Portent Read Free Page B

again.
        The message that a particularly severe storm was on its way across the Caribbean had reached Rivers at the Hadley Research Centre in Berkshire only yesterday and the hasty flight to New York and then another going south had left him a little travel-worn.
        But all tiredness had left him now: his mind was sharp, his senses heightened.
        Along the cabin the small team of researchers and crew members were busy at consoles or computer keyboards, the young meteorologist on Rivers' right now engrossed in the instruments before him, logging readings and conferring with the aircraft's pilot through the headphones he had donned. Everyone had been courteous enough and friendly in a distracted way-even Gardenia's frequent jibes were good-natured-but Rivers felt like an outsider, a 'dude' with no real field experience, a desk boffin who'd never 'ridden the wind', 'tagged the typhoon'. Well, the truth was slightly different, but there was little point in correcting their assumption. He was there as an observer, nothing more than that.
        The plane bucked and Gardenia hurriedly strapped himself into a desk-seat in front of the climatologist. He turned to give a thumbs-up. 'Hold tight, buddy. S'long as we don't have any altitude excursions this'll be no worse than a jeep ride over a rocky road.' Rivers nodded, but didn't return the grin. He was more concerned with the array of monitors before Joe Pusey. He leaned over as far as he could. The meteorologist noticed his interest and tapped the headphones he was wearing; then he pointed to a pocket at the side of Rivers' seat. 'Use the cans,' he called.
        The climatologist dipped into the pocket and drew out a pair of headphones; he adjusted the thin microphone arm when the set was comfortable over his ears.
        'We all keep in communication at this time,' he heard Pusey say.
        The aircraft lurched and another voice, the pilot's, came through. 'We're into the storm, gentlemen, as you may have noticed. Okaaay… we're taking her up to ten thou' and we have approximately eighteen miles to get to the eye wall itself. Once inside, I'll endeavour to orbit if that's any use to you.'
        'We'll locate the centre and drop a windsonde while you pass through.'
        'That suits me fine. I can make as many passes as you want.'
        Rivers opened a notebook he'd taken from his pocket; although he'd be provided with a copy of the mission's records later, he wanted to set down his own observations. The plane pitched again and this time his body strained against the seat-belt. A series of bumps followed.
        This baby's rough,' a crew member remarked calmly.
        'Yeah, a bad one,' said the pilot. 'We've got some 200-knot gusts here.'
        Rivers made a note beneath other information he'd already gathered. Minutes passed and the buffeting became harder, almost constant.
        'Making some corrections now so's we hit dead centre,' came the pilot's voice.
        'We need to find zero winds, so let's condition one.'
        'Check. Hang onta your sick bags, fellahs.'
        The aeroplane began to rock violently, fierce rain drumming against its fuselage and lashing the windows. Rivers glanced out on his side and saw only grey, driven clouds, a sombre fury moving at incredible speed. His hand clutched the seat's arm-rest when a particularly powerful updraught lifted the aircraft as if it were no more than flotsam on a wave. His pen fell to the floor and he stamped a foot on it before it could roll away. The plastic beaker he'd placed on the floor earlier had tipped over and was turning a semicircle. He reached down to pick up the pen and as he did so everything became blissfully calm.
        Muted cheers rang through the headphones and the cabin, itself, brightened. Rivers' tension eased when he straightened and looked back out the window: white-capped waves circled below, the sea a deep, almost peaceful, blue. The wall of