The Last Airship

by Christopher Cartwright

  The Last Airship

  By

  Christopher Cartwright

  Copyright 2015 by Christopher Cartwright

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All rights reserved.

  This one's for my wife, Maricris, who is the best thing that's ever happened to me.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Prologue

  Munich, Germany, 24 September 1939.

  It was exactly twenty three days since Germany had invaded Poland, setting into motion the largest war the world had ever seen.

  Peter Greenstein looked up at the giant in the clearing. Like a dark cloud in the night sky, she created an ominous silhouette above the opening in the already obscured forest of the moonless night. He had waited almost two weeks for the arrival of the dark moon. It had very nearly been too long, and might have easily cost all of them their lives.

  She was a magnificent ship, exquisite to her core.

  He had her built exclusively for use by the wealthiest people of her time. The Magdalena stood thirty feet high and one hundred eighty-five feet in length, only slightly shorter in length than a transatlantic Zeppelin. Her lines were more sleek and her propellers proportionately larger, making her the fastest airship ever built.

  He was proud of her.

  She was the greatest achievement of his fifty two years of life.

  Unlike the Zeppelin, which was designed and built for the masses, the Magdalena was built for the few. From the outside, she looked like a race car, built for speed. Inside, her opulence flowed from every point, like a stately cruise liner. The luxury of her coach house had tried in every way to meet the expectations of those privileged few who would ever travel inside her, in absolute comfort.

  Peter’s heart sank when he thought about the reason she flew tonight.

  When he commissioned her four years ago, he never dreamed that she would be used for such a purpose. Tears welled up in his eyes as he considered how few lives she would save.

  Why should I save only the rich? He knew the answer. Because I can’t save them all and I’m going to need their wealth to start a new life.

  Tonight, her luxurious coach house would carry just two families, and an old friend of his, a professor from the University of Berlin, who would be travelling by himself. Peter would pilot her along with his chief engineer, Franck Ehrlich. There would be no other crew tonight, no exquisite culinary delights would be served, the guests would have to help themselves to their drinks, and no entertainment would be provided.

  All told, it amounted to just eleven people on board, and the guilt of his failure flowed through him. Peter promised himself that he would try to make another trip back, that as a single man without a family he had an obligation to do so much more for these people.

  But, after all, he was just one man, how could he possibly save millions?

  The people aboard her tonight were some of the richest in all Europe. Old money. The sort of wealth that takes more than a generation to build.

  He watched as the Rosenbergs arrived.

  They were the first, and it gave him hope as each one of them quietly made their way up through the forest and into the gondola.

  Peter recalled the story of how their great ancestor, Timothy Rosenberg, opened the first Rosenberg Bank in Germany in 1775, after receiving the advice of a bright young banker by the name of Mayer Amschel Rothschild.

  Rosenberg specialized in difficult finances; lending when and where others would not. Higher risks with higher possible gains were a gamble that paid off well for him. Once established, the bank expanded. Although now a legitimate bank with more than forty shopfronts, rumors of its underlying ties to criminal organizations had never ceased. The Rosenberg Vault was a privately owned bank with the reputation of trading in suspicious circles. Although Rosenberg had never been convicted of running a criminal enterprise, his funding of certain syndicates, terrorist organizations and violent wars was well and widely known.

  All four passengers appeared sullen as they took their seats.

  It was hard to imagine that such a powerful family could be cowed by a regime that was in its infancy. Only Sarah, at age six, the youngest amongst them, had the strength to offer a polite smile.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re most welcome aboard, Sarah. All of your family is,” he said as he smiled kindly at the child.

  Her older brother, Werner, walked dutifully behind her without saying a word. His arms struggled under the weight of the wooden trunk he carried, the burden of which he shared with his father, Hank. Hank was sweating, despite the snow outside. He looked pale. The stress looked as though it might cause him to suffer a heart attack at any moment.

  Peter could only imagine what such a family would choose to take with them on this journey, which had such limited space available.

  Mary was the last of the Rosenbergs to board the ship.

  She wore an expression of superior disdain for the others on board. He wondered how much of it was the result of a lifetime spent at the top of the pecking order, or if she wore that look today in order to conceal her own terror at the night ahead. Wearing a thick fur coat, the only item of jewelry in plain view was a large blue diamond amulet, worn above the curve of her breasts.

  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he recalled the name of that famous stone.

  Then, there were the Goldschmidts.

  Margaret Goldschmidt was married and had two sons. In 1927, her uncle, Ernest Oppenheimer, a German immigrant to Britain who had earlier founded the mining giant, Anglo American, along with American financier, J.P. Morgan, took over De Beers. Peter remembered the controversy over the diamond conglomerate. It was a ruthless syndicate, one in which the value of its diamonds were set at artificially high prices. Oppenheimer built and consolidated the company's global monopoly over the diamond industry. De Beers became a cartel of companies that dominated the diamond market, its mining operations, retail shops, diamond trading, and industrial diamond manufacturing sectors. De Beers was currently active in every category of industrial diamond mining: open-pit, underground, large-scale alluvial and coastal mining, and there were whispers that they were even experimenting in deep sea mining for the future.

  Peter also remembered that Margaret had married Karl Goldschmidt, whose family was in the gold bullion trade. He had no idea which family made the other richer, but together, their family had grown in both wealth and power. It was because of that wealth that they had surv
ived this long. Peter had no idea of the extent of their fortune, except to say that it couldn’t be spent in any one person’s lifetime.

  The simple fact that Margaret Goldschmidt was here tonight was proof of her vast fortune.

  “Is this thing ready to go?”

  He could tell that Margaret hadn’t even considered whether or not there would be others joining her. Her family had taken a massive risk by getting out of Munich tonight, and it appeared that all she could think of was why they weren’t already off the ground.

  “Soon. We’re still waiting on one man.”

  “Really?” She did nothing to hide the fear on her face and then said, “Aren’t we an obvious target sitting here like this?”

  Peter dismissed the urge to inform her that he himself had returned to Germany tonight, and that he had waited nearly two hours for his guests to arrive so that he could save their rich, entitled lives.

  “I must beg your patience for just a little while longer, and then we’ll be airborne.”

  Karl, her husband, then shook his hand as he walked through the door to the gondola. “We appreciate your help, Mr. Greenstein, really we do. Our friends and neighbors, the Hasek family, was taken yesterday. They had planned to leave tonight also. We’re all a bit shaken up,” he said, as an explanation for why his wife was behaving so badly.

  Reaching his hand up in apology, Peter said, “Completely understandable. We’re all very distressed by these events. Please assure her, we won’t be here any longer than we have to be.”

  He watched as their two boys took their seats. At the ages of four and five, they had no way of knowing the severity of the risks taken by all who were aboard tonight. Their father had instructed them that they were playing a game of hide and seek, a game in which people were searching for them, and that it was essential that they remain as quiet as possible. They were both sitting, their posture rigid, and working hard to not make any noise; occasionally failing and having a little giggle, they were immediately hushed by their mother.

  Then, there was Professor Fritz Ribbentrop, a late reservation.

  Just this morning, the professor had contacted him, at the Magdalena’s mooring site in Switzerland. Peter had been reluctant to accept any additional passengers, but he had been to university with the professor, who had been adamant that he needed to escape tonight.

  Ribbentrop hadn’t mentioned what had happened, but Peter was certain that it was important. Fritz was known to be an exceptional scientist, and a valued worker; he was a loyal fascist who came from a clean Aryan bloodline.

  He wrenched his mind seeking an explanation for the strange phenomenon.

  Why would Fritz, of all people, need to escape the Gestapo?

  Were it any other man, one less honorable, he might have worried that he was walking into a trap, but Fritz was not that kind of man. Even if he believed it to be in the best interests of the Nazi party, the professor would have felt that using such a ruse would have been dishonest.

  Peter looked at his sorry human cargo.

  With the exception of Fritz, who had still not arrived, he didn’t see himself as the equal of any one of them. Although he himself was an heir to a great fortune, his path through life had been decidedly different than his passengers. He was an outcast amongst his own family. Even after the events of the past week, a week in which his father had died and left him the title of Baron Greenstein, he still did not feel as though he was one of them.

  Unlike the rest of his family, he had turned his wealth towards science, studying at the great Berlin University of Aeronautical Engineering. The Magdalena was his brainchild. Capable of travelling at twice the speed of a normal Zeppelin, she was a marvel of both modern engineering and opulence. He would have liked to build her for the masses, but the masses were unable to afford such luxuries as travel by dirigible. Consequently, for the sake of science, he turned to those whom he despised, to fund its development.

  He studied the two families and wondered what they’d say if they knew they were waiting for the arrival of the most honorable fascist who Hitler had ever considered his close friend.

  Rumbling far away, he could hear the muffled yet distinct sound of a four stroke engine. The BMW R75 motorcycle. Designed specifically as a military vehicle, Germany had so far only released the first line of production – for use by high ranking Nazi SS officers.

  *

  Doctor Fritz Ribbentrop was the last passenger to arrive.

  The man wore his short hair brushed back from his forehead. Years past being blonde, it now bordered on completely white. A pair of riding goggles covered his attractive dark blue eyes. His face was clean shaven for the most part, with the exception of a small and almost entirely white moustache.

  It was easy to guess that as a younger man, he had most likely been highly sought after by women.

  He wore a simple green coat and matching trousers, the coat fully buttoned up against the cold. He had the luxury of leather gloves, with which he skillfully gripped the handlebars as he made his way up the narrow, snow-filled path through the black night and the scattered pine trees.

  Riding his motorcycle was the only joy in life still left to him. It was the only joy that the mighty German military machine would allow him to keep. And, he was one of the privileged few, whose scientific ability allowed him the luxury fuel allowances which were denied to all other civilians.

  He knew he should have abandoned the motorcycle further back along the trail, but it had taken him longer than he anticipated to leave the university today, and without it, he would never have made it here in time to board. He, of all people, knew the danger that he brought the Magdalena tonight. The sound of his motorcycle attracted attention and made them an easy target. He justified the risk to himself with his belief that his purpose was far more important than the rescue of a couple of rich, Jewish families.

  He could see the airship in the distance.

  It appeared quite vulnerable. Even in the dark, the Magdalena’s enormous canopy marked a great area against the night sky.

  He was relieved to see that the four propellers at rear of the gondola were already turning and the two side, stabilizing blades, were rotating at an idle. The airship would be ready to launch at a moment’s notice.

  He rode his R75 right up to the ship’s mooring line and then released his grip on the handlebars unceremoniously as he dismounted. The bike fell to its side, but the motor could still be heard running smoothly, evidence of the strength of its simplicity.

  Fritz panted heavily as he made his way through the thick, snow-covered, metal stairs carrying one small suitcase. He climbed up to the open door of the gondola.

  “You’re late,” said his old friend, Peter Greenstein, curtly. The man was crouched down at the door. Peter looked outside one last time and immediately closed the door behind Fritz.

  Fritz didn’t bother apologizing for his late arrival. He wasn’t sorry at all. If he could have been here sooner, he would have been.

  He studied the interior of the gondola as he approached the others.

  It was spacious, more like the interior of a grand yacht than an aircraft, he decided. It felt like a yacht too – even moored several inches off the ground, the slow, rolling motion of the gondola reminded him of the gentle feel of riding an ocean swell.

  He heard the large, powerful engines increase in pitch. The swaying motion stopped, as the mooring cables were cut and the Magdalena was finally free to begin her journey.

  His right arm instinctively reached for the nearest chair for balance. Smoothly, the giant craft began its vertical rise into the air, like a helium balloon released from a child’s grasp. He also sensed a slight forward motion, similar to the feeling one experience when an escalator ascends.

  There was only one vacant seat, and he carefully made his way toward it.

  The windows sloped outward, so that he could look straight down and watch the scenery roll by beneath his feet, not that there was much to see below
on this dark night.

  “This must be yours, it’s the last one,” said a young boy, whose voice was far from breaking. “Thank you.”

  He noted that the boy’s father quickly admonished him for speaking to a stranger.

  He took his seat, glad to relinquish the weight on his unsteady feet.

  Thank God, it’s going to be safe.

  Two seconds later, he heard the barking sound of a German machine gun being fired.

  *

  Walter Wolfgang perused the report in front of him.

  It was bad. The Fuhrer was going to be most displeased. People in Germany disappeared, or were frequently made to disappear, these days. But today, of all days, to lose such an important person, was to invite severe criticism. It was the man that he, specifically, was assigned to keep his eyes on.

  The Fuhrer himself had given him this assignment. He, of all the loyal members of the Third Reich, had the exact qualifications and position to carry out this important task.

  And now, he had failed.

  How could I have let this happen?

  A clean shaven man in an SS uniform entered the room, carrying a manila folder imprinted with the words “Top Secret” across the front.

  “Heil Hitler,” the officer said, as he saluted.

  “Heil Hitler,” Walter dutifully replied, returning the salute.

  The officer had come directly from #8 Prinz Albrecht Street in Berlin – Gestapo headquarters. Walter shivered, just thinking about it. Everyone feared the Gestapo, even himself, Germany’s most loyal servant.

  As a civilian, he held no military rank and had no authority.

  In actuality, he was secretly working for the Fuhrer on a most important assignment. The Gestapo, he realized, could and did send fear through everyone. Should he object to their interference, by the time news of his complaint reached the Fuhrer, the Gestapo's punishment would have already been meted out.

  He understood precisely why the SS officer was standing before him today.

  “So, he left work early today?” The officer spoke each word slowly and carefully, as though he were actually interrogating Walter.