Airship Read online

  Airship

  Peter MacAlan

  © Peter MacAlan 1984

  Peter MacAlan has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1984 by WH Allen & Co. PLC

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  PART TWO

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  PART THREE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Of the many people who supplied me with technical details as a background to this novel I would like to make a special acknowledgment to the following:

  Denis Howe, Professor of Aircraft Design at Cranfield Institute of Technology; A.W.L. Nayler of the Royal Aeronautical Society and the Airship Association of London; Peter H. Molyneux B.Sc. (Eng.), C. Eng., M.I. Mech. E.F. Inst. Pet.; Eric Goodyer of the School of Mechanical Engineering, Cranfield; Miss L.M. Worley and K.G. Toal of the Civil Aviation Authority, London; Lauren D. Basham of the Federal Aviation Administration, Washington, DC; the Civil Aeronautics Board, Washington, DC; the Ministère des Transports (Direction Géneral de l’Aviation Civile) Paris; Anthony Roberts of The Times, London; John Carson of Cornwall, Ontario; Anne-Marie d’Ancona of La Chênerie, near Marigné, France; Donald M. Grant of Rhode Island and Judith A. Quinn of New York City.

  Also, a special ‘thank you’ to Nick Austin who started the whole thing by suggesting I wrote a novel about the airship.

  In thanking them for their essential information and invaluable suggestions, I assume full responsibility for all technical statements and would also like to stress that all characters, companies and corporations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, companies or current airship projects, is purely coincidental.

  Lastly, to Anne-Marie and Adrian d’Ancona this book is dedicated with affection and gratitude for allowing me the hospitality of La Chênerie so that I could finish it in the friendly peace of the Maine countryside.

  Peter MacAlan

  Lovers of air travel find it exhilarating to hang poised between the illusion of immortality and the fact of death.

  Alexander Chase, Perspectives, 1966

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  The club steward hovered discreetly by the table.

  Major Alec Westbrook looked up with a frown.

  ‘A message from the airfield controller, Major Westbrook,’ the steward said brightly. ‘Your aircraft has been refuelled and your flight plan has been cleared for take-off at fifteen hundred hours.’

  Westbrook thanked the man and smiled across the table at his wife, who was finishing her dessert.

  ‘We should be back at the project site in time to join Garry and Helen for that game of squash.’

  Jane Westbrook simulated a groan of anguish and pointed to the remains of her chocolate gâteau.

  ‘Must we, Alec?’

  ‘You’re putting on too much weight,’ admonished Westbrook, with a twinkle in his eyes. ‘You need the exercise.’

  Jane pulled a face across the table. She was an attractive, slim, thirty-year-old brunette. Her husband’s comment about her weight was a ritual after almost every meal. She had an active metabolism and no matter how much food she consumed, she never seemed to put on any extra inches. The comment arose out of Westbrook’s own enviousness because he had to be extremely careful of his food consumption and tendency to put on weight quite easily: a problem in his line of work. He was chief test pilot with a commercial aircraft development corporation.

  He motioned to the steward for another coffee and sat back to survey the occupants of the restaurant of the Newport Aero Club with a quizzical eye. There were only a dozen other people there; no one he knew. A couple of pilot-tutors with their pupils and some others, probably businessmen who kept their private aircraft at the Newport State Airport. Strictly speaking, it was the Middletown Airport, on the island of Aquidneck, Rhode Island — one of the three towns with Newport at the south and Portsmouth to the north, and Middletown situated where its name suggested. It was a small aerodrome, state-owned, although the state had hinted many times that it would like to wash its hands of it. Although it was two miles from the Newport City limits, the airfield serviced what was one of Rhode Island’s popular resort centres whose suburbs contained many summer estates. As well as state airlines, private aircraft used the field regularly and, in a small section of it, the Newport Aero Club had their buildings: hangars for members’ aircraft and a luxurious club-house with a fine restaurant.

  Westbrook was not a member of the club but he was a regular casual caller at the airfield, usually when en route to somewhere else. The club officials knew him and always made him welcome. Right now he was on a practice flight in a brand new Mitsubishi Marquise which his company had purchased for executive use. The aircraft, a mixture of seventy per cent Texan and thirty per cent Japanese turboprop light aircraft, had been delivered to the company project site in Portland, Maine, the day before. Garry Carson, Westbrook’s fellow test pilot, had flown it up from San Angelo, Texas, where the aircraft was assembled and completed from major airframe components made in Japan. Carson had been full of praise for the aircraft’s capabilities and Westbrook had decided to take it for a spin, calling in at Newport for lunch en route. His wife Jane, always a flying enthusiast, had insisted on coming along for the ride. Garry Carson had been right. The twin-engine machine, capable of carrying ten people, flew like a dream. Westbrook found that the combination of smaller wing, big engines, and a lateral control system that used spoilers instead of ailerons, led to unusual handling qualities with a resultant high performance which he enjoyed.

  ‘Thinking of me or your new toy?’ Jane demanded, interrupting his thoughts.

  Westbrook grimaced and then grinned. After five years of marriage he was still very much in love with his wife.

  ‘I was just thinking … ‘

  ‘Alec!’ cried a Boston voice, cutting into his sentence. ‘Jane! Why, I didn’t realise you were both here.’

  A thickset man, topping six feet in height, seemed to push his way between the tables towards them like a battleship through a rough sea. He wore an untidy, crumpled suit. His fair hair was tousled and his craggy face and deep blue, almost violet eyes gave him the appearance of a mischievous schoolboy. He stopped and planted a smacking kiss on Jane’s upturned chee
k and aimed a friendly thump at Westbrook’s shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Al,’ smiled Westbrook.

  Al Volpe was the manager of the Newport Aero Club.

  ‘I just came from the operations room and saw your flight plan,’ said the big man, levering himself into a chair at their table, shaking his head as a steward came expectantly forward. ‘Thought I’d say hello but didn’t realise that you had Jane with you, or I would have had your take-off delayed and insisted you had a few drinks with me.’

  Westbrook’s friendship with Volpe dated from their service days in the Air Force when Westbrook was flying combat aircraft and Volpe was his base commander.

  ‘No time, Al,’ returned Westbrook. ‘We have to get back to Portland for a squash match appointment.’

  ‘Still with the airship project?’ asked Volpe. ‘Don’t tell me that you are still expecting the thing to fly?’

  Westbrook grinned.

  ‘Damned right it will and before next year there’ll be a whole fleet of them in operation.’

  ‘Airships!’ replied Volpe cynically. ‘They went out with the Hindenburg in 1937. Jane, why don’t you persuade this guy to get a real job?’

  Jane smiled: she had known Volpe for five years and knew how to take his sense of humour.

  ‘A real job? Such as, Al?’ she countered.

  ‘There’s a job going at Fall River for a manager of the flying club … you’d be able to put your feet up, like me; able to relax and enjoy life instead of messing about with experimental machines. It’s much too dangerous.’

  ‘Retire, you mean?’ Westbrook said. ‘The day I retire from flying, Al, is when I qualify for a pinewood suit.’

  Volpe nodded.

  ‘Yeah, I guess you’re a cussed sonofabitch at that! Is that your Mitsubishi that’s just been refuelled?’ he asked, abruptly switching the conversation.

  ‘A beauty, isn’t she?’ Jane said.

  Volpe stroked the side of his nose with a forefinger.

  ‘I’ve heard a couple of pilots say they wouldn’t bother with them.’

  Westbrook shook his head.

  ‘Aeroplanes are all the same — they ask to be understood and flown properly. The Mitsubishi has its peculiarities but it’s a damned good craft to fly.’

  ‘Well, it’s not what I’ve heard. I’ve been told that you have to spend too much time trimming … damn!’ Volpe looked up belligerently as the steward came up and gave a polite cough. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sorry, sir. I thought Major Westbrook would like to know that it’s a quarter to three.’

  Westbrook glanced at his watch.

  ‘Damned right!’ he said, ruefully. ‘Sorry, Al. We have a scheduled take-off at fifteen hundred.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Why don’t you and Sally come down to Portland and join us for the weekend?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jane joined in, ‘it’s a long time since we’ve had a get-together.’

  Volpe smiled.

  ‘I’ll get Sally to give you a call this evening. I don’t think we have any plans for the weekend and it will be good to have a jaw. Maybe I can persuade you about taking on that Fall River job.’

  ‘You can try,’ chuckled Westbrook.

  They went through the ritual farewells and walked across the tarmac apron to the aircraft. It was a warm, sunny July day. The barometer in the club-house registered 72.6 degrees, average summer temperature for the area. The Mitsubishi was cool and comfortable as they climbed in and seated themselves in the twin seat cockpit. Westbrook felt the strange sensation he had experienced earlier of climbing into a military rather than a civil aircraft, with its black instrument panel and array of functional switches, buttons, gauges, lights, levers and handles. After a quick word on the radio with airfield control he started the two Aire search engines, hearing the angry growl of the straining 1,000 horse power in each engine, the equivalent of 157 pounds of jet thrust per side.

  ‘Hello, Newport Control,’ Westbrook flicked the r/t switch. ‘This is Victor Papa Uncle Bravo requesting take-off clearance.’

  ‘Newport Control,’ came back a slightly bored voice, ‘you are clear for take-off on runway two, west.’

  Westbrook let the aircraft move forward slowly, taxi-ing on one engine to save fuel, making tight turns into the operating engine, and bringing the machine to the start of the runway. He turned to grin at Jane.

  ‘All set?’

  She smiled and nodded.

  He began to accelerate rapidly down the runway. At 90 knots he gave a light additional increase in control back pressure to lift the nose wheel and the aircraft came unstuck at 100 knots. He raised his gear immediately and once the speed built a little he began to retract his flaps. They moved very slowly and in increments, so that there were no surprises and plenty of time for dealing with mild pitch changes and using trim. He preferred manual trim. The stall speed on the Mitsubishi decreased by 24 knots over the total 40 degree flap travel and so the gradual retraction was important.

  Again he felt momentarily surprised as, in the first moments after take-off, differences between the Mitsubishi and other lateral control systems became apparent. It was almost like flying the aircraft by remote control. The feeling in the joystick or wheel that was associated with ailerons was missing and there was a new urgency to maintaining lateral and rudder trim. He knew enough about the aircraft to realise that if he failed to make the lateral trim in time, the tapping that followed could be Old Man Death knocking at the door. It took him a couple of minutes to get used to the controls again. He had to remember that when speed or power was changed, the aircraft needed to be trimmed, but this soon became second nature.

  The aircraft climbed well, ascending at 2,000 feet per minute at 200 knots. The climb rate began tapering off at 13,000 feet, the engines reaching their maximum altitude, and in less than ten minutes Westbrook levelled off at 16,000 feet. He now turned into a gentle arc south to Rhode Island Sound with the grey, frothy Atlantic beyond.

  ‘Beautiful,’ cried Jane. ‘Just like an elevator. Did anyone tell you that you should be a pilot?’

  Westbrook stuck his tongue out at her.

  It was as he was arcing back northwards over Sachuest Point, looking for the Sakonnet River to lead him northward towards the Massachusetts state line, that he felt a gentle thump. His eyes immediately sped along the rows of dials and gauges seeking an explanation. There was none. He waited tensely but the AiResearch engines continued to growl healthily. Below them were the rocky promontories and sandy lowlands of the smallest state in the union, with its U-shaped valleys, lakes, swamps and slow-flowing streams. Sunlight dappled the pleasant vista.

  This time the thump was more pronounced, more violent. Jane gave an involuntary gasp and stared at him, her face white.

  Frowning, he glanced over the controls again. The stick felt sloppy in his hands. Something was wrong. The aircraft was beginning to lose its forward momentum, the airspeed indicator moving backwards alarmingly.

  Westbrook snapped on the r/t.

  ‘Newport Control, Newport Control, this is Victor Papa Uncle Bravo.’ His voice sounded calm, almost offhand, belying the tightness around his mouth. ‘I have an emergency. Request landing clearance immediately.’

  He was already beginning to turn the aircraft to the west.

  ‘Newport Control to Victor Papa Uncle Bravo,’ came a disinterested voice. ‘What is the nature of your emergency? Say again, what is … ‘

  Something cracked with a force that sent the aircraft nose forward and rocketing downward. The control stick went completely slack in Westbrook’s hand. The engines began to whine hysterically.

  ‘May Day! May Day! May Day!’ Westbrook found himself screaming into the microphone, but even as he did so he realised the hopelessness of it and the inevitability of death.

  *

  Al Volpe was in the Newport control tower when Westbrook’s emergency request came through. He stood frowning as the controller replied requesting information on the emergency.
Then came a garbled cry — it did not sound like his friend at all. Westbrook must have left his r/t switched on for suddenly his voice came over the speakers, strong and clear: ‘Jane, oh God, Jane! I love you!’ There was a woman’s answering sob. A scream and then a roar of static before the radio went dead.

  For several long seconds there was a stunned silence in the control tower before an Eastern Airways Merlin IVC pilot was heard requesting landing instructions. The controller turned, still pale, and automatically began to issue directions. Al Volpe was still standing in the same position, mouth slightly open, when a telephone shrilled. A second controller grabbed it, listened white-faced and scrawled something on a piece of paper. He turned to Volpe.

  ‘A farmer from Tiverton … says an aircraft just went nose first into the marshy swamp area south of the town. It exploded on impact.’

  Volpe stared at him, disbelieving. Then he started to swear in a harsh voice which he did not recognise as his own.

  Chapter Two

  Harry Maclaren halted his taxi at the comer of Madison and 28th Street, outside the huge black and silver edifice of the Pan Continental Airways Building. He paid off the driver with a sigh of relief. He hated New York and he hated travelling in New York. Since the Delta Airlines jet had touched down at Kennedy Airport, Maclaren had been loathing it all: the frenzied rush for the air terminal bus, the journey itself, wedged between sweating businessmen, frantic mothers, screaming children and garrulous old ladies. The arrival at the East Side Airlines Terminal on First Avenue and 37th Street was merely a repeat performance of the arrival at Kennedy. Then he had lost his place in the taxi queue because he had forgotten to get a ‘queue ticket’ from the machine which provided him with a number by which a burly attendant called him to the next available cab. Of course, Maclaren could have justified a taxi from Kennedy into New York, but being of a frugal disposition he had felt it a waste of money. Now he stood on the sidewalk outside the tall building and surveyed his destination with relief.