I wish I could tell you I spent a glorious hour down on the coral reef in company with the inquisitive turtles, reef sharks, and Napoleon wrasse. But it wasn’t like that. I was once more in the monochrome battleship-grey world of the instrument pilot, keeping myself orientated, concentrating intensely on Saskia, and watching out for the unpredictable.
For her part, she seemed to forget her troubles – whatever they were – and she was content to explore the flora on the sea bed and commune with whatever marine life had come out to play. I stayed on edge, keeping an eye on her, counting the minutes, even looking out for big predators that might be lurking just beyond the grey curtain of invisibility. I have a lively imagination. After about half an hour I coaxed her off the sea bed and we conducted a controlled ascent with a stop every ten feet. Coming up too quickly is like taking a bottle of tonic out of the fridge, shaking it, and opening it. All the carbon dioxide comes out of solution and bubbles over. It’s the same with us, except the bubbles are nitrogen.
Another ten feet up and pause. I wonder why whales don’t get the bends. They dive to great depths, apparently with impunity. Mind you, there’s a theory that beached whales have actually got the bends. People hug whales on the shingle, pour salt water over them and try to coax them back into the ocean. They don’t comply, it’s said, because they are disorientated, but maybe it’s because they’re ill. They’re a bit like Saskia. You try to persuade them to undergo a therapy and they tell you to bugger off out of sheer bloody-mindedness.
Another ten feet up. Bit unfair to liken Saskia to a beached whale.
Enough, already. Time to return to the storm.
I took off my oxygen tank at the water’s edge and helped Saskia’s with hers, then hurried her back into the shelter of the bach. I went back and retrieved the tanks before they blew away. By the time I’d got back Saskia was dried, and back in her shorts and shirt. I proffered her the oxygen mask again.
‘Do I have to?’
‘Doctor’s orders. You might as well get the benefit of it and use it all up. We might scavenge the dive tanks as well.’
‘Does that mean we’re not going for another dive?’
‘Not today. Now then, what facilities does this accommodation have to offer?’
‘Phone’s down, electricity’s down. Everybody in their right mind has left.’
‘Any food in the larder?’
‘Yep. Kitchen’s quite well stocked.’
We breakfasted, improbably, on root beer and bagels.
‘How’s the arm?’
She flexed it experimentally. ‘Better.’
‘Good.’
Now all we had to do was sit out a storm. Saskia was content to spend most of the day with her nose buried in a book. She was reading Jon Krakauer’s Into Thin Air, all about the 1996 Everest disaster. Maybe she was planning her next extreme-weather event. Occasionally she would pop into the kitchen and fetch me another root beer, and we would cautiously exchange segments of our life histories to pass the time. I learned that she had had a fairly harum-scarum childhood, if in a high-class way, wandering between continents and stepmothers. She had a younger sister, Tamsin, who was the favourite of another stepmother and who went to school in Cheltenham. I must remember to ask Caitlin if she knew her. Saskia was off to Oxford next autumn. Which college? Magdalen. What was she going to read? Schools? Greats? PPE.
Perhaps she would inherit the Fox empire, but somehow I didn’t think so. I had a sense her life’s ambition was to put as much space between herself and her father as possible. I asked her, perhaps a little mischievously, if she fancied staying in the White House, but she gave me a murderous look.
When darkness fell again the wind really got up and I realised that what we had suffered thus far was merely akin to a balmy summer’s breeze. In the centre of the bach was a basement with a trapdoor dug into the ground. A kind of hurricane room. It would be our last bolt-hole. I moved a couple of straw palliasses down, and some food and drink.
Saskia had one last nasty surprise for me. Having sorted our snug in the hurricane room I came back up to find that she had disappeared.
I opened the door on to the beach. It snatched itself away from my hand, tore itself off its hinges, hurtled crazily along the beach, and vanished. I had stepped out into a 120 mile-an-hour typhoon. There was a dark shadow in the water, thigh-deep. I gritted my teeth, put my head down, and battled against the gale. If I could just reach that shadow … I grabbed her and hauled her out of the water. There was a brief glimpse of palm trees bent almost to the ground. Then, by a miracle, the wind threw us both back up the sloping white sand and through the aperture that had been the bach door. I pulled open the trapdoor of our dungeon and yelled at her, ‘Saskia get down!’
She stared back at me. I think she was trying to figure out whether I was just one of her father’s lieutenants, or whether she could trust me.
‘Please.’
‘’kay.’
She dropped down into the bolt-hole. I followed, pulled the trapdoor over our heads, and bolted it secure.
III
The rest of the retrieval pretty well went to plan. We spent an uncomfortable night in our dungeon but got some sleep, and in the morning I opened up the trapdoor and looked up into a clear blue sky. There wasn’t much left of the bach. Most of it had flown west. It was an eerily quiet morning. But for all the detritus on the beach, you might never have known a storm had passed through. Saskia and I stayed on the root-beer diet and waited patiently for the cavalry, which turned up mid-morning. Same ute, same driver, same co-pilot. He’d managed to find hangar space at the airport and thankfully the hangar, and the Commodore 200, had survived unscathed. After all the islanders had been through in recent years, they seemed pretty blasé about Cyclone Saskia. Storm in a teacup.
We loaded up the ute and got out. I never did discover the nature of Saskia’s lodging arrangement on the north-east shore of Espiritu Santo. Whose place was it? Had she rented it? When I asked, she merely shrugged and said that Daddy would sort it out. That was her trouble. She couldn’t really cut the umbilical cord. She might run to the farthest corner of the earth and disappear into a maelstrom, but when she got into trouble, Daddy would sort it out. She was in a bind, and that was why she was so screwed up.
We flew back to Auckland under 20,000 feet to keep the cabin pressure up and I got Saskia to suck on the oxygen cylinders all the way. I was able to talk to Trans-Global on the r/t and we organised for an ambulance to meet us at the airport and make the short transit from the Manukau across the isthmus that is Auckland City, and over the Waitemata to the naval base at Devonport. I scribbled out a referral letter for the paramedics. They could take Saskia on the last leg. She was perfectly stable, and I would say goodbye to her when she left the plane. It crossed my mind to stay the course and go to Devonport with her. After all, I had an evening appointment. But I’d left my stuff in the Travel Lodge at Ihumatao.
So it was. At Auckland, the ambulance had come airside on to the apron and we were able to transfer her with minimum fuss. A customs officer came on board to check our passports and that was that. I thanked the pilots, shook hands, and followed the customs officer into the international terminal, back along the long corridors, duty-free (didn’t buy), and out into the concourse.
‘Whoa! Strangeways! Now just hold fast there, young fella.’
It was Fox, with the usual retinue, looking macho and belligerent in a checked cowboy shirt and a pair of blue jeans. I noticed again in the background the man I’d taken to be Fox’s bodyguard, the tall fair-haired individual with the head shaped like a bullet. He looked European to me. Probably German. He was unobtrusively surveying the concourse meeters and greeters, looking out for potential assassins for all I knew. Fox stepped right into my personal space. The blue eyes were cold and watchful.
‘Where’s my daughter?’
‘She’s in an ambulance down on the apron. She’s fine. You can catch up with her at the Devonport Naval B
ase. Thanks for the use of your aeroplane. Would you excuse me?’
‘Just hold it there.’ He started jabbing a rigid finger into my chest. It was the index finger of his left hand. I thought, when he gets angry or upset, he forgets to keep his left hand under control. ‘I sent you on a mission. Guess you’ve never been in the military, pal. Guess you’ve never heard of a thing called debrief. Well I’m expecting that debrief, and I’m expecting it now. I want to know, first up, why you took so long. You were told to make a fast turn-around. I wanna know why you hung around, put my daughter’s life at risk, put my pilots in jeopardy, not to mention a ten-million-dollar aircraft.’
‘I suggest you ask your daughter. You can’t miss the naval base. Come off the Devonport ferry and turn left and walk west along the harbour side as far as you can go. You’ll come to a checkpoint. I suggest you try politeness and the navy might let you in.’
I thought he was going to swing a punch at me. I almost wished he would. He was looking me over, trying to figure me out.
‘I don’t think you get the picture. I don’t think you know who you’re talking to. You want trouble with your Medical Council, you got it.’
‘On the contrary Mr Fox, the General Medical Council will back me to the hilt. It’s you who don’t get the picture. What you’re asking is out of the question. There’s an issue of confidentiality. You didn’t send me on a mission. I don’t work for you. I told you. You want information, I suggest you ask Saskia. Goodbye.’
He stepped back out of my personal space and looked me up and down.
‘You’ve crossed a line.’
‘Step aside.’
‘You’re finished, pal.’ Then I thought I saw the punch coming. But his left arm merely flailed out in an involuntary Nazi salute.
If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s a bully. Sometimes I think of making it my life’s work to go out of my way to track them down and torment them.
SIKORSKY’S AT
MIDNIGHT, ZULU
I
Sunday 17 April. 08.00.
26 hours to go.
I’d been dreaming about Nikki, beautiful, lithesome Nikki with the slim waist and the toned quads and shapely calves under the tight-fitting blue jeans; even the limp had assumed a beguiling and inexplicable quality of blatant sex appeal. Imagine piloting an aircraft blind through dense cloud and then landing her, on six and a bit hours’ experience, and walking away unscathed. Then you slip on the grass and twist your ankle. It’s not the scaling of Everest that’s the difficult bit. It’s the coming back down.
All the way up to Vanuatu, all throughout my enforced stopover at Espiritu Santo, and all the way back, my thoughts kept returning to her. That picture the papers got of us, in the bar on the wharf in downtown Auckland – it has to be put in context. There are few experiences more intoxicating than that of walking into a crowded room with a woman who looks a million dollars. If heads turned, they certainly weren’t looking at me. I concealed my confusion for a moment behind a menu printed in ornate uncial and the size of a desktop blotter. She’d said, ‘This is my shout. I owe you. Big-time. I think we should start with bubbles.’ She ordered a bottle of Krug. That she should take control of the evening amused me. She got the barman to leave the bottle with us in its ice bucket and poured the drinks herself, grasping the bottle in one hand by its scalloped base. She passed me a brimming flute and held hers up to me.
‘Cheers.’
‘Slàinte.’
‘Do you suppose this is okay? I mean, is it disrespectful, considering Mr Flanagan …’
‘I think he would have wanted you to dance all night.’
‘Not with this ankle. Why are you a doctor?’
‘I was persuaded by an episode of Emergency Ward Ten when one of the docs stepped into a linen cupboard with one of the nurses.’
‘Emergency Ward Ten? Was that on the wireless?’
‘Cheeky bastard. Why are you a soldier?’
‘Because it’s my life’s work to rid the world of land mines.’
‘I thought the army sowed the mines.’
‘I’m learning my craft. Short-term commission. It’s better to be inside the tent, pissing out, than outside the tent, pissing in.’
‘That’s a very scary image, coming from a woman. You’ve clearly spent too much time in male company.’
‘I prefer male company. I can’t stand all that bitching.’
‘Men can bitch too. After a fashion.’
‘Yes, but at least it’s in your face.’
‘Anyway, you look dazzling.’
‘Thank you. Let’s get the awkward bit out of the way, then we can relax.’
‘Excuse me?’
She leaned forward, put an arm round my neck, and kissed me on the lips. I suppose a camera must have flashed, but I didn’t notice.
* * *
There was a white-gloved naval rating on duty at the gatehouse to the Devonport Naval Base. I introduced myself. He asked for ID. He took my passport, examined it carefully, and handed it back. ‘This way, sir.’ I passed through into the anonymous world of monochrome battleship grey. Down at the wharf, snug behind the substantial bulk of a New Zealand naval frigate, The Captain Cook lay quietly at anchor. I recognised her elegant lines from my internet search. I was directed on to the gangway and ascended to the ship’s deck. I was amused to be piped aboard. I felt like Hornblower.
‘Phoo-ooo-weeee!’
I was taken immediately below deck into a low-ceilinged anteroom. There were about fifty guests, a combination of military people and mostly middle-aged men in lounge suits accompanied by their wives. The local great and the good, I supposed. The service people looked very smart in dress uniform. A few kilts served as a reminder of the nature of the occasion. In the cramped confines, the hubbub was terrific. A silver salver of drinks materialised. Fluted champagne, Chardonnay, orange juice, or whisky. I chose the squat chunky glass with its puddle of rich gold. Might as well get into the spirit of the thing. A west highland single malt, peaty. I took a sip. Bowmore. Good Scotch whisky costs a packet in New Zealand, so clearly no expense had been spared. I made myself anonymous in the general crowd, took a wander across to the entrance to the ward room, and familiarised myself with the seating plan. It was only when I identified my table that I began to realise how ‘high’ this occasion was going to be. I quickly memorised the names.
Baroness Margaret Rowallan; Governor-General Sir Godfrey Takerei; Lady Takerei; Sir Christopher Hotchkiss; Mr Jonathan Braithwaite; Major General Iain Civil; Major M. Forster; Dr Alastair Cameron-Strange; Captain Nicola Hodgson; Rear Admiral Sir Miles (‘Otto’) Mattick (First Sea Lord); Air Vice-Marshal Johnnie (‘Kipper’) Herring; Chief Superintendent Harry Golightly; Chief Inspector Ronnie Slack; Lord Chief Justice Forteviot Dunning; Archbishop (Lord Spiritual) Percy Mogadishu.
What on earth were all these people doing here?
‘Ladies and Gentlemen, dinner is served!’ In here, under the low ceiling, the skirl of the pipes was deafening. The double doors to the ward room were thrown open. The members of the company began to move through.
I hate Burns suppers. Don’t mistake me. I’m very fond of the Bard’s poetry. It’s the Burns industry I can’t stand. I think of it as part of a triumvirate of west of Scotland reactionary intransigence comprising Freemasonry, the Old Firm, and Tam o’Shanter. And expatriate ‘Burnsism’ is worst of all. I caught sight of Alec MacAuslan, a ferocious orthopod from Middlemore, and we both raised our eyes to the ceiling and grinned hysterically at one another. I started to make my way through, when a young lady laid a hand on my sleeve and said, ‘Stand by, sir. I think you need to muster here and process through last. You’re top table.’
‘Oh.’
A select group of august individuals remained in the reception anteroom as the last of the other guests disappeared into the inner sanctum. We sniffed around one another and cautiously exchanged identities. It was still too early for the alcohol to have broken the ice. I sp
otted a tall, fair-haired officer with a familiar profile. Major Forster swung round and grinned broadly.
‘Doctor!’ He gave me a searching, interested look. ‘You fronted up.’
‘Here I am.’
There was a commotion, a mini tornado, and a small, rotund, and permanently irascible senior military figure marauded through the group, counting.
‘… Five, six, seven, eight … It’s like trying to herd a flock of cats. Where’s the GG? Using the piss-pot? Best wait. No show without punch.’
Major Forster said, ‘Major General Iain Civil, this is Dr Alastair Cameron-Strange.’
‘At least you’re on time.’ Civil shook my hand ungraciously. His handshake was surprisingly limp. His mouth twitched behind the Lloyd-George moustache. ‘Who does that leave? Bloody women! They’d be late for their own hanging. Ah! Here’s Himself. Let’s get on. Major, put the doctor somewhere in the middle. Otherwise he’ll look like a spare prick.’ The stately procession entered the ward room and headed for the top table to a slow handclap. I processed alone. Halfway down, the murderous, brutal scourge of the pipes was taken up.
There were half a dozen substantial circular tables littered about the dining room, heavily bedecked in white linen. Each place had its battery of burnished silver cutlery and shining crystal arranged with military precision, and the table’s heart was lavishly decorated with flowers. Ahead, the droning piper swaggered between the tables and came to a halt. We broke ranks and circled the table, looking for place names. I identified my tiny enfolded card. The piper had taken his position behind us, tapping a brogued foot to the strain of a jig. He was in full Highland regalia. The tartan, including the dark green, blue-black plaid of the pipes’ windbag, was Black Watch. At this close proximity, the skirling cacophony was overwhelming. Abruptly, the music came to a halt.
The Seven Trials of Cameron-Strange Page 10