlowe and I left this morning he was nursing a hangover and breakfasting lightly off one raw egg and the juice of a whisky bottle."

  Wyatt said, "You're not really on holiday, are you, Causton?"

  Causton sighed. "My boss thinks I am. Coming here was a bit of private enterprise on my part. I heard rumours and rumours of rumours. For instance, arms traffic to this part of the world has been running high lately. The stuff hasn't been going to Cuba or South America as far as I can find out, but it's being absorbed somewhere. I put it to my boss, but he didn't agree with my reasoning, or, as he put it, my non-reasoning. However, I have great faith in myself so I took a busman's holiday and here I am."

  "And have you found what you're looking for?"

  "You know, I really fear I have."

  II

  Wyatt drove slowly through the suburbs of St. Pierre, hampered by the throngs in the streets. The usual half-naked small boys diced with death before the wheels of his car, shrieking with laughter as he blew his horn ; the bullock carts and sagging trucks created their usual traffic jams, and the chatter of the crowds was deafening -- the situation was normal and Wyatt relaxed as he got out of the town and was able to increase speed.

  The road to St. Michel wound up from St. Pierre through the lush Negrito Valley, bordered with banana, pineapple and sugar plantations and overlooked by the frowning heights of the Massif des Saints. "It seems that last night's disturbance was a false alarm," said Wyatt. "In spite of what Causton said this morning."

  "I don't know if I really like Causton, after all," said Julie pensively. "Newspaper reporters remind me of vultures, somehow."

  "I have a fellow feeling for him," said Wyatt. "He makes a living out of disaster -- so do I."

  She was shocked. "It's not the same at all. At least you are trying to minimize disaster."

  "So is he, according to his lights. I've read some of his stuff and it's very good; full of compassion at the damn' silliness of the human race. I think he was truly sorry to find out he was right about the situation here -- if he is right, of course. I hope to God he isn't."

  She made an impatient movement with her shoulders. "Let's forget about him, shall we? Let's forget about him and Serrurier and -- what's-his-name -- Favel."

  He slowed to avoid a wandering bullock cart loaded with rocks and jerked his head back at the armed soldier by the road. "It's not so easy to forget Serrurier with that sort of thing going on."

  Julie looked back. "What is it?"

  "The corve -- forced labour on the roads. All the peasants must do it. It's a hangover from pre-revolutionary France which Serrurier makes pay most handsomely It has never stopped on San Fernandez." He nodded to the side of the road. "It's the same with these plantations; they were once owned by foreign companies -- American and French mostly. Serrurier nationalized the lot by expropriation when he came to power. He runs them as his own private preserve with convict labour -- and it doesn't take much to become a convict on this island, so he's never short of workers. They're becoming run down now."

  She said in a low voice, "How can you bear to live here -- in the middle of all this unhpppiness?"

  "My work is here, Julie. What I do here helps to save lives all over the Caribbean and in America, and this is the best place to do it. I can't do anything about Serrurier; if I tried I'd be killed, gaoled or deported and that would do no one any good. So, like Hansen and everyone else, I stick close to the Base and concentrate on my own job."

  He paused to negotiate a bad bend. "Not that I like it, of course."

  "So you wouldn't consider moving out -- say, to a research job in the States?"

  "I'm doing my best work here," said Wyatt. "Besides, I'm a West Indian -- this is my home, poor as it is."

  He drove for several miles and at last pulled off the road on to the verge. "Remember this?"

  "I couldn't forget it," she said, and left the car to look at , the panorama spread before her. In the distance was the sea, a gleaming plate of beaten silver. Immediately below were the winding loops of the dusty road they had just ascended and bet ween the road and the sea was the magnificent Negrito Valley leading down to Santego Bay with Cap Sarrat on the far side and St. Pierre, a miniature city, nestling in the curve of the bay.

  Wyatt did not look at the view -- he found Julie a more satisfying sight as she stood on the edge of the precipitous drop with the trade wind blowing her skirt and moulding the dress to her body. She pointed across the valley to where the sun reflected from falling water. "What's that?"

  "La Cascade de 1'Argent -- it's on the P'tit Negrito." He walked across and joined her. "The P'tit Negrito joins the Gran' Negrito down in the valley. You can't see the confluence from here."

  She took a deep breath. "It's one of the most wonderful sights I've ever seen. I wondered if you'd show it to me again."

  "Always willing to oblige," he said. "Is this why you came back to San Fernandez?"

  She laughed uncertainly. "One of the reasons."

  He nodded. "It's a good reason. I hope the others are as good."

  Her voice was muffled because she had dropped her head. "I hope so, too."

  "Aren't you sure?"

  She lifted her head and looked him straight in the eye. "No, Dave, I'm not sure. I'm not sure at all."

  He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her to him. "A pity," he said, and kissed her. She came, unresisting, into his arms and her lips parted under his. He felt her arms go about him, drawing him closer, until at last she broke away.

  "I don't know about that," she said. "I'm still not sure -- but I'm not sure about being not sure."

  He said, "How would you like to live here -- on San Fernandez?"

  Julie looked at him warily. "Is that a proposition?"

  "I suppose you could call it a proposal," Wyatt said, rubbing the side of his jaw. "I couldn't go on living at the Base, not with you giving up the exotic life of an air hostess, so we'd have to find a house. How would you like to live somewhere up here?"

  "Oh, Dave, I'd like that very much," she cried, and they were both incoherent for a considerable time.

  After a while Wyatt said, "I don't understand why you were so standoffish; you clung on to Causton like a blood brother last night."

  "Damn you, Dave Wyatt," Julie retorted. "I was scared. I was chasing a man and women aren't supposed to do that. I got cold feet at the last minute and was frightened of making a fool of myself."

  "So you did come here to see me?"

  She ruffled his hair. "You don't see much in people, do you, Dave? You're so wrapped up in your hurricanes and formulas. Of course I came to see you." She picked up his hand and examined the fingers one by one. "I've been out with lots of guys and sometimes I've wondered if this time it was the one -- women do think that way, you know. And every time you got in the way of my thinking, so I knew I had to come back to straighten it out. I had to have you in my heart altogether or I had to get you out of my system completely -- if I could. And you kept writing those deadpan letters of yours which made me want to scream."

  He grinned. "I was never very good at writing passion. But I see I've been properly caught by a designing woman, so let's celebrate." He walked over to the car. "I filled a Thermos with your favourite tipple -- Planter's Punch. I departed from the strict formula in the interests of sobriety and t
he time of day -- this has less rum and more lime. It's quite refreshing."

  They sat overlooking the Negrito and sampled the punch. Julie said, "I don't know much about you, Dave. You said last night that you were born in St. Kitts -- Where's that?"

  Wyatt waved. "An island over to the south-east. It's really St. Christopher, but it's been called St. Kitts for the last four hundred years. Christophe, the Black Emperor of Haiti, took his name from St. Kitts -- he was a runaway slave. It's quite a place."

  "Has your family always lived there?"

  "We weren't aborigines, you know, but there have been Wyatts on St. Kitts since the early sixteen hundreds. They were planters, fishermen -- sometimes pirates, so I'm told -- a motley crowd." He sipped the punch. "I'm the last Wyatt of St Kitts."

  "That's a shame. What happened?"

  "A hurricane in the middle of the last century nearly did for the island. Three-quarters of the Wyatts were killed; in fact, three-quarters of the population were wiped out. Then came the period of depression in the Caribbean -- competition from Brazilian coffee. East African sugar and so on, and the few Wyatts that were left moved out. My parents hung on until just after I was born, then they moved down to Grenada where I grew up."

  "Where's Grenada?"

  "South along the chain of islands, north of Trinidad. Just north of Grenada are the Grenadines, a string of little islands which are as close to a tropical paradise as you'll find in the Caribbean. Ill take you down there some day. We lived on one of those until I was ten. Then I went to England."

  "Your parents sent you to school there, then?"

  He shook his head. "No, they were killed. There was another hurricane. I went to live with an aunt in England; she brought me up and saw to my schooling."

  Julie said gently, "Is that why you hate hurricanes?"

  "I suppose it is. We've got to get down to controlling the damn' things some time, and I thought I'd do my bit. We can't do much yet beyond organizing early warning systems and so on, but the time will come when we'll be able to stop a hurricane in its tracks, powerful though it is. There's quite a bit of work being done on that." He smiled at her. "Now you know all about David Wyatt."