Десмонд Бэгли - Wyatt's Hurricane

‘If I thought it would work I’d do it,’ said Wyatt grimly. ‘But Schelling would see through it; he may be stupid but he’s not a damn’ fool and he knows his job from that angle. It can’t be done that way.’

‘Then what are you going to do?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know.’

He dropped Julie at the Imperiale and headed back to the Base at top speed. He saw many soldiers in the streets of St Pierre but the fact did not impinge on his consciousness because he was busy thinking out a way to handle Schelling. When he arrived at the main gate of the Base he had still not thought of a way.

He was stopped at the gateway by a marine in full battle kit who gestured with a submachine-gun. ‘Out, buddy!’

‘What the devil’s going on?’

The marine’s lips tightened. ‘I said, “out”.’

Wyatt opened the door and got out of the car, noticing that the marine backed away from him. He looked up and saw that the towers by the gateway were fully manned and that the ugly snouts of machine-guns covered his car.

The marine said, ‘Who are you, buster?’

‘I’m in the Meteorological Section,’ said Wyatt. ‘What damned nonsense is all this?’

‘Prove it,’ said the marine flatly. He lifted the gun sharply as Wyatt made to put his hand to his breast pocket. ‘Whatever you’re pulling out, do it real slow.’

Slowly Wyatt pulled out his wallet and offered it. ‘You’ll find identification inside.’

The marine made no attempt to come closer. ‘Throw it down.’

Wyatt tossed the wallet to the ground, and the marine said, ‘Now back off.’ Wyatt slowly backed away and the marine stepped forward and picked up the wallet, keeping a wary eye on him. He flicked it open and examined the contents, then waved to the men in the tower. He held out the wallet and said, ‘You seem to be in the clear, Mr Wyatt.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ asked Wyatt angrily.

The marine cradled the submachine-gun in his arms and stepped closer. ‘The brass have decided to hold security exercises, Mr Wyatt. I gotta go through the motions — the Lieutenant is watching me.’

Wyatt snorted and got into his car. The marine leaned against the door and said, ‘I wouldn’t go too fast through the gate, Mr Wyatt; those guns up there are loaded for real.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Someone’s gonna get killed on this exercise for sure.’

‘It won’t be me,’ Wyatt promised.

The marine grinned and for the first time an expression of enthusiasm showed. ‘Maybe the Lieutenant will get shot in the butt.’ He drew back and waved Wyatt on.

As Wyatt drove through the Base to his office he saw that it was an armed camp. All the gun emplacements were manned and all the men in full battle kit. Trucks roared through the streets and, near the Met. Office, a rank of armoured cars were standing by with engines ticking over. For a moment he thought of what the old man had said — Favel is coming down from the mountains . He shook his head irritably.

The first thing he did in his office was to pick up the telephone and ring the clearing office. ‘What’s the latest on Mabel?’

‘Who? Oh — Mabel! We’ve got the latest shots from Tiros; they came in half an hour ago.’

‘Shoot them across to me.’

‘Sorry, we can’t,’ said the tinny voice. ‘All the messengers are tied up in this exercise.’

‘I’ll come across myself,’ said Wyatt, and slammed down the phone, fuming at the delay. He drove to the clearing office, picked up the photographs and drove back, then settled down at his desk to examine them.

After nearly an hour he had come to no firm conclusion. Mabel was moving along a little faster — eleven miles an hour — and was on her predicted course. She would approach San Fernandez no nearer than to give the island a flick of her tail — a few hours of strong breezes and heavy rain. That was what theory said.

He pondered what to do next. He had no great faith in the theory that Schelling swore by. He had seen too many hurricanes swerve on unpredictable courses, too many islands swept bare when theory said the hurricane should pass them by. And he was West Indian — just as much West Indian as the old black man up near St Michel who was guarding his house against the big wind. They had a common feeling about this hurricane; a distrust which evidenced itself in deep uneasiness. Wyatt’s people had been in the Islands a mere four hundred years, but the black man had Carib Indian in his ancestry who had worshipped at the shrine of Hunraken, the Storm God. He had enough faith in his feelings to take positive steps, and Wyatt felt he could do no less, despite the fact that he could not prove this thing in the way he had been trained.

He felt despondent as he went to see Schelling.

Schelling was apparently busy, but then, he always was apparently busy. He raised his head as Wyatt entered his office, and said, ‘I thought you had a free afternoon.’

‘I came back to check on Mabel,’ said Wyatt. ‘She’s speeded up.’

‘Oh!’ said Schelling. He put down his pen and pushed the form-pad away. ‘What’s her speed now?’

‘She’s covered a hundred miles in the last nine hours — about eleven miles an hour. She started at eight — remember?’ Wyatt thought this was the way to get at Schelling — to communicate some unease to him, to make him remember that his prediction sent to the Weather Bureau was now at variance with the facts. He said deliberately, ‘At her present speed she’ll hit the Atlantic Coast in about six days; but I think she’ll speed up even more. Her present speed is still under the average.’

Schelling looked down at the desk-top thoughtfully. ‘And how’s her course?’

This was the tricky one. ‘As predicted,’ said Wyatt carefully. ‘She could change, of course — many have.’

‘We’d better cover ourselves,’ said Schelling. ‘I’ll send a signal to the Weather Bureau; they’ll sit on it for a couple of days and then announce the Hurricane Watch in the South-Eastern States. Of course, a lot will depend on what she does in the next two days, but they’ll know we’re on the ball down here.’

Wyatt sat down uninvited. He said, ‘What about the Islands?’

‘They’ll get the warning,’ said Schelling. ‘Just as usual. Where exactly is Mabel now?’

‘She slipped in between Grenada and Tobago,’ said Wyatt. ‘She gave them a bad time according to the reports I’ve just been reading, but nothing too serious. She’s just north of Los Testigos right now.’ He paused. ‘If she keeps on her present course she’ll go across Yucatan and into Mexico and Texas just like Janet and Hilda did in 1955.’

‘She won’t do that,’ said Schelling irritably. ‘She’ll curve to the north.’

‘Janet and Hilda didn’t,’ pointed out Wyatt. ‘And supposing she does curve to the north as she’s supposed to do. She only has to swing a little more than theory predicts and we’ll have her right on our doorstep.’

Schelling looked up. ‘Are you seriously trying to tell me that Mabel might hit San Fernandez?’

‘That’s right,’ said Wyatt. ‘Have you issued a local warning?’

Schelling’s eyes flickered. ‘No, I haven’t. I don’t think it necessary.’

‘You don’t think it necessary? I would have thought the example of 1910 would have made it very necessary.’

Schelling snorted. ‘You know what the government of this comic opera island is like. We tell them — they do precisely nothing. They’ve never found it necessary to establish a hurricane warning system — that would be money right out of Serrurier’s own pocket. Can you see him doing it? If I warn them, what difference would it make?’