Airship Page 2

  At 43 years of age, Maclaren looked nearer fifty. He was lean and wiry, with a shock of salt and pepper hair and grey eyes deep-set in a weatherworn face. The face carried a semi-woebegone expression, an expression of permanent worry. He carried an overnight bag and an attaché case of tan pigskin which matched his light-coloured suit.

  In the central foyer of the Pan Continental Airways Building he was greeted with an automatic smile from a small blonde receptionist.

  ‘John G. Badrick’s office, please,’ he asked, adding hastily: ‘He is expecting me.’

  The girl did not bat an eyelid. Perhaps she was used to people wandering in off the street and demanding to see the executive president of the corporation.

  ‘What name shall I give, sir?’ she asked, reaching for an internal telephone.

  ‘Maclaren. Harry Maclaren from Portland.’

  It was a matter of a few moments before the receptionist established that he was expected. She waved to a uniformed porter.

  ‘Take Mr. Maclaren to Mr. Badrick’s penthouse.’

  The uniformed man glanced at Maclaren with a certain amount of deference and offered to take his bags. Maclaren let him carry the overnight case and followed him to a special express elevator. It deposited him on the fifty-third floor with a speed which left him a little dizzy and breathless. Badrick’s secretary, a grey-haired woman of about fifty, met them at the doors of the elevator.

  ‘Hello, Mr. Maclaren.’

  Maclaren’s mind raced. What was her name? He struggled to drag it from his memory.

  ‘Miss Shelley, isn’t it?’

  She smiled thinly.

  ‘Mr. Badrick is waiting for you.’ She turned to the porter. ‘Just put Mr. Maclaren’s bag down by my desk.’

  She turned and preceded Maclaren across a plush-carpeted foyer through a large outer office and knocked softly on a door beyond. Without waiting for a reply she opened it and announced Maclaren.

  Maclaren had the impression of walking into a carpeted cathedral. It was an enormous office, oak-panelled with purple drapes and full of antiques. He felt as if he were stumbling through a field of soft carpet pile towards a gigantic desk.

  John G. Badrick, executive president of Pan Continental Airways, rose from a black leather swivel chair and came round his desk. He was in his early sixties, short, fat and balding, looking more like a stereotype business tycoon than the shrewd administrator that he was. He extended a hand to Maclaren. It was flaccid and held no warmth.

  ‘Coffee, hot and black for two, Miss Shelley,’ he growled over Maclaren’s shoulder.

  He motioned Maclaren across to a corner where there stood a couple of white fur-covered armchairs and flopped into one. He looked like someone with a problem.

  ‘Well, Harry,’ he began without preamble, ‘let’s have hard facts. How does it affect the project?’

  Maclaren gave a long sigh.

  ‘Pretty badly, I’m afraid,’ he said, seating himself in the other armchair. ‘Alec Westbrook was not only our chief test pilot but he had been with the project from its inception — he knew all there was to know about the ship.’

  Badrick pursed his lips.

  ‘But we must have a back-up team … ?’

  Maclaren gave Badrick a hard look.

  ‘It was decided by the board, in the interests of economy … ‘he paused to emphasise his words, ‘that we should not commence the training of alternative crews for the airship until after the initial test flights. Colonel Garry Carson is now the sole qualified airship pilot on the project. He will, with his experience, naturally become chief test pilot, subject to your confirmation. But we will need a second qualified man as of right now … and I suggest we start recruiting and training our back-up crews immediately.’

  Badrick passed a hand over his forehead and sighed.

  ‘You know the board, Harry. Training pilots for the airship project before we know the results of the initial test flights is going to be a costly business.’

  Maclaren snorted.

  ‘The board doesn’t seem to have much faith in the Albatross.’

  ‘Harry, you know as much as I do about the costs of training pilots … what if we put these pilots on our payroll, begin expensive training programmes and then have to lay them off if the Albatross fails to come up to expectations?’

  ‘The Albatross isn’t going to fail. It’s a wise investment to make. As project manager I have made my position clear all along: for the Albatross to do the Atlantic crossing, which will take about two and a half days, we need to carry two or three complete crews on board. That means two qualified pilots per crew. As it is, all we have at the moment is one solitary trained airship pilot, flight engineer and navigator. We should have been putting two more crews through simulator training while the initial testing on the airship was being carried out, then the problem due to Westbrook’s death would not have arisen.’ Miss Shelley entered with a tray of coffee.

  They waited in silence until she had left.

  ‘As I see it, Harry,’ said Badrick, lighting a Corona-Corona and exhaling deeply, ‘we have one immediate problem. A replacement for Westbrook is needed to complete our test crew. I will certainly raise the matter of recruiting and training back-up crews at the next board meeting. In fact, we have some likely applicants who are already on our airline payroll but, frankly, the board is worried. We have spent a lot of money on this airship project. It’s still an unknown quantity. The feasibility of large freight-carrying airships looks good on paper but it might prove otherwise in practice … you know what the public thinks of airships. They still haven’t forgotten the Hindenburg, the R101 and all the other disasters of the 1920s and 1930s.’

  Maclaren bridled.

  ‘We both know that the early problems were mainly due to the fact that hydrogen-filled airships were prone to catastrophic fires. The public forgets that the Graf Zeppelin I, in spite of the hydrogen handicap, made one hundred and forty-seven safe crossings of the Atlantic during a period of eight years without any major incident. Inert helium gas was not available in sufficient quantities to … ‘

  Badrick held up a hand.

  ‘You’ve no need to tell me, Harry. I know the history, but we mustn’t blind ourselves to the problem. We have a tough job ahead of us. Even if the Albatross flies like a dream, we still have the investors and the public to consider. Anyway, let’s get back to our main problem … we need a qualified airship pilot pretty quickly to fill Westbrook’s place. Can he be found?’

  Maclaren hunched his shoulders.

  ‘I simply don’t know at this stage. Goodyear operate three small airships — they might have some trained personnel who would be willing to cross to our company. Failing that, the only alternative is a head-hunt in Europe.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that we try to poach from the French airship project?’ Badrick frowned.

  ‘Not necessarily. There are a few experimental companies in Britain. But it’s not going to be easy. There would still be a lot of training involved — a dirigible pilot is about as rare as snow in Vegas.’

  ‘How about people with balloonist qualifications?’

  Maclaren shook his head.

  ‘Not the same thing as flying a thousand-foot-long airship with a rigid hull.’

  ‘Well, you know what you’re looking for, Harry. I’ll leave it to you to start head-hunting a suitable pilot to complete the test crew. In the meantime, I will do my best to get the board to approve the employment and training of your back-up crews. One point we’ve both got to remember … time is an essential on this project. We can’t afford to let things get behind schedule. The French are well ahead with their project. I have reports that their prototype airship is nearing completion and may soon start its series of test flights. I want the Albatross first in the field … first to make the Transatlantic flight. John Public doesn’t like people who come second.’

  Maclaren nodded. Whoever made the first safe Transatlantic run would not only get public prest
ige, which would help certain commercial contracts, but would dominate airship freight transport during its new business awakening. That would more than compensate the capital investment on the project.

  ‘Alright, Harry.’ Badrick hauled himself to his feet. ‘I agree with you that Garry Carson should be appointed your chief test pilot and I’ll leave it to you to get cracking on the second pilot. I guess we are talking about days and not weeks?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Maclaren, taking Badrick’s proffered hand and letting the executive president guide him through the soft pile carpet jungle to the door.

  ‘Leave the rest with me, Harry. Alright?’

  ‘Fine,’ muttered Maclaren with no conviction in his voice.

  ‘Good. Well, my wife and I will expect you at eight o’clock tonight for dinner,’ Badrick flashed an easy smile. ‘Just a small affair — a few friends. Okay?’

  Maclaren nodded. A few friends? With Badrick that usually meant about thirty or forty people, ranging from the mayor to local senators and anyone else who could be of use to Pan Continental’s chief.

  He went out feeling annoyed. The urgent call from Badrick for him to fly down to New York for discussions was nothing which a half-hour telephone conversation could not have resolved — apart from a half-hearted invitation to dinner. He felt he had wasted his time. Well, there was nothing for it. He couldn’t fly back to Portland until early the next morning anyway. He scowled in annoyance.

  ‘Oh, Mr. Maclaren.’

  It was Miss Shelley.

  ‘Don’t forget your bag, Mr. Maclaren.’

  He forced a grin as he turned to retrieve his overnight bag.

  ‘I have booked a room for you at the Algonquin.’

  Maclaren had to admire Miss Shelley’s imperturbable efficiency.

  ‘That’s nice of you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ she replied, turning with a smile of apology as a buzzer went on her desk.

  Maclaren walked to the elevator and jabbed savagely at the call button.

  Jesus! He suddenly realised the enormity of his task: find a qualified airship pilot within the next few days who could quickly become sufficiently skilled enough to take the Albatross through her initial testing.

  Chapter Three

  The group of reporters were seated in the board-room of Anglo-American Airships Inc., the subsidiary of Pan Continental Airways, at the company’s project site. The site was really an extension of Portland’s airport: a sizeable acreage of sheds and office buildings facing onto one of the larger inlets of the Fore River which cut through the city. Every month Samantha Hackerman, Anglo-American’s press officer, made it a point to invite a dozen of the most influential aerospace correspondents to the project site. Here they were given an update on the corporation’s progress in building their freight-carrying airship, the Albatross. The dozen correspondents had been wined and fed lavishly, and then led in a mellow, receptive mood into the board-room for the actual briefing.

  Samantha, Sam to her friends, knew her job well; she was a professional to her marrow. At twenty-nine years of age, with a degree in science, she had worked on aviation magazines as a journalist before joining the press office of Pan Continental. She had only been a year in the job when she had been picked to head the press team on the airship project. She tucked a rebellious wisp of red hair behind her ear as she tried to marshal her experts to the top table.

  There was Oscar Van Kleef, the chief designer of the Albatross, looking petulantly annoyed at being called away from his slide rules and computers. He was in his mid-fifties, a thin, worried-looking man with silver grey streaking his blue-black mane of hair. Van Kleef hated these monthly press conferences. Jack Lane, the assistant project manager, sat urbane and calm in the centre chair, filling in for Harry Maclaren, who had been called away on business to New York. Lane was a first-class administrator. Nothing ever seemed to worry or fluster him. He was one of the ‘fixers’ of the company, able to find solutions to the most difficult problems. Next to him was the chief electrical engineer of the project, Kurt Nieman, a man of medium height, stocky but not fat, with thinning fair hair. He had a fixed, pleasant smile but he always seemed absorbed in thought. He constantly drummed with his fingers on the table in front of him. On the far side of Nieman, sprawled in his chair, was Garry Carson. His face was grim. He had been a special friend of Alec Westbrook, whose death had stunned everyone who worked for Anglo-American. Thirty-nine years old, Carson was a tall, fair-haired Texan: a former colonel in the Air Force who had joined Pan Continental as a regular airline pilot before his knowledge of small dirigibles had caused his transfer to second pilot on the Albatross project.

  Samantha frowned. She supposed Carson would become chief test pilot on the project now. Silently she prayed that the reporters would not dwell on the death of Alec Westbrook. She knew few details about the crash which had killed him and his attractive wife, Jane.

  ‘Alright, ladies and gentlemen,’ she called into the hubbub. Faces turned expectantly towards her. ‘I am delighted to welcome you here to Anglo-American and hope you have enjoyed your lunch.’

  There was an appreciative murmur.

  ‘I would like to open this briefing with a short resumé of the project before handing you over to our experts, to whom you have already been introduced, for detailed questions.’

  She paused, looked down at some papers and cleared her throat.

  ‘Anglo-American Airships Incorporated was formed three years ago to develop a freight-carrying airship. Years of research by our parent company, Pan Continental Airways, revealed that it was feasible to design a large airship which had direct operating costs no greater than those of a subsonic jet aircraft. Research has shown that a large airship could transport immense payloads over useful distances with a minimum of handling: such an airship is particularly suited to the movement of containerised goods directly from departure to destination points without need for the intermediate handling stages inevitably associated with ground transport. As a result, Doctor Oscar Van Kleef,’ she indicated the chief designer with a nod of her head, ‘has designed our first ship which we call Albatross.’

  Here she smiled broadly at the audience.

  ‘I need hardly point out to the literary among you that we have named her after Jules Verne’s famous airship creation in his books The Clipper of the Clouds and Master of the World.’

  She paused to let the conscientious among the reporters make notes.

  ‘Our Albatross is one thousand one hundred feet long and has an overall height and diameter of two hundred and twenty feet. She will be able to move a payload of five hundred tons and carry, at the same time, one hundred and fifty passengers and twenty-five crew. She will be capable of cruising between one hundred and one hundred and fifty miles per hour, and we estimate she will be able to cross the Atlantic in two to two and a half days. She is powered by eight Napier Nomad engines, a compound aero engine which was developed in Britain: a diesel pushing its exhaust through a gas turbine. It has a rating of thirty-one, thirty-five horse power maximum.’

  One of the reporters frowned.

  ‘What horse power rating?’

  ‘Three thousand, one hundred and thirty-five,’ repeated Samantha. ‘You will find all these specifications in the publicity folders which have been distributed to you. Now I’ll be quiet and let you ask the questions.’

  A stocky man, she mentally identified him as the aerospace correspondent of Time Magazine, cleared his throat.

  ‘Isn’t history against a viable airship project?’

  Samantha groaned inwardly. It was the inevitable question; always the first to be asked.

  ‘I’ll hand you over to Doctor Van Kleef to start the ball rolling on this one.’

  Van Kleef shot her a disgruntled look.

  ‘Would Mr. ah-er … be more specific?’ His voice, slightly high-pitched and querulous, matched his sour expression.

  ‘What I mean, doctor,’ the man replied, ‘is that while there has b
een sporadic interest in this class of aircraft over the years, and during the last ten years there have been any number of proposals for large cargo-carrying airships, not one has been successful. The history of airships prior to the 1940s was a story of one lamentable disaster after another.’

  ‘It has perhaps been forgotten,’ Van Kleef began, sounding like a teacher addressing a class of especially recalcitrant students, ‘that during the 1930s the airship was the only type of aircraft which was capable of maintaining regular long-range commercial operations. Subsequent developments of the aeroplane have completely changed the situation … however, we believe that the new technology which brought about this change is also capable of profiting by the construction of modem airships, making them highly cost-effective against transportation by surface craft and aeroplanes, especially in light of current fuel and energy crises.’

  ‘Yes, but what about all the disasters?’ demanded a woman reporter who had identified her newspaper as the Washington Times. ‘Surely airships have proved to be dangerous and that is why they have not been developed during the last forty years? They are archaic death traps.’

  Samantha nervously saw Van Kleef’s face whiten and stood ready to intervene, but it was Kurt Nieman who laid a hand on the chief designer’s arm.

  ‘Perhaps if I may … ?’ he smiled slightly. ‘Madam, it is true there were many disasters. Here, in the United States, the largest airships built — Akron and Macron — were wrecked in storms in 1933 and 1935 because of faulty structures. But let me point out that there was one company who successfully designed and built airships which were remarkably reliable in service: the German Zeppelin company. True, they had their share of accidents, but the problem was that the only lifting gas available to them was hydrogen, a highly inflammable gas. I would urge you to remember that the Graf Zeppelin I flew eight years, making one hundred and forty-seven crossings of the Atlantic, in complete safety. The Hindenburg had been flying safely for fourteen months before atmospheric electricity ignited a hydrogen leak … yet while the crash is depicted as a great horrific tragedy, let us consider the facts. Out of ninety-six people on board the Hindenburg at the time of the disaster only thirty-six actually died. How many survivors would there be from a comparable aeroplane crash?’