Десмонд Бэгли - Bahama Crisis

‘Thank you.’ I put down the telephone and said blankly, ‘She’s not there.’

‘What time was she supposed to get into Miami?’ asked Billy.

‘Before dark; say, eight o’clock. Pete has standing instructions from me to get into port in daylight if possible, especially with the family aboard. She’s a fast boat for her type and he’d have no trouble about that.’

‘She’s only three hours overdue, Tom. Anything could have happened. Engine trouble, perhaps.’

‘Boats with Pete aboard don’t have engine trouble,’ I said sharply. ‘Besides, the Girl has two engines.’

‘If one was knocked out it would slow her down.’

‘Not by a lot — not by three hours.’ I picked up the telephone again. ‘I’ll ring the marina in Miami.’ Ten minutes later I knew that Lucayan Girl had not arrived. I said to Billy, ‘I’ve got a feeling about this. I’m going over to BASRA — they can raise the US Coast Guard.’

‘How long will you be?’

‘Fifteen — twenty minutes. It’s quite close.’

‘I’ll stick around until you get back. Julie might ring.’

‘Thanks. I’ll check that Karen’s safely asleep before I go.’

BASRA headquarters on Grand Bahama are in the building which also holds the Underwater Exploration Society. Five minutes later I was climbing the stairs to the Tide’s Inn, a tavern which supports both the Society and BASRA. The place was noisy with vacationers and I found Joe Kimble of BASRA employed in his favourite occupation — chatting up a couple of nubile females. I crossed to his table. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Joe, but Lucayan Girl is overdue in Miami.’

He looked up. ‘How much overdue?’

‘Over three hours now.’ I met his eye. ‘Julie and Sue are aboard.’

‘Oh!’ He stood up. ‘Sorry, girls, but business comes first.’

We went down to the BASRA office and I said, ‘What’s the weather like in the Florida Straits?’

‘Calm — no problems there.’ He sat behind a desk and took a pen. ‘When did she leave?’

‘Dead on eleven this morning.’

‘Give me the number of the marina in Miami.’ He scribbled it down, then said, ‘You’d better go home, Tom, and stick by your telephone. But don’t use it. I’ll do any telephoning that’s necessary — you keep an open line. I’ll ring the marina and tell them to notify BASRA if she comes in.’

‘What about the Coast Guard?’

‘I’ll radio them but there’s not much they can do at night — you know that.’

‘Can I use the phone here?’ At Joe’s nod I picked it up and rang Bobby Bowen at his home. I outlined the situation, then said, ‘There may be nothing in it, but if there’s no report in the next few hours I’ll need planes in the air at first light. How many can we raise?’

‘Just two here,’ said Bowen. ‘There’s one in Nassau and the other has its engine stripped for the 300-hour check.’

‘Get that plane back from Nassau as fast as you can. You’ll liaise with Joe Kimble of BASRA who will be coordinator. Unless the order is cancelled you’ll rendezvous at...’ I twitched an eyebrow at Joe who said, ‘Lucayan Beach Air Services.’

I passed that on, and added, ‘...at five-thirty a.m.’ I put down the phone. ‘I’m going home, Joe. Julie might ring.’

He nodded. ‘If I’m going to fly tomorrow I’ll need some shuteye. I’ll get one of the groundlings to stand by here as soon as I’ve raised the Coast Guard.’

I had an argument with Billy which he won. ‘I’ll stay by the telephone,’ he said. ‘You’ve got to sleep. If anything comes through I’ll wake you.’ He raided the kitchen and made me warm milk laced with brandy. Afterwards he told me that he had roused Luke Bailey who found Julie’s sleeping pills and he dissolved one into the milk.

So it was that when he woke me at five in the morning I felt doped and muzzy. At first I did not know what he was doing there in my bedroom, but then the knowledge hit me. ‘Any news?’ I demanded.

He shook his head. ‘Just a call from BASRA; the Coast Guard are putting helicopters out of Miami as soon as it’s light enough to see.’

I got up and found Debbie in the living-room; Billy had rung her and she had immediately come from the hotel. None of us did much talking because there was nothing much to say, but Debbie insisted that she was going to stay to look after Karen. Luke Bailey made an early breakfast and I drove to the airport feeling like hell.

Joe Kimble was in the office of Lucayan Beach Air Services, allocating areas on a map. Bobby Bowen was there, and Bill Pinder, another Corporation pilot, and there were three other pilots, volunteers from BASRA. Joe said, ‘Now, remember we’re tying in with the US Coast Guard on this. Stick to your own areas and watch your altitude. And watch for the choppers — we don’t want a mid-air collision to complicate things.’

We walked out to the tie-down lines and the sky was just lightening in the east as we took off. I flew with Bobby Bowen and, as we flew west and gained altitude, the panorama in the rising sun was achingly beautiful.

Lucayan Girl was of a type which the Americans call a trawler. Because of recurrent oil crises a demand has arisen for a boat, not particularly fast, but with range and seakeeping qualities, and light on fuel. These boats, no matter who the designer, all look pretty much alike because they were all trying to solve the same problems and inevitably came up with the same results. And our problem was that in Florida and Bahamian waters they are as thick as fleas on a dog.

Not many people make night passages in power boats in the Islands but we spotted our first twenty miles out and heading our way. We were flying at 2500 feet, adhering strictly to regulations for the course we were on, and Bowen dropped us 1000 feet, again going by the book. I looked at the boat through glasses as we went by and shook my head. Bowen took us up again.

It was a long and futile search. We found six boats but not Lucayan Girl. From the intermittent chatter on the radio no one else was having any luck either. Visibility so early in the morning was generally good but, as the sun rose, cloud began to form. Presently Bowen said, ‘Got to go back.’ He tapped the fuel gauge.

So we went back, the engine coughing as we landed, and found that all the others had already returned. No one had seen the Girl and neither had the US Coast Guard. Joe Kimble reamed out Bobby Bowen. ‘You cut that too damn fine.’

Bowen managed a tired smile. ‘No problem; I emptied my cigarette lighter into the tank.’

‘I sure as hell don’t want to go out there looking for plane wreckage because some damn fool has run out of gas. Don’t do it again.’

I said, ‘Refuel, Bobby.’

One of the BASRA pilots stirred. ‘I’ll take you out again, Mr Mangan. I’m fuelled up.’

So I went out again. They all went out again. They were a good crowd. And we all came back, but not Lucayan Girl.

The next few days were grim. People pussyfooted around me, not knowing what to do or say, and work went to hell. I felt as numb as though I had been mentally anaesthetized and I suppose I acted like a zombie, one of the walking dead. I wished I was dead.

Billy said, ‘This is no time to talk business, Tom. Let me know when we can get together again.’ He went back to Houston, but Debbie refused to go home and stayed on to look after Karen. I was in no mood to argue.

Looking back I can see that this was worse than a normal death in the family. There was no funeral, no assuaging ceremonial — nothing to do. There was the ever-present expectation of a telephone call which would magically solve everything and restore my wife and daughter to me and bring back my old friend, Pete Albury. I jerked every time a phone rang — anywhere.