Airship

by McAlan, Peter

  ‘So the Albatross did take off after all?’ Renard mused, when the chief designer had blurted out his news. So Keller had somehow screwed things up? One hundred thousand American dollars placed to his account in Geneva and the man had screwed things up. Hell! Well, Renard knew a few gentlemen of Corsican extraction who could be relied on to persuade Keller to return the money. Renard was not worried about that. He smiled thinly.

  ‘Do you know their precise time of take-off, Villemur?’ he asked.

  ‘At one twenty-five eastern seaboard time,’ replied the chief designer. ‘That puts them exactly twenty-five minutes behind us.’

  ‘Barjonet must try to gain on that twenty-five minutes.’

  Dubeaupuris looked surprised.

  ‘I did not think you were interested in racing the Albatross, m’sieur?’ His voice was dry.

  ‘Race?’ Renard was suddenly expansive. He stood up, forcing the civil aviation official to stand with him, and guided him to his stateroom door. ‘M’sieur Dubeaupuris, I did not invite a race. The Americans are pressing one on me. The honour of France is at stake if these Americans beat us. We must be the first to make that successful crossing.’

  When Dubeaupuris had gone he spoke to Barjonet on the intercom and explained the situation.

  ‘Well? Can we increase our speed?’

  ‘It is possible,’ returned the captain. ‘But I would not attempt it. It is too early to take such liberties with this vessel, especially as we are approaching the storm front.’

  ‘You are encountering running difficulties?’ snapped Renard.

  ‘No, but … ’

  ‘Then there is no problem.’ Renard’s voice was harsh. ‘We have Villemur and his team on board in case of problems. All you have to do is show us how fast this ship can travel.’

  Chapter Four

  The buzzing of the intercom caused Carson to jerk awake and grab for the instrument as a purely reflex action.

  ‘Carson?’

  It was the voice of the back-up crew captain, Art Stein.

  ‘Yes, Art. What is it?’

  ‘We seem to have a problem.’ His voice was quiet. ‘Can you get to the flight deck right away?’

  Carson glanced at his wristwatch. It was five hours into his off-watch period. He was about to make a protest when he realised that Art Stein would not have called him had the problem not been a serious one. As captain of the Albatross, Carson had to be called to the flight deck for approval of any emergency decisions.

  ‘I’ll be right there,’ he grunted.

  It took him a few minutes to throw on his uniform and get to the flight deck.

  Art Stein and his co-pilot were looking strained.

  ‘What is it, Art?’ asked Carson, leaning over his command seat and casting a quick look over the dials as if to pre-empt Stein’s explanation.

  ‘The buoyancy control systems seem to be causing a problem,’ said the pilot. ‘We’re having trouble with the compensation for changes of flight pressure altitude and the temperature of the lifting gas.’

  ‘What’s our position?’ Carson swung round to the red-haired navigator.

  ‘We are still under Canadian Air Traffic Control from Gander. We’re crossing the Labrador Basin, height three thousand, five hundred feet.’ He leant forward and read off the longitudinal and latitudinal figures.

  Carson acknowledged the information. They were too far from land for any emergency landing. He motioned to Stein’s co-pilot to leave his seat and slipped into his place. His eyes flickered to the appropriate dials and gauges and frowned.

  ‘Have you been checking lift adjustment to compensate for fuel usage, Art?’

  ‘Through the automatic feed,’ replied the pilot.

  Carson tapped the dials.

  ‘Have you checked these figures — they don’t seem to tally to me?’

  Stein looked across and scribbled some figures on his knee pad and then made some rapid calculations.

  ‘Sonofabitch!’ swore Stein. ‘It’s one-five-two out of alignment.’

  Carson grunted.

  ‘We have a problem, Art. Sorry to do this to you, but I would like my own crew up here on the flight deck.’

  ‘Alright, Garry. Can I sit in?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he turned to the navigator. ‘Get Saxon, Macmillan and Heath up here fast. As soon as they are here, Art, your crew is relieved.’

  ‘Fair enough. Do you want Van Kleef?’

  Carson hesitated.

  ‘Not for the moment. We’ll try to sort out this foul-up ourselves.’

  Within five minutes Carson’s crew were at their places and Art Stein had removed himself to the spare crewman’s chair, nicknamed the ‘bucket seat’, just behind the command chair. Carson led them through a quick check-list.

  ‘So okay,’ he said abruptly, ‘we have a buoyancy control problem which seems to have affected the computer compensator controls.’

  ‘That in itself is suspicious, Garry,’ ventured Saxon. ‘A control problem on the primary system can be bad luck; on both primary and secondary systems it can be a coincidence. On all five circuits … that’s sabotage.’

  There was a silence.

  Carson glanced at him and grimaced.

  ‘Okay, Tom. You and Art take over. I’m going to tell the big chiefs. We’ll have to tackle the controls from the main gas-valve and control circuits.’

  *

  Badrick’s face was white.

  ‘Sabotage?’ he sounded incredulous.

  ‘It can’t be mere coincidence.’

  ‘Is it serious?’ demanded Maclaren.

  Oscar Van Kleef was doodling on a jotter as they sat round the table in Badrick’s stateroom. The designer glanced up and bit his lip.

  ‘It can be unless we fix it.’

  ‘How bad?’ demanded Badrick.

  The door opened and Terrasino came in. His face was flushed.

  ‘Is it true?’ he asked Badrick. The Pan Continental chairman inclined his head.

  ‘What’s the situation?’ Terrasino demanded.

  Badrick turned to Van Kleef and raised an eyebrow in query.

  ‘The longitudinal trim and control are essential to the stability of the ship, especially in turbulent air conditions. Basically, we have lost control of those areas and unless we can regain control, should we encounter storm conditions, this vessel will be thrown all over the sky. That’s the problem in simple lay terms.’

  Maclaren pursed his lips.

  ‘How about the problem with the compensation for changes of flight pressure altitude and temperature of the lifting gases and the lift adjustment to compensate for fuel usage? From the figures Carson gives we are losing a lot of gas.’

  Badrick and Terrasino looked bewildered.

  Van Kleef tried to explain.

  ‘What sustains the Albatross,’ he began, ‘is the amount of gas we have in our gas cells. You follow? Early rigid airships used somewhat uneconomic techniques when dealing with this problem. Normally the gas cells were initially under-flated by some five to ten per cent, so that as the airship climbed the gas expanded to just fill the cell volume at the operating pressure altitude. Both automatic and manual vent valves were used to ensure that the different pressures in the cells were effectively zero. The initial and any subsequent climbs were achieved by releasing water ballast which in some cases could be replenished in flight. During the cruising flight the not inconsiderable aerodynamic lift from the envelope and fins were used to maintain flight altitude in exactly the same way as an aeroplane. Descent for landing required venting of the lifting gas and fuel usage was usually counteracted in the same way. The loss of gas was expensive, not to mention the fact that with hydrogen it constituted a fire hazard which is unacceptable with today’s technology.’

  He paused, trying to make sure everyone was following him.

  ‘The Albatross does away with the venting of expensive helium gas. As you know, we employ aerodynamic lift throughout its speed range by means of vectoring ro
tor systems. We use two other systems additionally. One is the incorporation of flexible ballonettes within the main gas cells which are filled with air. The pressure of these can be varied by the change in lifting gas volume, and this density adjusts the lift. That was a device commonly used on small non-rigid airships. Secondly, we also have a cryogenic technology which liquefies both helium or air on board, regassifying it as and when necessary to give precise control of buoyancy at all times.’

  ‘Except,’ broke in Carson, seeing the still puzzled expressions, ‘the control systems to the gas cells have been fouled up.’

  ‘Due to sabotage, you said?’ pressed Terrasino.

  Carson nodded.

  ‘There can be no other explanation, Terry,’ he said. ‘All five computer systems are fouled up.’

  Van Kleef was in agreement.

  ‘We have five separate computer circuits for just this sort of unlikely emergency. If one of the circuits does not function, any one of the others can be used.’

  Badrick passed his hand over a sweat-soaked brow.

  ‘Can anything be done?’

  Van Kleef smiled whimsically.

  ‘That depends on exactly what is causing the malfunction. I suggest we go to Deck Level Ten to the main gas valve control circuits and see if we can trace the problem.’

  As they trooped out Terrasino glanced at Maclaren almost in triumph.

  ‘Sabotage, Harry! I told you that Keller wasn’t our mad bomber, didn’t I?’

  *

  ‘We are passing a mile south of the Scillies, captain,’ Francois Chambrun broke in on Barjonet’s troubled thoughts. ‘The winds are pretty gusty now, velocity rate is over thirty-five miles an hour.’

  Barjonet checked the readings. The vessel was beginning to pitch and roll slightly in spite of the stabilisers. The nose kept dipping unpredictably. Barjonet had already had to drop a further ton of water ballast from the bow tanks to keep the nose up. That, combined with the two tons he had dropped as they lifted off from St. Lô, left them with a small safety margin. They were still only at 2,500 feet, far lower than the ceiling of 4,000 feet which Barjonet wanted to make.

  ‘How’s the storm ahead, François?’ he asked the navigator.

  ‘We have a forecast of winds in excess of fifty miles an hour, cloudy and heavy rains with lightning, captain.’

  ‘At least we won’t be over land,’ chimed in Hervé Blanchard, his co-pilot. ‘That will eliminate the cross-currents and vertical draughts.’

  ‘We will still be meeting winds of a velocity that this ship has not experienced before,’ muttered Barjonet. ‘Take over the con, Hervé. I’m going to have a word with Renard.’

  *

  Sir Ashley Ashton, sitting in a wicker chair in the spacious guest lounge of the Charles de Gaulle, sipping a whisky sour, noticed the rolling of the airship. He smiled across to Dubeaupuris.

  ‘We must be heading into the storm,’ he observed.

  The grey-haired official put down his Campari. The drink splashed and tinkled with the ice as it stood on the table, and he frowned.

  ‘The stabilisers should be correcting this,’ he muttered.

  Renard, who had been in the lounge chatting with reporters, paused by their table.

  ‘Is everything alright, gentlemen?’ he smiled. He was not too happy about the fact that Ashton and Dubeaupuris were apparently old friends and had spent most of the trip so far in each other’s company. He wondered what they were saying about the Charles de Gaulle.

  ‘She’s pitching a bit, Renard,’ remarked Ashton.

  The Frenchman shrugged.

  ‘Barjonet knows what he is doing. He’ll probably take her above the storm soon. We have stabilisers, you know, which should reduce any discomfiture.’

  Dubeaupuris raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Renard hesitated, then gave them an all-embracing smile and passed on. At the door of the lounge he met Barjonet. The pilot wore a worried expression.

  ‘I’d like a word in private, Renard,’ he said.

  Renard glanced at him in annoyance.

  ‘We’re running into a storm. The ship is pitching. You should be on the flight deck.’

  ‘If you have a moment … ?’ pressed Barjonet.

  Renard turned into the Chief Purser’s cabin and motioned the startled man out. Barjonet came in and shut the door, taking off his peaked cap, placing it under his arm and standing at ease.

  ‘Well, what’s the problem?’ Renard demanded.

  ‘It is my recommendation that we should put back immediately.’

  Renard stared at him in astonishment, his eyes widening.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not feel that we have an adequate safety margin to continue our flight. Our gross lift was badly computed. At the moment we are flying too low and cannot increase our altitude because of the early eviction of the ballast. I believe our load disposition is too great for a long, sustained flight. We will never be able to reach our correct cruising altitude and I have my fears as to whether we can outride the storm front.’

  Renard looked at Barjonet long and thoughtfully. He reached for the intercom and switched to the ship’s main communications room.

  ‘This is Renard,’ he said shortly. ‘I’m in the Chief Purser’s office. Ask Villemur and Le Braz to join me immediately.’

  He turned back to Barjonet.

  ‘I would like to see what our designers have to say.’

  Barjonet made no reply.

  ‘You realise the significance of this flight, Barjonet?’ Renard asked impatiently. He hated being ignored. ‘You know that the Anglo-American ship has taken off?’

  ‘I am not interested in races when they conflict with the safety of my ship and its passengers.’

  ‘Quite commendable, captain,’ sneered Renard. He was about to say something else when Villemur came in, followed by Le Braz.

  ‘Tell them what you suggest, Barjonet,’ invited Renard.

  Barjonet repeated why he felt the ship should turn back to St. Lô.

  Renard waited until he had finished and then looked from Villemur to Le Braz.

  ‘Well, gentlemen? Your reactions, please.’

  Villemur looked uncomfortable but Le Braz plunged in immediately. He could see that Renard was not in favour of Barjonet’s suggestion.

  ‘Nonsense! There are certain minor problems which would naturally crop up on a proving flight. But there is absolutely no reason to abort the whole trip because one feels uneasy. The vectoring propeller system will surely take us above the storm.’

  Barjonet shook his head emphatically.

  ‘We can force up our altitude,’ he agreed, ‘but without the gas to sustain an even level flight path, we will sink down immediately to the present cruising altitude. Also, the engines are not performing well. I believe that the screws are too small and I am having fuel injector problems with number five engine. The bore capacity is not enough to raise the heavy load we have. It is entirely inadequate to the volume of the structure.’

  Le Braz took Barjonet’s comments as a personal attack on his technical capabilities.

  ‘We can maintain a height of 2,500 feet and can ride out the storm at that height. That ceiling is all we need to complete a safe passage.’

  Renard smiled slightly and swivelled to Villemur.

  ‘Well, Villemur? You are the chief designer. You hold a casting vote.’

  Villemur stood hesitantly. He had clashed with Renard in a confrontation once before and had been soundly beaten. Renard had his measure, knew his weaknesses. He glanced apologetically at Barjonet.

  ‘I can sympathise with Captain Barjonet,’ he mumbled. ‘However, my colleague, Doctor Le Braz, is quite correct. If height is the only problem that we are not going to pass over any mountain ranges on this trip; therefore a safe height would certainly be 2,500 feet. We could even maintain a high safety altitude at 1,000 feet. Nowhere will our course take us over high terrain. The ship has the capacity of riding out the storm front and after t
hat … well, it is clear weather to New York. The other problems are only minor irritants.’

  Renard was smiling broadly.

  ‘Well, Barjonet, you have heard the views of the designers. However, you are the captain. Your decision is the final one, after all.’

  It was typical of Renard to throw the responsibility entirely onto his shoulders. If Barjonet made the decision to run for home and it was proved to be a wrong one then he would never get another job in aviation again. Renard would see to that, even if other employers were able to make allowances. France was littered with out-of-work aviation technicians with whom Renard had clashed and trapped into making wrong decisions. Renard, he knew, was ruthless. One had to be sure before going against him. Barjonet hunched his shoulders in defeat.

  ‘I did say, in the first place, that I was merely making a recommendation. I have placed you in possession of the facts as I see them. That is on record. I am prepared to go by the ruling of the designers. With your permission, I shall return to the flight deck.’

  He replaced his cap, turned and left.

  *

  Kurt Nieman, the chief electrical engineer of the project, was standing before the master control panel on Deck Level Ten making notations on a clip-board. He turned in surprise as Van Kleef led Badrick, Maclean, Carson and Terrasino into the cabin.

  ‘Doctor Van Kleef,’ he said, ‘I was just about to contact you. I think I have discovered a problem … ’

  Carson grinned.

  ‘You are too late, Nieman. We’ve already discovered it.’

  The engineer pursed his lips and shrugged.

  ‘You saw the readings on the flight deck control systems, I suppose?’

  Van Kleef moved forward and started to examine the gauges.

  Nieman handed him the clip-board. Van Kleef glanced at it and compared the figures with those Carson had handed him.

  ‘What do you make of it, Kurt?’

  ‘I believe we are losing gas at an intolerable rate,’ replied the engineer. ‘The gauge readings show an average loss of three per cent per gas cell. If we get below six per cent then we shall be in serious trouble.’

  Van Kleef was already crouching beside a panel, unscrewing it with a small screwdriver. They watched him in silence as he adjusted several wires. He glanced up with a grin.