He dropped Davon off at the Nationale and headed back to the Base at top speed. He saw many soldiers in the streets of Trois Fourches but the fact did not impinge on his consciousness because he was busy working out a way to handle Turner. When he got to the main gate of the Base he still had not thought of a way.
He was stopped at the gateway by a U.S. marine in full battle kit who gestured with his M-16. "Get out, fella."
"What the hell----?"
The marine's lips tightened. "I said out."
Riley 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 Riley. "What kind of bullshit is all this?"
"Prove it," said the marine flatly. He lifted the gun sharply as Riley made to put his hand to his breast pocket. "Whatever you're pulling out, do it real slow."
Slowly Riley pulled out his wallet and offered it. "You'll find identification inside."
The marine made no attempt to come closer. "Throw it down!"
Riley tossed the wallet to the ground, and the marine said, "Now back off!" Riley 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. Martin."
"What the hell's going on?" asked Riley angrily.
The marine cradled the M-16 in his arms and stepped closer. "The brass have decided to hold security exercises, Mr. Martin. I gotta go through the motions---the Lieutenant is watching me."
Riley snorted and got into his car. The marine leaned against the door and said, "I wouldn't go too fast through the gate, Mr. Martin; 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," Riley promised.
The marine grinned and for the first time an expression of enthusiasm showed. "Maybe the Lieutenant will get shot in the ass." He drew back and waved Riley on.
As Riley 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 line of armored cars were standing by with engines ticking over. For one moment he thought of what the old man had said---Sorel 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 call the clearing office. "What's the latest on Magda?"
"Who? Oh---Magda! We've got the latest shots from Tiros; they came in half an hour ago."
"Shoot 'em 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 Riley, 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 1 hour he had come to no concrete conclusion. Magda was moving along a little faster---11 miles per hour---and was on her predicted course. She would approach Esperance no nearer than to give the island a flick of her tail---a few hours of strong breezes and heavy rain. That's what the theory said.
He pondered his next move. He had no great faith in the theory that Turner swore by. He had seen too many hurricanes swerve on unpredictable courses, too many islands laid waste when theory said the hurricane should pass them by. And he was West Indian---just as much a West Indian as the old black man up near St. Simon 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. Riley's people had been in the islands a mere four hundred years, but the black man had Arawak 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 Riley felt he could do no less, despite the fact that he could not prove this thing in the way he'd been trained to.
He felt despondent as he went to visit Turner.
Turner was evidently busy, but then, he always was evidently busy. He raised his head as Riley entered his office, and said, "I thought you had a free afternoon."
"I came back to check on Magda," said Riley. "She's speeded up."
"Oh!" said Turner. He put down his pen and pushed the form-pad away. "What's her speed now?"
"She's covered 100 miles in the last 9 hours---about 11 miles per hour. She started at 8---remember?" Riley thought this was the way to get at Turner---to communicate some unease to him, to make him remember that his prediction sent to the Weather Service 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 below the average."
Turner looked down at the desk-top thoughtfully. "How's her course?"
This was the tricky one. "As predicted," said Riley carefully. "She could change, of course---many have."
"We'd better cover our asses," said Turner. "I'll send a signal to the Weather Service; they'll sit on it for two days and then hoist a hurricane watch in the Southeastern States. Of course, a lot'll depend on what she does in the next 48 hours, but they'll know we're on the ball down here."
Riley sat down uninvited. He said, "What about the Islands?"
"They'll get the warning," said Turner. "Just like always. Where exactly is Magda now?"
"She slipped in between Grenada and Trinidad," said Riley. "She gave them a bad tune 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 Turner. "She'll re-curve to the north."
"Janet and Hilda didn't," Riley pointed out. "And supposing she does curve to the north like 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."
Turner looked up. "You're not seriously trying to tell me that Magda might hit Esperance?!"
"Yes, unfortunately, I am," said Riley. "I suggest you issue a local warning."
Turner's eyes flickered. "No way, Riley. It's not necessary."
"Not necessary?! I think the example of 1911 makes it very necessary!"
Turner snorted. "You know what the government of this shithole island is like. We tell them---they don't do a goddamn thing. They've never found it necessary to establish a hurricane warning system---that'd be money right out Martinet's own pocket. Can you see him doing it? If I warn them, what the hell difference will it make?"
"It'll get on record," said Riley, playing on Turner's weakness.
"I suppose we would," said Turner thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. "It's always been tough to know just whom to report to. We've told Phillipe Bastide, the Minister for Island Affairs, in the past, but Marinet has now taken that job on himself---and you know as well as I do that you can tell Martinet---but you can't tell him much!"
"Bastide fired? When?"
"He fired Bastide yesterday---you know what that means. Bastide is either dead or in Chateaux D'Angerville praying for his death."
Riley frowned. So Bastide, the chief of the Security Force, was gone---swept away in one of Martinet's sudden passions for spring cleaning. But Bastide had been his right arm; something very serious must have happened for him to have fallen from power. Sorel is coming down from the mountains. Riley shook the thought from him....what the hell did this have to do with the violence of hurricanes?
"All right, then we tell Martinet," he said.
Turner smiled thinly. "I doubt if Martinet is in any mood to listen to anything he doesn't want to hear right now." He tapped on the desk. "But I'll tell someone in the Palace---just for the record."
"You've told Commodore Rodriguez, I assume," said Riley idly.
"Er---he knows about Magda----yes."
"He knows all about Magda?" asked Riley sharply. "The kind of hurricane she is?"
"I've given him the usual routine reports," said Turner stiffly. He leaned forward. "Look here, Riley, you seem to have an obsession about this particular hurricane. Now, if you've got anything to say about it---and I want facts---lay on the line right now. If you don't have any concrete evidence, then for God's sake shut up and get on with your job."
"You've given Rodriguez routine reports," repeated Riley softly. "Turner, I want to see the Commodore."
"Commodore Rodriguez---like Martinet---has no time at the present to listen to weather forecasts."
Riley stood up. "I'm going to see Commodore Rodriguez," he said obstinately.
Turner was shocked. "You mean you'd go over my head?"
"I'm going to see Rodriguez," repeated Riley grimly. "With or without you."
He waited for the affronted outburst and for a moment he thought Turner was going to blow up, but he just said abruptly. "All right, I'll get you an appointment with the Commodore. You'd better wait in your office until you're called---it may take some time." He smiled grimly. "You're not going to make yourself popular, you know."
"Did I enter a popularity contest?" said Riley evenly. He turned and walked out of Turner's office, puzzled as to why Turner would have given in so easily. Then he laughed bleakly. The reports that Turner had given Rodriguez must have been very skimpy, and Turner couldn't afford to let him see Rodriguez without getting in his version first. He was likely with Rodriguez now, spinning him the yarn.
The call did not come for over 90 minutes and he spent the time compiling some interesting statistics for Commodore Rodriguez---a weak crutch to lean on but all he had, apart from the powerful feeling in his gut that disaster was impending. Rodriguez would not be interested in his emotions and intuitions.
Rodriguez's office was the calm center of a storm. Riley had to wait for a few minutes in one of the outer offices and saw the organized chaos that afflicts even the most efficient organization in a crisis, and he wondered if this was just another exercise. But Rodriguez's office, when he finally got there, was calm and peaceful; Rodriguez's desk was clean, a vast expanse of polished teak unmarred by a single paper, and the Commodore sat behind it, trim and neat, regarding Riley with a stony, but neutral stare. Turner stood to one side, hands behind his back as if he'd just been ordered to the at-ease position.
Rodriguez said in a level voice. "I've just heard that there is a technical disputation going on among the Meteorological Staff. Will you please give me your views, Mr. Martin?"
"We've got a hurricane, sir," said Riley. "A really wicked one. I think there's a strong chance she may hit Esperance. Commander Turner, I think, disagrees."
"I've just heard Commander Turner's views," said Rodriguez, confirming the suspicions Riley had been entertaining. "But what are your findings? I should point out, however, that pending the facts you're about to give me, I consider the possibility of a hurricane hitting this island to be very remote. The last one, I think, was in 1911."
It was evident that he'd been given a fast briefing by Turner.
Riley said, "That's correct, sir. The death toll from that storm was 6,000."
Rodriguez's eyebrows rose. "That many people died?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go on, Mr. Martin."
Riley gave a quick resume of events since Magda had been discovered and probed. He said, "All the evidence shows that Magda is a particularly bad piece of weather; the pressure gradient is exceptional and the winds generated are dramatically strong. Lieutenant-Commander Rogers said it was the worst weather he'd ever flown in."
Rodriguez inclined his head. "Granted that it is a bad hurricane, what evidence do you have that it's going to hit this island? I think you said there's a 'strong chance'; I have to have more than that, Mr. Martin----I need something more in the nature of a probability."
"I've got some figures," said Riley, laying a sheaf of papers on the immaculate desk. "I think that Commander Turner is relying on standard theory when he states that Magda will not come here. He is, quite properly, taking into account the forces that we know act on tropical revolving storms. My contention is that we don't know enough to take chances."
He spread the papers on the desk. "I have taken an abstract of information from my records of all the hurricanes of which I have had personal knowledge during the four years I've been here---that would be about 3/4 of those happening in the Caribbean in that time. I've checked the number of times a hurricane has departed from the path which strict theory dictates and I find that 45% of the hurricanes have done so, in major and minor ways. To be quite honest about it I readied another sheet presenting the same information, but confining the study to hurricanes conforming to the characteristics of Magda. That is, of the same age, emanating from the same area, and so on. I find there is a 30% chance of Magda diverging from the theoretical path enough to hit Esperance."
He slid the papers across the desk but Rodriguez pushed them back. "I believe you, Mr. Martin," he said quietly. "Commander, what do you have to say to this?"
Turner said, "I think statistics presented in this way can be misused---misinterpreted. I'm quite ready to believe Mr. Martin's figures, but not his reasoning. He says there's a 30% chance of Magda diverging from her path, and I accept it, but that's not to say that if she diverges she'll hit Esperance. After all, she could go the other way."
"Mr. Martin?"
Riley nodded. "He's right, of course, but I don't like it."
Rodriguez put his hands together. "What it boils down to is this: the risk of Magda hitting us is somewhere between vanishing point and 30%, but assuming that the worst does happen, it's still only a 30% risk. Would that be putting it fairly, Mr. Martin?"
Riley swallowed. "It would, sir. But I would like to point out one or two pertinent things. There was a hurricane that hit Galveston in 1900 and another that hit here in 1911; the high death-toll in each case was due to the same phenomena---floods."
"From the high rainfall?"
"No, sir; from the construction of a hurricane and from geographical peculiarities."
He stopped for a moment and Rodriguez said, "Go on, Mr. Martin. I'm sure the Commander will correct you if you happen to err in your facts."
Riley said, "The air pressure in the center of a hurricane drops radically; this release of pressure on the surface of the sea induces the water to lift in a hump, perhaps 10 feet to a normal hurricane. Magda is not a normal hurricane; her internal air pressure is very low and I would expect the sea level at her center to rise to 20 feet above normal----maybe as much as 25 feet!"
He turned and pointed through the window. "If Magda hits us she'll be coming in from due south right into the bay. It's a shallow bay and we know what happens when a tidal wave hits shallow water---it builds up. You can expect flood waters to a height of over fifty feet in St. Martin Bay. The highest point on Rivière de la Paix is, I think, 45 feet. You'd get a solid wall of water right over this Base. They had to rebuild the base in 1911---luckily there wasn't much to rebuild because the Base hadn't really got going then."
He looked at Rodriguez, who softly said, "Go on, Mr. Martin. I can see you haven't finished yet."
"I haven't, sir. There's Trois Fourches. In 1911 half the population was killed---if that happened now you could count on 30,000 deaths. Most of the town is no higher than Rivière de la Paix, and they're no more prepared for a hurricane and floods than they were in 1911."
Rodriguez twitched his eyes toward Turner. "Well, Commander, can you find fault with anything Mr. Martin has just said?"
Turner unwillingly said, "He's quite correct---theoretically. But all this depends upon the accuracy of the readings brought back from Magda by Mr. Martin and Lieutenant-Commander Rogers."
Rodriguez nodded. "Yes, I think we need to have another look at Magda. Commander, will you please see to it? I want a plane sent off right away with the best pilot you've got."
Riley said immediately, "Not Rogers---he's had enough of Magda."
"I agree," said Turner just as quickly. "I want a different flight crew and a different technical staff."
Riley stiffened. "That remark is a reflection on my personal integrity," he said coldly.
Rodriguez slammed the palm of his hand on the desk with the noise of a cannon shot. "It's nothing of the kind," he rasped. "There's a difference of opinion between the doctors and I want a third opinion. Is that clear enough?"
"It is, sir," said Riley.
"Commander, what the hell are you waiting for? Get that flight organized." Rodriguez watched Turner leave, and as Riley visibly hesitated, he said, "You stay here, Mr. Martin, I want to talk to you." He steepled his fingers and regarded Riley closely. "What do you want me to do, Mr. Martin? What would you do in my position?"
"I'd get my ships out to sea," said Riley promptly, "loaded with all the Base personnel. I'd fly all aircraft to Puerto Rico. I'd do my damnedest to convince President Martinet of the gravity of the situation. You should also evacuate all American nationals and as many foreign nationals as you can."
"You make it sound easy," observed Rodriguez.
"You only have two days."
Rodriguez sighed. "It would be easy if that's all there were to it. But a military emergency has come up. I believe a civil war is going to break out between guerillas from the mountains and the government. That's why this Base is now in an official state of emergency and all American personnel confined to Base. In fact, I've just signed a directive asking all American nationals to come to Rivière de la Paix for safety."
"Sorel is coming down from the mountains," said Riley involuntarily.
"What?"
"It's what the locals are saying. Sorel is coming down from the mountains."
Rodriguez nodded. "That might well be. He may not be dead. President Martinet has accused Uncle Sam of supplying the guerillas with arms. He's a pretty hard man to talk to right now, and I doubt if he'd listen to me chitchatting about the weather."
"Is America supplying the rebels with arms?" asked Riley deliberately.
Rodriguez bristled and jerked. "Certainly not! It has been our declared policy, explicitly and implicitly, not to interfere with local politics on Esperance. I have strict instructions from my superiors on that matter." He looked down at the backs of his hands and growled. "When they sent in the Marines in that affair of the Dominican Republic, it set back our Latin American diplomatic efforts ten years---we don't want that to happen again."
He suddenly seemed to be aware that he was being indiscreet and tapped his fingers on the desk. "With regard to the evacuation of this Base; I have decided to stay. The chance of a hurricane striking this island is, on your own evidence, only 30%, at worst. That kind of risk I can live with, and I feel I can't abandon this Base when there is a threat of civil war on this island." He smiled gently. "I don't usually expound this way to my subordinates---still less to foreign nationals---but I wish to do the right thing for all concerned, and I also wish to use you. I wish you to deliver a letter to Mr. Cubbins, the British Consul in Trois Fourches, in which I am advising him of the position I am taking and inviting any British subjects on Esperance to take advantage of the security of this Base. It will be at their service in 15 minutes."
"I'll take the letter," said Riley.
Rodriguez nodded. "About this hurricane---Martinet may listen to the British. Perhaps you can do something through Cubbins."
"I'll try," said Riley.
"And another thing," said Rodriguez. "In any big organization methods become rigid and channels narrow. There arises a tendency on the part of individuals to hesitate in pressing unpleasant issues. Awkward corners spoil the set of the common coat we wear. I am indebted to you for bringing this matter to my attention."
"Thank you, sir."
Rodriguez's voice was tinged with irony. "Commander Turner is a reliable officer---I know exactly what to expect of him. I trust you won't feel any difficulty in working with him in the future."
"No, sir."
"Thank you, Mr. Martin; that will be all. I'll have the letter for Mr. Cubbins delivered to your office."
As Riley went back to his own office he felt deep admiration for Rodriguez. The man was on the horns of a dilemma and had elected to take a calculated risk. To abandon the Base and leave it to the anti-American Martinet would surely incur the wrath of his superiors---once Martinet was in it would be tough, if not impossible, to get him out. On the other hand, the hurricane was a very real danger and Boards of Inquiry have never been noted for mercy towards naval officers who have pleaded natural disasters as a mitigation. The Base could be lost either way, and Rodriguez had to make a coldblooded but necessary decision.
Unhappily, Riley felt that Rodriguez had made the wrong decision.
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