Airship

by McAlan, Peter

  Saxon sat back, relaxed. He had read the specifications. ‘What about ground-handling crews?’ he asked. ‘That has always been a problem. In the old days it needed up to four hundred men and sometimes hours to secure an airship at her moorings.’

  Maclaren grinned.

  ‘That’s the beauty of the Albatross. We envisage a ground crew of a couple of men because our vectoring propeller system will bring the ship down to ground zero and anchor it there. It does away with mooring masts and the like.’

  ‘What about ancillary crew?’

  The Albatross is primarily designed as a freight-carrying ship. She will have to carry three complete flight-deck crews, twelve people, on the Transatlantic run for safety. However, it is also designed to carry 150 passengers. To cater for those we have the equivalent of a cabin staff of ten under a chief purser. As well as passenger cabins or staterooms — we are going back to the old nautical phraseology, I’m afraid — the ship contains recreation rooms to make the two-and-a-half-day trip pleasurable. There’s a small cinema, a promenade and observation deck, two lounges and a restaurant and a special “sky room” at the top of the ship which our designer reckons will become the hub of social activity on board.’

  ‘And you reckon all this can be run by a cabin crew of ten?’ Maclaren nodded emphatically.

  ‘Sure; most things, as you will see, are heavily computerised. It will be like staying in a small, discreet hotel. The passengers, don’t forget, are just ancillary to the ship’s main operation — freight-carrying. Now,’ he stood up, ‘let’s go across and meet the Albatross.’

  Figures can be deceptive. Tom Saxon knew very well the height and diameter of the Albatross; he knew the figures by heart from the specifications. He knew theoretically one could lose a dozen Boeing 747 Jumbo Jets inside its giant interior; knew that the ship dwarfed the biggest ocean-going liner. But it was hard to translate figures into reality, theory into tangibility. Tom Saxon experienced a feeling of awe as he stood under the belly of the monster and peered up at the outsize silver cigar.

  Harry Maclaren stood regarding his expression with a smile. He had seen the same expression on the faces of countless people — the sceptics who had come to sneer and the believers who had come to worship. The feeling of utter awe silenced them all.

  ‘Oscar! Just the man,’ called Maclaren as the harassed-looking designer came by. He halted and shot a look of annoyance at the project manager.

  ‘What is it, Harry?’ he said irritably. ‘I’m rather busy at the moment.’

  Maclaren gave him a pacifying pat on the arm.

  ‘You are always busy, Oscar. I know. But I want you to meet our new test pilot. This is Tom Saxon who arrived from England yesterday. He is going to be Garry Carson’s second pilot when we lift your baby into the air. Tom, this is our chief designer, Oscar Van Kleef.’

  The two men shook hands, each warily weighing the other up. Van Kleef’s eyes narrowed as he inspected Saxon.

  ‘I am told that you have had experience in piloting airships before — that you are highly regarded.’

  ‘I’ve had experience piloting airships,’ replied Saxon.

  ‘Well, forget that,’ Van Kleef made a gesture of dismissal. ‘You will have to learn all over again with the Albatross. She is a very special baby.’

  He turned abruptly and stalked off.

  Saxon turned to Maclaren with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Is it something I’ve done or is he like that with everyone?’

  Maclaren smiled and took him by the arm. leading him along to the main gangway into the airship.

  ‘Oscar Van Kleef is like that with everyone. If he had his way he would not only design, but build and fly this bird if he could. He is like a jealous husband, protective of his wife’s honour … except the Albatross is a little outsized for a wife. Come aboard.’

  At the gangway into the ship’s interior they were halted by two security men who checked their passes and made them sign a book logging them into the ship. Maclaren explained that since security had been tightened, everyone had to sign on and off the ship.

  ‘Garry Carson must have told you we were having some trouble,’ said the project manager.

  ‘He did say that the cause of your chief test pilot’s crash was sabotage,’ admitted Saxon, ‘and that there was an attempt to cripple the back-up computers the other night. I understand that there’s talk of some screwball trying to gum up the whole works.’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We have a good security man named Terrasino on the job and the federal investigators are looking into the matter.’

  They passed into the ship and for a moment Saxon felt as if he had boarded an ocean-going vessel; it was like stepping onto the main deck of the QEII.

  ‘Plenty of time to take a trip through the staterooms and lounges later,’ Maclaren told him as he made his way to a small elevator. ‘We’ll go straight up to the flight deck.’

  He pressed a button. Saxon noticed that it said deck level ten and he counted twenty-one deck levels marked. He tried to make some mental calculations but before he could work out an answer, the elevator deposited them in a corridor. The sign said: ‘Restricted Area: Flight Deck Crew Only’.

  ‘The flight deck is placed at the nose of the ship, on a central level,’ explained Maclaren, as he led him down the corridor. ‘On this level you have the crew’s cabin and recreational quarters so that the personnel are never too far from the flight deck.’

  ‘It seems very spacious,’ observed Saxon, noting that a series of cabin doors carried such legends as ‘central communications cabin’; ‘emergency engineering cabin’; ‘computer back-up systems’; ‘chart room’; ‘captain’s cabin’ and so on. They approached a central door which simply said: ‘No Admittance’. A red light shone above it. Maclaren pushed a button at the side. After a moment the red light changed to green and Maclaren opened the door and ushered Tom Saxon inside.

  The interior, apart from large tinted windows giving an extensive forward vision, reminded Tom of a larger version of a flight deck on a modem jetliner. The atmosphere was very familiar. Garry Carson rose from the chief pilot’s chair. There were two other men in the cabin.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ smiled Carson. ‘I understand you’ve settled in your hotel, okay?’

  ‘Yes, thanks. It’s very comfortable.’

  ‘Good. Let me introduce you to the rest of the crew. This is Billy Heath, our navigator and communications officer. Billy, this is Tom Saxon.’

  Billy Heath was a small, wiry negro. He greeted Tom in a soft southern accent.

  ‘And this is Danny Macmillan, our flight engineer.’

  Macmillan was about twenty-seven, lean, angular and dark-haired. Although his eyes twinkled with bubbling humour, he was hollow-cheeked which gave him a superficial appearance of mournfulness. He had a firm handshake which made Saxon wince slightly.

  Maclaren waited until the introductions were complete before speaking.

  ‘As you see, Tom, this is the main flight deck. We can control the entire ship from this point, provided the computer works alright. But as every computer system has five back-ups, going through five support computers, and every computer must be in synchronisation before we lift off, what can go wrong?’

  ‘Like the computer systems on those space-shot rockets,’ grinned Billy Heath.

  ‘Pre-lift-off checks must be carried out thoroughly,’ agreed Carson. ‘So there is no way that any mistakes occur with malfunctioning hardware.’

  ‘When the Albatross is in service she will carry three flight-deck crews with her,’ went on Maclaren. ‘We would try to maintain a six hours on-watch and a twelve hours off-watch duty roster.’

  ‘Do you have that number of trained flight-deck crews?’ asked Saxon with interest.

  Maclaren shook his head.

  ‘Until you are trained, we don’t even have one fully trained crew,’ he admitted. ‘However, our parent company have just approved crew training and next week the back-up crews
will start their training in the simulator.’

  ‘Simulator?’

  ‘An interesting piece of hardware, Tom. Just like an ordinary aircraft simulator flight deck but built to the Albatross specifications. We have worked out that a minimum sixty hours simulator experience is preferable before you are let loose on the real thing.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘Oh, about a couple of weeks,’ smiled Maclaren. ‘It will be just like flying the real thing anyway. You’ll be presented with the same problems that you will encounter in actual flight. You’ll go through with Carson, Heath and Macmillan here so that you can get adjusted to each other before you start making the flight tests in earnest.’

  ‘Feel confident about it, Tom?’ asked Carson.

  ‘Certainly,’ returned Saxon evenly. ‘That’s what I came for.’

  ‘Good,’ Maclaren clapped him on the back. ‘I’ll let you know the training schedules first thing tomorrow. Now let’s show you around the rest of Oscar Van Kleef’s baby.’

  *

  Bernard entered the lounge after softly tapping on the door.

  ‘Excuse me, madame,’ he said softly. ‘There is a Captain Barjonet from M’sieur Renard’s er, factory.’

  Bernard never knew what to call the Dirigeable-Commercial’s project site.

  ‘Will you see him, madame?’

  Janine Renard looked up in puzzlement.

  ‘He wishes to see me?’

  Bernard coughed.

  ‘Not exactly, madame. He came to see M’sieur Renard but when I told him that monsieur was in Canada for a few days he said he would like a word with you.’

  Frowning, Janine set her book down and stood up.

  ‘Very well, Bernard.’

  The man whom Bernard ushered in was tall, broad-shouldered but with a slight stoop. He was muscularly built with merry, light blue eyes, a rather heavy jowl, which suited his raven-black hair, and a tanned complexion. His smile was warm and pleasant and Janine found it was natural to return it. His handclasp was powerful — She could feel the strength of his character in that grip.

  ‘Captain Barjonet?’

  ‘Jacques Barjonet, Madame Renard. I am most sorry to disturb you but I understand that your husband is away?’

  ‘That is so, captain.’

  She motioned him to sit down.

  Barjonet did so, looking slightly contrite.

  ‘It is my fault, madame. I should have enquired of his secretary but I was passing by and … ’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  Barjonet smiled.

  ‘A Pernod, thank you.’

  Janine went to the cocktail cabinet and poured it for him.

  Barjonet raised his glass slightly in salute before taking a sip. Janine acknowledged the salute with a bob of her head. She waited politely and then asked: ‘What can I do for you, captain?’

  Barjonet started.

  ‘Forgive me, madame,’ he apologised, setting down his drink and raising his attaché case off his knees. ‘As I say, it is my fault. I should have realised that your husband was away. I should have enquired at the project site. I had these papers, you see. Papers that have to be returned to Monsieur Renard. I was motoring by, suddenly realised I was near his home and thought … well … ’ He shrugged and smiled.

  ‘It is no trouble,’ smiled Janine. ‘I can ensure that my husband gets the papers when he returns.’

  ‘Wonderful. But you will forgive me for trespassing on your privacy, madame?’

  ‘Of course,’ returned Janine. ‘You say you work with my husband?’

  Barjonet chuckled. It was an infectious chuckle.

  ‘I work for him, madame. I am the chief test pilot of the Charles de Gaulle.’

  ‘Oh?’ Janine felt a little lost. Charles never spoke about the personnel on his airship project. ‘You are the pilot?’

  ‘Indeed, madame. I am the captain of the airship.’

  He turned to his attaché case and drew out the papers.

  ‘We have been carrying out some tests and I have all the reports here.’

  Janine took the buff-coloured file from the man, acutely aware that he was appraising her.

  He was thinking: what a pity! Janine Renard could be a very attractive woman if only she took more care with her make-up and clothes. At the moment she was giving an impression of a drab housewife with a tangle of mouse-coloured hair and an appalling lack of clothes sense. He would like to take her out and tell her how to dress and …

  He became aware that she was saying something.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I said, if you give me the papers, I’ll place them in my husband’s safe.’

  In startled embarrassment he realised that they were both holding onto the buff envelope.

  He let go of it hastily and followed her with his eyes as she went across to a portrait which hung on the far side of the room. It came away from the wall on hinges. Barjonet grinned.

  ‘Why is it, madame, that people hide safes in such predictable places?’

  Janine frowned. It was her turn to ask: ‘Pardon?’

  ‘In all the best mystery movies,’ explained Barjonet, ‘the safe with the jewels or important papers is hidden behind a portrait, usually a very hideous portrait.’

  The portrait that hid Charles Renard’s safe was of Charles Renard.

  Janine suddenly found herself giggling with amusement.

  ‘You are quite right, Captain Barjonet,’ she smiled as she manipulated the combination.

  ‘Will Monsieur Renard be away long?’ asked the pilot, as he watched her deposit the papers in the safe and push the picture back in place.

  ‘Probably until the end of next week,’ replied Janine. Seeing that Captain Barjonet made no movement to go she offered him another Pernod, which he promptly accepted. Barjonet was wondering whether the rumours that he had heard about Renard and his Parisian mistress were true. If they were, it was rather unfair. Janine Renard only needed a little attention to be quite attractive — very attractive, he corrected himself. If only …

  His eyes fell on the book she had discarded when he had entered. It was a horror tale. Les mains d’Orlac by Maurice Renard.

  ‘Any relation?’ he asked, picking up the book.

  Janine looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Oh no … not that I am aware of. Maurice Renard came of a prosperous family with roots deep in the French legal hierarchy, whereas Charles’s family were … ‘

  She hesitated, realising that she was sounding patronising.

  Barjonet pretended not to notice.

  ‘You like such tales, Madame Renard?’ he enquired politely.

  Janine felt embarrassed. It was perhaps childish to admit to her fondness for fantasy tales.

  ‘I enjoy such things — it sounds ridiculous, I know … ’

  ‘Not at all,’ Barjonet assured her. He had read the classic horror tale some years ago. It was a grand guignol, a terrifying and ingenious story centred around a world-famous concert pianist named Orlac whose hands are horribly mutilated in a train accident. An eminent surgeon grafts on a new pair of hands with ghastly results, for Orlac finds himself possessed by strange and terrible impulses. The hands he has been given are those of a man guillotined for murder, and his spirit survives in his hands to live again in the unfortunate pianist.

  ‘I, too, like fantasy literature and films, madame,’ admitted Barjonet. ‘I find them a superb way of relaxing.’

  At that moment Bernard knocked on the door.

  ‘Excuse me, madame, your father is on the telephone from Paris.’

  Janine rose to her feet and Barjonet followed her example rather reluctantly.

  ‘Many thanks for bringing the papers round, captain.’

  She extended her hand.

  Barjonet took it, bowed low, brushing it with his lips.

  ‘The pleasure has been mine, Madame Renard. I shall look forward to meeting you again.’


  *

  Tom Saxon sprawled in an armchair in his suite at the Sheraton Inn and sipped a whisky. He had to admit that he was excited by the prospect of flying in the Albatross; excited enough to have completely forgotten, for a brief space of time, his anxieties about meeting Helen Carson at the party that evening. He still wondered whether he should try to invent some excuse and not go. But the barbecue was in his honour and it would be pretty churlish, suspicious even, to cancel and say he didn’t feel well or something equally ridiculous. Now he had started to think about it, now he had turned his mind away from the Albatross, which had filled his thoughts for most of the day, he acknowledged a sinking feeling of depression. It was going to be some ordeal meeting with Helen and Garry Carson … meeting Helen, with the ghosts of Jan and Tom Junior hovering like accusing wraiths forever haunting him. He reached for the bottle with an angry grimace and poured himself another drink. He would have to try to stop thinking about it.

  There was a knock on his door. With a sigh he hauled himself up and went to open it.

  Claire Ashton stood there, pert and attractive in a summer frock. She grinned at Saxon and pushed past him into the room. They had not seen each other since they had travelled down to Portland together on the Delta Airways flight out of Kennedy. So far as Tom Saxon was concerned, the night spent in New York was a brief interlude — not that he could remember much about it. He was vaguely grateful to Claire for probably saving him from being rolled into some New York gutter and robbed.

  Whatever else followed left him with no other feelings. It was freely offered and accepted in the spirit of the time and place. That was all.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, as he shut the door behind her.