Airship

by McAlan, Peter

  ‘I was already on my way but by the time I got here … ’ Van Kleef shrugged.

  ‘The screwball must have surprised him or he surprised the screwball,’ said Terrasino. He frowned, gazing around, and then exhaled deeply.

  ‘Okay, Danny. You’d better get back to the flight deck.’

  Macmillan gave a brief nod.

  ‘I’ll tell Saxon he has control,’ he said. He reached for the intercom.

  ‘Tell Art Stein to take the co-pilot’s seat for the rest of this watch; we’ll have to work out something permanent later,’ Maclaren told him.

  ‘Do I take it that Tom Saxon is now skipper?’ asked Macmillan.

  Maclaren hesitated.

  ‘Yeah; tell him to meet me in Mr. Badrick’s cabin as soon as he can.’

  *

  Tom Saxon felt a numbness.

  ‘Garry Carson is dead, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Danny Macmillan. ‘This makes you skipper from here on.’

  Saxon was gazing blankly at the controls in front of him. His mind was a whirlpool of conflicting emotions. God! What would Helen feel? For the first time in a couple of years he felt suddenly cold and completely sober. He felt as if an ice-cold bucket of water had been poured over him, as if someone had slapped him across the face and altered his perspective of life.

  ‘Did Terrasino get whoever did it?’ he asked at length.

  ‘Terrasino is investigating,’ replied Macmillan. ‘They are taking Garry’s body to the sickbay.’

  Saxon forced himself to think about the ship.

  ‘The tail section is now fully functional?’ He tried to put a crispness in his voice.

  ‘Yeah; should be.’

  ‘Right, I want some course changes to ensure full functionability.’

  Macmillan and Billy Heath exchanged a surprised glance at his tone. They watched as Saxon slipped out of the co-pilot’s seat into the command chair.

  ‘Don’t you want to wait for Art Stein?’

  ‘We can make the course changes ourselves.’

  Macmillan sighed and moved to the co-pilot’s seat.

  ‘I’m releasing the auto-pilot … now!’ snapped Saxon. There was no appreciable difference in the feel of the controls. He flicked the switches and turned on the computer link for the tailplane elevators.

  ‘Climbing,’ he murmured, as he drew back on the short stick which gave instructions to the computer control. The needle on the altimeter began to rise slowly. After a short while, Saxon returned the control to normal setting.

  ‘Levelling off. Climb satisfactory.’

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘What’s our new position?’

  Billy Heath hesitated.

  ‘Navigator! Christ, man, I want information now! What is our new height and position?’

  Danny Macmillan shot a look of dislike towards Saxon. Why should he start bullying Billy Heath at a time like this? There was no need … Even as the thought crossed his mind, Macmillan suddenly realised there was a need. Saxon could not let his crew fall apart with shock at the death of Garry Carson. There was a screwball on board whose intention it was to destroy them all. The crew had to be in top form. They could not be allowed to give way to their emotions until the Albatross was safely on the ground. Macmillan studied Saxon out of the comer of his eye with a new respect.

  Billy Heath was stammering out the new height and position.

  ‘Right,’ acknowledged Saxon. ‘I am going to make a halfturn to port now.’

  The great ship reacted almost immediately. Saxon made a further turn, bringing the vessel back to its original true course. Then he locked on the auto-pilot again.

  The tail section is working fine,’ he said, with false satisfaction.

  Art Stein came on to the flight deck. He looked grim.

  ‘I’ve just heard,’ he said.

  No one spoke for a moment and then Saxon motioned Art to take over from Macmillan in the co-pilot’s seat.

  ‘I’ve engaged auto-pilot, Art,’ Saxon said. ‘Keep an eye on the shop. I have to talk with Maclaren and Badrick. Just let her run on auto but if there are any problems buzz me immediately.’

  Maclaren and Badrick were arguing animatedly when Saxon knocked on Badrick’s stateroom door. He entered on Badrick’s invitation.

  ‘Hi, Saxon. Take a seat. Drink?’

  The rotund face of the chairman of Pan Continental was anxious.

  Saxon declined the drink and saw Maclaren stare hard at him.

  ‘Danny Macmillan has filled you in about Carson?’ asked Badrick.

  ‘Yes,’ said Saxon, dropping into the chair which Badrick indicated. ‘Has the murderer been caught?’

  Before Badrick could reply there was a knock on the door and Terrasino came in, grey-faced. No one spoke while he seized a glass and poured himself a shot of whisky.

  ‘No sign of the bastard or the murder weapon,’ he muttered. ‘He’s probably dumped it overboard. Parish and Sands are searching the ship and Lindsay is on stand-by in case he has another try at the tail section.’

  Saxon frowned.

  ‘Just who are your men looking for, Terrasino?’

  Terrasino shot him a look of annoyance.

  ‘Anything unusual, that’s all.’

  Saxon nodded.

  ‘It’s a bit of a waste of time. All they will find is the people they expect to find because this mad bomber is one of us. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘A search might turn up the murder weapon … ’

  ‘But you say it has probably been thrown overboard.’

  ‘Jesus, Saxon!’ snapped the security chief, ‘just what do you suggest I do?’

  Badrick held up his hands, trying to adopt a reassuring posture.

  ‘I am sure Terrasino is doing everything he can.’

  ‘There is not much we can do in the circumstances,’ admitted the security man. ‘Just be prepared for anything.’

  ‘We have to make an important decision,’ Badrick’s voice was heavy. ‘In case you haven’t realised it we have come to the point of no return … the halfway mark between our take-off and our set-down point. In view of what has happened we have to make a decision — do we go on or do we turn back?’ Maclaren spoke for the first time.

  ‘I have suggested we go back. The odds are too heavily stacked against us. Now that Carson is dead we haven’t the expertise to … ‘His voice trailed off as he met Saxon’s gaze.

  Saxon’s face was impassive. He knew what Maclaren wanted to say.

  Badrick waited for Maclaren to finish and when he did not he asked:

  ‘Is that all, Harry?’

  Maclaren shrugged.

  Badrick turned to Saxon.

  ‘How is the ship handling now? Have you any problems on the flight deck that I should know of?’

  ‘None. The ship flies beautifully. It’s everything Van Kleef said it would be. So far as I am concerned you have the same problems going back as going forward — so why not go forward?’

  Terrasino nodded.

  ‘I have to admit that I’m in agreement with Saxon there. It’s six to one and half a dozen of the other, isn’t it? Anyway, why isn’t Van Kleef here to make the decision? It’s his ship.’ Badrick coughed.

  ‘Harry Maclaren and I decided that the decision should be confined to us four. At least we can be sure that none of us is the saboteur.’

  Terrasino gestured in agreement.

  ‘I guess you’re right.’

  Badrick was tugging at his lower lip.

  ‘Saxon is right,’ he said at last, ‘going forward or backward we will have the same problems. At this stage I’m for going forward, too. Sorry, Harry,’ he turned to Maclaren, ‘I’m being commercial about this but, dammit, it’s the only way to handle it. Whichever way we go we are over twenty-four hours from landing.’

  Saxon stood up.

  ‘Right. I take it that I am now in command of the Albatross?’

  Badrick lit a cigar thoughtfully, glanci
ng briefly at Maclaren.

  ‘That’s right. You’re the captain.’

  Saxon smiled shortly.

  ‘So long as Terrasino can keep this psycho off our backs, I’ll drop you nice and safe in the grounds of Buckingham Palace.’

  ‘Cranfield Airport will do just fine, Saxon,’ interrupted Maclaren, dryly.

  Saxon turned and left Badrick’s stateroom.

  Maclaren caught up with him further down the corridor and halted him.

  ‘I’m not a fool, Saxon,’ he said shortly.

  Saxon returned his gaze evenly.

  ‘I never thought you were, Maclaren,’ he replied.

  ‘Alright. So let’s level. I know you’ve been having a problem. I know Garry Carson covered for you and I know you fouled up a simulator run. I know the cause. Booze. Do you deny it?’ Saxon smiled thinly.

  ‘Booze is the symptom, not the cause. Anyway, in essence you are right.’

  Maclaren’s eyes widened a little. He had expected Saxon to deny it. Drunks always denied they were drunks.

  ‘Unfortunately I don’t have proof enough to get you grounded, Saxon, nor to get Art Stein made captain. So let me tell you this … if I smell alcohol during the next twenty-four hours. I’ll personally haul you off that flight deck.’

  Saxon’s eyes were smouldering.

  ‘It’s a deal, Maclaren. Give me the next twenty-four hours and I’ll show you that your fears are groundless.’

  Maclaren stared hard at the English pilot. Somehow, in spite of the haggard features of the man, the blood-tinged eyes and his unkempt appearance, which a few moments ago Maclaren had put down as a sign of his alcoholic condition, Maclaren saw something else. There was a ghost of a man there … the ghost of a man who had once been one of the Royal Air Force’s top test pilots and holder of the Air Force Cross.

  ‘I’ll stay off your back for the next twenty-four hours, Saxon,’ he said. ‘But that’s on condition you don’t give me cause. If you give me a tinge of suspicion that you are knocking back the booze then I’ll hit so fast it will make a cyclone seem like a summer’s breeze.’

  He turned and walked rapidly away.

  Chapter Ten

  Flames. Wreckage. Searing, unbearable heat. Tom Saxon groaned in his sleep and threshed in his bunk, waving his arms in a futile effort to keep the images away. They came — sharply clear, relentlessly. Faces drifting before him, swimming in and out of focus. The compassionate face of the policeman; the implacable face of the young terrorist; the accusing stare of Jan; the bewildered gaze of Tom Junior; the tender expression of Helen and the suspicious glance of Garry Carson. The faces twisted and turned in voiceless recrimination. And eventually the circle of faces dissolved into blazing wreckage. The mangled remains of the helicopter with its gruesome cadavers. Before it was in focus the image was replaced by the debris of Jan’s car with its terrifying contents, the indictment of his wife’s staring dead eyes. Then this, too, dissolved into the shattered twisted girders of the airship — the Charles de Gaulle, no, the Albatross — they seemed to merge into one awesome spectre. And then the faces came back again, swirling before him in soundless denunciation.

  Sweating, Tom Saxon awoke and stared fearfully round his darkened cabin. He was suddenly very frightened. He lay, heart beating wildly, panic-stricken. He sat up abruptly, having reached a decision.

  His thought processes of recent weeks had suddenly crystallised. He came to the realisation that he was still the lord of his fate and had not entirely resigned the job to alcohol. He was in control of his own thoughts. He was not a slave; he had not resigned his role just yet. He could still make valid judgments.

  It felt as if he were coming into the sunlight out of a long, dark tunnel. He began to recognise that he had been having an affair — an affair with the enemy of life, the slayer, the pedlar of murky dreams, the king of lies whose tricks and deceits introduced maggots into the apple of truth. He had spent two years of unknowing apprenticeship to Lord Drunk, an apprenticeship of trying to accustom his system to the poison he was injecting into it. The apprenticeship had failed. He sat up and smiled and thanked the fates for that failure.

  He was lucky. He was alive. Others had died. Jan, Tom Junior, Garry Carson … they all wanted to live, wanted to enjoy life’s experiences whether they were sad or happy. Those sixty-three people on the Charles de Gaulle, hadn’t they wanted to live? A few days ago he wouldn’t have given a damn had he been on the French airship. Now he suddenly realised that he did care. He wanted to remain alive. He had a duty to the dead to remain alive and enjoy life. He wanted — more than anything — to go back to Portland to see Helen.

  He swung out of bed and breathed in the stale tobacco and alcohol fumes which permeated the atmosphere. With an abrupt anger he swept the half-empty bottle of Old Grand-dad and the dirty glass off the side table and dropped them into the waste-basket. He drew fresh underwear and socks out of the closet drawer and a clean uniform from the cupboard. Then he stripped off and stepped into the shower cubicle, letting the warm water run over his aching body. He reached into a side cupboard and took out a fresh carton of Lait de Chèvre soap, tearing off the wrappings and letting the sweet-smelling lather foam over his chest. He smiled as he remembered that Helen had always teased him about his habit of using expensive perfumed soaps to wash with. It made him feel good. Other men liked deodorants, toilet waters, after-shaves … he preferred soaps.

  He started thinking about Garry Carson and wondered whether he had ever known about Helen and himself. Then he found himself wondering how Helen was going to react when she heard the news about Garry. What would …

  It was like a breath of hot air passing close to his chest.

  He saw the hole appear chest-high in the wall of the cubicle. For several moments he stared at it in incomprehension. Then he dropped as flat as the tiny cubicle would allow him to, knocking the shower switch off with his arm as he did so. There were two more dull thuds and two more holes appeared, coupled with the whine of bullets.

  Someone had fired three shots through the cubicle wall; fired three shots at him! By a fluke the first shot had missed, though it was fired at chest height. Had he not dropped to the floor the second and third shots would surely have hit him.

  His old reflexes woke after many dormant months.

  He flicked open the catch of the shower cubicle and did a near-perfect parachute roll out of it onto the floor of his cabin and then leapt to his feet. There was no one in his cabin. Without pausing he jerked open the passageway door and peered outside. The corridor was deserted. Disregarding his nakedness he went cautiously into the corridor and moved along it, peering at the wall. At a spot obviously level with the shower cubicle there were three neat holes in the wall surrounded by powder marks. Whoever had shot at him had stood here, in the corridor, and fired deliberately through the wall.

  A frown creased his forehead.

  Whoever had done so must have had a thorough knowledge of the design of the ship to be able to fire exactly through the soft fibreglass walls into the shower. He shivered and looked carefully around. Then, aware of his undressed condition, he returned to his cabin, grabbed a towel and folded it around his waist before raising Terrasino on the intercom.

  By the time the security chief arrived, Saxon had dried and dressed himself.

  Terrasino examined the bullet holes with a fixed expression on his face. He examined them from the corridor and then from the inside of the shower.

  ‘It’s a damned lucky thing you dropped after the first shot, Saxon,’ he said.

  ‘Damned lucky!’ echoed Saxon.

  ‘Do you realise that whoever fired those shots had a pretty good knowledge of how far a .38 slug can penetrate through this material?’ He tapped gently on the side of the cubicle.

  ‘It did cross my mind, Terrasino,’ agreed Saxon. ‘But how do you know what calibre slugs they were?’

  Terrasino smiled.

  ‘By the size of the holes and allowing for the sl
ug to fan out a fraction. Anything smaller would have drilled a neater hole and anything larger would have widened it out all over the place.’

  ‘Pretty smart detective work,’ admitted Saxon.

  ‘There is one thing I can’t figure,’ went on Terrasino. ‘How come whoever fired the shots knew you were taking a shower?’

  Saxon shrugged.

  ‘I suppose the person opened the door to my cabin and saw I was in the shower. My door wasn’t locked.’

  ‘Yes … but then why didn’t they shoot you through the shower door instead of going out into the corridor and firing through the wall?’

  Saxon was startled.

  ‘That didn’t occur to me.’

  Terrasino pursed his lips. He went back to the shower cubicle and peered at the bullet holes.

  ‘It looks like the bullets have passed right through the skin of the Albatross. There’s no chance of making any ballistic tests.’

  The cabin telephone buzzed.

  ‘Skipper,’ it was Danny Macmillan. ‘You’re on watch, I’m afraid.’

  Saxon grunted.

  ‘I’ll be on the flight deck immediately, Danny.’

  Terrasino closed the shower cubicle door.

  ‘I’ll walk along to the flight deck with you, Saxon.’

  ‘You think I need looking after?’ grinned Saxon as they left the cabin.

  ‘There’s someone aboard who killed Garry Carson and has made a damned good attempt to kill you,’ Terrasino replied evenly. ‘Whoever it is knows this ship intimately. Whoever it is also happens to be one of us.’

  ‘He might even be you,’ joked Saxon but Terrasino’s face was serious.

  ‘That’s right, Saxon. It might be me. But it’s not. And I know damn well it isn’t you because you didn’t join until well after this madman started his act. So stay alert and stay alive, okay?’

  They halted before the flight deck door. Terrasino smiled crookedly and walked on. For a moment Saxon stood looking thoughtfully after him before moving to join his crew.

  *

  For the first time in his life John G. Badrick felt nervous. He went into his private stateroom and made for the drinks cabinet. His wife, Alice, looked up in surprise. She glanced at the travelling clock on the table.