‘Well, we can fix the loss of gas immediately. Some sonofabitch has re-wired these connections so that every time we compensate for flight altitude the gas valves jam wide open and we lose gas too fast.’
Terrasino peered forward at the mess of wiring in incomprehension.
‘You can confirm it is definitely sabotage?’
‘To re-wire like this you need to be an expert,’ replied Van Kleef. ‘Yeah, definitely sabotage.’
Nieman whistled softly.
‘But I thought Keller … ’
‘Keller was not our mad bomber,’ said Terrasino decisively.
Nieman looked bewildered.
‘You mean we have a saboteur on board?’
Van Kleef was hurriedly readjusting the wires and screwing the panel back into place.
‘I’ll have to check out the control circuits now.’
‘And the buoyancy controls?’ asked Carson.
‘I’ll get to them,’ replied the designer, tightening the screws. ‘I’ll tell you one thing, Terrasino. The saboteur could only have re-wired after we took off or we would have discovered the fault immediately. This job could have been done only in the last three hours.’
Terrasino looked interested.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because of the gas loss,’ grunted Van Kleef, as if stating the obvious.
‘And you reckon he was an expert?’ pressed Terrasino.
‘He sure as hell wasn’t a boy scout practising knots,’ replied Van Kleef.
They watched him in silence as he unscrewed several other panels, checking the wiring behind them. It was on the fifth panel that he let out a long sigh.
‘Here’s the problem.’
They crowded round.
Nestling in the mess of wiring was a small, two-inch-square box. Some of the wires were connected to it.
‘What in hell is that?’ demanded Badrick.
Van Kleef was carefully removing it.
‘That is a tiny transistor, battery-operated and transmitting just enough juice to throw out our control system by several micro-seconds — enough to screw up the whole goddam works.’
Terrasino stared at it curiously.
‘I wish you hadn’t disconnected it just yet, doctor,’ he said slowly.
Van Kleef frowned.
‘Why?’
‘Because I could have had one of my men dust it for prints. As it stands now, it has your prints all over it.’
Van Kleef coloured and looked down in confusion.
‘I guess I didn’t think of that.’
‘Never mind,’ interrupted Badrick. ‘The problem’s been solved and, I presume, Colonel Carson now has full control of the Albatross again.’
‘Yes, he does.’
‘But we still have a problem,’ said Terrasino. ‘We have our saboteur on board who seems prepared to kill himself as well as us. Thank goodness that our psycho didn’t go for the bomb option this time or we’d all be on a chartered flight to hell.’
‘You’d better post one of your security men permanently on guard here,’ suggested Badrick. ‘This seems a vulnerable area if this madman should strike again.’
Nieman raised a worried face to Terrasino.
‘Do you think that he will?’
Terrasino looked slowly around the anxious circle.
‘This man is out to destroy the Albatross one way or another,’ he said. ‘He’s not likely to give up yet.’
*
Danny Macmillan fell fully clothed and exhausted onto his bunk. The emergency flight deck shift had got everyone keyed up. He felt the tension in his body and tried a few isometric exercises to relax himself. Then he must have drifted off to sleep in his weariness. Abruptly he became aware of a persistent tapping on his cabin door. He stumbled from his bunk, half-expecting another emergency.
Claire Ashton stood outside. She looked a little strained and nervous.
‘Danny,’ she said hesitantly. ‘Danny, may I come in for a moment?’
Macmillan silently held the door open for her. She entered the cabin and stood in the middle of the room in a nervous, undecided attitude.
‘Danny, I want to apologise. I was stupid, immature … I behaved like a silly child.’
She looked lost, forlorn; exactly like a little girl.
Macmillan gently smiled and took her hands in his.
‘Okay, Claire. It was as much my fault as yours. I like you a helluva a lot, but we mustn’t rush things. We have to get to know each other better. Let’s take it gently, eh?’
She forced a smile.
‘Anything you say, Danny. Anything.’
‘Right,’ he kissed her forehead. ‘That’s better. Now I’ve got to get some shut-eye, Claire. I’ve nearly had a double shift and I’m exhausted.’
‘Danny … can I remain with you for a while? I … I just don’t want to be on my own.’ She caught his glance. ‘Nothing more … I promise.’
She was still a little girl, Macmillan thought, unable to deal with the process of growing up.
‘Alright, but no funny business.’
They settled on the bunk together, fully clothed, and Claire curled herself against him, nestling into the crook of his shoulder, clinging tightly to him. Macmillan lay looking down at her. Poor kid; she must have had a hell of a relationship with her father because she was desperately trying to find a replacement. He hoped he could help her to grow up.
Chapter Five
Jacques Barjonet was very worried.
He should have forced Renard to put back to St. Lô hours ago. Now the fuel injector problem with number five engine was increasing and giving cause for concern. True that repairs could be effected in flight, but only when the storm had abated. Fouéré, the chief engineer, had already been up to the engine pod and found some of the aluminium pipes of the cooling system had cracked: they would have to be temporarily replaced with rubber hoses when the winds died down enough to allow the repair work to be carried out. At two thousand feet the Charles de Gaulle was beginning to encounter hurricane winds of over sixty-five miles an hour and the ship was not responding well to her stabiliser controls. Although she was putting up a sturdy resistance to the storm, the pitch and roll were becoming considerable.
Francois Chambrun suddenly swore aloud.
‘We are just south of Camsore Point, off the south coast of Ireland, captain,’ he called.
That was fifty miles further north and nearly one hundred miles east of where they should have been. The head winds were tossing the airship all over the sky.
‘Any possibility of getting round the storm, Francois?’ asked Barjonet.
‘No. Even fighting our way into it means that we will only edge our way along the Irish coast.’
Barjonet turned and asked Blanchard, the co-pilot, to take control of the flight deck. As he made to leave the cabin he met Renard.
‘Ah, I wanted a word,’ the head of Dirigeable-Commercial said, putting out a hand to steady himself as the great ship rolled in the wind.
‘Yes?’ demanded Barjonet unenthusiastically.
‘The guests are trying to have their evening meal. Is there no way you can stabilise the ship, to steady it?’
Barjonet’s face blanched. Up to this moment he had merely disliked Renard. Now he felt like punching him in the face.
‘Well?’ Renard was obviously waiting for a reply.
Barjonet pointed towards the observation ports.
‘Outside you will see a storm. A bad storm. There is no way that this ship can be stabilised; unless, of course, you have some influence with the Almighty.’
Renard scowled.
‘There is no need … ’
Barjonet did not let the man finish. He pushed by him.
‘I am busy at the moment, Renard. I have a report that we are losing gas.’
‘I’ll come with you,’ replied Renard, adding anxiously: ‘Is there a problem?’
T won’t know until I have made an examination,’
replied the pilot, as he entered the small service elevator from the control deck to the main gas cell service deck.
Baudouin, Le Braz’s assistant and chief technician, met them with a worried face at the entrance to the cat-walk which ran between the giant gas cells. Their design was essentially the same as the old airships — loose balloon structures within the shell of the ship.
‘How is it?’ demanded Barjonet.
The technician gave an expressive lift of his shoulders.
‘I don’t like what I see, captain,’ he replied.
He turned and led them stumbling along the cat-walk. The gas bags were surging from side to side in spite of the nylon mesh which was intended to secure each in its place. One of the bags was rubbing and chafing against the supports and radial struts. Two of Baudouin’s men were trying to anchor the mesh to secure the bag more firmly. The rocking motion of the ship caused them to clutch every few seconds for support, making the work tedious and almost impossible.
‘And that is not the worst of our worries, captain,’ cried Baudouin, waving them forward.
They climbed up two more deck levels to the highest point of the ship where the main hydrogen bag stretched like a giant sleeping whale. Baudouin pointed. Barjonet’s eyes narrowed as he saw a small rent of a few inches in length. He reached forward and felt the side of the bag. It was flabby, like a child’s half-filled balloon.
‘A lot of hydrogen must have escaped from that,’ he yelled.
Up here the noise of the storm was so loud that they could hardly hear themselves shout.
Baudouin nodded violently and leant close to his ear.
‘I only discovered it a few moments ago and have just ordered my men to patch it up but the hydrogen … ’ he gestured helplessly. ‘Let’s hope it has escaped into the night and not, well … ’
‘Hydrogen gas rises,’ pointed out Barjonet. ‘It will have escaped through the vents.’
‘The ship should never have been converted from helium. Hydrogen is much too tricky to use in jerry-rigged gas bags,’ replied Baudouin, oblivious to Renard’s white face.
‘How much do you think we’ve lost?’ demanded Barjonet.
‘Thirteen per cent, roughly.’
‘It’s too much. We have to put back.’
Renard’s mouth tightened.
‘Are you telling me that we are in danger?’
Barjonet looked at him pityingly.
‘I advised you to return to St. Lô before, Renard. Now I’m telling you.’
‘Nonsense!’ Renard was almost screaming to make himself heard. ‘The company’s whole future depends on our arriving in New York the day after tomorrow. I’m not jeopardising that. You are being over-cautious.’
Barjonet gritted his teeth.
‘I am telling you that the safety factors on this aircraft are not adequate to ride out this storm, Renard. We have hydrogen aboard and escaping hydrogen at that. You care nothing about safety regulations — all you care about is being the first to cross the Atlantic.’
Renard was white in the face. His mouth was working, contorting.
‘I am chairman of Dirigeable-Commercial, Barjonet! I’ll have your resignation when we get back.’
‘Delighted!’ cried Barjonet, shoving him roughly aside and stalking off along the cat-walk to the gangway stairs.
Renard found himself trembling with rage: rage because some spark of humanity deep within him admitted that Barjonet was right. Even he could understand the danger of their position. He turned to see Baudouin and his men staring curiously at him.
‘Well?’ he screamed. ‘Get on with your job!’
Blanchard greeted Barjonet morosely.
‘The instruments are detecting large gas losses, captain,’ he said, pointing to the gauges.
‘I’ve already seen it,’ returned Barjonet. ‘We’ll have to release a ton of water ballast to compensate.’
He began to compute the necessary changes.
‘How’s the weather?’ he asked Chambrun.
The navigator did not look happy.
‘Still running into one hell of a storm, captain. Rain’s getting heavier and … ’
Just at that moment a streak of blind white lightning passed near, making them blink through the smoked perspex of the flight deck windows.
‘That was close,’ breathed Blanchard, adjusting the controls.
‘Right, François, contact St. Lô and tell them we are putting back.’
The flight deck crew exchanged looks of relief as Barjonet made the order.
‘Renard isn’t going to like that, captain,’ Blanchard said.
‘He’s already asked for and got my resignation,’ replied Barjonet quietly.
‘The bastard’s mad,’ said his co-pilot unemotionally.
‘I know it, Hervé.’
Without warning the ship dived down two hundred feet by the altimeter. Blanchard swore and started fumbling for the lateral controls, forcing the nose slowly up.
‘Dumping ballast!’ cried Barjonet, stabbing at the switches. Over a ton of water and a ton of fuel oil cascaded down into the frothy seas below. The enormous hull jerked violently, but slowly the needle on the altimeter climbed upward. Barjonet looked around at his crew. They were shaken but seemed unhurt. He reached forward and snapped the intercom line to the Chief Purser.
‘Give me a damage and injury report as soon as possible.’
‘Yes captain.’ The Chief Purser’s voice was shaky.
Baudouin called in.
‘I don’t know what’s holding this gas bag together, captain,’ came the deep tones of the technician, ‘so far as I see, there’s nothing between us and the deep but a prayer … Any more tossing about and the rent will run the whole length of the bag.’
At that moment Renard burst angrily into the flight deck.
He was shaking like a leaf.
‘What are you doing? Did you do that on purpose?’
Barjonet swore.
‘Get that idiot off the deck,’ he snapped at Chambrun. Then get on to St. Lô … no, get on to the nearest airport … ’
‘You can’t do that! I forbid it! You will not turn back!’ Renard took a step forward, clenching his fists.
Chambrun stood up and touched his arm.
‘Now come on, m’sieur. We are in a little trouble up here and … ’
The intercom demanded Barjonet’s attention. It was the Chief Purser.
‘One passenger with a broken leg, captain. Three minor injuries. Two technicians also with minor injuries. Mostly people are a little shaken.’
‘Alright. Can you send Monsieur Dubeaupuris to the flight deck?’
‘Very well, captain.’
Barjonet turned back to Renard, who had tried to master self-control.
‘Barjonet,’ he said softly, ‘I am the owner of this ship. I am relieving you of your command. You will hand over to Blanchard here.’
Barjonet smiled grimly.
‘You cannot do that, Renard.’
Renard turned to Blanchard.
‘Do as I say. You are appointed captain. Carry out my instructions.’
Blanchard shook his head.
‘Sorry, m’sieur. SNLP regulations … ’
‘We are turning back for St. Lô,’ repeated Barjonet firmly.
‘I warn you … you’ll never work for another airline or aviation firm again. I will see to that, Barjonet. As soon as we get back, I’ll see … ’
Barjonet interrupted him curtly.
‘I shall call upon these gentlemen to witness that threat, Renard,’ he said. ‘Now will you leave this flight deck before I have you thrown off?’
Renard hesitated, his face working.
Dubeaupuris entered and looked around at the tableau.
‘You wanted me, captain?’ he asked.
‘Yes, m’sieur. I am putting back to St. Lô with the utmost despatch.’
Dubeaupuris did not show any surprise.
‘Very well, captain. You will,
of course, let me have a written report as soon as possible?’
‘Yes. I will enter specifics in my report but it has been my opinion for the last eight hours that this ship is not sufficiently airworthy to continue the projected flight.’
Dubeaupuris glanced at Renard.
‘I concur with you, captain. I have done my own investigations and would say that your ballast and gases are in a dangerous state. I have also spoken to Doctor Villemur who is very unhappy with the current situation. I think, M’sieur Renard, we should have a talk about this matter.’
He turned and left.
Renard gave Barjonet a look of venomous hatred.
‘You will pay, Barjonet!’ he hissed, striding abruptly from the flight deck.
Barjonet was too busy with the controls to bother about him.
‘We will make a half-circle to starboard, Hervé,’ he said. ‘Prepare to make the turn.’
‘St. Lô have acknowledged our message, captain,’ sang out Chambrun.
‘Right. Plot us a course for St. Lô, then.’
The ship abruptly bucked and pitched dangerously. Chambrun was sent sprawling from his chair.
‘What the hell?’ cried Barjonet.
‘Lightning!’ cried Blanchard. ‘We were struck by lightning, captain.’
Immediately the intercom buzzed.
It was Baudouin.
‘Captain,’ his voice sounded strange, ‘we were struck on the starboard side, abaft Number Ten gas bag. A small fire has started … it looks pretty bad.’
‘I’m coming up for an inspection,’ replied Barjonet. ‘Take control, Hervé, and tell Villemur and Le Braz to join me at … where is it?’
‘Deck Level Six, observation post nine,’ supplied Baudouin over the intercom.
Blanchard wrote down the co-ordinates.
A few moments later Barjonet met Villemur at the observation post. He had reached the spot first and was already getting the information from Baudouin. The chief designer looked anguishedly at Barjonet.
‘I warned him. Renard. I warned him that this could happen.’
‘What’s happened?’ demanded Barjonet, pausing as Le Braz came up.
‘We were struck by lightning. The overload on the dispersal ducts was too much to contain the charge. The heat generated has caused structural failure on an area of about forty square feet of the ship’s carbon-reinforced fibre shell. A fire has started.’
Airship Page 31
