in twenty-three missions.’
He went up to the flight deck and Jablonsky looked after him. ‘Twenty-three missions! The guy must be nuts. Ten is my limit – only two more to go.’
Smith rubbed his chin reflectively. ‘Maybe he’s got the death wish – you know, psychology and all that. Or maybe he’s a hurricane lover. But he’s got guts, that’s for sure – I’ve never seen a guy look so unconcerned.’
On the flight deck Hansen said heavily, ‘I hope you got everything you wanted. I’d hate to go through that again.’
‘We’ll have enough,’ said Wyatt. ‘But I’ll be able to tell for certain when we get home. When will that be?’
‘Three hours,’ said Hansen.
There was a sudden change in the even roar and a spurt of black smoke streaked from the port outer engine. Hansen’s hand went like a flash to the throttles and then he feathered the airscrew. ‘Meeker,’ he roared. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Dunno,’ said Meeker. ‘But I reckon she’s packed in for the rest of the trip. Oil pressure’s right down.’ He paused. ‘I had some bother with her a little while back but I reckoned you didn’t feel like hearing about it just then.’
Hansen blew out his cheeks and let forth a long sigh. ‘Jesus!’ he said reverently and with no intention to swear. He looked up at Wyatt. ‘Make it nearly four hours.’
Wyatt nodded weakly and leaned against the bulkhead. He could feel the knots in his stomach relaxing and was aware of the involuntary trembling of his whole body now that it was over.
II
Wyatt sat at his desk, at ease in body if not in mind. It was still early morning and the sun had not developed the power it would later in the day, so all was still fresh and new. Wyatt felt good. On his return the previous afternoon he had seen his precious tapes delivered to the computer boys and then had indulged in the blessed relief of a hot bath which had soaked away all the soreness from his battered body. And that evening he had had a couple of beers with Hansen.
Now, in the fresh light of morning, he felt rested and eager to begin his work, although, as he drew the closely packed tables of figures towards him, he did not relish the facts he knew he would find. He worked steadily all morning, converting the cold figures into stark lines on a chart – a skeleton of reality, an abstraction of a hurricane. When he had finished he looked at the chart with blank eyes, then carefully pinned it on to a large board on the wall of his office.
He had just started to fill in a form when the phone rang, and his heart seemed to turn over as he heard the well-remembered voice. ‘Julie!’ he exclaimed. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’
The warmth of her voice triumphed over electronics. ‘A week’s vacation,’ she said. ‘I was in Puerto Rico and a friend gave me a lift over in his plane.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘I’ve just checked into the Imperiale – I’m staying here and, boy, what a dump!’
‘It’s the best we’ve got until Conrad Hilton moves in – and if he has any sense, he won’t,’ said Wyatt. ‘I’m sorry about that; you can’t very well come to the Base.’
‘It’s okay,’ said Julie. ‘When do I see you?’
‘Oh, hell!’ said Wyatt in exasperation. ‘I’ll be tied up all day, I’m afraid. It’ll have to be tonight. What about dinner?’
‘That’s fine,’ she said, and Wyatt thought he detected a shade of disappointment. ‘Maybe we can go on to the Maraca Club – if it’s still running.’
‘It’s still on its feet, although how Eumenides does it is a mystery.’ Wyatt had his eye on the clock. ‘Look, Julie, I’ve got a hell of a lot to do if I’m to take the evening off; things are pretty busy in my line just now.’
Julie laughed. ‘All right; no telephonic gossip. It’ll be better face to face. See you tonight.’
She rang off and Wyatt replaced the handset slowly, then swivelled his chair towards the window where he could look over Santego Bay towards St Pierre. Julie Marlowe, he thought in astonishment, well, well! He could just distinguish the Imperiale in the clutter of buildings that made St Pierre, and a smile touched his lips.
He had not known her long, not really. She was an air hostess on a line covering the Caribbean from Florida and he had been introduced to her by a civilian pilot, a friend of Hansen’s. It had been good while it lasted – San Fernandez had been on her regular route and he had seen her twice a week. They had had three months of fun which had come to a sudden end when the airline had decided that the government of San Fernandez, President Serrurier in particular, was making life too difficult, so they dropped St Pierre from their schedule.
Wyatt pondered. That had been two years ago – no, nearer three years. He and Julie had corresponded regularly at first, but with the passage of time their letters had become sparser and more widely spaced. Friendship by letter is difficult, especially between a man and a woman, and he had expected at any moment to hear that she was engaged – or married – and that would be the end of it, for all practical purposes.
He jerked his head and looked at the clock, then swung round to the desk and pulled the form towards him. He had nearly finished when Schelling, the senior Navy meteorologist on Cap Sarrat Base, came in. ‘This is the latest from Tiros on your baby,’ he said, and tossed a sheaf of photographs on to the desk.
Wyatt reached for them and Schelling said, ‘Hansen tells me you took quite a beating.’
‘He wasn’t exaggerating. Look at that lot.’ Wyatt waved at the chart on the wall.
Schelling walked over to the board and pursed his lips in a whistle. ‘Are you sure your instrumentation was working properly?’
Wyatt joined him. ‘There’s no reason to doubt it.’ He stretched out a finger. ‘Eight hundred and seventy millibars in the eye – that’s the lowest pressure I’ve encountered anywhere.’
Schelling ran a practised eye over the chart. ‘High pressure on the outside – 1040 millibars.’
‘A pressure gradient of 170 millibars over a little less than 150 miles – that makes for big winds.’ Wyatt indicated the northern area of the hurricane. ‘Theory says that the wind-speeds here should be up to 170 miles an hour. After flying through it I have no reason to doubt it – and neither has Hansen.’
Schelling said, ‘This is a bad one.’
‘It is,’ said Wyatt briefly, and sat down to examine the Tiros photographs with Schelling looking over his shoulder. ‘She seems to have tightened up a bit,’ he said. ‘That’s strange.’
‘Makes it even worse,’ said Schelling gloomily. He put down two photographs side by side. ‘She isn’t moving along very fast, though.’
‘I made the velocity of translation eight miles an hour – about 200 miles a day. We’d better check that, it’s important.’ Wyatt drew a desk calculator and, after checking figures marked on the photographs, began
