RSS
Episode 11: Sky is Empty
"Do you think it will run, sir?" asked Jenkins. He was squeezed into the Number Two engine car, next to his captain, along with Iwamoto, the Japanese engineer they’d found onboard this mysterious airship they’d captured from German arms smugglers the night before. In front of them, a massive 12-cylinder supercharged diesel took up most of the available space. Like everything else on the vessel, it was devoid of serial numbers or manufacturer’s marks -- anything that would identify who had built it. "That’s what we’re here to find out," said Everett. "Is the pressure regulator fixed?" "Hai! Is fixed," said the engineer. "Engine ready to run." "Then start it up." "Hai!" The engineer checked a dial and turned a set of valves. Reaching for a lever, he called out a warning. "Engine start!" Instants later, there was a hiss of compressed air, a clatter of rocker arms and pistons as the engine turned over, followed by a roar as the thing burst to life. The car shook to the vibration and the propeller, set to neutral pitch, began to spin. Jenkins grabbed for his captain’s hat to keep it from blowing away. Everett studied the machinery in satisfaction. "Good work, Mister Iwamoto. Get Number One and Three started. I’ll send Abercrombie and Davies down to take the mechanics’ stations." He hauled himself up the ladder to the hull, followed by Jenkins. "Sir," asked the signalman as they made their way forwards. "Can we trust the fellow? We know nothing about him. And he was working for the Germans." "I believe we’ll have to, since he’s the only engineer we have. And his loyalties can hardly lie with his employers, since Japan was at odds with Germany during the War. Indeed, I’m at a loss to understand what the fellow was doing here." "Perhaps he was some manner of spy, sent to study their airship technology." "That would be my guess, in which case he should be quite happy to continue working for us. I’m more concerned about how we’ll man the other stations. We’re woefully short of personnel." This was true. Their old ship, His Majesty’s Airship Flying Lady, R-212, had been destroyed in a surprise attack by a cruiser of unknown nationality several days earlier. Everett and eight of his men had survived aboard the bow section after the ship had broken up, but the rest of the vessel, along with most of her crew, had gone down in the Pacific. MacKiernan, Everett’s navigation officer, looked up from a chart as they entered the control car. "I make us about here," said the Irishman, poking the map with a tip of his dividers. "If this is our island, we’ve drifted 130 miles, which would make the wind southeast at 18 knots." "What’s our fuel and ballast situation?" asked Everett. "Our hosts were stingy fellas and left us with the gas cells only 70% full, a triflin’ 1500 gallons of fuel, and 22,000 pounds of ballast. The must have been nearin’ the end o’ their mission." "Why does everyone worry so much about ballast?" asked Sarah, who had been rummaging through the ship’s papers with Iverson in a vain search for a flight manual. "I should think hydrogen would be more important." "They’re much the same thing," explained the young lieutenant. "If we drop ballast for some reason -- perhaps because it’s evening and the hydrogen in the cells has shrunk as it cooled -- then sooner or later we’ll have to release gas to compensate. So we keep careful track of every expenditure." "You sound just like Father!" Sarah said with a laugh. "He was always keeping accounts of things like plantings, depreciation, nitrate futures, and our spear inventory. I used to help him. I was good with numbers." Everett and Jenkin’s eyes met. "If I could train her to manage the ballast station," said the signalman, "that would free someone up to handle another position." "My thoughts exactly," said Everett. "As for the rest of you gentlemen," he announced, "I believe we’ve been idle long enough. Iverson, I’d like you at the helm, Davies at the elevator wheel. Jenkins, does this intercom work?" "I haven’t had a chance to test it yet, sir." "Then this seems like a good time," said Everett, picking up the microphone, "All hands, this is your Captain. We’re about to get underway. Maneuvering stations please." His voice echoed from the speakers overhead, followed by the sound of footsteps on a catwalk. "Mister Iverson, ring for a quarter power." The lieutenant reached for the engine telegraph levers and pushed them forward. Aft, the drone of the engines increased as propellers began to bite the air. There was no real feeling of movement, but the airspeed indicator swung to the right more quickly than Everett had expected. "We’re reading 20 knots, sir," said Iverson, a few moments later. "At a quarter power?" mused Everett. "Interesting. Jenkins, note that down. MacKiernan, what was our course when we were drifting aboard the wreck?" "316, sir." "Mister Iverson, bring us right to 136 degrees, then ring for more power. We’ll head southeast to look for survivors." "Thank you, sir," said MacKiernan quietly. It seemed unlikely that any of their crewmates could have survived the crash or would still be alive after days at sea, but conscience demanded they make a search. Four hours at cruising speed -- an astonishing 68 knots -- brought them to the place the action had occurred. There was nothing to mark the spot -- just an empty expanse of ocean under a cloudless blue sky. Under Everett’s direction, they began a sweep, quartering the area in a systematic pattern that gave them plenty of opportunity to evaluate their prize’s handling. But while they saw shoals of fish, flocks of birds, and a patch of seaweed or two, there was no sign of the missing crewmen -- not even a scrap of hull fabric floating on the waves to mark where the wreck went down. At last, reluctantly, Everett ordered them to break off the search, for their supply of fuel was limited. He was in the ship’s mess, compiling a list of the missing, when Iwamoto appeared. It was a somber task, for the list was long, and he welcomed the interruption. "I trust everything is fine in the engine department," he said. Iwamoto puzzled over this statement, then nodded. "Hai. Engines good. You seek lost men? How lose?" "There was a battle. An unidentified ship approached flying false colors and blew us in half before we could react. We thought they might have been German. Could they have had any connection with this vessel?" "I not know this vessel. I come with engines. But I see air battles too. My country, generals have many battles. These never good. I make... you have no words... poem ? It difficult in your language but you wish hear?" Everett glanced up, surprised by this unexpected offer. "Why of course." The engineer composed himself, like a man aiming a bow, and began to recite. For someone not raised to the English language, his diction was surprisingly good.
"High in the morning Everett thought back to a terrible afternoon, a decade ago: a thunderous instant of fire and blood, and the long hours of despair that followed. The Admiralty had claimed victory, but the War had dragged on for many long months before Woodrow Wilson’s Armistice, at unspeakable cost, and for what? After two years of fighting and millions of lives, the boundaries were exactly where they’d been before the War began. "You’re right," he sighed. "It never good."
To be continued... |
StumbleUpon
Reedit