It was hard to see where the inner harbour began, for the water level was high above the marina’s jetties and only the occasional boat on a long, strong mooring gave the position of the facility away. The roofs of the marina’s restaurants and shops gave some sort of definition to the shoreline, apparently floating like terracotta rafts on the swift current. But that was all. The only real definition of the end of one and the beginning of the other was the tall arch of the single-span road bridge that leaped upward out of a welter of foam at the foot of a six-lane highway running parallel to the Avenue Sixteenth September. ‘That’s the Boulevard Centrale,’ said Juan Jose. ‘It was built to link the breakwater hotels with the centre of town.’
‘The bridge seems to be holding up well, though,’ said Richard.
‘That’s because of the high curve on it. They built it like that so even quite large vessels could get into the inner harbour. They wanted Puerto Banderas to be the next billionaires’ playground on the Pacific coast.’
The outer harbour beyond the high arch of the wide bridge was much broader, and had fared better in consequence. The L-shape of the breakwater was above even the swollen water level, and the Malecón opposite was built on top of a high embankment. Even so, runoff gushed off the Boulevard Centrale and between the buildings, pouring out into the dock as though the entire Malecón was the side of a ship frantically pumping out its bilges.
But Richard had no eyes for any of this. He was instead focused on the inner wall of the breakwater. His plans dictated that he should be searching for the great dockside cranes like the one he had left in Long Beach, big enough and strong enough to lift the National Guard containers off his deck. But no. He was focused entirely on his increasingly desperate search for a multihull with a tall black solid sail and a sleek white billionaire’s plaything. And, sure enough, there were some vessels tethered to the outer dock. But all of them looked deserted and none of them looked like Katapult8 or Maxima. His heart sank painfully again as Biddy skimmed as low as she dared over the filthy, battered derelicts. But then: ‘Oh! Sweet suffering Christ!’ she said. And the Bell whirled, nose down, settling towards one of the worst-looking wrecks. Richard stared at it, wide-eyed with shock, wondering what Biddy was up to. The state of it! he thought numbly. Its communications gear was gone. Two stumpy masts ended in tangles of twisted wirework. The stern section, from midships back, had clearly seen better days. There had apparently been an on-board pool but it was a total wreck now. There had been an aft section that folded down to water level; it had clearly been torn away. The hull looked rust-streaked, salt-grimed. Little better than a hulk on its way to the breaker’s yard.
It was not until the Bell settled on the third deck up like a homing pigeon returning to its roost that Richard realized. Heart suddenly lifting, he unstrapped his belt, tore off his headphones and opened the side. Oblivious to the deluge, he jumped down and ran forward. The familiar glass doors slid open and Robin was standing there. He stopped. Stepped forward, feeling that his chest was going to explode. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘I’ve been so worried about you!’
‘Me too,’ she said with a pale grin. ‘I’ve been really worried about us. And with good reason. You don’t know the half of it!’
He really felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. She was safe. She was here. There was nothing they couldn’t tackle now. Nothing they couldn’t overcome. ‘Tell me all about it later,’ he said, taking the last step forward so he could slide his arms round her and hug her with all his strength, looking over her shoulder at Nic and Liberty as they stood smiling on the battered bridge. ‘We’ve got quite a job to do. A ship full of relief supplies and soldiers to bring in. A great deal of reconstruction work too, by the look of things. And a whole town of people to find and to help — those that aren’t on their way to Guardalajara or Vallarta. Let’s get this show on the road!’
THIRTY-SEVEN
Biddy flew Richard, Robin and Guerrero back to Sulu Queen almost immediately. But there was more than one couple reunited before the Bell lifted off. For no sooner had Richard and Robin greeted each other than Miguel-Angel appeared, summoned by the sound of the helicopter and brimming with questions, none of which he ever asked. Because if Juan Jose hardly recognized his little brother, Miguel-Angel knew his elder sibling at once. One glance at the tall, dark officer and the boy burst into tears. Between sobs, he tried to explain in a mixture of broken English and guttural Spanish that the sight of his brother made him realize how terribly he was going to miss his capitan. Juan Jose swept his little brother into his arms as though the tall youth was still a child. ‘And Father?’ demanded the major. ‘How is Father?’
Miguel-Angel shrugged. ‘Where is Father? The shop is locked and empty. Señor Greenbaum sailed close by the Malecón on the way in and I ran ashore and knocked. But there was no reply. He must have gone. So I came back on board.’
‘We saw a convoy of refugees on the flight in.’ Juan Jose nodded. ‘The local authorities are beginning to get organized, I think. But it is impossible that everyone will have gone. There are always people who will not or cannot leave. These are the ones we are here to try to help, for things will get worse.’
At the major’s request, therefore, Biddy did not simply reverse her incoming flight path. Instead of following the river and going over the jungle, she took the Bell as low as she dared over the apparently deserted town. ‘I calculate,’ Guerrero explained, ‘that anyone still here is likely to try to communicate with us if they hear the chopper passing.’ And so it proved. Especially as he and Miguel-Angel, now inseparable, dictated the course using their superior knowledge of the town. ‘Follow Los Poetas,’ called Miguel-Angel. ‘It runs parallel to Boulevard Centrale. It is where the main hospital is. There will be people there who cannot easily be moved.’ The Bell skipped low over the tall, square building and paused, hovering so that they could look in through the windows — and, sure enough, there were people waving. Miguel-Angel waved back.
‘Where next?’ asked Biddy. ‘If I go straight up I just get back to Dahlia Blanca, which I still have not dared tell Mr Greenbaum about. Any volunteers?’
‘The Malecón? Los Muertos?’ suggested Juan Jose.
‘No. There are three CMQ hospitals in the centre of town,’ said Miguel-Angel. ‘And there are the Buena Vista health clinics which are high up near the beginning of the jungle. If the rain continues, they would be at risk first, no?’
‘Yes,’ answered Juan Jose. ‘But they will also be the hardest for us to reach.’ His observation was borne out as Biddy took them up to Buena Vista at the jungle’s edge. ‘What we need is some kind of transport that can get up and down these hills, even when they are flooded. Something amphibious, maybe.’
‘The Mexican Navy has amphibious vehicles,’ Biddy said knowledgeably. ‘They have BTR-70 eight-wheelers and some Gama Goats still in commission.’
‘Their main Pacific base is in Manzanillo, just south of Vallarta,’ said Juan Jose. ‘Though they also have bases at Ensenada, Puerto Cortez and Vallarta.’
‘Good,’ said Richard. ‘But what we could really do with is more choppers.’
‘I tell you what you need,’ said Robin. ‘You need that airship we saw.’
‘Dragon Dream? It would be perfect if it can handle the conditions.’
‘I could ask,’ called Biddy. ‘I mean, there will be guys up in LA who’ll know the contact. Like I said when we saw her, Dragon Dream has fans there.’