My first urgent task was to get aboard Jetwind, take a quick look around, and then talk to the authorities. I chafed at the delay when a lackadaisical but amiable customs officer wanted to know the background of Robbie Lund's bell. The Spaniards, someone had mentioned, had first named the Falklands after Our Lady of Solitude — that was how it appeared to me, unhurried, utterly remote. The bell seemed to interest the official far more than Brockton's hard-fabric, business-man's black brief-case which he had kept at his feet during the flight; the official cursorily checked it without examining the contents.
Brockton and I lagged behind the rest of the passengers and his Argentinian foursome were quickly cleared and disappeared. Brockton and I had few exchanges since our arrival. I had enough to think about without making polite conversation. Paul seemed to realize it. I liked the man for his silences as much as for his words. It appeared to me, however, that when we finally reached the immigration desk he subtly jockeyed himself to be first in line.
He handed over his passport. His bulk barred me from seeing the document. The official was about to frank it, then stopped. 'Just a moment, sir.'
He disappeared into an inner office. He was away about five minutes and came back looking slightly flustered. 'Will you come this way please, Mr Brockton?'
Paul went. I stood around for about ten minutes, becoming more and more impatient. Through the windows I saw the passengers being loaded into a closed Land Rover for transport to the town. I noted, too, that the sky had become slightly hazier. Finally, the official emerged. 'What's the problem?' I asked.
He avoided my eyes. 'No problem. We don't get many Americans in this part of the world, that's all.'
I surrendered my own passport. The official examined the selection of Albatros port clearances, and then with added interest, that of South Africa. 'What is the purpose of your visit to Stanley, sir?'
I could just make out Jetwind from where I stood. I gestured. 'Jetwind — I'm her new skipper.'
He looked surprised. 'But — Mr Grohman is the captain. I've just checked him through.'
In my eagerness to be up and away, my fury needed all my control to keep it from exploding. 'I assure you he is not. ‘I am.'
The man clammed up at my tone. 'Sorry, sir. I cannot discuss anything outside a passenger's own personal affairs. Will you wait a moment?'
Same formula, same delay, same inscrutable politeness as for Brockton. 'What is wrong?' I demanded. 'There is nothing wrong,' he replied blandly. 'Not yet,'v
Paul's ten minutes' delay was stretched to twenty in my case. The empty airport building felt as if Our Lady of Solitude had moved in.
Finally, I was asked into the Senior Immigration Officer's sanctum. (In the Falklands, the pecking order among colonial officials is as rigid as diplomatic protocol.)
He played the cards close to his chest. 'You say you are the new captain of Jetwind, Mr Rainier?'
'You'd think it was a crime, considering the reaction it has brought both here and on the mainland.'
'So?’ He was urbane. 'You had no problems with your "white card"?' 'A little more than you're giving me.'
He remained unruffled. 'I could make things impossible, you realize.' 'Why should you?'
I had not been asked to sit down. The SIO regarded me through a swirl of cigarette smoke.
'I don't think you understand what an., ah, embarrassment… your ship has been, and continued to be, to the authorities here, Captain.'
'If Grohman had carried on to the Cape, none of this would have arisen.'
'It is our duty to cope with the situation as it has arisen. I wonder if I may make a suggestion to you, Captain Rainier?' 'I'm listening.'
'Let me telephone Mr Ronald Dawson, who is Chief Magistrate. Perhaps we could arrange for you to meet in the course of the next few days.
I saw the double play, diplomatic heel-dragging. A few days, more delays — what were they all playing at?
'I shall be delighted. As soon as possible. Today, after lunch.'
He appeared nonplussed at my hurry. 'There is always plenty of time in the Falklands, Captain Rainier. You will learn that, I hope, to your advantage.'
Everything inside me was crying out against this verbal fencing. I kept my cool, however. 'With or without immigration clearance?'
He acted surprised. 'We have nothing against you, Captain. You are a British subject. You have a British passport. But Jetwind is a delicate political problem, I trust you realize. We want to guide you in making the correct decisions. In addition, of course, there is a legal aspect concerning the late Captain Mortensen.' 'What is that?'
'I would be exceeding my functions if I discussed Mr Dawson's duties with you,' he returned. He picked up the phone. 'Ronald? I have with me Captain Rainier, the new skipper of Jetwind…'
I heard an exclamation at the other end of the line. My man laughed a little uneasily. 'No, of course not. There is no reason not to. He wants to see you — he has suggested this afternoon after lunch but I have told him…'
There was an interrupting crackle. 'No, of course I didn't realize you would like it that way. Today, at two? Good. I'll inform Captain Rainier.'
His suavity was a trifle bent when he spoke to me. 'Mr Dawson agrees that the sooner you and he meet, the better.'
He got up stiffly and handed me my passport with the air of a diplomat handing an enemy-to-be an aide-memoire.
'Good luck, Captain Rainier. And, if I may give you a little off-the-record advice, don't attempt anything rash with that ship. You may get hurt.' 'I'll remember that.'
I joined Paul, who was waiting outside the airport building by a battered Land Rover truck which had been assigned to take us into town. There Was the faintest stir of wind from the west.
Chapter 9
'Welcome aboard, sir.'
John Tideman's smile and Jetwind's big digital bridge clock illuminated simultaneously. It was one o'clock — two hours since I had landed. The time reminded me forcibly that I had wasted those hours navigating official channels silted with latent obstructionism. Finally, even the short boat journey from the public jetty to Jetwind’s mooring had assumed the length of a voyage.
Tideman might have said, welcome to wonderland. The sight of Jetwind's bridge, bisected by the gleaming steel pillar of No. 2 mast, overrode my chafing fret against time. I had never seen a bridge like it — a miracle of consoles, instruments, panels, dials, lights and switches. Inwardly I felt a pang of dismay. If I were to bulldoze through my escape plan that night, I had somehow to get the hang of the ship's complicated technology within the next few hours. Brockton, who had accompanied me from the shore, said, 'I thought I'd seen everything in sophisticated instrumentation aboard America Cup Twelves — but this licks everything!'
I liked Tideman immediately for his modesty. He was about my own age, I guessed. He had long hair and a Viking beard fringing a lean jaw. I visualized his place rather at the wheel of a deep-sea racing yacht in oilskins and goggles against a Southern Ocean blow than in the custom-cut dark green uniform and white cap which were regulation rig for Jetwind's officers. He wore it with a certain insouciance.
'It looks like a space-age scenario, but basically it's relatively simple,' said Tideman. 'You don't want to let it overawe you. I was, at first.' 'I wouldn't even know where to start,' Brockton replied.
Tideman looked inquiringly at Brockton. He obviously did not understand Paul's position aboard. I explained briefly. Then I said, 'Give me a run-down on the main controls as quickly as you can. I want to know what I'm doing, soonest.' 'We're sailing soon, sir?' he asked eagerly.