Part Twelve
Forty-eight hours.
The setting sun streamed scarlet through the window, reflecting from the glass front of his bedside clock. Jeff Tracy felt his hands clench into fists as the digits flickered and changed. He only had hazy memories of yesterday… no, the night before. Vivid, terrifying images stood out: Virgil knocked into the water, lifting Gordon into Scott's arms, an enormous wave roiling over the Santa Anna and an indescribable noise as the ship tore herself apart. He wasn't sure of the sequence of events, and the typhoon came crashing out of nowhere in his memories of the day.
Dr Evans had said the short-term memory loss was normal, to be expected with a serious concussion. The medical verdict was no comfort to a father straining to remember every minute with his sons. He'd had to look up the time of the storm, limited to the local media by the continuing blackout. That was the only way he knew.
My sons have been missing for forty-eight hours.
He still didn't believe it.
He slumped back against his pillows, eyes closing. Industrial strength painkillers were keeping his headaches more or less under control, and the doctor had been forcing him to drink something almost every time he opened his eyes, but he still felt tired and weak. He'd slept more than he'd been awake during the day. Somewhere around noon he'd managed to speak briefly to Lucy; a telephone conversation that should have been full of tender reassurance and comfort reduced to a shouting match by a telephone line with more noise than signal. He'd woken again in the late afternoon, barely able to remain conscious even when Virgil was brought down to visit him. Despite his own enervation, the boy's quietness had bothered him. Virgil was far from the most boisterous of Jeff's sons, but he usually held his own. He'd asked Dr Evans about it when he woke to find Virgil had been taken back to his own ward for dinner. In return he'd been handed a couple of truly disturbing pictures and a gentle recommendation that he find his son a good counsellor.
The dark, shadowy image of Scott and Gordon about to be carried off by the storm was one Jeff had never been in a position to see. The jigsaw puzzle of torn scraps that he'd reconstructed into a fractured glimpse of his incomplete family was more alarming still. Evans had said that when Virgil had first been brought in, he'd been bright, urgent and intent on finding out first about his father and then his brothers. She was almost as concerned as he was by the boy's withdrawal since. Judging by these pictures, Jeff's eleven-year-old was already trying to comprehend a loss that Jeff still couldn't bring himself to accept was real.
Forty-eight hours.
Alone, in an open boat, with only the meagre supplies in an emergency locker that Jeff had no more than glanced over once and then forgotten about.
He'd made sure the Santa Anna had a radio, that its lifeboat was intact and supplied, and that the yacht herself was top of the range, long before he took his boys aboard. After that he'd ignored the bigger issues in favour of the more every-day precautions – checking the weather schedules, planning out his route, making sure his boys knew where the life-jackets were, and that even Gordon understood that the ocean was something to be respectful of rather than simply play in. He'd thought he was doing enough.
Rationally, he knew that the storm had been an unpredictable disaster, compounded by the induction effect that blocked communications, rendered the lifeboat's emergency beacon useless and kept search aircraft grounded. Nothing he could have done, no precaution that he perhaps should have taken, would have saved the Santa Anna. That didn't relieve the overwhelming sense of guilt and anger. He couldn't help feeling that somehow he should have been better prepared. There should have been some way to save his sons from this.
"Mr Tracy?"
The call from the doorway broke into his brooding. He turned towards it, frowning at the source of this new voice.
The man was a few years younger than he was. A deeply tanned face topped a leather jacket and worn jeans. There was a rough, windblown air to the man, as if he'd spent the day outdoors and only just returned. Despite the casual attire, there was a sharp look on the man's face, an intelligence shining behind a weary face and shadowed eyes. His eyes scanned the room and its occupant quickly, assessing and filing away his conclusions.
"Police?" Jeff guessed, sighing.
"Inspector Chuck Travis, Mr Tracy. Can I say it's an honour to meet you?"
Jeff waved the pleasantry away. It may have been genuine, but right now he didn't need a fan, he needed news. Travis' name was familiar. It had been mentioned more than once.
"You've been out looking for my sons?"
Travis took a step into the room, the sigh inaudible but barely visible as a slight movement of his chest. "There's no news, Mr Tracy." His sincere regret was obvious despite the blunt statement. "The search boats are still out there. They'll keep going as long as there's light and start again first thing in the morning. Air-sea rescue should be able to join them tomorrow." The man hesitated, a little awkward. "I'm sorry."
Jeff realised he'd slumped back against the raised head of his bed. "Forty-eight hours," he whispered numbly. He forced the thought away, searching for something else to say. He found it. His fists clenched again, and he turned an angry look on the detective. "You're the man who told Virgil you think his brothers are dead," he realised.
The detective flinched, his eyes widening. "I didn't…!" Travis stopped, the younger man taking a deep breath and thinking hard. "He may have overheard me talking to his doctor," he admitted finally, a weary frown on his face. "Mr Tracy, I've been very impressed with your son. I would never knowingly hurt him, and I'm sorry if I said anything in his hearing that I shouldn't. But, sir, while I won't stop searching for Scott and Gordon, I have to be realistic. After two days… I know that you appreciate how slim the chances of us finding them alive and well now are."
Jeff broke eye contact, shuddering. The detective's sombre but earnest tone made it impossible to stay angry with him, or to ignore the reality of what he said.
"What happened?" he demanded. "How the hell did this happen?"
The man's expression turned curiously wary. "NASA are still looking into their end, Mr Tracy. I'm sorry. I'm probably as far out of the loop on that as you are. As for what happened here…"
Travis came to his bedside. The detective held a folder in his right hand, bulging with paperwork and reports. Jeff sighed, holding his hand out in a demanding gesture. Travis began at the beginning, with the Levans bringing him and Virgil to port. Jeff listened carefully, taking the pictures and reports as the detective handed them to him. It was a good twenty minutes before the detective finished with a brief mention of his visit to San Fernando.
As much as Jeff appreciated it, the briefing was somewhat surprising and he said as much, giving himself time to process the information overload. The detective smiled ruefully.
"I had a quick word with a NASA guy, Vaughan, when I got back to the office. He told me that if I didn't tell you everything when I saw you, you'd come down to headquarters and 'damn well demand the rest'." He grimaced, running a hand through his hair. "If it's more than you wanted to know…"
Jeff shook his head sharply, riffling through the paper. Doctor Evans had told him the bare minimum, no more really than that Virgil needed help and that his other sons were still unaccounted for. It helped to know more. For the first time since he'd first wakened, he had something solid to distract him from endless memories of his two missing boys.
He pulled out the satellite photograph from before the storm, ignoring the circled yacht and focusing instead on the distinctive island of San Fernando to the south of it. The double-peaked island looked like a toppled figure of eight, or perhaps a distorted infinity symbol.
"I didn't realise places like this existed any more – that one man could own an entire island." He squinted at it, frowned and squinted again, angling the gloss surface of the picture away from the light. "Is that some kind of radio dish? A telescope maybe?"
Travis frowned, leaning forward and looking at the minute grey dot Jeff indicated. "I didn't see anything like that on San Fernando."
Jeff shook his head, dismissing the point as irrelevant. His grip tightened, fury burning through him, the photograph creasing between tensed fingers.
"This Villacana," he said in a voice soft with anger. "Did he delay the search for Scott and Gordon?"
Travis had pulled the bedside chair up beside Jeff as he explained. Now he pushed it back, pacing back and forth in the confined space of Jeff's hospital room. "I almost wish I could say yes, but the bastard got lucky. We'd already figured out what had happened before the search set out, and Virgil was able to tell us pretty much exactly where to look." The detective hesitated, turning back to meet Jeff's eyes. "That's a talented kid. And brave. He saved your life, Jeff. You should be very proud of him."
"I am," Jeff sighed. Proud and worried. His gaze flinched away from the pictures on his bedside table, settling instead on Virgil's earlier, brighter portrait of his brothers. He gazed at it with burning eyes, setting it aside after a moment and looking instead at the impressive hand-drawn chart. "I was going to teach them to navigate by the stars," he remembered.
Travis coughed gently, recalling him to the moment. "Something you learnt at NASA, sir?"
Jeff gritted his teeth, forcing the memories down. "I'll tell you what I learnt at NASA. I learnt that if people put enough money and enough brainpower behind a problem, they can do anything they set their minds to – even fly to the moon." Jeff thought of his astronaut days, and then of the business he'd worked for the last five years to build up. It was showing a healthy profit that more than one analyst was suggesting could soon become a far-from-modest fortune. He'd give it all to have his missing sons in his arms. "So why isn't there anyone who can bring my boys home?"
"Mr Tracy…"
He waved off Travis's assurance that tomorrow morning would bring the much needed space imaging and airborne searches. He knew the detective already believed it would be too little too late. Despite the facts, despite the rollercoaster of emotions surging through him, he still found he couldn't believe the same. As Travis had said, he knew the chances. But all their lives, his sons had defied anything as simple as logic and probability, just like their father.
Outside the hospital, the sun was low on the horizon. Soon it would be setting, the temperature falling abruptly under clear skies. Scott and Gordon would be settling down to sleep, scared, perhaps even thinking themselves forgotten and abandoned. His boys were out there, waiting to be found, and Jeff shook his head, willing his sons to hold on. Like Virgil, Jeff Tracy simply couldn't accept a picture that didn't include them.
The sun was low in the sky when they reached the shoreline. The walk across the width of the island, constantly alert for the sound of the returning vehicle, had been a weary slog. They'd stuck to the road, less nervous of traps as it broadened and the tread marks remained clear on the dusty ground. Scott was grateful for the easier going, but frustrated by their painfully slow pace. His throat had gone past sore into a sandpaper-agony that made his breath rasp and forced his voice into a hoarse whisper. His head was pounding, and he'd started to sweat heavily, making Gordon's hand slippery in his. That hand was all that had kept the younger brother on his feet several times now. Gordon's feet were dragging and he stumbled frequently, exhausted.
They had been following the tyre marks blindly. Now that trail turned sharply south, the rough track following the shore of a shallow, sheltered inlet into the distance. Somewhere down there the road must make a hairpin bend, rounding the end of the fjord-like bay before paralleling the shoreline back to the north. A mere hundred metres away, separated from the boys by shifting sandbanks and a stretch of water so sheltered it seemed more like a farm pond than ocean shore, Scott could see the road turn westward and continue up-slope. It looked almost close enough to touch, and yet reaching it would require an agonising six, eight, ten mile-long trek. With every step they took to the south, they'd be able to see the road opposite, and they'd know that the return journey northwards would be slower and harder still. Scott stared across the inlet with a kind of dazed dismay, wondering what they'd done to deserve this.
Perhaps… perhaps they wouldn't have to come so far north after all? Perhaps the road opposite was a red herring and the settlement they were searching for would be down to the south? Scott looked up, scanning the elongated mount – almost a separate island – that lay on the other side of the inlet. He froze, heart fluttering in his chest as it tried to both sink and soar simultaneously. Far above them, at the crest of a hillside almost steep enough to be a cliff, the setting sun was glinting off something smooth and reflective. The details were hidden, lost in the glare and with their edges blurred by a mask of trees, but even so Scott was sure. Window glass. It had to be!
He took half a step forward, desperate to reach for this evidence of civilisation, despite the dangers it might represent. Then he looked down at the hundred-metre wide stretch of salt water and along it to the south, squinting to try and make out the point, miles distant, where his shoreline and the one opposite met. His heart sank and his eyes dropped to his feet. A journey he'd hoped might be over in a matter of hours, another day at most, had suddenly become far, far longer.
Unless… unless there was another option? Gordon had slumped to the ground in the middle of the road as soon as Scott stopped and released his hand. He was sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest, arms folded around his knees and his face buried against them. To either side of him, the fresh tyre treads described a smooth arc, turning through almost ninety degrees, and there was evidence of older tracks following the same path, pale shadows in the sun-baked earth. Those weren't what attracted Scott's attention. While perhaps half a dozen trails turned with the road, skirting the inlet, there were two overlapping sets of tyre-marks that didn't turn at all, but continued across the road's margin and down the rocky shore to vanish into the water.
Did this island boast a spectacularly bad driver? Or was Scott missing something? Letting Gordon rest for a few seconds, he took a step towards the shoreline, tilting his head to try and avoid reflections from the water's surface. He could see the rippling sand under the shallow surface, and the dark streaks where deeper channels ran between sand banks. With the two halves of the island sheltering it to east and west, and jagged rocks forming a breakwater to the north, this inlet was almost completely silted up. Directly in front of Scott, like a bridge connecting the east-west road with its counterpart on the opposite shore, a broad sandbar blocked the entire span of the bay just below the water's surface, turning the narrow section to the south into a lagoon. At high tide, the ocean's water would refresh and aerate it. At low tide, the sandbar must stand clear of the surface, or certainly very close to it, if even a jeep could sometimes risk the short-cut across.
Scott scanned the shore, his eyes taking in seaweed and algae piled along the high tide mark. The water level was well down from it. The very small ripples on the surface suggested that the current was flowing out to sea; the tide was still ebbing, but it couldn't be far off the turn. He hesitated, wondering and more than a little uncertain.
Neither he nor Gordon was going to cope well with a ten-mile detour, even with a level, mostly-smooth track to walk along. But was he right about the low-tide bridge? Even if he wasn't, the water looked shallow, easily wading depth for the tall boy and probably still below Gordon's chest-level. It wouldn't be easy but… Scott's expression became focussed, determined. He didn't think there was any choice but to attempt the crossing.
A quiet groan from Gordon drew Scott's eyes back around behind him and down. When they'd stumbled out from between the trees, Gordon's eyes had been on his feet, and he'd been too glad of the temporary respite to look around. Now he was slowly raising his head, ready at least to try to go on, but yet to notice the expanse of water. Scott was already on his knees, ready to catch him, when the younger boy gave his surroundings a bleary-eyed survey. His little brother's eyes widened, horror and terror wiping out any hint of rationality. He scrambled to his feet, backing away from the water, stumbling into Scott's arms and holding tight.
Scott had half-expected it after Gordon's terrified reaction to a mere six-inch deep stream and deep aversion to the lapping waves that morning. Even so, the intensity of his brother's fear surprised him.
"It's just water, Gordy," he whispered, swallowing hard and trying to work up enough moisture in his dry mouth to speak. "You like water."
The little boy shook his head, face buried in Scott's dirty and dusty shirt. "Hate water," he muttered.
Scott sighed. On another day, wading across the shallow inlet under the hot sun might have been fun. Today it promised to be an ordeal. He looked behind him. The trees had thinned as they reached the shore. For several hundred metres back the way they came, the foliage was dominated by ferns, barely above waist height. On the opposite bank, across the ridge of sand that formed a crude ford, the road disappeared up a steep slope into thick trees. He knew they'd have to stop for the night soon, and briefly, he considered just calling it a night where they stood. Three things prevented him. He reckoned it was pretty close to low tide and while the water might be lower in an hour's time, the sun would long since have set. If he was going to get Gordy out of this, they needed to make what progress they could while there was still light to do it. If they were going to survive this island, they needed the best cover they could find. And if they were going to get any rest tonight, it would have to be with the water crossing behind them, not looming ominously in their future.
Still kneeling, he pulled back a little, forcing Gordon away from his chest so he could see his brother's face.
"Gordy, you've played in water all your life. You're a stronger swimmer than I am! What's wrong?"
Gordon looked away, closing his eyes as if he thought that if he couldn't see Scott, Scott wouldn't see him. Pulling away, Gordon turned towards the south before opening his eyes. The younger boy couldn't hide his look of dismay as he saw the road stretching away, but even that, it seemed, was better than looking at the inlet.
"We need to keep walking," Gordon muttered, giving Scott a tug in the direction of the coastal road and not meeting his elder brother's gaze.
Scott sighed. He took a tight hold on his brother's arm, not able to raise his voice but making it resolute despite the rasp. He didn't want to do this to his little brother. He didn't see any choice. "Gordon, we're crossing this bay here."
Gordon's eyes snapped around. His lips trembled and he took a step back to Scott's side, throwing his arms around the older boy.
"I can't!" he cried. "Scotty, please! Please don't make me!"
Scott raised an eyebrow, letting Gordon hug him, but not returning the embrace.
"Do you want me to leave you here?" he asked, just a little sarcasm in his voice. Gordon squeezed tighter, shaking his head furiously.
"Don't go in the water, Scotty. I don't want to lose you!" The last words came out not as a cry, but as a whimper. Scott winced, feeling the intensity in Gordon's embrace, and finally sure where it had come from. He didn't need Gordon to go on, but his little brother did regardless. "Virge and Daddy went into the water and they didn't come out again. Daddy… Daddy told me water could be dangerous. That it could hurt me or Allie if I wasn't really careful. I didn't believe him, Scotty, and now he's gone!"
Scott closed his eyes, holding Gordon in return for a few seconds and then easing backwards to look his brother in the face again. Tears cut deep channels through the dirt on Gordon's face, his stricken expression tearing at his brother's heart.
"Gordy, Daddy taught you to swim, didn't he? Dad took us out on the boat. He just wanted you to be sensible, Gordy, and take one of us with you when you went swimming." Water safety had been a constant concern with the youngest Tracy boys, ever since a very guilty, three-year-old Gordon fished his almost-blue baby brother out of their theoretically covered-over garden pond. "He didn't mean for you to stop completely. You're good at swimming, Gordy, and Dad was very proud of you. He loved to watch you swim. What happened to… what happened, it wasn't the fault of the sea, or the boat. It was just the storm, Gordon. And that was an accident. But Daddy wouldn't want you to be scared of the water now. There's no storm, see?" He turned his little brother, forcing him to look at the gently flowing water. "There's no waves. And you're with me."
He rocked his little brother gently, wondering how best to do this. If it had been a day, or even half a day earlier, he'd simply have picked Gordon up and carried him. From what he could see beyond surface reflections, the water streaming across the sand bank was perhaps eighteen-inches deep, not far above knee-height for the tall thirteen-year-old. It wouldn't have come close to a little boy on his shoulders or back. Now though, he was far from sure he could balance his own weight across the shifting sand, let alone his younger brother's.
"Do you remember how Daddy came to cheer your swimming race at school? Gordy, it's only a few days since we were all on the beach, you and me, and Daddy, and Virgil, and we were all swimming and splashing and happy. Remember that? You don't have to be afraid of the water, Gordy. You've always said it was friendly and just wanted to play."
Gordon was still looking at the inlet with deep distrust, but there was more thought behind his pale eyes now, less by way of blind panic. Scott let his arms fall away from his brother and stood, gently disentangling himself from Gordon's arms. He took a few steps towards the water, Gordon following reluctantly but closely. His brother closed even the small gap between them as Scott stopped on the rocky shore, standing on the still-damp gravel strip between the compressed earth of the road and the eastern end of the sand bank. He felt Gordon's arms around his waist, pulling him back.
"Gordon, we are crossing here," he repeated softly. "I'm going to take the pack across to the other bank, and then I'll come back for you, okay, Gordy? And we're going to walk across the sand. We won't even have to swim."
"No!"
"Gordon, I'm going to take the pack across, and then come back for you," Scott kept his voice calm, making the repetition as soothing as he could. "And you'll be fine and wait for me here and we'll go together."
Gordon's voice was very small. "What if I fall in?"
Scott ruffled his brother's hair. "Then you'll probably get to the other side more quickly!" he told his little brother, before making his voice serious. "A hundred metres? That's hardly two lengths of the swimming pool in town. Gordy, you could swim across this blindfold. But it's okay: I'm not going to make you. We're going to walk across together, and I won't let you fall in."
"Wh..what if you fall in?"
Now Scott rolled his eyes. "Then you'll just have to pull me out, won't you?" he said, his exasperated tone making a joke of it. "Gordy, we're going to walk across. This will be fine… see?"
Taking a deep breath, he took a step forward onto the uneven surface. Water flooded his shoes instantly, stinging against his raw blisters and making his socks sodden and heavy. Gordon's arms were still reaching out toward him, as if they could stop him going. Scott threw a reassuring glance over his shoulder, and the little boy's arms fell until he was hugging himself, his eyes glued to his big brother. Scott gave him the best smile he could muster, taking a moment to resettle the crudely tied tarpaulin pack across his shoulders before taking another step.
Waterlogged sand shifted under his feet. Occasional stones, jagged and always unexpected, pressed painfully into the thin soles of his shoes. The tide was stronger than he'd anticipated, constricted and accelerated by the raised surface of the sandbank into an undertow that battered against his legs and tried to force them out from under him. The water was cold and hard and painful against his skin. It gradually deepened until it was waist deep and would be almost to Gordon's chin, before, much to his relief, the bank began to rise again towards the opposite shoreline. Despite that, he pressed on, knowing simultaneously that he needed to set an example to his brother, and that he couldn't have managed this with both a pack across his back and a terrified little brother clinging to him.
It seemed like forever until he stumbled out onto dry ground, turning instantly to check that Gordon was where he'd left him, still watching anxiously. Looking quickly to either side, he found a bushy thicket on the bank and pushed the grey tarpaulin pack well under it. His head was spinning from exhaustion and a heat that he seemed to be feeling more than his little brother was. Thoughts tumbled over one another. He urgently needed to get back to Gordon, and the slow process of crossing the inlet had made him painfully aware that if the jeep returned while they were in the open, Gordon's sudden hydrophobia would be the least of their problems.
He probably shouldn't have tried to hurry on the way back across. He should probably have watched where he was putting his feet instead of throwing constant glances at his forlorn and lonely little brother. He certainly had no idea he'd drifted from the centre of the sandbank to its northern edge, perhaps pushed by the rapid tidal current and too tired to resist it. In any case, he wasn't ready when a large, smooth stone turned under his left foot, twisting his ankle sharply outwards. He fell into the water before he could catch himself, and not into the shallow two feet above the sandbank's crest, but rather into the four-foot drop-off ocean-ward of it. Even that shouldn't have been a problem. Scott had drawn in an instinctive breath as he fell, holding it as the salt water closed over his head. If he could just get his feet under him, stand up…
He tried to swing his legs around under him and froze, losing a little of the precious air from his lungs in surprise. His movement had turned the stone underfoot and disturbed the sand's surface, churning it into a quicksand-like soup. His foot had sunk smoothly into it, buried up to the ankle, and there was no solid surface to push against, no leverage he could bring to bear as he tried to fight against the suction holding his foot in place. His lungs were starting to burn, the taste of salt water filling his nose and throat. Desperately he twisted his body, trying to get his head above the water, panicking as he realised that the surface remained tantalisingly inches above his upturned face.
He began to thrash in the water, even the first few seconds of movement sapping what little strength was left from his exhausted limbs. Air bubbles streamed from between his lips as he began to sob, choking water finding its way into his lungs as he strained for breath.
Scott was barely conscious when he felt small hands on his ankle, pushing and twisting. He had no energy left to either help or resist as the unexpected pressure forced his leg to turn through almost ninety degrees and then back again, loosening the settling sediment, tugging his foot from the thick quicksand that that had trapped it. He bobbed to the surface, gasping desperately, blinded by tears and salt water, unable to do more than lie passively on his back as an arm snaked under his chin, his brother's urgent kicks guiding them both across the current and onto the rock-strewn shore.
Gordon had a hand under each of his arms now, pulling him across the shoreline with surprising strength. The younger boy shook the water out of his hair and eyes with a quick, automatic gesture, falling to his knees in the water beside Scott and using back and shoulder to push him into a seated position on the narrow beach. He ran his hands over his elder brother's face to wipe the water away, calling his name.
"Gordy…" Scott managed, relieved and grateful beyond his ability to say. He heaved in deep breaths, coughing water up from his lungs, and grimaced at his brother for want of a more reassuring expression.
Gordon frowned and then smiled, dropping back to sit in the water and throwing his arms around his brother's chest. Scott let them sit there, coughing, spluttering and simply breathing as he looked around them. They'd been washed perhaps a quarter mile northwards along the inlet, and miraculously, ended up on the side they'd been aiming for all along. With a groan, Scott rolled onto his hands and knees, crawling up out of the water and into a pile of ferns growing thick on the bank. He kept crawling until his arms gave out, and then collapsed gratefully, Gordon beside him, out of sight of the road.
With an enormous effort, he pushed himself up on his elbows and gave his brother a long, steady look. "Thank you," he said simply. "I'm sorry."
Gordon frowned at him in the fading light, looking down at his dripping clothes and then back at the water glinting through the trees. "You were right," he told Scott thoughtfully. "I am good at that."
Scott groaned and fell back, convinced he'd never understand what was going on in Gordon's waterlogged mind.
The ground was rough underneath him, its leaf mulch teaming with insects, but the ferns were thick where the canopy thinned towards the coast and let light through. It would be a few minutes before he could move, but then he could gather some and spread them out. They'd make as good a mattress anything else in this hostile, alien environment.
He squinted up at the little brother still kneeling above him, already difficult to make out in the gloom. "What do you say we stop here for the night?" he suggested weakly.
Usually, Villacana found sitting in his version of the weather station's control room soothing. As he watched the orbiting technicians on the main screen, he took a sense of peace and comfort from the regularity of their activities, the routine of check, counter-check, cautious action and carefully monitored reaction. He'd spent seven years constructing this room piece-by-piece, component-by-component, working alone, even his two most trusted servants not permitted to enter. He'd built it all around the programmed back door in the weather station's computer system, and around his own core of anger and resentment.
How many nights had he sat here, fingers caressing the plastic cover on the master switch? How long had he waited for his project to be complete, room and dish both ready? And was it all to come crashing down now because of a stray boat and his own carelessness?
His private data feed had been able to tell him little. A few of the Pacific Rim newspapers had picked up the story, word trickling out of Dominga on crackling telephone lines and a relay of short-range radio. Details were sketchy: a massive sea search for children shipwrecked in the 'Malfunction Typhoon'; their names 'Scott' and 'Gordon'; rumours of a third child in hospital, speculations they'd been orphaned by the man-made disaster. It was hardly enough to run a headline on, and even the more sensationalist press hadn't been able to make much of it. Even so, it was a problem. Villacana had counted on the attention cast in this direction being brief and indirect, the main focus of the investigation into his trial run being on the Weather Station and its NASA and World Space Patrol overlords.
As he'd suspected, bringing his plan to fruition tonight had become impossible. From cameras on the roof of the house above he could see the glow of a light buoy perhaps twenty miles off his coast. There could be one boat tied up to it or half a dozen, it made no difference. With it, and its fellows, scattered across a hundred mile circle of ocean, there was simply no way he was going to deploy the dish.
Without it, he could monitor the Weather Station. He could rail at its Commander Dale, or smile coldly at the technicians, still making tentative adjustments to smooth out the weather pattern his typhoon had disrupted. But without the extra power in the connection, the higher bit rate the dish allowed, he couldn't hope to control all the orbital platform's functions.
For the first time, here in his sanctuary, he allowed himself an aggravated sigh. Today, the scurrying technicians weren't soothing him. Today they were only fuelling his frustration. He turned away from the main screen and strode out, through the corridors of the basement and up into the house.
The search boats were moored on the water, waiting for the dawn. Inspectors Travis and Kearney were no doubt back on Dominga, frustrated, but without another lead to follow. His men had returned, finding nothing more than a single disrupted pit-trap, most likely sprung by some beast, careless but agile enough to escape. There was no evidence that the wretched children were on San Fernando, no reason, so long as he was careful, to believe that they would ever draw attention his way again. The search was over for the night. Villacana just had to have patience. Another twenty-four hours, perhaps sooner, and even the most dedicated rescuers would be forced to admit no hope remained. The search would be over for good.