Airship

by McAlan, Peter

  Barjonet glanced at Baudouin.

  ‘Can we deal with it?’

  ‘We are using both automatic and manual fire-fighting gear to contain it, captain, but it has taken a firm hold. Thank God that the lightning didn’t strike twenty feet from the point it did … it would have struck right next to the main hydrogen bag. As it is, we’d better start containing the fire soon or else … ’

  He made a popping sound with his lips.

  ‘Do your damnedest, Baudouin,’ said Barjonet and then turned back to Villemur. ‘What did you mean, Villemur, when you said you warned Renard that this could happen?’

  Villemur looked pointedly at Le Braz.

  ‘Some weeks ago, when I joined Renard and was asked to go over his designs and point out possible faults, I told him that the hull of his ship, the skin, being made from carbon-reinforced plastic, would be heat-generating. In the event of a lightning strike in which the ducts did not spread the strike evenly over the ship’s hull then structural damage could result. Le Braz disagreed with me. Renard told me to accept the design or leave the project.’

  ‘Might have been better had you left,’ muttered Barjonet, as he brushed the designer aside and climbed into the observation pod.

  From this vantage point he could see the hull had been extensively damaged. The skin of the ship had been fractured and blackened over a large area, and great yellow and red tongued flames were licking backwards in the wind. The automatic jets of water from the fire-fighting controls were hissing over them but the flames were fierce and strong. They were dangerously near Number Six diesel engine. Barjonet crawled back into the ship and searched for the nearest intercom switch.

  ‘Hervé,’ he called, as soon as the co-pilot answered. ‘Shut down Number Five engine and also Number Six engine. Dump all the oil and diesel fuel from Six immediately. There’s a fire hazard.’

  Blanchard acknowledged.

  Baudouin reappeared. His face was already blackened by smoke.

  ‘We are barely containing the fire, captain,’ his voice was tight and rasping. ‘I don’t know how long it will be before … those damned flames are really feeding on the carbon.’

  ‘Keep me informed on every development, Baudouin. I’m returning to the flight deck.’

  Blanchard looked worried as Barjonet slumped into his command chair.

  For a moment he did not say anything.

  ‘How’s the situation?’ ventured Chambrun.

  ‘Not good,’ replied Barjonet. ‘Can you raise the nearest airport? It will be Cork. Tell them who we are. Tell them we have an emergency and want permission to try to come down.’

  Chambrun bent over his radio equipment.

  ‘Cork are asking the exact nature of the emergency, captain,’ said the navigator after a while.

  ‘Patch me into them,’ said Barjonet.

  A few moments later he was speaking to the air controller at Cork International Airport and explaining the situation. There was only a few seconds’ delay before the controller responded, issuing landing instructions.

  Barjonet began to turn the wallowing airship slowly towards the Irish coast.

  Chapter Six

  It was a foul night with blustery winds sending huge sheets of rain sweeping across the rocky promontory of Mizen Head, which headland gave its name to the southernmost of the long south-western peninsulas of Ireland. It was a dark night; a rough night, with the winds whipping off the sea and causing the white foam-capped waves to roar and crash against the tall granite rocks. Below the squat headland the waves were rising to incredible heights and some of the lashing spray, mingled with rainwater, rose to flay the granite land. Every once in a while the heavens would suddenly rip open, showing blinding white sky, and the thunder would growl menacingly overhead.

  Brian O’Mahoney put his head down into the teeth of the wild, wailing wind and tried to make his figure as small as possible. He cursed Davin, his son, for his carelessness. The boy, bringing the sheep in that evening, had left two ewes and a lamb unaccounted for. Now O’Mahoney had to go out in this sleety, leaden weather, and find them himself. He swung his flashlight forward as he climbed the steep path up Mizen Head, one of the three short spurs at the end of the long peninsula. He had farmed the area for twenty-five years. The O’Mahoneys had lived on the peninsula and farmed the land for longer than people could remember. O’Mahoney himself had often boasted that his ancestors had once owned the ancient castle which now lay in ruins on Three Castles Head, just to the north. He knew every foot, every chasm and hollow of the rocky promontory. And he knew more or less where his missing sheep would be, huddled in the rocks at the far end of the headland, sheltering against the storm. Nevertheless, he cursed Davin for his carelessness. Had it not been for his son he would have already been warm and dry, with a glass in his hand, holding forth at John-Joe Goleen’s ceile over at Schule.

  O’Mahoney gave an involuntary glance at the sky as lightning ripped across it. God, he thought, but the day was angry with itself now. It was a fearsome night and no mistake.

  It was as he glanced up he saw it.

  It was like a ball of fire hanging in the sky; just floating through the terrible storm. It seemed to be drifting towards the land from the black skies over the sea.

  O’Mahoney halted and stared hard.

  Was it an aeroplane? Sure, but it was going too slow, far too slow. Ach, but could it be one of those fiery chariots which the parish priest had been rumbling on about in his sermon only the other day?

  ‘God between me and all evil!’ he muttered reverently.

  O’Mahoney turned and ran as fast as his clumsy rubber boots would allow him. He made it swiftly down to the old trackway where he had left his battered motor car and, without pausing, he scrambled in it and started up. The wheezing, rocking vehicle swayed down the track, along the rainswept vista of Barley Cove before joining the tarmac stretch of roadway which led into the village of Crookhaven. He sped dangerously along the single street of the village, it curved down to the quayside along which stood the few houses and bars which constituted the hamlet. Further along were the large sandy beaches and the holiday caravans which parked themselves on the dunes. But the tourist season had not yet begun and most of them were empty.

  O’Mahoney’s car screeched to a halt outside Kerrigan’s Bar and he rushed inside.

  ‘Is Christy Mike Tobin here?’ he demanded.

  There were half a dozen men in the bar who turned to look at the agitated farmer in surprise. Christy Mike Tobin, in the uniform of a policeman, turned and frowned.

  ‘Where’s the fire, O’Mahoney?’ he smiled gravely.

  ‘Sure, but never a truer word was said,’ gasped O’Mahoney. ‘’Tis in the sky heading over Mizen Head. I never saw the like.’

  A couple of the men laughed coarsely.

  ‘Now then, now then, O’Mahoney,’ growled Christy Mike. ‘Do you not know that you must have more respect for a member of the Garda Siochana?’

  ‘Aye, that’s why I’ve come to you. ‘Tis a job for the po’lis.’

  The burly policeman stood up and looked at the farmer suspiciously.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, authority in his voice.

  Excitedly, O’Mahoney explained what he had seen.

  ‘Take me to where you saw this fire, O’Mahoney,’ said Christy Mike, buttoning his jacket. ‘And heaven help you if you are pulling my leg.’

  ‘I swear I am not.’

  A couple of men followed the policeman and farmer outside. Even from the village they could now see the fireball in the sky. ‘Begod!’ wailed a man. ‘What is it?’

  ‘An aircraft,’ hazarded one man.

  ‘No; ’tis flying too slow. Why … Holy Mother!’ Christy Mike suddenly shouted. ‘It’s the airship … it’s on fire. It must be that French airship that was flying to America … the one we saw on the television. Kerrigan, will you get on the phone to Cork airport and tell them what we see?’

  ‘It’s co
ming down, Christy Mike!’ cried O’Mahoney. ‘I tell you, it’s coming down on the hills.’

  A woman who had joined the group started wailing.

  ‘Ah, heaven help the poor souls! Heaven help them!’

  The policeman dived across the road to a phone box and frantically started to dial his headquarters.

  O’Mahoney, one hand over his eyes to keep off the blustering rain, peered into the sky.

  ‘It’s going to come down. If it keeps like that it’ll come down in Clonagam’s meadows. The poor wretches will be needing help.’

  Christy Mike Tobin was running back from the telephone box. ‘Take us up there, O’Mahoney,’ he cried, flinging himself into O’Mahoney’s car. ‘Help’s on its way but I don’t give much hope for those poor souls if they are blown into the rocks.’ O’Mahoney and a couple of men jumped into the car and the farmer gunned the engine, roaring out of the village and up the road towards the hills. Overhead the great black shape, like a giant cigar, grew bigger and bigger. Along one side flames were licking, lighting up the ship in a strange eerie glow.

  ‘We’d best not get under her,’ muttered Christy Mike Tobin, ‘just in case she comes down suddenly.’

  ‘Well, I can’t leave the roadway, can I?’ shouted the aggrieved O’Mahoney.

  Christy Mike Tobin gazed up at the black shape above him in awe.

  *

  In the spacious main lounge of the Charles de Gaulle Sir Ashley Ashton clung tightly to the bar and forced a smile at the white-faced barman.

  ‘I think a double scotch is in order,’ he forced himself to say evenly.

  The barman looked at him blankly.

  ‘If we are going to crash,’ persisted Sir Ashley, ‘then it does seem a pity to waste all that liquor.’

  The barman pursed his lips and, with an effort, pushed the bottle of whisky across the bar.

  ‘Drink all you want, m’sieur,’ he said. The tone of his voice betrayed what he thought about eccentric Englishmen. ‘I’m going to my emergency station.’

  Ashton picked up the bottle and moved through the panic-stricken people who were even now deserting the lounge, struggling and shouting, demanding to know what was happening. Along the observation ports on one side of the lounge they could see hungry flames lapping along the side of the ship. The vessel still bucked and pitched alarmingly and Ashton had a hard job to make it to the seat where Dubeaupuris was hunched, white-faced but forcing himself to remain calm.

  Dubeaupuris looked up.

  ‘Aren’t you going to go to the emergency stations, Sir Ashley?’ he asked.

  Ashton smiled tightly and shook his head.

  ‘No point,’ he replied. ‘If the captain can’t get this thing down, you know as well as I do that there is no safe place on board.’

  Dubeaupuris made a gesture of resignation and pushed an empty glass towards Ashton.

  ‘I agree. So, in that case, I will indulge … ’

  *

  Barjonet was peering through the windscreen of the flight deck into the darkness of the Irish night. His face was pale, his lips merely a thin line.

  ‘We are coming down, captain,’ cried Blanchard.

  ‘Stand by to blow the gas valves as soon as you can,’ Barjonet answered grimly. ‘Try and release as much hydrogen as possible before we make contact. François,’ he turned to the navigator, ‘contact Cork, say we can’t make the airport and are coming down on a rocky promontory … ’

  ‘It’s Mizen Head, captain,’ shouted the navigator. ‘It’s not suitable ground for … ’

  ‘Damn it! Any ground is suitable at this moment,’ snapped Barjonet.

  He glanced at his co-pilot.

  ‘Close down all portside engines … vectoring thrust on the main starboard engines.’

  Blanchard nodded.

  The airship began to sink rapidly towards the black gloomy headland.

  ‘Too fast! Too fast!’ yelled Barjonet. ‘Throttle back!’

  The ship was going into a long dive. The pilots threw themselves at the controls. The ship began to pitch dangerously.

  ‘Christ!’ cried Chambrun. ‘We’re going into the side of a mountain!’

  Barjonet breathed a prayer as he felt the craft struggling with the storm.

  ‘Dump all ballast, all fuel oils and release the gas valves!’ he shouted.

  Blanchard reached towards the switches.

  The ship suddenly tossed and bucked and began to swing tail-on to the mountainside. Barjonet could actually feel the tailplanes scraping across the rocks. Then his heart caught — there came an ominous crack, the crack of a fractured girder or strut. His world exploded into a searing white flame.

  *

  Sitting unsteadily with his drink, Sir Ashley Ashton was aware of a blast of hot air; hot air, like a whirlwind, gusted through the lounge and everything about him began to bum wildly. He felt a crash and was thrown from his seat. Dazed for a moment, he clambered unsteadily to his feet and peered about in the bright inferno that had once been the ship’s main recreational centre. A short time ago it had been crowded with passengers, chatting, drinking and laughing. He looked round for Dubeaupuris. The Frenchman was struggling to his feet, his jacket on fire.

  Ashton looked round, spied a soda syphon on the bar, grabbed it and squirted it over the burning garment. Then, as it was extinguished, Ashton tore a curtain, ripping it in two, and squirted the rest of the syphon over it.

  ‘Hold that across your face,’ he cried above the crackle and roar of the fire, which mingled with the screams of twisting girders. ‘It’ll protect you.’

  He gazed round, wondering what to do next, trying to cover his own face and mouth from the terrible heat — looking for some avenue of escape. Somewhere in the back of his mind a small voice was saying quite clearly: ‘This is it, Ashley. Too bad, eh?’

  Abruptly, a weighty cascade of water came roaring down into the lounge from the burning hull above. Even as it swamped through the great cabin, Ashton realised that it must be part of the water ballast. It splashed and hissed its way through the lounge, sweeping them off their feet. Such was the speed of the water that it crashed against the hull, tearing it apart, and Ashton found himself smashing through the crumpled structure. Then he was lying face downward in the cold rainswept heather, smelling the tangy odour of peat.

  He stood up gingerly. Nothing appeared to be broken. He peered round. Flames and black shadows were everywhere, like a scene from Dante’s Inferno.

  ‘Dubeaupuris!’ he cried.

  There was no answer.

  *

  O’Mahoney shoved his foot down on the accelerator as the car climbed the twisting roadway up the mountainside. Then, turning a corner, above the noise of the engine they heard a rumbling, crashing sound that terrified them. O’Mahoney braked the car so hard that it nearly swivelled within its own length. There came a tremendous explosion. Flames shot up all over the place, flames that were orange and blue. The entire hillside had suddenly become a roaring furnace. Wreckage lay strewn and blazing everywhere.

  Christy Mike Tobin, O’Mahoney and the others climbed slowly out of the vehicle and gazed about them in horror. Slowly, one after the other, they crossed themselves.

  ‘God have mercy on them,’ whispered O’Mahoney.

  ‘Christ have mercy on them,’ answered Christy Mike Tobin with equal reverence.

  They turned, aware of screaming in the distance. The air was unbearably hot. Everywhere they looked they could see fires big and small, the smaller ones hissing in the sleeting rain. On the hillside they could see part of the main structure was silhouetted by flames. The intensity of the fire held them back.

  Then, to their horror, someone came staggering out of the inferno towards them — a blazing torch.

  Christy Mike Tobin ripped off his jacket and rolled the man on the ground.

  Already in the distance, along the coast road, they could hear the screaming wail of an ambulance and a police siren.

  The man on the
ground had mercifully sunk into unconsciousness.

  O’Mahoney saw another figure moving down the hill, staggering, falling and picking itself up again.

  He called out but the figure ignored him. O’Mahoney turned and picked his way down the hill at a rapid pace.

  Turning his flashlight on the man, O’Mahoney saw that his jacket was badly burnt and his face was scorched and dirty. His eyes were wide and staring.

  ‘Are you alright, mister?’ O’Mahoney demanded, suddenly realising it was a ridiculous question to ask in the circumstances.

  The man gazed at him and began to laugh hysterically.

  ‘Whist now, enough of that,’ chided O’Mahoney helplessly. ‘Come away up to the roadway. There’s an ambulance nearly here.’

  The man continued to laugh uncontrollably.

  ‘Savvy? Ambulance. Hospital.’ O’Mahoney raised his voice, remembering that Christy Mike had said the airship was French. Perhaps the man did not understand him.

  The man suddenly was serious.

  ‘I am Renard,’ he said slowly in accented English. ‘Charles Renard.’

  O’Mahoney patted his shoulder.

  ‘Well, you are safe, Mr. Renard. You are safe now.’

  Renard’s face suddenly dissolved and he started to sob and wail like a baby.

  O’Mahoney had heard that shock did strange things to people and so he gently led the man back to the roadway where the ambulance had pulled up. He handed him over to a young official.

  The man kept mumbling in French as they ushered him into the back of the ambulance. As they made him lie down on a stretcher he turned and looked at them with bright pleading eyes. Then, in halting English, he said:

  ‘I am Charles Renard. It is my fault. My fault.’

  *

  Ashton heard a roar and was knocked sideways as a pocket of hydrogen ignited nearby. He picked himself up again from the heather and peered into the ghastly scene. The heat was excruciating. He heard a voice crying from somewhere behind the flames. It was calling on God for help. It sounded like Dubeaupuris. Ashton was sure it was his voice. He turned towards the flaming walls of the wrecked airship.