Десмонд Бэгли - Wyatt's Hurricane

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It looks a mess,’ said Wyatt.

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

Wyatt nodded. That sounded reasonable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Favel smiled gently. ‘A small blessing.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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