“Coffee behind you, sir.”
Da Silva turned and frowned in surprise at the bottle clamped in the wall bracket.
“I thought that was the fire extinguisher.”
The pilot laughed, flashing white teeth.
“That is the fire extinguisher, mon. I mean, sir. Don’t drink it — we might just need it. Coffee’s in the thermos on the ledge behind you. Sandwiches, too, for later.”
“Oh.” The Brazilian detective twisted, glanced down, and then turned back. “I’ll let it go for the time being.” What he meant was that he wasn’t sure his stomach was up to food of any sort at that hour, or in that situation. For the tenth time since his brave offer he wondered at his temerity. Temerity? Idiocy — in insisting upon accompanying the plane. From the inside it looked even more fragile than from the outside; a trussed frame of thin pipes he was sure he could easily bend by hand, covered with paper-thin sheet metal and held in place by rivets far too small, he was sure, for their job. He tried to smile at the pilot. “Maybe I’ll have some coffee later.”
“Whenever you want, sir.”
The pilot glanced at his wristwatch, spoke a few words into the microphone pivoted from his helmet, and pressed the plane’s self-starter. The single radial engine, sounding as if it also resented having to work at that hour, slowly ground the propellor about several times. There was a sudden puff of smoke, sweeping about the windscreen, and the engine caught with a roar and then settled down to a quiet grumbling. The pilot waggled the flaps and tail controls to make sure all cables were running free, thrust the throttle forward slowly, and angled away from the small bobbing pier. He looked over his shoulder.
“All set, sir?” He glanced down. “Seatbelt tight?”
“All set,” Da Silva said grimly, and clamped his jaw tight.
The roar of the engine returned, increasing as the throttle was pressed steadily forward; the sound within the small cabin was suddenly intensified by the bouncing of the wing-floats and the prow of the fuselage as the small plane leaned down, slapping against the small choppy waves of the cove; then they were airborne and the land was dropping away behind them, lost in the early morning darkness. Da Silva tried to make out the figures of the inspector and Wilson beside the second plane next to the pier, but it was impossible. The pilot banked sharply; Da Silva swallowed convulsively, bringing his attention back to the cockpit, and reached for the hand-hold bar set a bit to one side and slightly above the narrow door. The pilot leaned in his direction, shouting something lost in the noise of the engine and the vibration of the plane. Da Silva stared at him.
“What?”
The young pilot gave up the attempt and pointed to his earphones and then to a set bracketed on the ceiling above his passenger’s head. The swarthy detective understood; he slipped them on and twisted the microphone in place before his mouth. The noise of the plane was instantly and miraculously muffled, replaced by the soft island voice of the pilot.
“Can you hear me, sir?”
“Yes, thank God! This is a lot better.”
“Just talk quietly into the mike, sir. She’s a good pick-up.” He paused to reach over his head, twisting a handle, trimming the plane, then returned to his guest. “I was saying before, lean with her, mon, when I bank. Be part of her. That way you won’t have to hold on so tight.”
Da Silva looked at the earnest black face watching him, and nodded. He was unable to think of anything to say. It was easy for the young man to say “lean with her” in that soft sing-song tone, but every natural instinct was to fight that sickening tilt with every tool available, to maintain verticality regardless of the position of the plane. Still, he thought, the pilot should know best; at least he seemed to be comfortable. He tentatively relaxed his grip on the metal bar, but kept his hand close for immediate succor if needed. And I’ll bet my fingerprints are embedded in that steel bar for posterity, he thought with a slightly ashamed grin, and suddenly felt more relaxed. He was even able to look from the window, expanding his view beyond the tiny limits of the cockpit.
The sunrise was beautiful from that altitude, the red ball drawing itself from the dark ocean, soft and large, tinging the low-lying clouds with color. Beneath them, in contrast, the sea was a ruffled green fabric, pointing up the variety tinting the horizon. It is lovely, Da Silva thought, and was aware that he was actually beginning to enjoy himself and the flight. The soft voice of the pilot in his ear suddenly took his attention.
“Yes?”
“When you’re looking for the boat, don’t try to look straight ahead, sir. Never search into the sun; it’s a waste of time. To start with, you can’t see much; and later on it’ll just be too strong. Hurt your eyes, my word!” He smiled. “I’ll start taking north and south courses very soon, now. I’ll take them about five miles apart and run maybe fifteen, twenty miles each way. When it gets lighter, we can go higher and widen the view.”
“You’re the boss.”
“Yes, sir. Now, when we’re flying a north course, you just try to look straight down; I’ll be looking away from the sun and I’ll have a wider scan. On the south runs, the other way around. And just concentrate on a small part of the sea at any one time, sir; don’t try to cover it all. Especially not in front or in back. The plane’ll do that for us.”
“Right.”
Da Silva turned, pressing his face to the small window, feeling its chill at this altitude, staring down at the sea. He suddenly realized the accuracy of Wilson’s observation: The sea was not only vast, but despite Inspector Storrs’ comment, it looked awfully empty. Not a freighter, not a passenger liner, not a fishing boat in sight. Nothing. Not even, he thought grimly, a speedboat with a man and woman in it, or even a man alone. He spoke into the microphone without removing his gaze from the ocean below.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Jeremy Cluett, sir. Everyone calls me Jerry — except the inspector, of course.”
“What’s he call you?”
“Sergeant, sir.” The voice was respectful but could not help showing justifiable pride. “I think I prefer it.” His tone of voice changed. “Why, sir? Did you see anything?”
“No, Sergeant. I was just wondering, is all.” Da Silva frowned down at the sea. “There doesn’t seem to be any islands out this way; I was wondering why we were searching this stretch of the sea. He wouldn’t just go for a joy ride, I don’t believe.”
“No, sir.” The pilot reached up, retrimming the ship, and then returned to his conversation. “It’s true there aren’t many islands out this way, this far east of Barbados; it’s pretty empty sea out here. But there are a few. Actually, we should be seeing one group fairly soon, now.”
“Group?”
“Yes, sir. They’re called the Abandoned Islands. They were first discovered by the Danes, way back, but they never tried to settle them. Too small, I guess; not much reason to, especially not back in those days. Anyway, they never did.” He made a slight correction in his course and then continued. “There are three of them, about fifteen miles apart. And a lot different, one from the other.”
“How far away are they?”
“Well, sir, they’re about ninety kilometers dead east of Barbados — fifty-four miles. But the north-south courses we’re flying, of course, we aren’t flying for them. But we’ll be raising them soon.”
Da Silva nodded and looked down, and then had to refrain forcibly from grabbing ignominiously for the hold-bar as the pilot put the plane into a sharp bank of one hundred and eighty degrees, heading on his opposite course. He looked over at his passenger and grinned.