Airship

by McAlan, Peter

  ‘Well, I wish it was someone else other than the Englishman,’ replied Terrasino. ‘He’s going down the tubes fast and she’ll go with him if she’s not careful. How he hasn’t been grounded, I’ll never know … ’

  There was a click at the front door and they heard Helen’s voice cry: ‘Hello!’

  Maria frowned at Terrasino and then called: ‘We’re in here, Helen.’

  Helen peered round the door. She looked tired and strained.

  ‘I didn’t hold you up or anything, did I?’ she asked. ‘I had to go for a walk this morning and nearly forgot the time.’

  She didn’t add that she had been wondering whether to go and see Tom Saxon but finally decided against it. It was up to Saxon to make the next move now.

  ‘No,’ smiled Terrasino. ‘I’m only just ready. Shall we go?’

  *

  Tom Saxon was a little surprised when he reached the project site and found the besieging crowds. One would think that, having seen the airship take off on two previous flights, the experience would have paled. His cab nosed its way through to the main gates and the security guard, peering inside and recognising him, waved it through. Saxon directed the driver across to the main office complex, climbed out and paid the man. Dumping his bag on the tarmac he stood gazing up at the towering lines of the airship and slowly shook his head.

  What a pantomime, he thought. For a moment he couldn’t understand why he was bothered to be part of it. At one time — how long ago? — he had really liked flying, it had meant a great deal to him. Now he tried hard not to care, to be disinterested in the proceedings. Yet, deep within him, he felt the old excitement still. He was part of a momentous, historic flight. Damn! What was so good about that? He had other, more important things to think about. Helen immediately swam into his mind.

  He had not expected that the old fires with Helen would be rekindled to the extent they had. He had not expected to realise that he still loved Helen or that she would be able to put the dim spectre of Jan to flight. He paused for a moment in surprise. Jan. Dammit! He had trouble even trying to conjure her face into vivid clarity. All he kept seeing was Helen. What was happening to him?

  Part of him, the guilt-ridden part, wanted to hang on to the spectre of Jan, to the haunting memory, to wallow in the past and its consequences. Yet that part was beginning to fight a losing battle with reality, with life, with the here and now. With a sudden sigh of annoyance, he picked up his bag and turned into the administration building.

  *

  On board the Albatross John G. Badrick and his wife, with Badrick’s secretary, Miss Shelley, and Harry Maclaren, were just finishing a working breakfast in the Badricks’ stateroom.

  Badrick glanced at his watch.

  ‘Best get our helicopter over to the airport to meet the Washington flight, Harry. Our two VIPs will be arriving in fifteen minutes.’

  Maclaren gave the order by the radio link. He had been surprised when Badrick had told him that the American Secretary for Air had agreed to change his entire working schedule and join the airship for its first Transatlantic flight; not only that, but he was bringing some senior British government official connected with transport, who had been visiting Washington for talks with the Air Secretary. Maclaren knew that Badrick was well connected, but it must have taken a lot of influence to get the government man to change his plans at the last minute.

  As a matter of fact, Badrick knew the Air Secretary very well. Jimmy, as he called him, was a former USAF two-star general who had made it into the political arena. He was a blunt, ambitious Texan, with a first-class reputation as an administrator. Badrick had relied on his friendship to get the Secretary to cancel his appointments for the next three days and make the trip to England in the Albatross. It was certainly a good publicity angle to have such a highly-placed official on board. It had been thanks to Jimmy that the British official had been persuaded to come along.

  ‘Any problems, Harry?’ Badrick was demanding for the tenth time since he had come on board.

  Maclaren shook his head.

  ‘The crews are happy? No technical problems?’

  ‘It’s been a bit of a rush,’ admitted Maclaren, ‘but we’re ready to go.’

  ‘Great. We’ll certainly teach that character Renard a lesson. Anglo-American isn’t going to let itself be beaten at the last minute by a cheapskate outfit.’

  ‘Renard is playing a dangerous game,’ Maclaren agreed. ‘Can he really make the flight? After all, he has made no proving flights and doesn’t hold an airworthiness certificate.’

  ‘The straight answer is — yes, he can, Harry. The French civil aviation authority are allowing him to use the Transatlantic crossing as a proving flight. Don’t ask me how he wangled that. Our friend Renard has some very well-placed connections.’

  ‘I just hope that his design team and flight crew are sure of their ship. I wouldn’t like to send the Albatross across without the testing flights we’ve made.’

  ‘Well, that’s his problem, Harry.’ Badrick lit up a cigar and smiled. ‘We don’t gamble at Anglo-American. We have a qualified crew working a ship that has all the certificates she needs. And we are going to be first across the Atlantic.’

  *

  His face a mask of annoyance, Oscar Van Kleef fought his way through the reporters who were now grouped around the administration building and sought sanctuary inside. Batteries of photographers and whirring television cameras seemed to be everywhere. The excitement was growing as thousands of people flocked out of the city to get vantage points around the project site to witness the historic flight of the Albatross.

  Garry Carson was watching Van Kleef’s perplexity as the designer came into the building.

  ‘I guess you didn’t think when you were scribbling down your ideas for the Albatross that it would create all this,’ Carson grinned, waving his hand to embrace the crowds beyond the building.

  The designer gave a sarcastic snort.

  ‘People are morbid, Carson,’ he said, before pushing his way to his office. ‘Those crowds out there are not really here to witness an historic flight. They are simply here in the hope of seeing something go wrong; of seeing the Albatross crash or blow up!’

  Carson frowned for a moment and then turned to make his way to the flight crew briefing room.

  *

  When Tom Saxon entered the room Danny Macmillan and Billy Heath were already there, going through the latest weather charts. They greeted Saxon with a lack of warmth, almost a curtness. Saxon knew they were aware of the rumours about his drinking and had not forgotten the mess-up he had made with the simulator flight. When he had first come to Anglo-American they had made friendly approaches, but Saxon liked to keep himself to himself. Eventually Macmillan and Heath had, in their turn, come to treat him with coldness. Well, the hell with them! thought Saxon. If they didn’t like the way he was, didn’t like the fact that he appreciated a drink now and then … He suddenly realised that he was trying to justify himself to himself. He frowned and turned to inspect the mail slots. The company bulletins had to be read before the flight, following the standard procedure of any big airline company. Some bulletins contained information which had to be checked in the pilot’s flight manuals.

  There was a sudden burst of riotous noise as Art Stein and his crew came in. They exchanged ribald greetings with Macmillan and Billy Heath and then Art Stein came over and thumped Saxon on the arm.

  ‘Lucky bastard!’

  Saxon raised his eyebrows.

  ‘You and Carson. You’ll be lifting her off and bringing her down,’ went on the younger captain.

  Saxon understood. The Albatross’s two crews were divided into shifts. In ideal conditions the Albatross would have three full flight crews, but at the present time flying duties would alternate between Carson’s crew and Stein’s crew. Carson’s crew with the most flying experience on the Albatross would take the first duty flight shift, lifting the airship from Portland and taking her along the coast
towards the Cabot Strait and across Newfoundland. At the end of their shift, Art Stein’s crew would take over. The shifts would alternate until they reached England and then Carson and his crew would bring the ship down to its pre-arranged landing at Cranfield Airport in Bedfordshire, just north of London.

  ‘It’s a routine job,’ muttered Saxon, bending over his flight manual.

  The corner of Art Stein’s mouth drooped.

  ‘Routine? Jesus!’ he protested. ‘Doesn’t anything get you excited, Saxon?’

  Carson came in and nodded approval as he saw that both flight deck crews were gathered.

  ‘How’s the weather, Garry?’ asked Art Stein.

  ‘Looks pretty fair,’ answered Carson. ‘I’ve just gathered the reports. There are some scattered disturbances in mid-Atlantic and right now there are storms over the British Isles and northern France, but these should clear by the time we reach those areas. There will be a few head winds over Greenland but we’ll start making up time once we get past the Labrador Basin. There’s a promise of a tail wind which should improve our flight performance. Our cruising height will be three thousand.’

  An Air Traffic Control official came in with a clip-board. ‘Here you are, captain,’ the man smiled at Carson. ‘The first official airship flight plan approved by ATC.’

  Carson took the board and his pen raced over it, filling in the details which would be filed with ATC. Then, with a flourish he felt befitting the occasion, he signed it.

  The ATC man grinned.

  ‘And here’s the confirmation of your airworthiness certificate, captain. You have been approved under the Federal Aviation Authority Regulations Part 91, General Operating and Flight Rules, and also Part 121. You’re all clear now as regards the paperwork, captain. You can get aboard and start flying that baby.’

  Chapter Two

  There must have been fifty thousand people gathered around the fields of Agneaux on the outskirts of St. Lô to see the Charles de Gaulle take to the skies. They came mostly in cars and hired coaches, giving the local gendarmerie a headache, and the local farmers trouble. They came by train, flooding the local hotels, camping sites and caravan parks. There were batteries of television crews from all three French channels, vying with foreign television crews, as well as radio commentators and reporters from many countries. Renard looked down at them through the observation windows in the main lounge of the airship. He had spent the night aboard. Now he could afford to stand aloof from the unbearable tensions as the flight crew and ground crew made the final preparations for the take-off.

  Carefully avoiding Villemur and his technicians, who were scurrying up and down making last-minute checks, Renard wandered into the Chief Purser’s cabin to discuss the guest list. There were to be fifty passengers in addition to the flight crews and technical personnel. The most important man on board was a small, slightly-built man with greying hair. On him, with his distant, uncompromising manner, the future of Dirigeable-Commercial rested. He was Jean-Pierre Dubeaupuris of the Ministère des Transports department of civil aviation whose team of inspectors would certify the airworthiness of the Charles de Gaulle. There were important representatives of the press and officials from the ministries of commerce and defence, transportation unions and authorities and — Sir Ashley Ashton. The inclusion of Ashton on his list of guests had been a boost to Renard’s vanity. It made him feel good to have a director of his closest rival firm on board to witness his triumph. He had already anticipated what he would say to Ashton as the Charles de Gaulle made its descent over New York.

  The Chief Purser informed him that everyone was on board and checked into their cabins. Now the only thing that presented a problem was the weather.

  Jacques Barjonet was already discussing that matter with François Chambrun, his navigator, when Renard pushed into the flight deck. Barjonet glanced up with a scowl. He was getting to dislike the way that Renard insisted on interfering in everything, especially in the running of the ship of which he knew nothing. Barjonet was sure that he was going to lose his temper before they reached New York.

  ‘What’s the weather going to be like, Barjonet?’ demanded Renard, slipping into a seat and lighting a cigarette.

  It was Chambrun who coughed and nodded towards the ‘No Smoking’ sign.

  With a gesture of annoyance, Renard stubbed the cigarette out.

  ‘The weather doesn’t look bad,’ replied the pilot evenly. ‘There is a shallow depression off the north coast of Brittany but it’s moving north-east and we should miss it. However, coming in from the Atlantic is another weather front which will probably bring a storm with it. We should meet it off the southern tip of Ireland. After that, the weather should improve.’

  ‘What’s the stormy area going to be like?’

  It was Chambrun who answered.

  ‘It could be rough. A trough of low pressure off southern Ireland will bring rain and winds up to thirty or forty miles an hour. Not an ideal picture. There will be lightning, clouds dropping to about a thousand feet and a visibility which will range from two to five miles. However, there should be no great velocity wind changes once we have weathered the storm front, and good conditions will prevail all the way to New York.’

  ‘So there’s nothing to worry about?’

  Chambrun hesitated.

  ‘I didn’t say that, m’sieur. A maiden voyage, a storm … it is a foolish man who is never worried.’

  Renard smiled and made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘You can relax. Just navigate us across the Atlantic.’

  Chambrun gave an uncomfortable glance at his captain and turned to roll up his weather charts.

  ‘Are there any last-minute changes to our take-off time?’ asked Renard.

  Barjonet shook his head.

  ‘No. But I would have liked to miss the start of the mistral winds. Is there any way we can resolve the problem of the airworthiness certificate? With the storm front approaching we should make an alternative course directly north across English airspace to Birmingham and then turn due west, running across Dublin to Galway and … ’

  Renard was already shaking his head.

  ‘No, we have to avoid foreign airspace until America … we have to chance the storm. Besides, your safer route will put an additional hour on our flying time, let alone the other problems. Remember that on this trip all time and fuel saved will be significant.’

  Barjonet sighed. He had not really believed that Renard would take any notice.

  ‘Alright, m’sieur,’ he said. ‘Under the present weather conditions, I will accept the situation. However, should the weather deteriorate then I will have to take action for the safety of the vessel.’

  Renard gave Barjonet one of his disarming smiles.

  ‘You are the captain. Yours is the last word for the safety of the ship.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I suppose we should be getting ready now.’

  *

  The interviewer on the television screen was enthusiastic as he poured forth a stream of praise for the Charles de Gaulle, its designers, builders and crew.

  ‘And just before he went aboard for this historic maiden voyage,’ the man was smiling like a conjuror about to produce a rabbit, ‘I managed to get a brief word with Monsieur Charles Renard, the chief of Dirigeable-Commercial, the company which has produced this splendid monument to French genius and craftsmanship.’

  Janine Renard, sprawling in front of the television, gave a short bark of laughter as the screen flickered and the face of her husband came into view trying to appear modest but succeeding only in looking more conceited than ever.

  She poured herself a sherry.

  ‘M’sieur Renard,’ the interviewer was saying, ‘for the past few months there has been a rivalry between your company and Anglo-American Airships. Even now we are told that their Albatross is preparing to take off in an obvious effort to race you across the Atlantic but from the other direction. How do you feel?’

  ‘There is no question but t
he better designed and built ship will win that race.’

  ‘You feel sure that the Charles de Gaulle can beat the American ship?’

  ‘Of course. We did not ask for any childish race. We announced our intention of making the flight and Anglo-American’s response was to announce their intention of racing us. Let them try!’

  Renard smiled broadly into the camera.

  ‘So a final comment, m’sieur … ?’

  ‘I feel proud; proud of my team, my crew, and all those who have made this achievement possible. I feel proud to be French, for this is the achievement of French technology. France will be responsible for launching the first commercial airship transport in fifty years, and the first country to prove that it can be totally safe and a viable form of transport in the modem world.’

  The smiling face of the interviewer filled the screen.

  ‘That was Charles Renard speaking to me earlier before embarking on the Charles de Gaulle for this historic flight. And now … ’

  Janine Renard flicked off the television with an angry gesture.

  The airship’s departure into the clouds was about to mark a turning-point in her life. She picked up her glass of sherry’, went out onto the patio and stared up at the now cloudy early evening sky. She raised her glass in salute.

  ‘Farewell, Charles. Farewell, you bastard!’ She smiled sweetly, but her voice held a venom which belied the look on her face. ‘May you fall overboard. I don’t care. I won’t be here when you come back. How’s that going to look for your damned stupid image, eh?’

  Tomorrow she would start packing. She would get Bernard to drive her down to her villa at Fréjus. After all, the Mercedes was Renard’s and he could keep it. Jacques would join her there on his return. They would start a new life together. She smiled softly as she raised her glass once again towards the black threatening sky.

  ‘Au revoir, Jacques, my love. Be careful!’

  As if in distant answer came the faint rumble of thunder.

  There was a discreet cough behind her.