Ball Machine

Chapter Eight - Shaken Ground

Javier and St Amaro, October 2014

Rosa stood at the top of the aircraft steps, looking across the tarmac of the airfield. The damp heat of Javier hit her like a barrage. She could smell the salt air, the woody aroma drifting down off the hills, tobacco, citrus and banana mixing with the heady rush of aviation fuel. 

Behind her people jostled, anxious to get off the plane. She had cajoled and argued her way onto the relief flight, fought her way through ranks of bureaucrats, spent two nights sleeping in Miami airport, but finally she was home. Still no news of her family. Where were they? She longed to see them, to head for the village, to throw her arms around her father and brothers. In her heart, though, she knew where the priories lay. Get to the hospital, help the doctors, the nurses, the people she had worked alongside for so many years, and save some life. 

She shielded her eyes from the intense sunlight as she descended the steps towards the shimmering tarmac. The main airport building lay slumped, one wall cracked and shattered, its roof partially caved in. The control tower had collapsed completely. Somehow, the runway had survived. 

The world had reacted, sending food and shelter and rescue teams and troops to an island most had never heard of before the disaster struck. Relief supplies were flowing towards Javier from all directions: from the USA, from Cuba, Mexico, South America. From the UN and the world community. 

It was attention Javier needed, but had for so long avoided. The people were fiercely proud of their independence and the obscurity of their home. They wouldn’t take kindly to the presence of foreign soldiers. It would rankle with them, the need to accept charity and an influx of outsiders. These were resilient people, part of a strong community. How would they react? 

She waited by the back door of the aircraft while luggage was unloaded. She took the day-bag sized rucksack containing the bare minimum of clothes, and walked towards the exit from the airport. 

In normal times, Javier received two or three flights a week. There was no tourist industry here. No mass invasions of holiday-makers. When Rosa had been in medical school, and a regular passing through this airport, she had got to know most of the staff by name. They would wave her through, no need for passports or paperwork. They knew her face, knew her name. They knew her father, by reputation at least. 

Now, the exit was blocked by troops and bureaucrats, outsiders from the UN who had assumed control. Relief workers were lining up to be processed, waiting for clearance before being allowed through to save lives. Her eyes scanned the lines of soldiers and khaki-clad administrators, looking for familiar faces. She didn’t have time for this. She was needed in the hospital. Every minute she spent here, more life might be lost, more suffering endured. 

She strode to the front of the queue, ignoring the mutterings. A soldier stepped in front, ordered her to the back. “Get in line, lady,” he said, in a strong American accent. 

She looked him up and down. 

“Papers,” he said. 

“I live here,” she said. “And if you don’t get out of my way…” 

She didn’t get to finish her threat. Someone shouted her name. She turned and saw one of the hospital managers running towards her. It was Concha, a woman in her fifties who had helped Rosa get into medical school. The two women threw their arms around each other and hugged. 

“Thank heavens you’re here,” Concha said. “We have supplies for the hospital. Come with us. Ignore these fools.” She waved the soldier away. The UN official loitering behind spoke to the soldier, and handed Rosa a form. “Fill it out when you get the chance and return it.” He gestured them both towards a freight plane which was busy unloading. Rosa followed Concha, screwing the form into a ball and stuffing it into a side pocket of her rucksack.