Wyatt’s Hurricane

Wyatt knew better than to persist in that line of questioning – he had tried before. He said, ‘When does the wind come?’

The man looked at the cloudless blue sky, then stopped and picked up a handful of dust which he dribbled from his fingers. ‘Two days,’ he said. ‘Maybe three days. Not longer.’

Wyatt was startled by the accuracy of this prediction. If Mabel were to strike San Fernandez at all then those were the time limits, and yet how could this ignorant old man know? He said matter-of-factly, ‘You have sent your woman and children away.’

‘There is a cave in the hills,’ the man said. ‘When I finish this, I go too.’

Wyatt looked at the hut. ‘When you go, leave the door open,’ he said. ‘The wind does not like closed doors.’

‘Of course,’ agreed the man. ‘A closed door is inhospitable.’ He looked at Wyatt with a glint of humour in his eyes. ‘There may be another wind, blanc, perhaps worse than the hurricane. Favel is coming down from the mountains.’

‘But Favel is dead.’

The man shrugged. ‘Favel is coming down from the mountains,’ he repeated, and swung the hammer again at the top of the stake.

Wyatt walked back to the car and got into the driving seat.

‘What was all that about?’ asked Julie.

‘He says there’s a big wind coming so he’s tying down the roof of his house. When the big wind comes – li tomber boum.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘A very free translation is that everything is going to come down with a hell of a smash.’ Wyatt looked across at the hut and at the man toiling patiently in the hot sun. ‘He knows enough to leave his door open, too – but I doubt if I could tell you why.’ He turned to Julie. ‘I’m sorry, Julie, but I’d like to get back to the Base. There’s something I must check.’

‘Of course,’ said Julie. ‘You must do what you must.’

He turned the car round in the clearing and they went down the road. Julie said, ‘Harry Hansen told me you were worried about Mabel. Has this anything to do with it?’

He said, ‘It’s against all reason, of course. It’s against everything I’ve been taught, but I think we’re going to get slammed. I think Mabel is going to hit San Fernandez.’ He laughed wryly. ‘Now I’ve got to convince Schelling.’

‘Don’t you think he’ll believe you?’

‘What evidence can I give him? A sinking feeling in my guts? An ignorant old man tying on his roof? Schelling wants hard facts – pressure gradients, adiabatic rates – figures he can measure and check in the textbooks. I doubt if I’ll be able to do it. But I’ve got to. St Pierre is in no better condition to resist a hurricane than it was in 1910. You’ve seen the shanty town that’s sprung up outside – how long do you suppose those shacks would resist a big wind? And the population has gone up – it’s now 60,000. A hurricane hitting now would be a disaster too frightening to contemplate.’

Unconsciously he had increased pressure on the accelerator and he slithered round a corner with tyres squealing in protest. Julie said, ‘You won’t make things better by getting yourself killed going down this hill.’

He slowed down. ‘Sorry, Julie; I suppose I’m a bit worked up.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s the fact that I’m helpless that worries me.’

She said thoughtfully, ‘Couldn’t you fake your figures or something so that Commodore Brooks would have to take notice? If the hurricane didn’t come you’d be ruined professionally – but I think you’d be willing to take that chance.’

‘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.’

III

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.