Airship Page 3

  ‘Are you saying that the Hindenburg was a safer aircraft than an ordinary aeroplane?’ demanded the Time Magazine man.

  Nieman sighed.

  ‘What I am saying is that it would have been a totally safe vessel had the inert gas helium been available instead of hydrogen. The Zeppelin company were the only organisation in the 1930s with sufficient experience to enable them to build economically viable airships, but they were denied the use of the safe gas helium because of restrictions imposed by the United States. The Zeppelin company were so sure of the viability of airships that even after the Hindenburg disaster they built the Graf Zeppelin II, designed for helium use, but were denied it.’

  ‘There were political considerations at the time,’ commented the Washington Post correspondent dryly.

  Nieman looked puzzled.

  ‘Hitler was then in power in Germany,’ pointed out the correspondent.

  Van Kleef interrupted.

  ‘The point my colleague, Doctor Nieman, was making was that historically the airship was a highly successful passenger aircraft. Between 1910 and 1914, for example, the Deutsche Luftschiffahrts Aktion Gesellschaft flew 34,000 passengers a total distance of 108,000 miles in 1,600 flights in the company’s seven airships within Germany. The main problem was, as Doctor Nieman stated, the lifting gases available. But no one in Anglo-American is suggesting that we return to the old methods of construction. The R100 contained more than fourteen miles of duralumin girders, the assembly of which is far too labour-intensive for today. Also, we have a ready supply of helium which was not available outside of the United States before 1940, and very sparingly used in the States at that time.’

  There was a pause, during which Samantha pointed out:

  ‘In a few moments you will be taken out to the construction area in order to see the Albatross and perhaps any technical questions on materials can be put then. Are there any more questions of a general nature?’

  ‘How about noise levels?’ asked a rather emaciated young man. ‘My readers are especially conscious of the ecological considerations.’

  Samantha looked towards Van Kleef but the designer seemed to have subsided into a brooding silence. Jack Lane, the assistant project manager, cleared his throat.

  ‘The Albatross, like her predecessors, will be one of the most peaceful forms of travel ever devised. The old airships were never regarded as a noise nuisance. The maximum disturbance made by the Hindenburg, for example, was only sixty-one decibels. Modem airships, such as our Albatross, with modem silencing equipment and displacement of engines will be virtually silent. Likewise, unlike aeroplanes, pollution will be non-existent.’

  One of Samantha’s assistants, a dark-haired girl, entered the room, walked up to her and whispered in her ear. Samantha nodded.

  ‘Is there a Mr. Ryan of the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner here?’ she asked.

  A man stood up, looking slightly uncomfortable.

  ‘Your office is on the telephone, Mr. Ryan. They say it is urgent. Would you follow my assistant?’

  The correspondent, with a mumbled apology, followed the dark-haired girl from the room.

  ‘When will the Albatross take to the air?’ the woman from the Washington Times was asking.

  Jack Lane leaned forward and smiled.

  ‘We hope to have our initial test flights shortly and a maiden Transatlantic run might be a feasibility within two months.’

  ‘I was interested by the number you gave for crewmen,’ said the New York Times reporter. ‘The old airships had to carry large crews. What sort of crew will the Albatross be: carrying?’

  This time it was Garry Carson who answered. He had an easy, drawling way of speaking which left one in no doubt of his state origin.

  ‘When the Albatross is operating normally it will carry three complete executive crews who will operate a six hours on and eighteen off watch period. They will consist of two pilots, a navigator and communications officer and the flight engineer. Four executive crewmen in all.’

  ‘No more?’

  ‘As it is planned to carry passengers there will be a further crew of ten stewards and stewardesses. They will operate under a chief purser and there will also be a cargo hold inspector who will be responsible for ensuring the cargo is stowed safely at all times.’

  ‘Can I ask for some comparative dimensions between the Albatross and the Hindenburg? It was the ecologically-minded correspondent.

  Samantha looked at Van Kleef pointedly.

  ‘The Hindenburg was 814 feet long with a volume of 7.1 million cubic feet. Our ship is therefore nearly three hundred feet longer and with a very much larger cubic capacity.’

  The man was scribbling on a notepad.

  ‘So what you are proposing is an aircraft that is larger than the QEII, five times the length of a Boeing 747?’

  Van Kleef nodded.

  ‘With so few crew to run it?’ asked the woman correspondent. ‘Only four executive crewmen, you said?’

  ‘We have onboard computers,’ replied Nieman. ‘There are various control systems so that, even with four men, there is little which cannot be handled should an emergency arise.’

  Van Kleef glanced impatiently at his watch. He had been through so many of these press briefings that he was bored and irritated and showed it. Samantha decided that it was time to conduct the correspondents to the airship construction site. Just as she was about to suggest it the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner reporter re-entered the room. He stood hesitantly.

  ‘I have a … er … question.’

  He paused.

  ‘Go ahead, Mr. Ryan,’ invited Samantha with an encouraging smile.

  ‘It is about the death of your chief test pilot, Major Alec Westbrook.’

  ‘I’m afraid we have no further information on that matter, other than the statement given out yesterday following the news of his tragic accident,’ interrupted the girl.

  The reporter seemed undeterred.

  ‘My office has just telephoned me,’ he said unnecessarily. ‘The Federal Aviation Authority have just issued a statement following their initial enquiries into the crash. Major Westbrook’s aircraft was sabotaged … has your company any statement to make on that?’

  Chapter Four

  Sir Ashley Ashton thrust aside his copy of The Times and gave an inward groan. He reached forward and pressed his intercom button.

  ‘Alice, do you have any aspirin in your desk drawer?’

  ‘Yes sir,’ came his secretary’s response. ‘I’ll bring some in.’

  Ashton stood up and walked to his office window, looking down on the teeming crowds of people and slow-moving traffic which edged along London’s Piccadilly. Thankfully, the roar they undoubtedly made was silenced by the double-glazing of his window. Ashton nervously rubbed the back of his neck. His head was splitting. First the domestic crisis last night and now … now this!

  A soft knock at the door preceded the entrance of his secretary bearing a tray with a carafe of water, a glass and a packet of soluble aspirin. She set the tray down and expertly mixed two pills in a glass of water.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’

  Ashton shook his head.

  The girl was halfway to the door when he changed his mind.

  ‘Get my wife, will you?’

  She nodded and closed the door behind her while he, gratefully, reached for the glass and drained it. A few moments later the telephone rang.

  ‘Martha?’

  ‘Yes, Ashley.’ His wife’s voice sounded cracked and strained.

  ‘Has Claire rung you? Is there any news?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘No, she hasn’t. Did you expect her to after last night?’

  ‘Not really,’ sighed Ashton.

  ‘You were a little heavy with her, Ashley.’ There was a note of rebuke in Martha Ashton’s voice.

  ‘Damn it!’ snorted Ashton. ‘She’s only twenty years old. How else do you expect a father to react when his daughter comes hom
e and says she is going off to live with a man who is twice her age … and a man with the reputation that Allie Gray has? The Soho Porn King! That’s what the gutter press call him.’

  ‘You don’t think that I am not concerned, do you, Ashley?’ His wife’s voice held a dangerously tremulous note. ‘She is my daughter as well.’

  ‘Yes, I know, dear. I know. It’s just that I feel so damned impotent.’

  ‘We’ll just have to be patient,’ returned his wife. ‘If Claire doesn’t contact us within the next day or two then I shall telephone Mr. Gray’s place and see if she will speak to me.’

  Ashton moodily replaced the receiver.

  It had certainly been a bad scene last night. It had ended with his attractive blonde daughter, Claire, screaming obscenities at him because he had tried to forbid her to see Allie Gray again; she had finally announced that she was going to live with the man. Ashton had been beside himself with fury. He knew Gray from the newspapers as a Soho nightclub owner who ran a small empire of sex-shops, peddling pornography through the country, and who was also known for his underworld connections. Indeed, Gray had served time in borstal and prison as a young man. Ashton had found out about his daughter’s affair with Gray just a few days before and his attempt to end it was met with hostility from Claire, whose temper was the equal of her father’s. Late last evening Claire had flung some belongings into a bag and stormed out of the house.

  Ashton wondered whether he should contact the police; but what could they do? Claire was twenty years old and her own boss. Should he confront Allie Gray in person? That would be rather Victorian and have a negative effect. Maybe Martha was right. Let Claire do her own thing for a while. She would eventually find out what sort of man Allie Gray was. But, by that time, she might be hurt … might be scarred by the experience. He sighed deeply, letting his eyes wander in distraction over his desk. They came back to the discarded copy of The Times.

  The story he had been reading was about the sabotage of Major Westbrook’s aircraft.

  Ashton tried to dismiss Claire from his mind; picked it up and read it again, carefully. Then he pressed his intercom button again.

  ‘Alice, get me a person-to-person call with John G. Badrick in New York.’

  At fifty-six years of age Sir Ashley Ashton was the British vice-president of Anglo-American Airships, and was in charge of the company’s London base. Ashton had spent most of his business life as an executive of British Aerospace Developments until his interest in the commercial use of airships had made him take up an offer from John G. Badrick to head the British end of his airship project. Ashton’s interest in airships was passionate. In fact, the entire aviation business was a passion with him, so much so that his private and domestic life tended to suffer because of it. His telephone rang. It was Badrick.

  ‘Good to hear from you, Ash. What’s on your mind?’

  Ashton always felt a surge of annoyance at Badrick’s abbreviation of his name.

  ‘Hello, John,’ he replied coolly. ‘Is it true about Westbrook?’

  ‘The British newspapers are carrying the story about sabotage?’ asked Badrick, after a slight pause.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘H’mm. Well the FAA’s initial findings show there was some tampering with Westbrook’s machine. We don’t know any more but I should imagine there’ll be a federal investigation.’

  ‘Does it affect the project at all?’ pressed Ashton.

  ‘Only in that it leaves us without a first-class test pilot for the Albatross. Maclaren is searching for a replacement right now … for a second pilot, that is. Garry Carson becomes our number one man. Do you have any ideas?’

  Ashton snorted.

  ‘For a qualified airship pilot? That’s rather a tall order, old boy.’

  ‘Well, if you can think of anything … even a long shot … get in touch with Maclaren.’

  ‘You’ll keep me posted about the sabotage?’

  ‘Sure. See you, Ash.’

  *

  Claire Ashton let out a low shuddering moan as the man reached a frenzied climax. She clung, clung tightly to him, legs wrapped around his, fingers — like claws — biting deeply into his back. Her mind was swimming in an ecstasy of emotions — emotions she could only feel and not analyse. She had wanted the moment to last for ever, go on and on, but he had reached his climax all too soon and now lay inert and heavy upon her, heart thumping wildly against heart. Too soon, far too soon. Then he was rolling away from her — her hands reached out to detain him as he turned on his side. She lay spreadeagled, exposed and naked; she felt rejected and totally alone after the near-hysteria of her passion. She peered nervously into the darkness, at the dark mound of his shoulder, licked her lips and whispered: ‘Wasn’t it right? Wasn’t I alright?’

  The man made a noise, a quizzical sound deep within his throat like a stifled yawn.

  ‘Wha … oh, sure. Yeah, you’re okay, kid. Love you.’

  One hand reached behind his recumbent form and patted the inside of her thigh, like a master petting his dog.

  Then there was a silence.

  Claire Ashton felt unhappy. It had not been like this the first time with Allie Gray. The first time? It seemed so long ago and yet it had only been three weeks, just after Claire had decided to drop out of university — bored with an attempt to gain a Bachelor of Arts degree in English Literature at Cambridge. She was a wilful girl, materially indulged by her parents but starved of love and understanding. Her father, Sir Ashley Ashton, had never had the time to be interested in what she thought and felt, nor even to be a companion to her, especially when she was growing up. Neither did her father believe in displaying emotion and her impression of him was a cold, austere figure who always held her at a distance and never really seemed interested in her. Her mother, Martha Ashton, was dominated by her husband. What he felt was right, was law to her. She was a timid woman who hardly ever went against Sir Ashley’s wishes. The result was that while both parents provided anything Claire wanted within reason on a material level, they left her with a profound sense of dissatisfaction with her life and a strong streak of angry rebellion. Since adolescence she had tended towards outrageous behaviour in an attempt to attract her father’s attention.

  She had lost her virginity when she was only fifteen, more to spite her father than because she was attracted to the shy boy with the acne on his neck whom she had to coax into the act. She had enjoyed, far more, the beating that her father had inflicted when she confessed what she had done at breakfast the following morning. It was, as she recalled, the first time he had ever given her his undivided attention. She had been to bed with many men since then, experiences which left Claire usually cold and disinterested in them. There had been one man, a junior lecturer at college, who had made love to her coldly, mechanically, as if he were manipulating the buttons on a computer. True, he had pressed the right buttons; true, he had made her feel that sex was, for the first time, a pleasurable act in itself, not merely because it was forbidden. But Claire’s demands for constant and undivided attention from the man made him quickly end the affair.

  In her boredom and dissatisfaction she had decided to leave university without a degree and go to London with a friend to work as a model. At twenty years of age Claire had a slim, boyish body. Too slim to be attractive she had always felt, but her figure was well-proportioned. Her short cropped golden hair, wide blue eyes and permanently parted lips, giving her a surprised expression, added up to a ‘little innocent’ image. It was a deceptive appearance. Her friend, Rosabel, was older and had worked as a model before. Rosabel had assured Claire that her figure was what model agencies were looking for these days: voluptuous, heavy-breasted women were now unfashionable. So Claire had let herself be persuaded to accompany Rosabel to an agency in Soho. A bored-looking man, whose ability with make-up, especially in highlighting his eyes and cheekbones, made Claire a little envious, cast an appraising glance at her and suggested she try the Gray Shadow Club in Greek Street. />
  ‘Ask for Mr. Gray, love,’ purred the man, stroking his blue-tinted curly hair. ‘I’m sure that he’ll be interested in you.’

  Allie Gray was.

  The interview took place in the penthouse apartment which he kept over the club. Gray was in his late forties, proud of his still athletic figure. During the day he always wore his shirt unbuttoned to the stomach, displaying a tangle of greying chest hair and proving his daily squash match and gym exercises stood his body in good stead. Claire didn’t know anything about the lean, sun-lamp-bronzed Allie Gray at that time. When he appraised her, smiling in open admiration, she looked at his broad, handsome face and suddenly felt like a rabbit before a snake: helpless and afraid. There was a feeling, too, of excitement; an excitement that was also orgasmic as he reached forward to tilt her head this way and that.

  ‘Yeah; yeah. I could really use you,’ he muttered, and she was not even put off by his East End accent which her social background informed her was not ‘nice’ to be associated with.

  ‘What,’ she asked nervously, ‘what sort of modelling job is it?’

  Allie Gray’s eyes widened.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding?’ But he suddenly saw that she wasn’t. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Twenty,’ declared Claire, tilting her head a little defiantly. ‘I’ve just left university.’

  ‘Not worked before?’

  ‘No.’

  Allie Gray smiled. ‘I see.’ He let his eyes run over her figure again.

  ‘Well, I could really use you, love. But there’s no rush … you see, I have interests in quite a few, er, enterprises. One of them, well, we are going to do some film work and I’m looking for someone … well, like you. But we can talk about that later. Let’s talk about it over dinner.’

  They had dinner that evening but they didn’t talk about the job. Instead Allie Gray wined and dined her and then took her back to his apartment and made love to her with such a savage determination that Claire experienced her first mind-reeling orgasm. Allie Gray was an expert lover! He wanted the youthful body of Claire, wanted what it symbolised to his deprived boyhood, and he took her with the attitude of a Viking conqueror. The result was something which Claire had never experienced before, producing a mixture of physical pleasure and emotions which made her believe, in her immaturity, that she was experiencing that indefinable thing called ‘love’.