hurricane!

by Mary Lyons

  'What letters?'

  'There you are—it looks as if he's telling the truth, doesn't it?' Barbara said as she led the way through the hall towards the front door. 'Luke also found that all his phone calls were blocked—although that could just be the normal Caribbean phone service!' She grinned wryly at Samantha. 'Anyway, he got more and more im­patient, and when Emily eventually gave in and said he could come and see you, he arrived to find that you were apparently away for a month on a buying trip in Europe. Of course, she was willing to take Luke's money for her crummy old hotel, but I understand that you wouldn't let her accept it, right? And every time he tried to contact you, personally, your dear old aunt made quite sure that you were not available.'

  'But I can't believe it! Why—why would she do such a thing? I—I don't understand. . .'

  Her words were interrupted by a sudden influx of people rushing into the hall, chattering and shouting to each other at the top of their voices.

  'What's going on?' Samantha asked as Edmond came over to have a quick word with his wife.

  'Well, I'm not entirely sure,' Barbara muttered, trying to concentrate as her husband continued to speak in rapid French. 'I gather that there's been an announcement on the radio. . .something about un ouragan, Edmond says, but the others seem to be talking about some sort of a cyclone. . .'

  'Oh, my God—it must be Hurricane Hannah!' Samantha exclaimed. 'Is it going to hit this island?'

  'Non. . . not zis island. Non St Barthelemy, ca nepeut pas arriver ici,' Edmond said firmly.

  'If I understood the radio announcement correctly, we're outside the main path of the hurricane—which seems to be travelling west,' Luke said as he came up to join them. 'It's being tracked by radar and satellite, and apparently the best guess at the moment is that it's likely to miss Guadeloupe and Antigua. Hey. . .! Where are you going?' he demanded as Samantha dragged open the front door and ran outside.

  'Just look at that sky!' she cried, pointing up at the black clouds which were beginning to obliterate the sun. 'I've got to borrow your car, Barbara. I'll leave it at the airport,' she shouted, running fast across the gravel forecourt, before a hand grasped her arm and she was spun around to face her husband.

  'What do you think you're doing? You can't be so insane as to think of flying to Antigua—not through those clouds,' he roared furiously. 'I know you're worried about your aunt, but. . .'

  'Don't be stupid,' she snapped. 'It's not my aunt I'm chiefly worried about. St Pauls doesn't seem to be in any danger at the moment, but hurricanes are notoriously unpredictable. I must get back to the island—and the hotel full of guests for whom I'm totally responsible— as soon as possible!'

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  'Golf Bravo Alpha Lima Tango to St Martin tower. Over.'

  'Go ahead, Alpha Lima Tango. Over.'

  Samantha pushed the transmit button on the handset. 'Lima Tango. Request clearance for take-off: St Barthelemy to St Pauls via Antigua. Over.'

  There was no reply, the empty crackling sound from the receiver, fixed to a panel above her head in the cockpit, barely audible over the roar of the Cessna's en­gines as Samantha taxied the aeroplane over the rough, bumpy grass towards the end of the runway. It was hot and muggy within the confined space of the aeroplane, and she quickly wiped the sweat from her brow as she once again requested permission to take off.

  'Please wait, Lima Tango. Over.'

  Oh, no! It looked as if, once again, the over-worked Aircraft Control on the nearby island of St Martin were being hard pressed to cope with the ever-increasing air traffic. She'd once sat out here, on the runway, for well over half an hour while she'd waited for clearance. But she couldn't afford to waste that amount of time today— not when it was imperative that she returned to St Pauls as soon as possible. She'd just have to take off, and contact the control tower again when she was airborne.

  Pausing for a final check of her instruments, she took a deep breath and pushed the throttle hard forward. The aircraft quickly gathered speed and momentum, hurt­ling forward towards the mountain at the end of the runway. Just when it seemed as if the plane was destined to crash into the rocky, grass-and tree-covered embankment ahead, she pulled hard back on the joystick and the aeroplane rose in the air, sailing over the mountain and up into the darkening sky.

  'Lima Tango calling St Martin tower. Am now air­borne. Request height clearance for St Pauls via Antigua. Over.'

  There was a crackle of static from the receiver. 'Weather conditions deteriorating, Lima Tango. Suggest you return to base. Over.'

  'Cannot return to base. Am setting course for Antigua. Request clearance for fifteen hundred feet. Over.'

  There was another long pause, the only noise in the cabin being the crackle of static from the receiver, and the steady drone of the plane's engines.

  'Return to base, Lima Tango.' The voice on the in­tercom sounded agitated. 'Hurricane warning. Winds Force Twelve. You must return to base immediately!'

  Samantha grimaced, casting a quick sideways glance at the man sitting silent and immobile beside her. She had warned Luke that this flight wasn't going to be a joyride, but it was beginning to look as if she might have severely underestimated the difficulties in trying to get back to St Pauls. Of course, she should never have taken off without clearance; and it seemed as if, in assuming that the hold-up in St Martin was just a temporary, tech­nical gremlin in the works, she had made a very bad mistake.

  'It sounds as if you've got problems,' Luke said quietly.

  'Hmm. . .' she murmured, preoccupied in doing com­plicated sums in her head. Taking into account her flight speed, and the amount of fuel she had on board, to return to St Baits and try to land in the storm which must have reached it by now was to invite almost as much trouble as pressing on to St Pauls. It was a gamble either way—and when she thought about the hotel, full of guests for whom she was responsible, it didn't seem as if she had a choice. Still, at least Luke wasn't likely to add to her problems. She knew from the past that, once Luke made up his mind to a course of action, he wasn't the type to start crying over spilt milk—or to say 'I told you so'—however much he might be justified in doing so. In fact, she realised with some surprise as she brushed the damp curls from her brow, she really couldn't think of anyone else she'd rather have as a companion on what was clearly going to be a difficult, if not downright dangerous flight.

  Not that she'd thought so on the mad dash from Edmond and Barbara's house at Pointe Milou to the airport! She'd been furious when Luke had jumped into the mini-moke as she was driving away, and thoroughly fed up with his non-stop harangue on her impetuosity, her refusal to face the hard facts of life, and the folly of even thinking about returning to St Pauls and the Hamilton Plantation Hotel.

  'It's a ridiculous idea,' he told her angrily, for the umpteenth time, as she drove quickly past the sandy beach which edged the Baie de St Jean.

  'Oh—shut up!' she snarled, responding to Luke's words by slamming her foot hard down on the accelerator.

  Luke shuddered and closed his eyes for a moment as the mini-moke roared around a sharp left-hand bend on what appeared to be only two wheels. On opening them again, he clearly wished he hadn't, wincing as his vision filled with the depressing sight of ornately carved monu­ments and large, white crosses as the vehicle sped past a cemetery, which was situated across the road from the fenced-off area of St Jean airport.

  'This is a totally hare-brained scheme. . . rash and reckless action which is likely to. . .'

  Samantha swept into the car park reserved for airport personnel and pilots, bringing the vehicle to a screeching halt, before wrenching her door open and running around to the rear of the car. 'Why don't you get lost? I've had nothing but nag-nag and yak-yak from you for the last ten minutes,' she cried, angrily kicking off her shoes as she leaned inside the back of the car for her flying suit. 'Who asked you to come along, anyway?'

  'There are times when I could cheerfully wring your neck—and this is definitely
one of them!' he grated furi­ously. 'What the hell do you hope to achieve by flying back to St Pauls? That's if you manage to reach the island—which seems very unlikely, if those black thunder clouds are anything to go by,' he added grimly, glancing up at the darkening sky.

  'Thanks for the vote of confidence!'

  Luke gave a heavy sigh, striving to control his anger and impatience. 'I have a considerable amount of con­fidence in your flying ability, Samantha. But that's not the point, is it?' he pressed urgently as he watched her zip up her suit. 'Heaven knows, I'm no pilot—but even I can see that in trying to take off in the coming storm, you're taking a considerable risk.'

  'For goodness' sake—calm down! I'm going to be flying in the opposite direction to those clouds up there, so that thunderstorm isn't going to bother me. Besides, I really must try and get back to St Pauls.'

  'That's nonsense!'

  'No, it's not,' she insisted, slipping on her sneakers and reaching behind his tall figure to pull her tote bag out of the car. 'Someone has to look after all the guests in the hotel—and then there's the staff as well, don't forget. I can't just abandon them, can I?'

  'And if Hurricane Hannah should change course?' he demanded harshly. 'What then?'

  She shrugged. 'OK, I'll admit there is a slim chance that it might change course, but that's even more reason for me to try and get back to the hotel. If the worst comes to the worst, by taking off now I should be back on the island long before the hurricane arrives, which will give me plenty of time to get everyone down into the hotel cellars, where they'll be quite safe. So, simmer down—OK?' she added as she began walking swiftly towards a gate in the fence which surrounded the airfield.

  'No—of course it's not "OK". . .!' he ground out through clenched teeth. 'Come back here, at once!'

  'I'm perfectly able to look after myself—and I'm not going to stand around here arguing with you,' she called out. 'Give my love to Barbara. 'Bye.'

  Closing the gate behind her, Samantha glanced down at her wristwatch and then ran as quickly as she could across the grass towards the Cessna, which was parked beside the end of the runway near the sea. Leaping up on to the wing of the aeroplane, she was just pulling open the door when she staggered and almost fell as she felt a firm hand grip her ankle.

  'Oh, no!' she groaned, turning to stare down at Luke's hard, implacable face. 'I won't let you.. .you're not going to stop me. . .!' she panted, still breathless from her dash across the airfield.

  Luke gave a harsh bark of laughter. 'I think you've already made that fact quite clear,' he said, pulling himself up on to the wing beside her.

  'What the hell do you think you're doing?'

  'There's a well-known expression—"If you can't beat 'em. . .join 'em",' he retorted, firmly moving her to one side so that he could enter the aircraft. 'Hurry up, we obviously haven't much time,' he added crisply, sitting himself down in the front passenger seat.

  'My God—you've got a damn nerve!' she grated, peering into the cockpit and glowering angrily at his long-legged figure.

  It didn't, however, take more than a few seconds' thought for her to realise that there wasn't a thing she could do about the situation. Luke was right: there was no time to shilly-shally around; no time to argue about Who was going Where—and How. Glancing up at the black clouds which were getting nearer every moment, Samantha realised that she had only a very little time in which to get the aeroplane off the runway.

  'Oh—all right,' she grumbled. 'If you're determined to come with me, then I suppose I'm lumbered with you. But I want you to listen hard—and listen real good,' she said, quickly settling into the pilot's seat and doing up her seat-belt. 'The first thing I'd better tell you is that— as you've so graphically pointed out already—the weather isn't too good. It's likely to be a bumpy ride, and so if you want to jump out, now is the time to do so.'

  As Luke gave a silent shrug of his shoulders, her point about the weather was emphasised by the increasingly noisy twanging of the wires attached to the aeroplane. Caught by the rising wind, they beat a continuous, rapid tattoo against the outside of the fuselage.

  'Secondly, I'm the pilot, right?' she continued, her hands moving smoothly and confidently over the con­trols in front of her. 'Now, you can say and do what you like when you're in the offices of Brandon-Phillips International, in New York or wherever. But here and now, in this aeroplane, I'm in charge and I call the shots. OK?'

  'Wow—the Red Baron flies again!' he murmured sar­donically under his breath.

  'What did you say?' she demanded angrily.

  Luke raised his dark eyebrows in cool mockery. 'Me . . .?' he queried blandly. 'After that little speech of yours, I certainly wouldn't dream of saying anything.'

  'That's a very sensible decision!' she told him grimly. 'Because I don't want to have any advice, discussions, instructions or any other nonsense from you while I'm flying this plane. And the last thing I need is to have you panicking, or screaming blue murder during the flight, like that pathetic girlfriend of yours.'

  Other than a tightening of his lips at the mention of his relationship with Corrine, Luke remained silent, continuing to regard her with a calm, impassive expression on his face, which she found distinctively unnerving.

  'OK. Now, for your information, I'd better explain that there's no aircraft control in St Barts. All air traffic is controlled from the large nearby island of St Martin. . .' She paused as the left-hand engine caught and fired, and she leant forward to check the oil pressure and the alter­nator. 'Right, that's the port engine started, now for the starboard one,' she muttered, pulling the throttle half-open and turning the master switch as she began going through the whole, detailed sequence once again.

  'As you've already pointed out, ad nauseam,' she continued, 'this flight isn't exactly going to be a breeze or a joyride. Are you sure that you don't want to high­tail it out of here right now?'

  'No—I'm not at all sure!' he had drawled smoothly, settling back in his seat and calmly folding his arms across his chest. 'But since you seem quite determined to commit hara-kiri. . .' he turned his head to give her a sardonic grin, 'then I guess that I don't have any option but to join you, hmm?'

  And she certainly had to hand it to Luke, Samantha thought, as she now struggled to hold the plane steady against the increasingly strong guests of wind. As in­structed, her husband had barely opened his mouth or moved an inch since their take-off. In fact, other than noticing that his face seemed somewhat paler than normal, as far as she could see, Luke appeared to be totally relaxed and seemingly without a care in the world.

  Wishing that she was capable of being equally laid-back, Samantha took a deep breath to calm her rising apprehension as she once again picked up the trans­mitter, and requested flight clearance for two thousand feet.

  'Negative, Lima Tango, we can give you no clearance—repeat, negative clearance. Return to base. Over.'

  'Lima Tango—now heading zero-nine-zero. Over,' she persisted.

  It quickly became clear that the rapidly deteriorating weather was causing problems, and not just to her own light aircraft. As black, dense clouds completely en­veloped the Cessna, the disembodied voice of the air-traffic controller was interrupted by sharp whistles and crackling, so that she was barely able to hear the few words that spelt out the stark conditions into which she was flying.

  '. . . danger. . .Lima Tango. . . hurricane. . . American Airlines Boeing and three other unidentified air­craft. . . your vicinity. Urgent. . .extreme danger. . .' And then both the voice and the noisy atmospherics died completely away, leaving the aeroplane totally silent save for the background hum of the engines.

  Samantha hardly had time to worry about her pre­dicament. Continuing to try and make contact with air-traffic control, she quickly abandoned the attempt as a sudden, huge gust of wind and rain hit the aircraft. Des­perately fighting to keep the plane steady against the driving force of the storm, she was almost blinded as a rapid streak of lightning flashed ac
ross the nose of the aeroplane. At that precise moment, the light in the cockpit went out, and in total darkness the aircraft dropped down hundreds of feet, like a heavy stone thrown into a deep well.

  Knowing that the altimeter must be spinning back­wards at the rate of knots—and that there was nothing she could do about it—Samantha gritted her teeth and tried to stop herself trembling as she struggled to regain control of the aeroplane. Eventually managing to bring the Cessna up on to an even keel, she was pathetically grateful when the light flickered on again. It wasn't just the fact that she was now able to see the various dials and gauges that was so important. While the aircraft continued to be roughly buffeted, and thrown around the sky by the electrical storm raging outside, having some illumination inside the cabin somehow made the Stygian darkness outside seem less frightening. Not that she was able to fool herself. It was going to take some sort of miracle if she, and Luke, were to survive the hazards which lay ahead.

  'I. . .I guess I've been a damn fool,' she said, trying to control the wobble in her voice as she turned to give Luke a quick, nervous glance.

  'There's no point in crying over spilt milk, sweetheart.' Luke sounded so calm and confident that she realised he didn't appreciate just what dangerous straits they were in. For one, desperate moment she felt an overwhelming longing to put her head on his shoulder and bawl her eyes out. But she couldn't possibly do that—not when she'd gone to such great lengths to impress upon him that she was such a hard, tough cookie.

  'Samantha. . .?'

  She took a deep breath to try and steady her nerves. 'Yes, well. . . I'd better be frank and confess that things don't look too good.'

  That must be one of the understatements of the year! she added grimly to herself. And it wasn't just the plane that looked as if it might be in trouble. The muscles in her arms were aching, and she was beginning to feel des­perately tired, both from the mental stress of the situ­ation, and the physical energy required to hold the aircraft steady against the force of the wind.