The Last Airship (4 page)

The
side tables were the next to go overboard.

“You’re
going to need to help me with this. It’s too heavy,” he said to the man next to
him, as he tipped the refrigerator.

“Okay,
but how are we going to get it through the door?”

He
took large book that was on the shelf used it to strike the large glass window
in front of him. As it shattered, and the glass pieces fell to the ground far
below, he said, “We can push it straight out here.”

It
took a little bit of rocking, but they soon had the thing tipped over the side.

The
bookshelf went next.

Soon,
the formerly luxurious gondola was reduced to eleven chairs, its occupants, and
their personal effects.

The
engineer, who had come from the pilot house looked at the large, ornate
altimeter that was situated in the middle of the gondola, just as an old
grandfather clock would be placed aboard a luxury steamship. The arm still
rotated clockwise, indicating that they were losing altitude.

Their
rate of descent had slowed, but not stopped.

“Okay,
everyone’s baggage must go,” the man announced, as he tried to grab Fritz’s
suitcase.

“I’m
afraid this one isn’t going anywhere,” Fritz said. His stern voice giving no
doubt about his seriousness.

“Don’t
be daft, old man, we’re going to crash. Your luggage isn’t worth it,” the man
said as he began to tug at the suitcase.

“I
told you, this one isn’t going anywhere.” It was the comfort and authority with
which Fritz spoke, as he pulled his Luger pistol out and aimed it at the other
man, which made him appear so frightening.

“Are
you nuts?” The engineer asked.

“Yes.”
Fritz looked at the engineer through his horrified eyes, “You have no idea what
terrible thing I’ve done.” He continued to point his pistol at the engineer, motioning
to him to throw another passenger’s luggage out the window. “You’d better throw
out their luggage, and do it quickly or else we might indeed crash.”

The
man shook his head in dismay, but said nothing.

He
then began to pull at a large wooden trunk, belonging to one of the other
passengers.

“If
he gets to keep his stuff, why can’t we?” The trunk owner asked, looking at his
wife for reassurance.

“Because,
he has the gun,” The engineer said, smiling impatiently. “Now let me throw this
thing overboard.”

He
tried to lift it by himself, but couldn’t.

Frustrated,
he removed a small knife from his belt that he normally used to cut tangled
mooring lines, and stuck it into the locking mechanism.

The
trunk sprang open, revealing more than a hundred gold bars, each bearing the
emblem of its wealthy owners: a G and O joined by an infinity symbol.

“No,
you can’t throw this away! It’s everything we have – our entire life savings.
How else will we start anew?” The woman, he noted, had broken her sensibilities
at the possibility of seeing her fortune nearly lost to the ground below.

Her
husband then placed his foot on the base of the trunk and said, “I’m afraid
this isn’t going to be thrown out.”

“Oh
yeah?” The engineer asked. He now had the look of a crazy man, staring blankly,
like someone who’d been pushed past breaking point and snapped. He reached down
and picked up one of the gold ingots. “Watch this!” he said, tossing the brick bar
out the window.

For
a couple of seconds, it seemed as though all activity inside the gondola
ceased.

Fritz
watched, his pistol still pointed at the others, the rich passengers, he
decided, had finally lost their aristocratic cool composure, and the only man
who was working to keep the ship airborne looked as though he’d finally given
up caring about the fate of any one of them.

It
was going to become violent in here.

At
that moment, Peter’s voice could be heard over the intercom pipe, “Franck, get
back up here, we’re going down and I need your help.”

*

Peter
looked at Franck as he came through the door. His face was flushed and his
nostrils flared dangerously. He must have had trouble removing the passenger’s
luggage, he guessed.

He
then took another look at his altimeter, which indicated that their rate of
descent had decreased to 100 feet per minute.

“It’s
no use. We’re going down. Can you see anything below?”

The
landscape looked harsh and lethal to the airship. The rocky outcrops on the
mountain would slice her wide open at the speed at which they were descending
and they needed to maintain that speed to retain some lift. With the exception
of the rocks, this entire side of the mountain was covered in densely packed
pine forest.

“Over
there, how about that open place?” Franck was the first to spot it.

“Where?”

Franck
pointed to a spot. It was a large field or clearing, covered in white snow.

“I
see it. That’ll do nicely.”

Three
minutes later, the Magdalena hit the snow-covered ground hard. Bouncing and
shuddering, she slid for a long while along the icy ground, finally coming to
rest. The altimeter indicated that they were at an altitude of 7000 feet. They
were incredibly high up the mountain to have been lucky enough to find such a
clearing.

“Christ
almighty!” Peter panted, excited and out of breath. “That was close, but we made
it!”

He
then looked over at his co-pilot. A loud sound – a crack like that of distant
thunder – could be heard… and
felt.
The airship lurched.

“What
in the hell was that?”

Franck
opened his mouth to respond, but Peter never heard his reply. They were both dead
before they even knew what happened.

*

In
the once luxurious passenger lounge, Professor Fritz Ribbentrop calmly looked
out the window.

He,
of all the passengers on board, realized exactly where they were.

It was
a reasonable mistake for the pilot to land here. If he hadn’t grown up climbing
these mountains as a boy, Fritz might have made the same mistake, in their
shoes. He didn’t blame them for it.

With
the composure of a man who had accepted his fate, Fritz then made sure that his
single suitcase was still securely locked and carefully handcuffed to his
wrist.

Maybe
it is for the best that it never reached its destination?

A
weight had been lifted from his chest, as though the stress of the past few
weeks had finally been lifted from him.

It
was the last thought he ever had as he clutched the single suitcase tightly to
his chest.

Sydney
Harbor, Present Day

Sam
Reilly took the helm of his custom built fiberglass 68 foot ketch,
Second
Chance
.

At
six foot exactly, he was only slightly taller than the average man, but his
arms and shoulders were wide from years of physical labor, and his legs were strong
as tree stumps, giving him a solid, yet wiry appearance.

Physically,
he was the product of hard labor, which the sea demanded of him.

He had
pensive, dark blue eyes, and the sort of cheeky smile that says
, I can have
it all.
If life had taught him anything, it was that he of all people,
could. His gaze showed determination, and the calluses on his hands displayed
the tenacity required to make things happen. He was amiable by nature, but he
suffered from a general distrust of his fellow man. Sam felt at his most calm
when he was on his own.

Today
was one of those days.

The
weather was warm and there was a moderate northerly wind of 15-20 knots. To
every weekend sailor on the harbor, it looked like a great day for a sail. For
a person like himself, who’d built his life on the sea, he intuitively sensed
the disaster ahead.

He
knew it with the certainty of a chess player, who had seen his own demise in
forty or more moves ahead; there was going to be trouble at sea. Sam knew it by
the calm air, the pale blue sky, the unusually large swell that didn’t quite
match the local weather conditions, and, like anyone with enough experience in
a given field, he just knew it instinctively. His subconscious mind had picked
up all the telltale signs and had given him the outcome; there was going to be
one hell of a storm.

Sam
had just completed his first year at the international sea salvage company,
Deep Sea Expeditions. He’d promised himself that he’d never enter the business
after what had happened to his brother, Danny. But some things are just meant
to be, and try as he might to avoid it, he eventually realized that he must
return to the world that he grew up in – the one in which he truly belonged –
the sea.

It
was the first time he’d taken leave since he started working for Deep Sea
Expeditions. Two weeks was all the time he had, unless something came up.
Auspiciously, he’d noted that Cyclone Petersham, which was about to slam into
the northern Queensland coast of Australia and the tropics, was moving south. If
his predictions were correct, which they almost certainly would be, the storm
would collide with the terrible low, now forming off the coast of South
Australia.

The
collision of these two systems would produce a narrow trough between a tropical
high and a southern low, a condition known as a squeeze. The weather would
become horribly dangerous, and the seas would become incredibly violent and
unpredictable.

The
same sort of weather that killed 9 people in the 1998 Sydney to Hobart Race,
and crippled another 39 yachts.

These
were precisely the conditions for which
Second Chance
had been built to
withstand; not to fight. Sam had learned long ago that you never fought with
the powers of the sea, unless you wished to be crushed by them. Instead, your
aim should be to follow the sea's commands by making simple adjustments.

As
he looked up at the clear blue skies, Sam knew how close these conditions were
to those which he and his brother had faced during that terrible day more than
ten years ago. He had been lucky. That’s all it was.  It had never been a
question of skill under the circumstances, just dumb luck. His brother, Danny,
had sadly not been so lucky.

Sam
had spent a long time frightened by the sea; he had even told his mother that
he would not enter the family business, but as time passed, he knew that there
was only one way to beat the nightmares from his past. He could never avoid it.
He had to return to where he belonged. Where, deep down, he knew it was the
only place he felt truly comfortable.

The
ocean didn’t care who your father was, or how rich you were. Out on the ocean,
you were only as safe as the sea allowed you to be. Out there, you were just
another one of the sea's trillion lifeforms, no more or less important than any
other.

As
Manly harbor came into view, Sam made his final tack before leaving Sydney
Harbor and then he turned due south, toward a cold hell.

Sam
sailed alone.

There
was no way he could explain to anyone why he chose to sail solo. His father,
the only person to whom he didn’t have to explain it, understood exactly why he
made this choice, as would only a fellow solo yachtsman. His mother never would
understand, and he himself didn’t quite understand it either. It was something
he was driven to do. He had to do it, just like the salmon returning to the
same creek of its birth to spawn; he was searching for a resolution to a
problem which he’d spent the better half of his life trying to fix.

It
would take
Second Chance
two days to reach Bass Strait. Then, when the
storm was at its worst, he would take her through the strait, south around
Tasmania, before returning. All told, he would be gone for no more than a week.

Will
I find the answer in this one or at the bottom of the sea?
He didn’t take the question lightly.

He
loved these trips as much as he feared them.

The
challenge of solo sailing was rewarded by the sole ownership of the
achievement. A yacht, with its sails trimmed to perfection, its course
correctly synchronized with the swell and the current, was the easiest thing in
the world to manage as a solo sailor.
Second Chance
was 68 feet in
length and carried more than a thousand feet of sail. A head sail, stay sail,
main sail, and mizzen, could be controlled by a six-year-old child, if managed
correctly.

In
truth, if he had done his job as skipper, he would have little else to do but
enjoy the journey.

The
sea, he knew, was as kind as it was unforgiving.

Over
the course of the next twenty-four hours, little changed. The swell had risen
to fifteen feet, but it was a following sea and comfortable enough to sail
with. The wind then increased to 35 knots. It was enough to worry a weekend
sailor, but only just enough to start to see the full potential for which
Second
Chance
had been engineered.

Not
enough to create any misgivings in his mind.

Sam
wasn’t one of those sailors who felt that he needed to round the Cape of Good
Hope in a dingy using traditional methods of navigation and hand steering the
entire way, simply in order to prove his seamanship. For him, it was all about
being there, in the middle of one of nature’s most violent spectacles, sharing
in its power without being overcome by it.

Sam
had no misgivings about using all the wonders provided by modern science
.
Second Chance
certainly wasn’t a production yacht. She was built for one
purpose only, chasing storms.

She
was the product of years of development by the finest shipwrights, naval
architects, engineers, and actual sailors. Built with the kind of money that
could hardly be spent in a single lifetime; the sort of family wealth into
which Sam had been born.

Her
hull was fiberglass with carbon fiber chine and a full keel, making her
exceptionally light, strong, and stable. Equipped with state-of-the-art
autopilot, GPS navigation, IAS, radar and satellite phone and internet, some
might argue that Sam wasn’t a real sailor.

Fortunately,
as his eyes carefully perused the advanced instruments at his navigation table,
he really didn’t give a shit what people thought he was doing out here; as far
as he was concerned, this journey was for him alone.  

It
was 8p.m., and although the sun had set more than an hour ago, the bright full
moon gave a seductively clear view of the ocean around him.

This
was his real home.

The
swell, already reasonably large, was flowing in a consistent direction, and had
none of the usual roughness to it. Tonight, he would sleep soundly.

He
climbed down the stairs and into the main cabin. Still wide awake, he flicked
open his laptop. It was connected to the main information and satellite system
which had cost him a fortune to have installed onboard
Second Chance
.

On
the top of his computer screen, there was a picture of a mailbox and to the
right of it appeared the number 3.

He
clicked on the icon.

At
times, he was unsure whether or not he loved or hated having access to such
communications while at sea. He found three letters in his inbox and about a
dozen more in his spam filter. Two messages were from Deep Sea Expeditions. He
hit skip – they were probably after him, and with this storm coming in, they
were going to need everyone they could get, and they were probably trying to
rescind his leave. He was on holiday, so it was not his problem. This storm was
for him.

The
last email was from Kevin Reed.

Sam
had studied at MIT with Kevin, but had never had any particular relationship
with him. Kevin had been studying Geometric Variances, while Sam had been
studying Oceanography, before moving on to get his Master’s in Microbiology. He
couldn’t for the life of him come up with a reason why the man would be
emailing him now. He was pretty certain he hadn’t signed up for any alumni. Besides,
he wasn’t old enough for a reunion anyway.

The
very thought of it made him laugh.

He
opened the message and started reading.

Dear
Sam,

My
wife and I have been in Europe on a six month climbing holiday. You will never
believe what we found!
This was the only one, although we continued to
search the area for two weeks before we were willing to let it go.

I
was wondering if you could tell me where it could have come from, and whether
or not you think we might find more like it?

Attached
was a Jpeg file showing a small gold ingot bearing at its center, the impression
of a letter G and a letter O, separated by an artistically designed infinity
symbol.

Any
advice you could impart would be much appreciated.

Kind
regards, Kevin and Sally.

At
the bottom of the letter, were the words
: do you want to come on a treasure
hunt?

Sam
laughed at that.

Why
is it that when people know that you work for an underwater salvage company in
the role of Special Operations, they automatically assume you’re interested in
treasure hunting?

He
studied the picture for a couple of minutes.

Gold
had never held any special interest for
him. After all, what was he
going to do with it? What piqued his interest was the story behind how the gold
came to be.

He
then forwarded the image to Blake Symonds, a merchant banker in Venice. A
friend of his father’s, the man specialized in gold bullion and fine European
antiquities. If anyone knew about where the ingot had come from, it would be
him. With the photo attached, Sam asked the simple question, d
o you know
whose emblem this is?
He then drew a red arrow pointing to the G&O
impression.

That
done, Sam climbed into his bunk and went to sleep, while
Second Chance
sailed on south toward Hell.

*

Tom
Bower was sitting in the dark hull of the Maria Helena, staring at his laptop. Despite
the powerful air conditioning, his face glistened with beads of sweat as he
examined the catastrophic low that was rapidly approaching the northeast coast
of Australia.

He
had hazel brown eyes and a permanent smile, which best expressed his
happy-go-lucky attitude towards life. His dark, curly hair and olive complexion
suggested a Mediterranean ancestry, even though he was a third generation
American.  At six foot four, he was considered much too tall to be a pilot, and
even less suitable to the world of cave diving. At both of which, he was an
expert. At the age of twenty eight, Tom had already achieved more than most
people would achieve in a lifetime.

His
general demeanor was relaxed, and he believed that he would always manage to
get through whatever happened to him. His smile was kind, and his friends often
found his insouciance, despite any given disaster, as one of his most endearing
yet infuriating traits.

In
front of him, were a multitude of meteorology reports.

Even
after having discussed the weather with the three brightest meteorologists in
the world, the best information he could gather was not much better than what
had been available when he was a child.

There
was a cyclone heading towards the northeast coastline of Australia, and
depending on where it hit, there would almost certainly be a lot of damage to
people, buildings and the environment.

All
the science that was designed to protect them could sink right to the ocean
floor, for all its usefulness today.

Tom
had spent four years in Florida as a young boy while his father was posted
there with the Navy.