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Episode 31: Into the Back of Beyond
"She’s ready to lift, sir," said Abercrombie, handing over his report. Everett glanced over the clipboard, scrawled his signature, and gave it back to his Chief Rigger. "You’re limping," he observed. "Wrenched my back." "Perhaps you could ask Miss Helga for a massage," suggested Iverson. "Swedes are supposed to have some skill in these matters." "Aye," said Abercrombie. He seemed strangely unenthusiastic about the prospect. Everett watched him go, then turned to face his command crew. "Lieutenant Iverson?" "Helm neutral, engines at idle." "Airman Wallace?" "Two degrees up elevator. She wants to climb." "Miss Sarah, ballast and hydrogen?" "With superheat, we should be 800 lbs light." Everett nodded to himself. By waiting until sun had warmed the gas cells, they could take advantage of the extra buoyancy to leave the mooring without dropping precious ballast. But this meant launching after the sea breeze had arrived to complicate matters. He glanced out the window, studying the cloud shadows as they swept across the field, then made his decision. "Engines One and Three ahead one quarter." "One and Three ahead one quarter," replied Iverson, reaching for the telegraphs. "All hands, prepare to lift ship. Rashid, drop the mooring." There was a distant clunk from the bow. Slowly, ponderously, the Flying Cloud began to drift back from the mooring mast. Beneath their feet, the deck tilted upward. "Elevator neutral," ordered Everett. "Elevator neutral," replied Wallace. "Altitude?" "Climbing through two hundred at one hundred feet per minute." "Very good. Mister Iverson ring all engines ahead one half. On the field below, ground crews had ceased their labors and turned their faces skyward. In Darwin harbor, a few short miles to the west, fishing boats were sounding their horns in salute. "They seem excited," observed MacKiernan. "Indeed they do," said Everett. It wasn’t every day a airship came to visit this isolated port. "Let’s give them a show. Engines ahead full and helm left to take us over town. Once we’re there, make our signal." Wheels spun, throttles rang, engines roared. Outside the windows, the horizon swung as the Flying Cloud turned to port, steadied on her new course, and began to pick up speed. Then she was thundering over the harbor, siren whooping as she headed out to sea. "That should put Channel off the scent," observed Everett with satisfaction. "Now let’s hope Fleming can do his part." "Are you all right, Chief?" asked Fleming as Abercrombie limped into the hold. "Wrenched my back," growled the Scotsman. Fleming wondered at his ill-humor. It seemed uncharacteristic, and quite different from Helga, who was smiling where she stood by the switch panel for the hoist. "You ready to go?" she asked. "Once I’ve finished my preflight," replied Fleming. He tightened his harness, then moved the stick to check the control linkages. Like most modern Lilienthal gliders, his was controlled by a system of cables that warped the wings. This provided much greater performance than the simple weight-shift machines of old. A bell rang. "We’re at the launch point," said Abercrombie. "Yer sure ye can deal wi’ the fellows at the cattle station? MacKiernan bet me a shilling they’ll think yer after their women." Fleming shrugged as best he could inside his straps. "We’re all Aussies. I shouldn’t have any trouble." "Then off ye go. Helga, raise the hoist and open the doors." "Ja!" cried Helga cheerfully. "Hoist it up and open the drawers!" What was that all about? wondered Fleming. Then the cargo bay doors were rattling open beneath his feet. Looking down, he could see waves rolling toward the shore 3000' below. "Good luck, lad!" cried Abercrombie. "Lower away!" The hoist whirred again, letting the glider down into the slipstream. Fleming let it hang there, bucking and pitching in the wind, while he studied the sky for signs of lift. That line of clouds looked promising. Reaching for the lever, he pulled the release. There was a klunk, a whoosh, and he was flying! The first miles were easy. The land below, warmed by the fierce tropical sun, was a good source of thermals, and with the sea breeze pushing him toward the south, he made rapid progress. He settled into a routine: watch the variometer until it showed he was climbing, bank into the lift, and start to circle; stay with the thermal until he neared the top, then leave it to look for another. As miles passed, the terrain grew rougher. Soft green jungle gave way to brush-covered hills and a tangled maze of ravines. The air grew rougher as well, until jolts of turbulence were slamming him against his harness straps. Wings creaked and flying wires twanged in response to each blow. The climbs were exhilarating -- at times he was hurtling upward at more than a thousand feet per minute -- but he had to struggle to keep his craft under control. Did birds work so hard, wondered Fleming? Their flights seemed so easy, but surely they must face the same turbulence he did. Did they grunt with effort as they fought to stay in the lift? Did they curse when they hit sink? And did they gather around the nest at the end of the day to down a few brews and talk about their flights? Or chirp about their flights, as the case may be? He smiled at the concept, then grabbed for the stick as a particularly violent jolt flipped his glider onto its side. It fell from the sky, wind whistling past as it picked up speed. Somehow he managed to bring the craft back under control. It was several long minutes before his heart stopped pounding. The air was smoother now. It seemed he’d flown out of the convection band to enter a vast region of sinking air. Now he had a chance to study his surroundings. The land below was bleak, for this was the beginning of the outback -- the 'back of beyond': the great barren emptiness that spanned most of the continent. If he went down here, they’d never even find his bones. This was an intimdating thought. And from the mute testimony of his altimeter, it was clear that he was going down. To be continued... |
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