Wyatt's Hurricane

I

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 cathode-ray 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 town 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 uncertainties. 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?’

Eumenides was silent. He did not see what they could do. If they tried to get away capture would be almost certain, but if they stayed, then daylight would give them away. Julie said, ‘Are any of the soldiers near?’

Eumenides pointed. ‘Maybe two ’undred feet. You speak loud — they ’ear.’

‘Thank goodness we found this hollow,’ said Julie. ‘You’d better get into your hole, Eumenides. Cover yourself with banana leaves. We’ll wait for Mr Rawsthorne.’

‘I’m frightened,’ said Mrs Warmington in a small voice from out of the darkness.

‘You think I’m not?’ whispered Julie. ‘Now keep quiet.’

‘But they’ll kill us,’ wailed Mrs Warmington in a louder voice. ‘They’ll rape us, then kill us.’

‘For God’s sake, keep quiet,’ said Julie as fiercely as she could in a whisper. ‘They’ll hear you.’

Mrs Warmington gave a low moan and lapsed into silence. Julie lay in the bottom of her foxhole and waited for Rawsthorne, wondering how long he would be, and what they could possibly do when he came back.

Rawsthorne was in difficulties. Having crossed the service road, he was finding it hard to recross it; there was a constant stream of traffic in both directions, the trucks roaring along one after the other with blazing headlights so that he could not cross without being seen. And it had taken him a long time to find the road at all. In his astonishment at finding himself in the middle of an army he had lost his way, stumbling about in the leaf-dappled darkness between the rows of plants and fleeing in terror from one group of soldiers, only to find another barring his way.

By the time he had calmed down he was a long way from the road and it took him nearly an hour and a half to get back to it, harried as he was by the dread of discovery. He had no illusions of what would happen to him if discovered. Serrurier’s propaganda had been good; he had deceived these men and twisted their minds, and then trained and drilled them into an army. To them all blancs were Americans and Americans were bogeymen in the mythology Serrurier had built up — there would be a weird equation in which white man equals Americans equals spy, and he would be shot on the spot.

So he trod cautiously as he threaded his way among the banana plants. Once he had to remain motionless for a full half hour while a group of soldiers conversed idly on the other side of the plant under which he was hiding. He pressed himself against the broad leaves and prayed that one of them would not think to walk round the tree, and he was lucky.

When he was able to go on his way again he thought of what the men had been saying. The troops were tired and dispirited; they complained of the inefficiency of their officers and spoke in awe of the power of Favel’s artillery. One recurring theme had been: where are our guns? No one had been able to answer. But the news was that the army was regrouping under General Rocambeau and they were going in to attack St Pierre when the night was over. Although a lot of their military supplies had been captured by Favel, Rocambeau’s withdrawing force had managed to empty San Juan arsenal and there was enough ammunition to make the attack. The men’s voices lifted when they spoke of Rocambeau and they seemed to have renewed hope.

At last he found the road and waited in the shadows for a gap in the stream of traffic, but none came. He looked desperately at his watch — dawn was not far away and he would have to cross the road before then. At last, seeing no hope in a diminution of the traffic, he moved along the edge of the road until he found a curve. Here he might have a chance of crossing undetected by headlights. He waited until a truck went by, then ran across and hurled himself down on the other side. The lights of the next truck coming round the bend swept over him as he lay there winded.

There was light in the eastern sky when at last he located the approximate direction of the hollow in which the others were concealed. He moved along warily, thinking that this sort of thing might be all right for younger men like Wyatt and Causton, but might prove the death of an elderly man like himself.

Julie roused herself from her foxhole as the light grew in the sky. She sat up cautiously, lifting the huge green leaves, and looked about, wondering where Rawsthorne was. No one had come near the hollow and it seemed as though they might yet evade capture if they kept hidden and silent. But first she had to look about to see from which direction danger was most likely to threaten.

She whispered to Eumenides, ‘I’m going to the edge of the hollow.’

There was a stir in the banana leaves. ‘All ri’.’

‘Don’t leave me,’ Mrs Warmington pleaded, sitting up. ‘Please don’t go away — I’m frightened.’

‘Ssssh. I’m not going far — just a few yards. Stay here and be quiet.’

She crawled away among the plants and found a place from which she could survey the plantation. In the dim morning light she could see the movement of men and heard a low hum of voices. The nearest group was a mere fifty yards away but the men were all asleep, huddled shapes lying round the dying embers of a fire.

She had come away to check on their camouflage in the light of day and before it was too late, so she looked back down into the hollow to see that the newly turned earth looked dreadfully raw, but it was nothing that could not be disguised by a few more leaves. The holes themselves were quite invisible or would be if that damned woman would keep still.

Mrs Warmington was sitting up and looking about nervously, still clutching her purse to her breast. ‘Get down, you fool,’ breathed Julie, but to her astonishment Mrs Warmington opened her purse, produced a comb and began to comb her hair. She’ll never learn, thought Julie in despair; she’s quite unadaptable and habit-ridden. To attend to one’s coiffure in the morning was, no doubt, quite laudable in suburbia, but it might mean death on this green hillside.

She was about to slip back and thrust the woman back into her foxhole, by force if necessary, when she was arrested by a movement on the other side of the hollow. A soldier was coming down, stretching his arms as he walked as though he had just risen from sleep, and adjusting the sling of his rifle to his shoulder. Julie stayed very still and her eyes switched to Mrs Warmington, who was regarding herself in a small mirror. She distinctly heard the deprecating and very feminine sound which Mrs Warmington made as she discovered how bedraggled she was.

The soldier heard it too and unslung his rifle and came down into the hollow very cautiously. Mrs Warmington heard the metallic click as he slammed back the bolt, and she screamed as she saw him coming towards her, scrabbling at her purse. The soldier stopped in astonishment and then a broad grin spread over his face and he came closer, putting up his rifle.

Then there were three flat reports that echoed on the hot morning air. The soldier shouted and spun round to flop at Mrs Warmington’s feet, writhing like a newly landed fish. Blood stained his uniform red at the shoulder.

Eumenides popped up from his hole like a jack-in-a-box as Julie started to run. When she got down to the bottom of the hollow he was bending over the fallen soldier, who was moaning incoherently. He regarded his bloody hand blankly. ‘He was shot!’

‘He was coming at me,’ screamed Mrs Warmington. ‘He was going to rape me — kill me.’ She waved a pistol in her hand.

Julie let her have it, putting all her strength into the muscular open-handed slap. She was desperate — at all costs she must silence this hysterical woman. Mrs Warmington was suddenly silent and the gun dropped from her nerveless fingers to be caught by Eumenides. His eyes opened wide as he looked at it. ‘This is mine,’ he said in astonishment.

Julie whirled as she heard a shout from behind and saw three soldiers running down the slope. The first one saw the prone figure on the ground and the pistol in Eumenides’s hand and wasted no time in argument. He brought up his gun and shot the Greek in the stomach.

Eumenides groaned and doubled up, his hands at his belly. He dropped to his knees and bent forward and the soldier lifted his rifle and bayoneted him in the back. Eumenides collapsed completely and the soldier put his boot on him and pulled out the bayonet, to stab and stab again until the body lay in a welter of blood.

Rawsthorne, watching from the edge of the hollow, was sickened to his stomach but was unable to tear his eyes away. He listened to the shouting and watched the women being pushed about. One of the soldiers was ruthlessly pricking them with a bayonet and he saw the red blood running down Julie’s arm. He thought they were going to be shot out of hand but then an officer came along and the two women were hustled out of the hollow, leaving behind the lifeless body of Eumenides Papegaikos.

Rawsthorne lingered for some minutes, held in a state of shock before his brain began to work again. At last he moved away, crawling on his belly. But he did not really know where he was going nor what he was going to do next.

III

Wyatt discovered that Favel was a hard man to find. With Dawson, he had been handed over to a junior officer who was too preoccupied with the immediate tactical situation to pay much attention to him. In order to rid himself of an incubus, the officer had passed them up the line, escorted by a single private soldier who was depressed at being taken out of the battle. Dawson looked at him, and said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with the morale of these boys.’

‘They’re winning,’ said Wyatt shortly. He was obsessed by the urgency of getting to see Favel, but he could see it was not going to be easy. The war had split into two separate battles to the west and east of St Pierre. Favel’s hammer blow in the centre had split Serrurier’s army into two unequal halves, the larger part withdrawing to the east in a fighting retreat, and a smaller fragment fleeing in disorder to the west to join the as yet unbloodied troops keeping a watch on Cap Sarrat.

A more senior officer laughed in their faces when Wyatt demanded to see Favel. ‘You want to see Favel,’ he said incredulously. ‘Blanc, I want to see him — everyone wants to see him. He is on the move all the time; he is a busy man.’

‘Will he be coming here?’ asked Wyatt.

The officer grunted. ‘Not if I can help it. He comes only when there is trouble, and I don’t want to be the cause of his coming. But he might come,’ he prophesied. ‘We are moving against Rocambeau.’

‘Can we stay here?’

‘You’re welcome as long as you keep out of the way.’

So they stayed in battalion headquarters and Wyatt relayed to Dawson the substance of what he had learned. Dawson said, ‘I don’t think you have a hope in hell of seeing him. Would you be bothered by a nutty scientist at a time like this?’

‘I don’t suppose I would,’ said Wyatt despondently.

He listened carefully to all that was going on about him and began to piece together the military situation as it stood. The name of Serrurier was hardly mentioned, but the name of Rocambeau was on everyone’s lips.

‘Who the hell is this Rocambeau?’ demanded Dawson.

‘He was one of the junior Government generals,’ said Wyatt. ‘He took over when old Deruelles was killed and proved to be trickier than Favel thought. Favel was relying on finishing the war in one bash but Rocambeau got the Government army out of the net in a successful disengaging action. He’s withdrawn to the east and is regrouping for another attack, and the devil of it is that he managed to scrape together enough transport to empty San Juan arsenal. He’s got enough ammunition and spare weapons to finish the war in a way Favel doesn’t like.’

‘Can’t Favel move in and finish him before he’s ready? Sort of catch him off balance?’

Wyatt shook his head. ‘Favel has just about shot his bolt. He’s been fighting continuously against heavy odds. He’s fought his way down from the mountains and his men are dropping on their feet with weariness. He also has to stop for resting and regrouping.’

‘So what happens now?’

Wyatt grimaced. ‘Favel stops in St Pierre — he hasn’t the strength to push further. So he’ll fight his defensive battle in St Pierre, and along will come Mabel and wipe out the lot of them. Neither army will have a chance on this low ground round Santego Bay. No one is going to win this war.’

Dawson looked at Wyatt out of the corner of his eye. ‘Maybe we’d better get out,’ he suggested. ‘We could go up the Negrito.’

‘After I’ve seen Favel,’ said Wyatt steadily.

‘Okay,’ said Dawson with a sigh. ‘We’ll stick around and see Favel — maybe.’ He paused. ‘Where exactly is Rocambeau regrouping?’

‘Just off the coast road to the east — about five miles out of town.’

‘Holy smoke!’ exclaimed Dawson. ‘Isn’t that where Rawsthorne and the others went?’

‘I’ve been trying not to think of that,’ said Wyatt tightly.

Dawson felt depressed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said abjectly. ‘About pulling that stupid trick with the car. If I hadn’t done that we wouldn’t have got separated.’

Wyatt looked at him curiously. Something had happened to Dawson; this was not the man he had met in the Maraca Club — the big, important writer — nor was it the grouchy man in the cell who had told him to go to hell. He said carefully, ‘I asked you about that before and you bit my ear off.’

Dawson looked up. ‘You want to know why I tried to take your car? I’ll tell you. I ran scared — Big Jim Dawson ran scared.’

‘That’s what I was wondering about,’ said Wyatt thoughtfully. ‘It doesn’t fit with what I’ve heard about you.’

Dawson laughed sourly and there was not a trace of humour about him. ‘What you’ve heard about me is a lot of balls,’ he said bluntly. ‘I scare easy.’

Wyatt looked at Dawson’s hands. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘It’s a funny thing,’ said Dawson. ‘When I came slap-bang against Roseau and knew I couldn’t talk my way out of it, I ought to have got scared then, but I got mad instead. That’s never happened to me before. As for my reputation, that’s a fake, a put-up job — and it was so easy, too. You go to Africa and shoot a poor goddam lion, everyone thinks you’re a hero; you pull a fish out of the sea a bit bigger than the usual fish, you’re a hero again. I used those things like a bludgeon and I built up Big Jim Dawson — what the Chinese call a paper tiger. And it’s wonderful what an unscrupulous press agent can do, too.’

‘But why?’ asked Wyatt helplessly. ‘You’re a good writer — all the critics say so; you don’t need artificial buttresses.’

‘What the critics think and what I think are two different things.’ Dawson looked at the point of his dusty shoe. ‘Whenever I sit at a typewriter looking at that blank sheet of paper I get a sinking feeling in my guts; and when I’ve filled up a whole lot of sheets and made a book the sinking feeling gets worse. I’ve never written anything yet that I’ve liked — I’ve never been able to put on paper what I really wanted to. So every time a book came out I was scared it would be a flop and I had to have some support so it would sell, and that’s why Big Jim Dawson was invented.’

‘You’ve been trying to do an impossible thing — achieve perfection.’

Dawson grinned. ‘I’ll still try,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But it won’t matter any more. I think I’ve got over being scared.’

Many hours later Wyatt was shaken into wakefulness. He had not been aware of falling asleep, and as he struggled into consciousness he was aware of cramped limbs and aching joints. He opened his eyes, to be blinded by a flashlight and he blinked painfully. A voice said, ‘Are you Wyatt, or is it the other chap?’

‘I’m Wyatt,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’ He threw off the blanket which someone had thoughtfully laid over him and stared at the big bearded man who was looking down at him.

‘I’m Fuller. I’ve been looking all over St Pierre for you. Favel wants to see you.’

‘Favel wants to see me! How does he even know I exist?’

‘That’s another story; come on.’

Wyatt creaked to his feet and looked through the doorway. The first faint light of dawn was breaking through and he saw the outline of a jeep in the street and heard the idling engine. He turned and said, ‘Fuller? You’re the Englishman — one of them — who lives on the North Coast, in the Campo de las Perlas.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You and Manning.’

‘You’ve got it,’ said Fuller impatiently. ‘Come on. We’ve got no time for chit-chat.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’ll wake Dawson.’

‘We’ve got no time for that,’ said Fuller. ‘He can stay here.’

Wyatt turned and stared at him. ‘Look, this man was beaten up by Serrurier’s bully-boys because of you — you and Manning. We were both within an ace of being shot for the same reason. He’s coming with me.’

Fuller had the grace to be abashed. ‘Oh! Well, make it snappy.’

Wyatt woke Dawson and explained the situation rapidly, and Dawson scrambled to his feet. ‘But how the hell does he know about you?’ was his first question.

‘Fuller will no doubt explain that on the way,’ said Wyatt. The tone of his voice indicated that Fuller had better do some explaining.

They climbed into the jeep and set off. Fuller said, ‘Favel has established headquarters at the Imperiale — it’s nice and central.’

‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Dawson. ‘We needn’t have moved an inch. We were there this... last... afternoon.’

‘The government buildings took a battering during the bombardment,’ said Fuller. ‘They won’t be ready for occupation for quite a while.’

Dawson said feelingly, ‘You don’t have to tell us anything about that — we were there.’

‘So I’m told,’ said Fuller. ‘Sorry about that.’

Wyatt had been looking at the sky and sniffing the air. It was curiously hot considering it was so early in the morning, and the day promised to be a scorcher. He frowned and said, ‘Why has Favel sent for me?’

‘An English newspaperman came in with a very curious story — something about a hurricane. A lot of nonsense really. Still, Favel was impressed enough to send search-parties out looking for you as soon as we settled in the city. You are the weather boffin, aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ said Wyatt with no expression in his voice.

‘So Causton came through all right,’ said Dawson. ‘That’s good.’

Fuller chuckled. ‘He served a term in the Government army first. He told us that you’d landed in the jug — the one on Libération Place. That wasn’t encouraging because we plastered the Place pretty thoroughly, but there weren’t any white bodies in the police station so there was a chance you’d got away. I’ve been looking for you all night — Favel insisted, and when he insists, things get done.’

Wyatt said, ‘When does the war start again?’

‘As soon as Rocambeau decides to make his push,’ said Fuller. ‘We’re fighting a defensive action — we’re not strong enough to do anything else right now.’

‘What about the Government troops to the west?’

‘They’re still grouped around Cap Sarrat. Serrurier is still afraid the Yanks will come out and stab him in the back.’

‘Will they?’

Fuller snorted. ‘Not a chance. This is a local fight and the Yanks want none of it. I think they’d prefer Favel to Serrurier — who wouldn’t? — but they won’t interfere. Thank God Serrurier has a different opinion.’

Wyatt wondered where Fuller came into all this. He spoke as one who was high in the rebel hierarchy and he was definitely close to Favel. But he did not ask any questions about it — he had more important things on his mind. The best thing was that Favel wanted to see him and he began to marshal his arguments once again.

Fuller pulled up the jeep outside the Imperiale and they all climbed out. There was a great coming and going and Wyatt noticed that the revolving door had been taken away to facilitate passage in and out of the hotel. He chalked up another mark to Favel for efficiency and attention to minor detail. He followed Fuller inside to find that the hotel had been transformed; the foyer had been cleared and the American Bar had a new role as a map room. Fuller said, ‘Wait here; I’ll tell the boss you’ve arrived.’

He went off and Dawson said, ‘This is how I like to view a war — from the blunt end.’

‘You might change your mind when Rocambeau attacks.’

‘That’s very likely,’ said Dawson. ‘But I refuse to be depressed.’

There was a cry from the stairs and they saw Causton hurrying down. ‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘Glad you got out of the cooler.’

Wyatt smiled wryly. ‘We were blown out.’

‘Don’t believe it,’ said Dawson. ‘Wyatt did a great job — he got us both out.’ He peered at Causton. ‘What’s that on your face — boot-polish?’

‘That’s right,’ said Causton. ‘Can’t get rid of the damn’ stuff. I suppose you’d like to clean up and put on some fresh clothing.’

‘Where’s Julie — and Rawsthorne?’ asked Wyatt.

Causton looked grave. ‘We got separated quite early. The plan was to head east.’

‘They went east,’ said Wyatt. ‘Now they’re mixed up with Rocambeau’s army.’

There was nothing anyone could say further about that and, after a pause, Causton said, ‘You’d better both take the chance of cleaning up. Favel won’t see you yet — he’s in the middle of a planning conference, trying to get a quart out of a pint pot.’

He took them up to his room and provided welcome hot water and soap. One glance at Dawson’s hands produced a doctor, who hustled Dawson away, and then Causton found a clean shirt for Wyatt and said, ‘You can use my dry shaver.’

Wyatt sat on the bed and shaved, already beginning to feel much better. He said, ‘How did you get separated from the others?’

Causton told him, then said, ‘I got to Favel in the end and managed to convince him you were important.’ He scratched his head. ‘Either he didn’t need much convincing, or my powers of persuasion are a lot better than I thought — but he got the point very quickly. He’s quite a boy.’

‘Hurricanes excepted — do you think he’s got a chance of coming on top in this war?’

Causton smiled wryly. ‘That’s an unanswerable question. The Government army is far stronger, and so far he’s won by surprise and sheer intelligence. He plans for every contingency and the groundwork for this attack was laid months ago.’ He chuckled. ‘You know that the main force of the Government artillery never came into action at all. The guns got tangled in a hell of a mess not far up the Negrito and Favel came down and captured the lot. I thought it was luck, but I know now that Favel never depends on luck. The whole damn’ thing was planned — Favel had suborned Lescuyer, the Government artillery commander; Lescuyer issued conflicting orders and had two columns of artillery meeting head-on on the same road, then he ducked for cover. By the time Deruelles had sorted that lot out it was all over, and Deruelles himself was dead.’

‘That must have been when Rocambeau took over,’ said Wyatt.

Causton nodded. ‘That was a pity. Rocambeau is a bloody efficient commander — far better than Deruelles could ever be. He got the Government army out of the trap. God knows what will happen now.’

‘Didn’t the Government armour cause Favel any trouble when he came out on the plain?’

Causton grinned. ‘Not much. He sorted out the captured artillery in quick time, ruthlessly junking the stuff that was in the way. Then he formed it into six mobile columns and went gunning for Serrurier’s armour. The minute a tank or an armoured car showed its nose, up would come a dozen guns and blast hell out of it. He had the whole thing taped right from the start — the Government generals were dancing to his tune until Rocambeau took over. Like when he blasted the 3rd Regiment in the Place de la Libération Noire — he had artillery observers already in the city equipped with walkie-talkies, and they caught the 3rd Regiment just when they were forming up.’

‘I know,’ said Wyatt soberly. ‘I saw the result of that.’

Causton’s grin widened. ‘He disposed of Serrurier’s comic opera air force in the same tricky efficient fashion. The planes started flying and bombing all right, but when each plane had flown three attacks they found they’d come to the end of the ready-use petrol, so they broke open the reserve tanks on the airfield. The lot was doctored with sugar — there’s plenty of that on San Fernandez — and now all the planes are grounded with sticky engines.’

‘He certainly gets full marks for effort,’ said Wyatt. ‘Where do Manning and Fuller come into all this?’

‘I haven’t got to the bottom of that yet. I think they had something to do with getting his war supplies. Favel certainly knew what he wanted — rifles, machine-guns and mobile artillery, consisting of a hell of a lot of mountain guns and mortars, together with bags of ammunition. It must have cost somebody a packet and I haven’t been able to find out who financed all this.’

‘Manning and Fuller were in the right place,’ said Wyatt slowly. ‘And the police seemed to think they had a lot to do with Favel. They beat Dawson half to death trying to find out more.’

‘I saw his hands,’ said Causton. ‘What did he tell them?’

‘What could he tell them? He just stuck it out.’

‘I’m surprised,’ said Causton. ‘He has the reputation among us press boys of being a phoney. We know that the air crash he had in Alaska a couple of years ago was a put-up job to boost the sales of his latest book. It was planned by Don Wiseman and executed by a stunt pilot.’

‘Who is Don Wiseman?’

‘Dawson’s press agent. I always thought that every view we’ve had of Dawson was through Wiseman’s magnifying glass.’

Wyatt said gently, ‘I think you can regard Wiseman as being Dawson’s former press agent.’

Causton lifted his eyebrows. ‘It’s like that, is it?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with Dawson,’ said Wyatt, stroking his clean-shaven cheek. He put down the dry-shaver. ‘When do I get to see Favel?’

Causton shrugged. ‘When he’s ready. He’s planning a war, you know, and right now he may be on the losing end. I think he’s running out of tricks; his preliminary planning was good but it only stretches so far. Now he faces a slugging match with Rocambeau and he’s not in trim for it. He’s got five thousand men against the Government’s fifteen thousand, and if he tries a war of attrition he’s done for. He may have to retreat back to the mountains.’

Wyatt buttoned his shirt. ‘He’ll have to make up his mind quickly,’ he said grimly. ‘Mabel won’t wait for him.’

Causton sat in silence for a moment, then he said, almost pleadingly, ‘Have you anything concrete to offer him, apart from this hunch of yours?’

Wyatt stepped to the window and looked up at the hot blue sky. ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘If I were back at the Base with my instruments I might have been able to come to some logical conclusions, but without instruments...’ He shrugged.

Causton looked despondent, and Wyatt said, ‘This is hurricane weather, you know. This calm sultriness isn’t natural — something has stopped the normal flow of the south-east wind, and my guess is that it’s Mabel.’ He nodded towards the sea. ‘She’s somewhere over there beyond the horizon. I can’t prove for certain that she’s coming this way, but I certainly think so.’

Causton said, ‘There’s a barometer downstairs; would that be any good?’ He sounded half-heartedly hopeful.

‘I’ll have a look at it,’ said Wyatt. ‘But I don’t think it will be.’

They went downstairs into the hurly-burly of the army headquarters and Causton showed him the barometer on the wall of the manager’s office. Wyatt looked at it in astonishment. ‘Good God, a Torricelli barometer — what a relic!’ He tapped it gently. ‘It must be a hundred years old.’ Looking closely at the dial, he said, ‘No, not quite; “Adameus Copenhans — Amsterdam — 1872.” ’

‘Is it any good?’ asked Causton.

Wyatt was briefly amused. ‘This is like handing a pickaxe to a nuclear physicist and telling him to split some atoms.’ He tapped the dial again and the needle quivered. ‘This thing tells us what is happening now, and that’s not very important. What I’d like to know is what happened over the last twenty-four hours. I’d give a lot to have an aneroid barograph with a recording over the last three days.’

‘Then this is useless?’

‘I’m afraid so. It will probably give a wrong reading anyway. I can’t see anyone having taken the trouble to correct this for temperature, latitude and so on.’

Causton waxed sarcastic. ‘The trouble with you boffins is that you’ve developed your instruments to such a pitch that now you can’t do without them. What did you weathermen do before you had your satellites and all your electronic gadgets?’

Wyatt said softly, ‘Relied on experience and instinct — which is what I’m doing now. When you’ve studied a lot of hurricanes — as many as I have — you begin to develop a sixth sense which tells you what they’re likely to do next. Nothing shows on your instruments and it isn’t anything that can be analysed. I prefer to call it the voice of experience.’

‘I still believe you,’ said Causton plaintively. ‘But the point is: can we convince Favel?’

‘That isn’t worrying me,’ said Wyatt. ‘What is worrying me is what Favel will do when he is convinced. He’s in a cleft stick.’

‘Let’s see if he’s finished his conference,’ said Causton. ‘As a journalist, I’m interested to see what he does do.’ He mopped his brow. ‘You know, you’re right; this weather is unnatural.’

Favel was still not free and they waited in the foyer watching the comings and goings of messengers from the hotel dining-room where the conference was being held. At last Fuller came out and beckoned. ‘You’re next,’ he said. ‘Make it as snappy as you can.’ He looked at Wyatt with honest blue eyes. ‘Personally, I think this is a waste of time. We don’t have hurricanes here.’

‘Serrurier told me the same thing in almost the same words,’ said Wyatt. ‘He isn’t a meteorologist, either.’

Fuller snorted. ‘Well, come on; let’s get it over with.’

He escorted them into the dining-room. The tables had been put together and were covered with maps and a group of men were conversing in low voices at the far end of the room. It reminded Wyatt irresistibly of the large ornate room in which Serrurier had been holding his pre-battle conference, but there was a subtle difference. There was no gold braid and there was no hysteria.

Causton touched his elbow. ‘That’s Manning,’ he said, nodding to a tall white man. ‘And that’s Favel next to him.’

Favel was a lean, wiry man of less than average height. He was lighter in complexion than the average San Fernandan and his eyes were, strikingly and incongruously, a piercing blue — something very unusual in a man of Negro stock. He was simply dressed in clean khaki denims with an open-necked shirt, out of which rose the strong corded column of his neck. As he turned to greet Wyatt the crow’s-feet round his eyes crinkled and the corners of his mobile mouth quirked in a smile. ‘Ah, Mr Wyatt,’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you. I want to hear what you have to say but — from what Mr Causton tells me — I fear I won’t like it.’ His English was smooth and unaccented.

‘There’s going to be a hurricane,’ said Wyatt baldly.

Favel’s expression did not change. He looked on Wyatt with a half-humorous curve to his lips, and said, ‘Indeed!’

The tall white man — Manning — said, ‘That’s a pretty stiff statement, Wyatt. There hasn’t been a hurricane here since 1910.’

‘And I’m getting pretty tired of hearing the fact,’ said Wyatt wearily. ‘Is there some magic about the year 1910? Do hurricanes come at hundred-year intervals, and can we expect the next in 2010?’

Favel said softly, ‘If not in 2010, when may we expect this hurricane?’

‘Within twenty-four hours,’ said Wyatt bluntly. ‘I wouldn’t put it at longer than that.’

Manning made a noise with his lips expressive of disgust, but Favel held up his hand. ‘Charles, I know you don’t want anything to interfere with our war, but I think we ought to hear what Mr Wyatt has to say. It might have a considerable bearing on our future course of action.’ He leaned comfortably against the table and pointed a brown finger directly at Wyatt. ‘Now, then; give me your evidence.’

Wyatt drew in a deep breath. He had to convince this slim brown man whose eyes had suddenly turned flinty. ‘The hurricane was spotted five days ago by one of the weather satellites. Four days ago I went to inspect it on one of the usual reconnaissance missions and found it was a bad one, one of the worst I’ve ever encountered. I kept a check on its course, and up to the time I left the Base it was going according to prediction. Since then I haven’t had the opportunity for further tracking.’

‘The predicted course,’ said Favel. ‘Does that bring the hurricane to San Fernandez?’

‘No,’ admitted Wyatt. ‘But it wouldn’t take much of a swing off course to hit us, and hurricanes do swerve for quite unpredictable reasons.’

‘Did you inform Commodore Brooks of this?’ asked Manning harshly.

‘I did.’

‘Well, he hasn’t put much stock in your story. He’s still sitting there across the bay at Cap Sarrat and he doesn’t look like moving.’

Wyatt said carefully, looking at Favel, ‘Commodore Brooks is not his own master. He has other things to take into account, especially this war you’re fighting. He’s taking a calculated risk.’

Favel nodded. ‘Just so. I appreciate Commodore Brooks’s position — he would not want to abandon Cap Sarrat Base at a time like this.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘I would not want him to abandon the Base, either. He is keeping President Serrurier occupied by his masterly inactivity.’

‘That’s beside the point,’ said Manning abruptly. ‘If he was as certain about this hurricane as Wyatt apparently is, he would surely evacuate the Base.’

Favel leaned forward. ‘Are you certain about this hurricane, Mr Wyatt?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though you have been kept from your instruments and so do not have full knowledge?’

‘Yes,’ said Wyatt. He looked Favel in the eye. ‘There was a man up near St Michel — two days ago, just before the battles started. He was tying down the roof of his hut.’

Favel nodded. ‘I, too, saw a man doing that. I wondered...’

‘For God’s sake!’ exploded Manning. ‘This isn’t a meeting of a folklore society. The decisions we have to make are too big to be based on anything but facts.’

‘Hush, Charles,’ said Favel. ‘I am a West Indian, and so is Mr Wyatt. Like is calling to like.’ He saw the expression on Wyatt’s face and burst out laughing. ‘Oh yes, I know all about you; I have a dossier on every foreigner on the island.’ He became serious. ‘Did you talk to him — this man who was tying down the roof of his hut?’

‘Yes.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said the big wind was coming. He said he was going to finish securing the roof of his house and then he was going to join his family in a cave in the hills. He said the big wind would come in two days.’

‘How did that coincide with your own knowledge of the hurricane?’

‘It coincided exactly,’ said Wyatt.

Favel turned to Manning. ‘That man has gone to his cave where he will pray to an old half-forgotten god — older, even, than those my people brought from West Africa. Hunraken, the Carib storm god.’

Manning looked at him blankly and Favel murmured, ‘No matter.’ He turned back to Wyatt and said, ‘I have a great belief in the instincts of my people for survival. Perhaps—’ he wagged a lean, brown finger — ‘and only perhaps, there will be a hurricane, after all. Let us assume there will be a hurricane — what will be the probable result if it hits us, here in St Pierre?’

‘Mabel is a particularly bad...’ began Wyatt.

‘Mabel?’ Favel laughed shortly. ‘You scientists have lost the instinct for drama. Hunraken is the better name.’ He waved his hand. ‘But go on.’

Wyatt started again. ‘She’ll hit from the south and come into Santego Bay; the bay is shallow and the sea will build up. You’ll have what is popularly known as a tidal wave.’

Favel snapped his fingers. ‘A map. Let us see what it looks like on a map.’

A large-scale map was spread on one of the tables and they gathered round. Causton had watched with interest the interplay between Favel and Wyatt and he drew closer. Manning, in spite of his disbelief, was fascinated by the broad outline of tragedy which Wyatt had just sketched, and watched with as much interest as anyone. The less intellectual Fuller stood by with a half smile; to him this was just a lot of boffin’s bumf — everyone knew they didn’t have hurricanes in San Fernandez.

Favel laid his hand on the map, squarely in the middle of Santego Bay. ‘This tidal wave — how high will be the water?’

‘I’m no hydrographer — that’s not my line,’ said Wyatt. ‘But I can give you an informed guess. The low central pressure in the hurricane will pull the sea up to, say, twenty to twenty-five feet above normal level. When that hits the mouth of the bay and shallow ground it will build up. The level will also rise because of the constriction — you’ll have more and more water confined in less and less space as the wave moves into the bay.’ He hesitated, then said firmly, ‘You can reckon on a main wave fifty feet high.’

Someone’s breath hissed out in a gasp. Favel handed a black crayon to Wyatt. ‘Disregarding the high winds, will you outline the areas likely to be affected by flooding.’

Wyatt stood over the map, the crayon poised in his hand. ‘The wind will be driving the sea, too,’ he said. ‘You’ll get serious flooding anywhere below the seventy-foot contour line all around the bay. To be safe, I’d put it at the eighty-foot line.’ He dropped his hand and drew a bold sinuous line across the map. ‘Everything on the seaward side of this line you can say will be subject to serious flooding.’

He paused and then tapped the map at the head of Santego Bay. ‘The Rio Negrito will back up because of the force of the waters coming into the mouth. All that water will have to go somewhere, and you can expect serious flooding up the Negrito Valley for, say, ten miles. The hurricane will also precipitate a lot of water in the form of rain.’

Favel studied the map and nodded. ‘Just like before,’ he said. ‘Have you studied the 1910 hurricane, Mr Wyatt?’

‘Briefly. There’s a shortage of statistics on it, though; not too much reliable information.’

Favel said mildly, ‘Six thousand dead; I consider that a very interesting statistic’ He turned to Manning. ‘Look at that line, Charles! It encloses the whole of Cap Sarrat, all the flats where the airfield is and right up to the foot of Mont Rambeau, the whole of the city of St Pierre and the plain up to the beginning of the Negrito. All that will be drowned.’

‘If Wyatt is right,’ emphasized Manning.

Favel inclined his head. ‘Granted.’ His eyes became abstracted and he stood a while in deep thought. Presently he turned to Wyatt. ‘The man near St Michel — did he say anything else?’

Wyatt racked his brains. ‘Not much. Oh, he did say there would be another wind, perhaps worse than the hurricane. He said that Favel was coming down from the mountains.’

Favel smiled sadly. ‘Do my people think of me as a destructive force? I hardly think I am worse than a hurricane.’ He swung on Manning. ‘I am going to proceed as though this hurricane were an established fact. I can do nothing else. We will plan accordingly.’

‘Julio, we’re fighting a war!’ said Manning in an agonized voice. ‘You can’t take the chance.’

‘I must,’ said Favel. ‘These are my people, Charles. There are sixty thousand of them in this city, and this city may be destroyed.’

‘Jesus!’ said Manning and glared at Wyatt. ‘Julio, we can’t fight Rocambeau, Serrurier and a hurricane, too. I don’t think there is going to be a hurricane and I won’t believe it until Brooks moves out. How the hell can we lay out a disposition of troops under these conditions?’

Favel put a hand on his arm. ‘Have you ever known me make an error of judgement, Charles?’

Manning gave an exasperated sigh, and it was as though he had yelled out loud in his fury. ‘Not yet,’ he said tightly. ‘But there’s a first time for everything. And I’ve always had a feeling about you, Julio — when you do make a mistake, it’ll be a bloody big one.’

‘In that case we’ll all be dead and it won’t matter,’ said Favel drily. He turned to Wyatt. ‘Is there anything you can do to provide any proof?’

‘I’d like to have a look at the sea,’ said Wyatt.

Favel blinked, taken by surprise for the first time. ‘That is a small matter and easily provided for. Charles, I want you to see that Mr Wyatt has everything he needs; I want you to look after him personally.’ He looked at the writhing black line scored on the map. ‘I have a great deal of thinking to do about this. I would like to be alone.’

‘All right,’ said Manning resignedly. He jerked his head at Wyatt and strode towards the door. Wyatt and Causton followed him into the foyer, where Manning turned on Wyatt violently. He grasped him by the shirt, bunching it up in his big hand, and said furiously, ‘You bloody egghead! You’ve balled things up properly, haven’t you?’

‘Take your damned hands off me,’ said Wyatt coldly.

Manning was perhaps warned by the glint of fire in Wyatt’s eye. He released him and said, ‘All right; but I’ll give you a warning.’ He stuck a finger under Wyatt’s nose. ‘If there is no hurricane after all you’ve said, Favel will let the matter drop — but I won’t. And I promise you that you’ll be a very dead meteorologist before another twenty-four hours have passed.’

He drew back and gave Wyatt a look of cold contempt. ‘Favel says I’ve got to nurse you; there’s my car outside — I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go.’ He turned on his heel and walked away.

Causton looked after him. ‘You’d better be right, Wyatt,’ he murmured. ‘You’d better be very right. If Mabel doesn’t turn up on time I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes.’

Wyatt was pale. He said, ‘Are you coming?’

‘I wouldn’t miss any of this for the world.’

Manning was silent as he drove them down to the docks past the looted arsenal of San Juan and on to the long jetty. ‘Will this do?’

‘I’d like to go to the end,’ said Wyatt. ‘If it’s safe for the car.’

Manning drove forward slowly and stopped the car within a few yards of the end of the jetty. Wyatt got out and stood looking at the oily swells as they surged in from the mouth of the bay and the open seas. Causton mopped his brow and said to Manning, ‘God, it’s hot. Is it usually as hot as this so early in the morning?’

Manning did not answer his question. Instead, he jerked his head towards Wyatt. ‘How reliable is he?’

‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Causton. ‘I’ve only known him four days. But I’ll tell you one thing — he’s the stubbornest cuss I’ve ever struck.’

Manning blew out his breath, but said nothing more.

Wyatt came back after a few minutes and climbed into the car. ‘Well?’ asked Manning.

Wyatt bit his lip. ‘There’s a strong disturbance out there big enough to kick up heavy swells. That’s all I can tell you.’

‘For the love of God!’ exclaimed Manning. ‘Nothing more?’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Wyatt with a crooked smile. ‘You’ll get your wind.’ He looked up at the sky. ‘Wherever I am, I want to be told of the first sign of cloud or haze.’

‘All right,’ said Manning, and put the car into reverse. He was just about to let out the clutch when a heavy explosion reverberated across the water and he jerked his head. ‘What the devil was that?’

There came another boom even as the first echoed from the hills at the back of St Pierre and Causton said excitedly, ‘Something’s happening at the Base. Look!’

They had a clear view across the four miles of water of Santego Bay which separated them from the Base. A column of black smoke was coiling lazily into the air and Wyatt knew that it must be tremendous to be seen at that distance. He had a sudden intuition and said, ‘Brooks is evacuating. He’s getting rid of his surplus ammunition so that Serrurier can’t grab it.’

Manning looked at him, startled, and then a big grin broke out on his face as, one after the other, more explosions came in measured sequence. ‘By God!’ he roared. ‘There is going to be a hurricane.’