Airship

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Airship Page 19

by McAlan, Peter


  ‘What about weather conditions, skipper?’ demanded the navigator.

  ‘The information is in the flight instructions in the sealed brown envelope in front of you.’

  Carson turned back to Saxon.

  ‘Right, let’s run through the pre-flight checks, Tom.’

  Saxon sighed and reached for his check board.

  *

  They lay on the golden sands of St. Pair-sur-Mer. It was, as Jacques had said, a perfect place for swimming. The long strip of golden sand bordered by a breakwater promenade with its small yet impressive church, said to have its origins in a monastery founded by St. Pair and St. Scubilion, made a picturesque setting. Janine Renard and Jacques Barjonet lay on their towels, the sun bathing their bodies in a golden glow. There was no one else on the beach.

  ‘Any more wine left, Jacques?’ inquired Janine, turning on her side.

  Barjonet had been admiring Janine’s beautifully proportioned figure, her light golden skin offset by her dark blue bikini. He kept having to quell uncomfortable but pleasant sensations as he devoured her body with his eyes. He had been right. When Janine Renard discarded her dowdy clothes, which she wore in her role as Charles Renard’s wife, she was quite a beauty.

  He forced himself to sit up, reach across to the picnic-box, which was a special thermostatic container to keep food cold, and draw out a bottle of Muscadet. He poured the soft yellow liquid into two glasses.

  ‘It’s a perfect day,’ smiled Janine, taking one of the glasses. Barjonet nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Doesn’t Charles ever take you on picnics?’

  Janine pouted.

  ‘No,’ she replied shortly.

  Barjonet realised that he had made a mistake in mentioning her husband.

  ‘Look,’ he said, distracting her attention, ‘look out to sea, over there! See that tiny white sailing ship; my God, I wish I was as free as that.’

  Her eyes followed his extended hand.

  ‘So you will be once your airship flies,’ she smiled. ‘I think flying in an airship is really flying.’

  He grinned at her in slight bewilderment.

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Well, I should imagine that it would be a similar sensation to gliding or ballooning … flying like a bird with a sense of freedom and relaxation as opposed to that awful sensation of being hurtled through the air in a machine.’

  Barjonet gazed at her in astonishment.

  ‘Have you been gliding?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Don’t forget my father is an air force general. I used to go with him before … before I married.’

  ‘Would you like to go again — tomorrow?’

  She laughed loudly at the eagerness in Barjonet’s voice.

  ‘I’d love to go tomorrow.’

  He raised his glass.

  ‘To tomorrow … and tomorrow and tomorrow,’ he said softly.

  She lowered her gaze but continued to smile and pretended to adjust her bikini top.

  *

  ‘Right, Tom,’ said Garry Carson, sitting back at ease in his command chair. ‘We’re locked in now to the automatic pilot. That should do most of the work but sing out when we come to the course changes.’

  ‘Right, skipper.’

  Saxon confirmed his switches were locked on and gazed at the cumulus that was ‘floating by’ the cabin windows. The simulator was video-fixed so that processed sky and cloud wafted in front of the window spaces to give the sensation that the simulator was really flying. The simulator was a very costly piece of equipment. No expense had been spared by Anglo-American to present an approximation of an authentic flight deck for the training of its crews. Saxon gazed moodily out at the sky. He found himself thinking that it was more turquoise than blue. Jan had a dress of that colour. She had been wearing it on the day she had left with Tom Junior …

  A vision of a young police constable swam before his gaze. The constable was very young and looked embarrassed.

  ‘Are you Thomas Saxon?’

  There was a falter in his voice.

  Saxon admitted he was, wondering what the policeman was doing at his door at that time of night. He had wanted to be left alone, to plan what he was going to do now that Jan had left him. It was probably better this way — Jan going instead of making that final terrible scene, with him moving out to join Helen.

  ‘Is your wife’s name Janice Joy Saxon?’ the young policeman was saying, staring with a strange intensity at a grease stain on Saxon’s shirt collar.

  Oh Christ! Saxon had thought. Surely Jan had not involved the police in a domestic quarrel?

  ‘I … I’m sorry, sir. I have some bad news for you.’

  The policeman’s voice wavered.

  ‘I regret to inform you that your wife, Mrs. Janice Joy Saxon, and your son, Thomas Saxon, were killed in an incident on the northbound carriageway of the M1 motorway earlier this evening.’

  The young constable’s gaze momentarily flickered from the grease stain on Saxon’s shirt collar to meet his gaze, wavered with a look of frightened compassion and fell away.

  Saxon had simply stared. The words had not meant anything at the time.

  The policeman’s compassionate stare dissolved to the compassionate gaze of the IRA man.

  ‘You’ll be alright,’ the man said. ‘You’ll be alright.’

  Then Saxon was clawing his way into the mangled wreckage. They lay there — the crumpled bodies — like blood-splattered rag dolls. Little Tom Junior lay as if he had fallen asleep in his cot except he was covered with a red sticky substance, one hand flung out in a pleading gesture. Then Jan. Jan lying face turned towards him, eyes staring, eyes wide in accusation.

  Saxon found himself staring at the blue sky and sweating.

  Garry Carson was saying something. Asking Billy Heath something.

  ‘Our position is forty-five north, eighty west, skipper. Georgian Bay should be to our starboard.’

  ‘Damn!’ swore Carson. ‘We should have already started our turn. We’ll come over Owen Sound and down to Toronto.’

  Saxon looked at the instruments before him and bit his lip. He should have been checking the course readings and have given Carson the changes five minutes ago. Damn it! He wanted a couple of aspirins. His head was pounding. Maybe he should have had a drink before …

  ‘Saxon!’

  Carson spoke sharply.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Where’s that goddam course change?’

  ‘I’ve got it, skipper,’ sang out Billy Heath.

  ‘No, dammit! It’s Saxon’s job.’ Carson’s voice was savage.

  Saxon reached forward and pushed the console buttons. Hell, had Billy Heath said eighty north and forty-five west or … He banged the buttons again.

  ‘Sonofabitch!’

  The vehemence in Carson’s voice made him pause.

  ‘You’ve just made a course change north-west for Manitlouin Island instead of south-east for Toronto. That’s a bloody expensive mistake.’

  Carson swivelled round and called the flight controller on the intercom.

  ‘We’re aborting this simulator flight test,’ he growled.

  Macmillan and Billy Heath looked uneasy. Carson’s face was a mask of anger.

  ‘You two go off and be ready for another test at the same time tomorrow.’

  Carson waited silently until the navigator and flight engineer had left the simulator flight deck and then he turned to Saxon. Saxon sat quietly, staring at the instrument panel in front of him.

  ‘You screwed up, Tom.’

  Saxon didn’t say anything.

  ‘You screwed up.’

  Carson’s voice was more insistent.

  ‘I heard you. So I screwed up. It’s only a bloody simulator flight,’ Saxon replied defensively.

  ‘Only a … ’ Carson was angry; more angry than he’d been in a long time. Suddenly he slumped forward.

  ‘Okay, Tom. We’re all keyed up — all a li
ttle tense. It’s important the Albatross lifts off on schedule. After last night I can appreciate how you feel today. But hell, I want a first-class crew with me and that means everyone on the team has to pull their weight. There’s no room for passengers. Now I told you earlier that last night will not get back to Maclaren, not from me anyway. But don’t goof up on me, Tom.’

  He paused and looked hard at Saxon.

  ‘You’ve changed from the old days. Why the drinking?’

  ‘Hell!’ snapped Saxon. ‘I went on a bender last night and had a few drinks too many; a few drinks and everyone is labelling me a bloody drunk!’

  ‘So long as it is a few drinks,’ replied Carson. ‘If there’s some problem, why not talk to me about it? Come out with it before someone else does and you get hauled up before a disciplinary board of the APA. You can’t afford to lose your pilot’s ticket, Tom.’

  Saxon climbed stiffly out of his co-pilot’s seat.

  ‘I’m sorry I screwed up the test flight. Is that all, skipper?’

  Carson looked at him for several seconds and then shrugged in resignation.

  ‘Yeah; yeah, that’s all.’

  *

  As Tom Saxon left the simulator an explosion shattered the administration offices on the project site.

  The blast blew in the windows of Terrasino’s office and sent him flying to the floor where he bumped his head on the corner of his desk and lay for a moment stunned.

  He became aware of voices shouting, of a woman’s thin scream, then the whining sound of a fire-tender rushing across the Anglo-American site towards the administration block. He smelt the acrid tang of smoke and heard the crackle of fire. Groaning, he raised himself to his hands and knees. There was smoke all over the place.

  The door suddenly burst open.

  It was Harry Maclaren.

  ‘Terrasino! Christ! Are you okay?’

  The project site manager hauled the security chief to his feet and stared at him anxiously.

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Terrasino, his mouth dry. ‘What the hell was it? Not the Albatross … ?’

  Maclaren shook his head violently.

  ‘No … ’

  Parish, one of the security guards, burst in. His gun was out and he looked white-faced.

  ‘Cool it!’ snapped Terrasino. ‘What’s the score, Parish?’

  Parish looked bewildered for a moment and then his face cleared.

  ‘Explosion. Part of this office building has been demolished. Looks like a bomb hit it.’

  ‘A bomb?’

  Terrasino gave a sudden groan and held his head. It throbbed as if it was on fire.

  ‘Has our mad bomber struck again?’

  No one answered him. He turned and made for the door, finding himself limping. Parish was right. Outside it looked as if the three-storey administration building had been partially demolished, as if it had received a direct hit from a bomb. One end of the building had vanished, the floors and walls dropping away within yards of Terrasino’s own office. Flames were flickering up part of the building.

  ‘We’d better get the hell out of here,’ muttered Terrasino as a nearby wall crumbled into the inferno below. He led the way along the corridor towards the safer end of the building. Already some of the project site firemen were coming up the stairwell.

  ‘Are you folks okay?’ demanded their leader as they met him at the head of the stairway.

  ‘Yeah,’ grunted Maclaren.

  Down on the ground firemen with hoses were training jets of water on the smoking building.

  Someone thrust a brandy flask at Terrasino but he waved it away.

  ‘Tiny’ Small, the project’s chief fire officer, was directing operations as Terrasino limped up.

  ‘Casualties?’ he snapped.

  Small gestured helplessly.

  ‘We’ve taken out six people — they’re on their way to the Mercy Hospital on State Street.’

  ‘How bad are they hurt?’

  ‘A couple with broken legs, I figure.’

  ‘No dead?’

  ‘None so far but we’re still digging in the rubble.’

  ‘Do you know what happened?’

  Small shook his head and backed away.

  ‘You’ll have to ask someone else, Terrasino. I’ve got a job to get on with.’

  He turned, shouting orders to his men.

  Terrasino gazed round. There were a couple of girls sitting on the grass nearby. One of them was a receptionist in the building. She was sobbing. Terrasino went across. Samantha Hackerman was trying to comfort her.

  ‘Hey, Mandy.’ he tried to speak kindly but the urgency in his voice made him seem gruff. ‘Did you see anything?’

  The girl did not reply; her body was straining under her choking sobs. Samantha Hackerman, face begrimed with smoke, looked up at Terrasino.

  ‘There wasn’t much to see, Terry,’ she said. ‘Just a big flash and a bang and then … ’

  She lifted a shoulder and let it fall, eloquently.

  ‘Thanks, Sam.’ Terrasino turned away to where Maclaren was standing, gazing stunned at the burning debris.

  ‘Sounds like a bomb, Harry,’ said Terrasino.

  Maclaren swore colourfully.

  ‘We’ve got to get the murderous bastard.’

  ‘Sure we will. I will.’

  There was shouting from a group of firemen who had been digging among the rubble. They were bringing something out of the wreckage.

  ‘Tiny’ Small, his face white, came across to them.

  ‘The first body,’ he said without preamble.

  Maclaren bit his lip.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mr. Lane.’

  ‘Jack Lane? The assistant project site manager?’

  The fire chief nodded dumbly.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Terrasino said quietly. ‘I’m going to nail the bastard who did this.’

  Chapter Seven

  Tom Saxon had just emerged from the shower and finished towelling himself when his doorbell rang. He glanced at his travelling clock and frowned. It was only eight-thirty. He threw on a robe and went to the door, wondering who could be calling this early on a Sunday morning.

  Helen Carson was standing there.

  He gaped in surprise.

  ‘Hello, Tom,’ she said, awkwardly. Then, with a defensive gesture, added: ‘I couldn’t keep away.’

  Silently, he stood aside and allowed her to enter. As he shut the door he said: ‘You shouldn’t have come here, Helen.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she replied, ‘Garry is working at the project site today. He won’t know.’

  Automatically, Saxon turned to the drinks cabinet.

  ‘Want a belt? ’Fraid I’ve only got whisky.’

  Helen shook her head.

  ‘It’s eight-thirty in the morning, Tom,’ she rebuked.

  ‘Yes it is,’ he agreed, as he poured himself a shot and then added a liberal splash of water. ‘Don’t worry, it’s just to brush my teeth in.’

  Helen watched with sad eyes as he went into the bathroom.

  ‘Look, Tom,’ she said, raising her voice slightly so that he could hear, ‘we didn’t part on good terms the other day. I just wanted to say how sorry I was … Can’t we sort this thing out together?’

  She heard Saxon gargle and then he came out of the bathroom rubbing his face on a towel.

  ‘Sort it out? What’s there to sort out? We are prisoners of fate, you and I, Helen.’

  He struck a bad dramatic pose and intoned:

  ‘These struggling tides of life that seem

  In wayward, aimless course to tend,

  Are eddies of the mighty stream

  That rolls to its appointed end.’

  Helen just shook her head.

  ‘Fate, kismet, providence, destiny,’ Saxon gave a bitter laugh.

  ‘Fate is just an excuse, Tom. Whenever we feel limited or do not wish to act, we shrug and call it fate. It’s an excuse for us not facing up to things.’


  Saxon smiled wryly.

  ‘Helen, I do believe you are being profound. You’re too intelligent to argue with.’

  ‘Tom,’ there was a slight note of desperation in her voice, ‘I’ve tried to forget you during these past couple of years. It has not been easy. In fact, it’s been impossible. I still love you.’

  He stirred uneasily.

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘Ridiculous? Why?’

  ‘Garry … ‘

  ‘Don’t use Garry as an excuse. He wasn’t an excuse two years ago.’

  ‘A lot has happened since then.’

  Helen decided to be brutal.

  ‘A lot? Your wife and son died and you’ve become a near-alcoholic. Has anything else happened?’

  He winced but did not reply.

  ‘You have to face it sooner or later,’ she went on remorselessly. ‘Jan and Tom Junior are dead. You can’t go on living with the dead. You have to exorcise them.’

  At her words, agony came into his eyes.

  ‘It’s all very well telling me to exorcise them, Helen. Tell me how … just tell me how!’

  He looked so helpless and pathetic that she instinctively moved towards him and raised a hand to touch his face.

  ‘Oh Tom, I want to help you. I do so want to help you … ’

  He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the soft cool caress of her hand on his cheek. Then he drew himself back.

  ‘It’s no good, Helen. It won’t work out.’

  She felt hurt, rejected. Then she realised that Tom Saxon was still too weak to be able to help himself. She had to be strong enough for both of them. She abruptly tried to summon up a false enthusiasm.

  ‘Come on, Tom. This is Sunday — a day off. I’m going to take you on a tour of Portland. We’ll start with a boat trip to Fort Gorges.’

  She gave him a gentle shove.

  ‘Now get dressed.’

  He looked dubious.

  ‘What about Garry … ?’ he began.

  ‘Look, Tom,’ she faced him squarely, her jaw stuck out aggressively. ‘My marriage with Garry has been on the rocks for a long time. I should have done something about it years ago. Alright, we are all moral cowards. After you and I split up … well, I should have left him then. I was frightened, I suppose. Afraid of being alone. Maybe I’m using you as an excuse now but I’m sorting out my problems, the problems of my own marriage. I am going to leave Garry and get a divorce.’

 

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