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Episode 17: Coastal Patrol
Coffee mugs rattled as Abercrombie slammed his fist down on the table. The Chief Rigger’s expression was dark: the very picture of an angry Scottsman. "Coastal patrol!" he exclaimed. "Off Darwin?" "I take it this is not a plum posting," said Lieutenant Iverson. "It’s the bleedin’..." "Language, airman," warned Jenkins -- as signalman, he felt it his duty to maintain certain standards of propriety.. "...posterior end of nowhere! Why are they sendin’ us there?" "It’s that Michaelson fella," said MacKiernan, the ship’s Executive Officer. "He’s upset because we capsized his yacht. And he never did like the Captain." "Well, there are times when I don’t like the Captain either," growled Abercrombie, "but I’d never send him tae Darwin." "What’s so bad about Darwin?" asked Iverson. "It’s a cluster of hovels on a barren stretch of coast. Their only exports are pearls and fish, and they’ve nae got many of either. We’ll waste fuel and hydrogen patrollin’, crawl back wi’ nothin’ tae report, then that black-hearted Michaelson devil ‘ll use this as an excuse tae take our ship away from us." They were sitting in the mess hall of His Majesty’s Airship, Flying Cloud, R-505 -- the only compartment large enough for a meeting. At the head of the table, Captain Roland P. Everett folded the sheet of orders he’d just read to his men, replaced it in its envelope, and considered Abercrombie’s words. The Scotsman was almost certainly right. Lawrence Bates-Shelby Michaelson, captain of the Cairns Naval Air Station and acting commodore of the Coral Sea detachment of the Royal Navy Airship Service, was a greedy man with a reputation for vindictiveness. He was also a vindictive man with a reputation for greed. These were both bad combinations. "Gentlemen," he announced. "We shall make the best of this situation." "May I ask how, sir?" asked Jenkins. The signalman’s voice sounded strained. "We’re Englishmen," Everett replied, "we’ll find a way. And Darwin might not turn out to be the isolated backwater Captain Michaelson imagines. There’s something strange going on in this part of the world." The other’s nodded, for this was certainly the truth. Their previous vessel, His Majesty’s Airship Flying Lady, R-212, had been destroyed in a treacherous attack by an unknown cruiser only a few days before. The origin and nationality of the attacker remained a mystery. Their current ship was every bit as enigmatic. They’d captured her from German arms smugglers at a French penal colony in New Caledonia, but the German and French governments had both denied any knowledge of the vessel’s existence. There were no papers, builder’s marks, or identifying plates aboard to indicate where she’d come from, and the Japanese engineer they’d found with the ship was singularly uninformative. "Mister Iwamoto?" asked Everett, "your opinion?" "No opinion. Opinion not my job. I come with engines." "So I understand," said Everett dryly. "Mister MacKiernan, plot us a course offshore at low altitude and maximum economy cruise. No sense spending fuel and ballast until we know the supply situation in Darwin. Mister Iwamoto, I’m assigning you Cameron and Crowley as mechanics. I’ll leave administration of the engineering section up to you. Abercrombie, draw up a set of watches that leaves one man on the upper lookout station at all times. Jenkins and Mister Iverson, you’ll take turns with Wallace, Mister MacKiernan, and Miss Sarah on the bridge." Everett noticed Lieutenant Iverson’s face brighten at the mention of the young Frenchwoman’s name. He sighed inwardly. Life would have been much simpler he’d been able to gather a crew of regular naval personnel, but Michaelson had forced him to some unusual expedients. This might lead to complications. "To work then, gentlemen!" he announced, voice giving no hint of his ambivalence. "We have a job to do!" The following noon found Everett making an entry in the ship’s log,
July 6, 1926, 1200 hrs. Lat, 22 36’ Long 168 57’. His Majesty’s Airship Flying Cloud, R-505, Captain Roland P Everett cmdr. We are standing off the tip of the Cape York Peninsula, waiting for the sun to move west and illuminate the shoreline ahead. Since our orders did not specify a time for our arrival at Darwin, it is my intention to proceed at a due pace, examining this coast for anything out of the ordinary. The crew continue to perform well, and there have been no complaints of cannibalism or vegetarianism. As he was capping his pen, a call came over the intercom. "Captain, report from the upper lookout station. Davies has spotted something on the coast ahead." The control car was some distance from the crew section, but reaching the bridge quickly without appearing disheveled was one of the skills officers were taught in Command College. Signalmen received similar training, and Jenkins was already waiting when he arrived. "Where away?" Everett asked, accepting a pair of binoculars. "A steamship, sir, bearing 130. And I do believe it’s time to have this jacket laundered." Everett the glasses and adjusted the focus until he was able to make out the vessel -- a small coastal freighter, perhaps -- a few miles ahead. The ship was down by the stern and her bow seemed to have run up on the beach. "They appear to be aground," he noted. "Have there been any distress signals?" "No, Captain," said MacKiernan. "The vessel appears to be abandoned." "Have there been any reports of a recent shipwreck on this stretch of coast?" "No, sir," said Jenkins, "nothing that corresponds to this vessel." "Then I suppose we should investigate," said Everett. "Mister MacKiernan, what’s the surface wind?" "Southeast at three knots with no significant gust factor." "Very good," said Everett. Stepping to the intercom, he picked up the microphone and thumbed the switch. "All hands, this is your captain speaking. We’ll be sending down a landing party. Mister Iverson and Airman Loris, meet me in the Transporter Room." To be continued... |
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