‘Could these few odds and ends have really sent the Albatross to kingdom come?’
Terrasino nodded wearily.
‘That dynamite plus the fuel tanks would have created quite a blaze,’ he said.
‘What are we going to tell Badrick?’
Terrasino shook his head and climbed down the ladder.
‘If it’s all the same with you, Saxon, I think we’ll just drop this over the side and forget all about it.’
Saxon smiled.
‘What’s the matter? Can’t you stand being a hero twice in one day?’
Terrasino groaned and stumbled.
‘Me? I can’t even stand, period. Let me get back to my cabin and get some shut-eye.’
‘Alright, Terrasino. I’ll go up to the observation deck and drop the explosives over the side. Can you make it back to your cabin on your own?’
‘Yeah — that I can do, I think.’
Terrasino squeezed the Englishman’s arm in gratitude.
‘I was wrong about you, Saxon. You’re an okay guy.’
He turned and limped away. Saxon watched him go before turning to the service elevator up to the observation deck. It was a vented section where the bolder passengers could actually step outside the airship onto a short promenade deck which, although it was three-quarters enclosed, had one side open to the elements, with a low barrier and transparent netting to prevent any accidents.
It was deserted as Saxon stepped out and walked across to the rail. The promenade deck, or observation deck as it was generally called, was a strip eight feet wide and some fifty feet in length. The netting was big enough for Saxon to squeeze through the components of Nieman’s bomb.
He turned sharply at the sound of a cough.
Macmillan emerged from the shadows.
‘Hi, skipper. I thought you were getting some shut-eye.’
Saxon shook his head.
‘My brain is still at full revs, Danny. I thought a walk would do me good.’
Macmillan nodded and lowered himself into one of the fixed promenade deck chairs.
‘Guess we gave you a pretty rough ride, skipper, until … well, you know.’
Saxon inclined his head.
‘I deserved what I got, Danny.’
‘Well, I wanted to say that I’m sorry. You’ve been a damned good skipper in a tough spot.’
Saxon smiled.
‘It was about time I got my act together, chum. Come on, I’ll treat you to a drink … I gather Olsen can rustle up a pretty good brew of tea.’
Macmillan grinned.
‘I’ll take a rain check on that. I must go and see how Claire’s making out.’
‘Has the news of her father’s death upset her very much?’ Saxon looked sympathetic. He knew Macmillan and Claire had something going for them.
‘Yeah. She’s in a sort of state of shock.’
‘Sorry. It was a bad business — the French crash.’
‘Pretty bad,’ agreed Macmillan. ‘I gather that Renard survived the crash but the news is that he’s had to go into a sanatorium. A total breakdown. The Irish government have ordered an enquiry into the cause of the crash.’
‘Of course,’ Saxon said, ‘it would be their jurisdiction.’ Macmillan climbed to his feet.
‘See you on the next shift, skipper.’
‘Well,’ said Saxon, looking at the darkened sky, ‘at least we’ll be landing in time for a good English breakfast.’ Macmillan nodded and ambled away.
Saxon turned back to the rail, gazing into the dark coldness of the night. Well, whatever the future now held, he felt he could face it, could face it without the synthetic courage of the bottle. What was it that André Gide had said: ‘Drunkenness is never anything but a substitute for happiness. It amounts to buying the dream of a thing when you haven’t money enough to buy the dreamed-of thing materially.’ Funny how those lines sprang so easily to his mind. Sad that it took Garry Carson’s death to shock him into complete sobriety. But he couldn’t feel guilty about him. In fact, he felt merely gratitude to Carson, for out of the tragedy of his death he — Saxon — had been given a chance for rebirth. He wondered whether Helen would see it that way. He hoped she would.
He started suddenly.
Far across the blackness of the sea, silver-speckled with moonlight, there was a sudden flash of white in the velvet night sky. A shooting star. What did that portend? Didn’t you have to make a wish? He closed his eyes briefly. He wished for strength to build his life anew.
Chapter Fifteen
The Albatross was down to one thousand feet as she swung over the M1 motorway which snaked northward from London. The journey across Ireland, Cardigan Bay and Wales and into the English Midlands had been almost an anti-climax to the journey. The ship had run without the slightest hitch, the auto-pilot computers measuring and adjusting trim and elevation with ease. As they crossed into the county of Bedfordshire, Saxon found himself tired but less tense than at any time during the last two days. He glanced across to Danny Macmillan, seated before the engineering control console.
‘How are we doing, Danny?’ he asked.
‘Everything is fine, skipper,’ replied Macmillan. ‘This bird is coasting like a dream.’
Saxon gazed for a moment at the cloudy blue canopy of sky before them and the green and brown mottled fields of the English countryside below.
‘Was it worth the lives?’ he mused aloud.
Art Stein, sitting in the co-pilot’s seat for the landing, frowned at him.
‘Nieman was a madman. There wasn’t much we could do about it.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ replied Saxon. ‘I mean generally … the lives of the people on the Charles de Gaulle as well as our own personnel.’
No one replied.
‘We need a ten-degree course change, skipper,’ ventured Billy Heath, glancing up from his instruments. ‘Then we should be able to get a visual fix on Cranfield.’
‘Alright,’ acknowledged Saxon, shaking himself and turning towards his instruments to make the necessary adjustments.
Peering through the forward observation windows he could see the level green swathe stretching far ahead — the slow, flat countryside of Bedfordshire. There it was. He caught the tell-tale signs of an aerodrome. Anglo-American had chosen Cranfield as a terminal site because it was near the motorway, connecting London and other major British cities, where freight could be offloaded onto motor transport for despatch across the country. It was also away from major air traffic routes, which fact kept the British Civil Aviation Authority happy — so far the British were keeping a low profile until Anglo-American could prove the safety of their giant airship. However, Cranfield was not too far from Luton airport for any airship passenger who wished to make regular airline connections, or wished to transport goods from the airship terminal to a regular freight airline.
The Albatross began to move steadily towards the landing site. Saxon could see, as he brought the airship down to six hundred feet, large crowds gathered on the outskirts of the airfield. There were the landing beacons and mooring poles. Saxon buzzed the Chief Purser, Olsen, on the intercom.
‘Warn the passengers that we are about to dock,’ he ordered.
‘Very well, captain.’
Art Stein began his checks.
‘All systems functioning, skipper.’
‘I’m bringing the vectoring propellers into play within thirty seconds. How are the cross winds?’
‘Minimal, skipper,’ sang out Billy Heath, checking the readings. ‘No swing at all.’
He paused, then punched a series of buttons.
‘You are patched into Cranfield ground control, skipper.’
A harsh voice crackled in Saxon’s ears.
‘Starboard half a point, captain.’
‘Roger,’ acknowledged Saxon.
‘Albatross,’ came the voice, ‘you are looking beautiful from down here. Coming in nice and level.’
‘We are at five hundred feet, Cranfield �
�� what’s our position to the docking bay?’
‘Dead above, captain,’ came the voice. ‘Start coming down.’
‘Roger … coming down.’
Saxon increased the thrust of the vectoring propellers, so that the great airship began to descend straight and true like a helicopter. It was the work of fifteen minutes or so to bring it down to its dock and secure the gangways, switching off all the engines. The first Transatlantic crossing by an airship in nearly fifty years had been completed in safety. Saxon heaved a long drawn-out sigh.
Art Stein looked across and grinned.
‘Made it, skipper. Safe and sound.’
‘Yes,’ muttered Saxon. ‘Safe and sound.’
He avoided the welcoming party, the British government ministers, the aviation authority officials and civil dignitaries and other guests; he avoided the media and camera crews and the RAF band who played them a rousing welcome. He slipped away past the eager police and customs officials who were now questioning the security officials of Anglo-American, and entered the Anglo-American terminal building. The aircrew debriefing room was easy to find. It was empty. He found a telephone and put through a call to Portland.
Maria Terrasino answered.
‘Terry?’
‘No. sorry, Maria. This is Tom Saxon. Can I speak with Helen?’
‘Oh,’ the voice was disappointed. ‘Sure. Is Terry alright, Signor Saxon?’
‘Yes,’ Saxon decided Terrasino could tell her the full story when he rang her. ‘Yes, he’s okay.’
‘Tom?’
Helen’s voice was breathless as if she had run to the telephone.
‘Hello, Helen.’
‘Tom. Are you alright?’
‘Yes. We’ve landed in England safely. Have you … ?’ He felt awkward; not knowing how to tell her.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
‘They told me about Garry, Tom.’
‘I’m sorry, Helen.’
‘I can’t pretend that I don’t feel anything about him,’ Helen went on. ‘But I can’t pretend that it alters anything, anything about me, about you … anything … ’
There was a silence.
‘When will you be back, Tom?’
Saxon shrugged, realising that the gesture was futile.
‘We are going to lie over in England for a week for tests and refitting. Also, we’ll wait until another pilot can be flown out to complete the crew. We’ll probably be back about the middle of next week.’
‘I’ll look forward to that, Tom. Take care now.’
‘I love you, Helen.’
Saxon stood listening to the buzzing static in the receiver for several minutes before he hung up.
*
The black Daimler cruised down the motorway towards London. John G. Badrick sat back with a contented smile on his face. He turned to Harry Maclaren who was sitting on the other side of his wife in the back of the car.
‘Well, Harry … we’ve done it.’
Maclaren looked morose.
‘Yes; I suppose so.’
Badrick looked surprised.
‘You don’t seem happy.’
‘I can’t help thinking about the cost — Jack Lane, the Westbrooks, Garry Carson. And the people on the Charles de Gaulle.’
Badrick waved a hand in dismissal.
‘Unfortunate, yes. But we are in no way responsible. How can we be responsible for the actions of a lunatic? How can we be responsible for what happened on Renard’s project?’
Badrick was oblivious to Maclaren’s look.
‘Anyway, now we’ve proven the capabilities of the Albatross there will be a lot of work to do,’ went on the chairman of Pan Continental. ‘I shall have to fly back to New York first thing tomorrow to organise … ’
Alice Badrick bit her lip.
‘But John … what about the vacation?’
Badrick frowned.
‘Vacation? Vacation? Good God, Alice, I haven’t time … not now. There is far too much work to do. Maybe we can grab a week or so later on.’
Alice Badrick sighed with resignation.
Maclaren stared out across the white ribbon of motorway to the green vista beyond. He felt no elation, no triumph — just tired, emotionally exhausted. He would have given anything to avoid the celebration party at the Dorchester that evening. In spite of what Badrick had said he realised that he did feel responsible — if he was not responsible, who was?
*
Oscar Van Kleef was sitting in the command chair on the deserted flight deck of the Albatross. A terrible sad feeling of anti-climax overwhelmed him. Years of work, of struggle, of arguing had finally given birth to the airship. It was a success. Yet now, what else was there left to do? He gazed about him in dismay. He realised that he was alone. He had dedicated himself to the Albatross with such a singleness of mind and now there was nothing left for him to worry about. Lesley had gone; the kids had gone. Friendless and solitary, he felt an almost overpowering isolation.
The buzzing intercom startled him.
It was a member of the ground staff.
‘Your car is here to take you to London, Doctor Van Kleef.’
Van Kleef acknowledged the information, sighed deeply and, with a final glance, rose and left.
*
Terrasino had finally managed to escape from the company officials, the American Embassy and the British police. For two hours they had questioned him and taken statements. Now all the red tape was over. In spite of the expert dressing by a hastily summoned doctor, his wound was throbbing with an excruciating pain. At least it would heal, and that was reassuring. However, all he wanted to do right now was crawl away to a telephone and then a bed. He managed to slip across to the Anglo-American building. Parish was already there and guided him to a telephone in an empty office.
Terrasino sprawled in a chair and picked up the receiver. It was a few minutes before he heard her voice.
‘Pronto … er, hello?’
He smiled.
‘Hello, cara mia.’
‘Terry!’ Maria Terrasino’s voice was apprehensive. ‘I hear on the news that terrible things happen. Are you alright?’
Terrasino glanced down at his throbbing leg.
‘Fine,’ he smiled. ‘Just fine. I might be needed here for a day or two but I shall try to get the next available flight home. I’ll telephone you tomorrow and let you know when. How are you?’
‘I’m better now.’
‘I love you, cara.’
‘I love you too,’ cried Maria, laughing with relief.
*
Danny Macmillan walked slowly with Claire Ashton to the hire car. Her eyes, he noticed, were still red and her lips tight, forming a thin line. The car delivery man thrust a board and a pen at her. Automatically, she signed but Macmillan reached forward and took the car keys.
‘I think that I’d better drive you down to Kent, Claire,’ he said.
For a moment he did not think she had heard him, then she nodded.
‘I’d … I’d like that, Danny.’
Macmillan gave her a comforting smile and put her bag into the boot of the car, opened the door to allow her to slide into the passenger seat. Then he climbed in behind the wheel and started the engine.
‘Danny,’ she turned, a hand on his arm. ‘Danny, I need you very badly now.’
‘Your mother will need you very badly, Claire.’
She bent her head.
‘I know,’ she said contritely. ‘I don’t think I shall be able to cope alone.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Macmillan said, suddenly feeling an overwhelming compassion for her waif-like look. ‘I’ll be around as long as you need me.’
He put the car into gear and sent it off down the road towards the motorway.
*
Behind them rose the great sleek silver-grey body of the Albatross, towering like some gigantic floating whale in the sky; a strange phantom in the semi-gloom of the cloudy English day, coming alive in bursts of shining silver
as the rays of the weak sun broke through the low cloud cover. It rose like a giant silver sausage. The people stared upwards with mouths agape. They had come by motor car, omnibus, train, coach and bicycle to see the first huge airship fly across the country in fifty years. They had come in hundreds and in thousands, swarming into the sleepy Bedfordshire countryside, filling the hotels, the bed and breakfast cottages and the local pubs which offered rooms. They carried picnic packs and thermos flasks, exuding an air of festivity as they packed the fields and lined the perimeter fences which bordered the Cranfield aerodrome. They crowded round, only held back by barriers and efficient security guards; they crowded round to gaze in wonder and awe at the sleek shape of the Albatross, to gaze in reverence at this great ghost from the past and shadow of the future. They stood in respect before the man-made construction, almost in veneration as if it was some god, some vehicle from another world.
THE END
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