It was Maclaren who briefly filled in the FBI and FAA men about Renard’s Dirigeable-Commercial and their attempt to build an airship called Charles de Gaulle which, in many ways, paralleled the Albatross in size and design purpose.
‘You suspect this guy Renard might employ someone to delay your project?’ Vambrace asked.
‘From now on,’ said Terrasino, ‘I am suspecting everyone. You asked for a suggestion. You’ve got one. Right now we shouldn’t overlook the fact that we have a security headache … and a bigger problem than finding out who might be behind the sabotage.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Maclaren.
‘It’s obvious from what happened last night with the back-up computer that the saboteur is right here on the project site. And although Hayes doesn’t want to jump to conclusions, let’s reflect on the ease with which poor Westbrook’s machine was sabotaged. It was done by an expert and had to be done while it was parked on the project site airfield. We can conclude that the saboteur had easy access and a good technical knowledge.’
Anglo-American’s security chief paused, over-dramatically.
‘In a nutshell, gentlemen, the saboteur must be one of our top men.’
*
Oscar Van Kleef ran a worried hand through his mane of hair and frowned at the figures before him. In a sudden burst of energy he stabbed at the pocket calculator in his hand and eyed the resultant set of figures with evident annoyance.
‘What do you make it, Jules?’ he asked his assistant.
Jules Keller sighed. They had been over the figures seven times that morning and he didn’t particularly care a damn for the result. At thirty-one years of age, Jules Keller, a French Canadian, was one of Pan Continental’s regular aeronautical engineers who had been transferred to the Anglo-American Airship project without any intense feeling about the future of airships. He had been given a job to do and he did it to the best of his ability, but he could not bring himself to be enthusiastic about it. Aircraft were a different matter — aircraft, by which he meant aeroplanes, had a future — but airships! They were dinosaurs; they belonged to the past. He jabbed at his calculator and compared the results.
‘The eight Nomad engines would have an empty weight of 377 tons; their fuel weight would be 158 tons. If we say our take-off weight for the Albatross is 1,020 tons and we want to get an average cruising height of 4,000 feet then we could maintain an average speed of 119 mph.’
Van Kleef sighed in annoyance.
‘I was hoping we could push it up to 150 mph.’
Keller shook his head.
‘Not with a full payload.’
‘How about using cryogenic buoyancy control? That, of course, would increase the weight to another 150 tons.’
Keller made more calculations.
‘Same result, Oscar. An average speed of 119 mph. There’s no way you can push the figure up.’
The telephone buzzed and Keller answered it.
‘Oh, hello, Mrs. Van Kleef. Yes, he is.’
Van Kleef’s look of annoyance increased as he took the telephone from his assistant.
‘Yes, Lesley?’
‘Oscar,’ Lesley Van Kleef’s voice was a little shrill. It held a note of complaint. That was nothing unusual. ‘Oscar, I couldn’t remember whether I told you that Helen Carson and Maria Terrasino and I are heading to Niagara for a few days.’
Van Kleef exhaled deeply.
‘Yes, you did.’
‘We’ll be away for three days. Maria hasn’t seen Niagara and … ’
‘You told me this morning,’ Van Kleef interrupted.
‘I wasn’t sure whether you heard me or not,’ replied his wife. ‘You had your head buried in those ridiculous papers of yours. Anyway, you’ll have to fend for yourself for the next three days. Sarah will be looking after the children, so you don’t have to worry about them. Not that you would anyway. I’ll be back on Monday morning.’
There was a click as Lesley Van Kleef hung up before her husband could make a suitable rejoinder.
Van Kleef stared at the telephone, seething with inward anger. Then he slammed it back on its cradle.
Why didn’t Lesley understand? This last year had been an important one for him. The pressures had been great. It was probably the most important year of his life, with all the preliminary work which had gone into designing the Albatross suddenly bearing fruit. It was the pinnacle, the sum total, of his life’s ambition — the design and successful launch of a commercial airship. Yet Lesley didn’t really understand. Of course he had not been able to spend as much time with her and the twins as he should. It had been two years since they had gone on holiday together. But the work was all-important; the work had to come first.
‘What did you say?’
He was suddenly aware of Keller speaking to him.
‘I said, I think we must accept that all our calculations would have to be based on a speed varying between 95 mph and 120 mph, maximum cruising.’
Van Kleef ran his hand through his hair again and shook it, as if to get rid of the image of his wife and his domestic problems.
‘I want to see if we can increase the capacity of our power plants, Jules. The size of the Albatross could warrant more powerful engines.’
‘If we start to substitute the Nomads with bigger diesel units, it will be a lot of extra time and expense,’ pointed out Keller.
‘There is a good economic reason to increase cruise speed to the value which gives optimum work capacity,’ muttered Van Kleef, gazing at his calculations once more. ‘The extra fuel and power plant weight would be balanced against loss of payload, of course.’
Keller gave an inward groan and glanced at his watch.
‘I’m going to grab some lunch,’ he said in a tone of finality.
Van Kleef nodded absently.
‘Yes … what? Oh … You carry on without me. I’ll just finish these calculations.’
Keller left the office, whistling softly.
In the corridor outside he bumped into Samantha Hackerman coming round a corner with her arms full of papers. They cascaded to the floor.
‘Damn!’ swore the company’s press officer, gazing at the mess.
Keller grinned apologetically and bent to help scoop them up.
‘My fault, Miss Hackerman. I’m sorry.’
Since joining the project Keller had seen Samantha Hackerman several times from a distance and met her only twice to talk to. He was attracted to her but was unsure of the best approach. She would make a damn good score. Keller always thought about women in terms of making a score; he had never matured in his attitude towards the opposite sex. In many respects he was still the carefree, insouciant student working his way through university on a football scholarship.
‘That’s alright,’ replied the girl. ‘They are only a load of old press releases. I was going to dump them.’
‘Let me carry them to the garbage cans then,’ smiled Keller smoothly.
‘It’s alright. Don’t let me take you out of your way.’
‘No trouble. I was just on my way to lunch. Oscar is minding the store.’
The girl fell in step with him.
‘Doctor Van Kleef never seems to leave that office of his unless he’s over at the construction site nursing his baby.’
It was a standard joke among the project site workers that Oscar Van Kleef regarded the monstrous construction like a proud parent with his firstborn.
‘Yeah. I don’t wonder at his wife getting upset,’ mused Keller. ‘He has a mistress, and one she can’t compete with.’
Samantha shot Keller an amused look.
‘I didn’t know you were a philosopher, Mr. Keller.’
‘Call me Jules, everyone does.’ He pronounced it ‘Jools’ for her benefit.
‘What makes you think Doctor Van Kleef and his wife are having problems?’ pressed the girl.
‘I work with the guy, don’t I? She telephones when I’m there. It’s pretty obvious Oscar’s so wrappe
d up with his baby that he doesn’t exist outside the project site. Can you imagine what that does for a woman?’
Samantha grinned broadly.
‘You sound like an expert on the subject, Mr. Keller.’
‘Jules,’ he corrected. ‘Why don’t I stand you lunch over at the Greasy Spoon on Westcott and tell you my pet theories about the world and women?’
Samantha hesitated before smiling agreement. After all, why not? She was going out to lunch anyway and Keller seemed pleasant enough company.
Keller dumped the reject press releases into the garbage units and guided Samantha to his automobile. He turned out of the project site onto Western Avenue and joined the gentle flow of traffic southward.
‘So you reckon that Oscar Van Kleef is too wrapped up in the Albatross to realise that his wife is getting fed up?’ prompted Samantha after they had taken their seats in the Greasy Spoon diner and ordered lunch.
Keller shrugged.
‘That’s about the size of it.’
Samantha pursed her lips.
‘And how do you cope, Mr. Keller?’
‘Jules,’ he corrected for the third time. ‘Cope? Oh, you mean does my job cause friction with my wife?’
He laughed and shook his head.
‘I guess not. I was divorced three years ago. I married her when I was working for Pan Continental down at San Antonio. Then the company decided they needed my talents up in Alaska. She wasn’t keen to come. We drifted apart. That was it. No dramas, no great problems.’
Keller mentally glossed over the fact that the divorce had taken place because he had decided to go to Alaska with a pretty Pan Continental stewardess instead of his wife. Pan Continental had dismissed the girl and given Keller a warning; good aeronautical engineers were hard to find so the airline personnel officer merely lectured him on respecting the good name of the company. Stewardesses were easier to replace.
‘And you?’ asked Keller. ‘Are you married?’
‘At the moment,’ she smiled, ‘I’m married to my career.’
Keller chuckled.
‘So it seems that neither of us have problems.’
Samantha thought his smile made him quite attractive. He was short, dark and wiry and, in a way, saturnine. Had she not known that he was a French Canadian, Samantha would have placed his ethnic origins as most decidedly south European. He had a charm that was very Latin. Her own origins were Nordic and she found herself wondering whether it was that fact that made her find swarthy Latin types attractive. Men of her own fair complexion repulsed her. She suddenly realised that Keller was returning her speculative gaze quite openly. She coloured slightly but did not lower her eyes. She realised, with a tinge of excitement quickening her pulse, that the speculation was mutual.
Chapter Ten
Tom Saxon’s urge to have a drink was almost unbearable. His head felt as if it were splitting and he had difficulty concentrating on the instruments in front of him. He did not seem to be able to get them in focus for longer than a few moments. They kept blurring around the edges. He tried to focus on the altimeter. Eleven thousand feet.
‘Watch your speed,’ he grunted to his student pilot, seated alongside him in the Cessna Turbo Skylane.
‘It’s okay,’ returned the slightly rotund sales executive whom he was instructing. ‘True airspeed is 136 knots at 65 per cent power.’
Saxon grunted in annoyance.
‘I’m the one who says if your speed is alright, mister,’ he retorted.
The student pilot glanced at him and shrugged.
Sweet Jesus, how Saxon needed something for his head! He held his hands firmly in his lap to stop them from trembling. The hell with this job anyway! He wasn’t cut out to be nursemaid to a lot of rich executives who thought flying was like taking a driving test. The four-seater aircraft suddenly hit some turbulence and started rocking, the student pilot over-reacted and, with a roar, the aircraft began to climb violently.
‘Hold it steady, damn it!’ snarled Saxon. ‘Drop back, drop back to eleven thousand and hold her there.’
The student pilot scowled at Saxon. He had caught the smell of stale alcohol on his instructor’s breath when they had met at the club-house. He knew that Tom Saxon already had a reputation among other students. The man was a boozer. Well, he was going to ask the club manager if he could change instructors just as soon as they were back on the carpet. It was either change instructors or change clubs.
Oblivious to the thoughts of his companion, Saxon peered wearily down onto the patchwork quilt of southern England. Ah, there was Andover below and to the starboard beam of the aircraft.
‘Right, swing her to port and start your descent. We’ll circle round Andover, down to Winchester and make our approach towards the north-east of the field.’
The student pilot signalled his agreement churlishly.
They circled, losing altitude.
Saxon glanced at his watch.
Thank Christ! The lesson was almost over and he would be able to have a few stiff belts before the next boy wonder showed up and demanded to be taught how to be another Billy Bishop or Eddie Rickenbacker. He watched the ground coming up to meet them with an anticipatory smile as the vision of a small amber-filled glass on the dark mahogany club-house bar swam into his mind.
‘Damn it!’ he suddenly snarled at his pupil. ‘Neutral trim and apply moderate back pressure. I want that nosewheel just barely off the ground at touchdown … ’
He glanced anxiously over the instrument panels, wishing he could keep them all in focus at the same time.
‘You bloody idiot,’ he swore. ‘Extend your approach flaps; you are well under 140 knots … are you trying to stall this kite? Prepare to retrim and then get your flaps down fully, we need to get down fast or you’ll overshoot. Come on, you can get a steeper approach than this. Oh, sweet Jesus!’
The little Cessna wobbled onto the end of the runway, swinging this way and that, bumping down on the tarmac and then running towards the group of buildings which made up the Middle Wallop Flying Club.
The student pilot brought the aircraft to a halt and switched off. He gave Saxon a long look of pure hatred before he climbed out.
Saxon, oblivious to the man’s anger, swung out after him.
‘Are you trying to kill us both, you stupid bastard?’ he demanded, as they reached the ground. ‘Just how many hours have you had on this machine, you poor boob? You don’t even know how to make a simple approach.’
The student pilot was red in the face with anger.
‘Perhaps that’s due to the way you instruct people, mister,’ he said, his whole body shaking with an obvious attempt to contain his temper.
‘What?’ Saxon’s jaw sagged as if he hadn’t heard right.
‘I have never been so insulted in my entire life!’ snapped the pupil. ‘I have never been subjected to the sort of language that you … ’ he fumbled for the right words. ‘As for your capabilities, I’ve never flown with you without your being boozed to the eyeballs … ’
Saxon’s fist shot out and sent the man flying backward across the tarmac.
The man’s mouth became bloody with the impact of Saxon’s fist.
‘Saxon!’
Guy Lancaster came striding towards them. He was the manager of the flying club; a former Group Captain with iron-grey hair and steely eyes, set in a gaunt, angular face.
The student pilot was scrambling to his feet, incoherent with anger.
‘Did you see what he did, did you see … ?’
Lancaster made a vain effort to pacify him.
‘I’ll sue. I’ll sue this club, that man … ’
Lancaster tried to quieten him with a gentle hand.
‘I really do apologise, Mr. Hamilton. I can only express the sincere regrets of the club that this has happened. Would you like to go across to the club-house? I’ll join you there in a moment … ’
‘I want that man sacked,’ snarled the student pilot. ‘I want that man dealt with!�
��
‘Just so, Mr. Hamilton. If you will let me see to the matter and then we can talk about compensation for this unfortunate occurrence.’
The student pilot turned and stalked off, muttering, with little more than his dignity hurt.
Saxon, trying not to laugh, watched him go.
Lancaster swung round on him with a steely gleam in his eyes.
‘Alright, Saxon,’ he said coldly. ‘You’ve had every chance that we could give you. It’s just a bloody miracle that you haven’t killed yourself or some poor luckless pupil during the last month or so. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the times you’ve come onto this field either as high as a kite or suffering from a colossal hangover. You’ve had more than enough chances to pull yourself together. You’re fired! And I shall do my damnedest to see you never get another job in civil aviation in this country.’
Saxon shrugged indifferently.
‘It was a bloody silly job anyway,’ he gave a false chuckle.
Guy Lancaster watched him begin to walk away and stopped him after a few paces.
‘For Christ’s sake, Tom, can’t you see a doctor or someone? You’re cracking up, man!’
Saxon ignored him and walked to his MG sports car, parked behind the club-house. No use trying to get a drink there with everyone having seen what had happened. To hell with it! He didn’t care. There was always something else to do; somewhere else to go. He started the car and roared away towards the village. He braked violently to a halt outside the pub and walked into the saloon bar. It was only eleven-thirty a.m. and the place was deserted.
‘Hello, Gloria, my love,’ he called to the slim, dark-haired barmaid, who glanced up from her copy of Woman s Journal with a look of irritation. When she saw Saxon her face broke into a smile.
‘Good morning, Wing Commander. The usual?’
Saxon inclined his head as he slid onto a bar stool. He watched the girl place a glass of Jameson Irish Whiskey in front of him.
‘You’re in early this morning,’ the girl said.
Saxon grinned.
‘No hour is too early to partake of the nectar of the gods, Gloria,’ he chided in a patronising tone.
The barmaid sniffed.
Airship Page 8
