The Last Airship

by Christopher Cartwright

  He looked at hatchway high above him, and saw a wave of sea water breaking overhead.

  It was too late.

  His hands instinctively gripped two of the many cabin holds, before the torrent of water swept through the open hatchway and all light disappeared from his world.

  Chapter Two

  Cyclone Petersham had reached its peak on the morning of August 25th, just as the Maria Helena reached the failing ship.

  Tom, along with the ship’s skipper and a number of the other scientists aboard, were in the operations room, sitting at its large rectangular table. At the head of the table sat the Maria Helena’s skipper, along one side of the table sat Tom and several of the scientists, who currently lived on the ship, and along the other side sat four engineers, whom Tom had flown in from Cairns earlier that morning. At the foot of the table, stood an empty chair, in which Sam Reilly would ordinarily be seated as Special Operations Director of Deep Sea Salvages.

  Unlike the knights of the round table, the Maria Helena, although civilian, still maintained a clear chain of command. The skipper held the ultimate responsibility for the safety of the ship and everyone on board, and ordinarily, were Sam on board, he would be charged with the primary responsibility for their mission.

  “As you’re all aware, the Hayward Bulk has now been without its propulsion system for almost forty eight hours,” Matthew, the skipper, stated with calm, clear, efficiency. “And, given her location during this upcoming cyclone, and both the immediate and long term risk to life and the environment if she is reefed, we have offered our services to get these engineers and equipment on board the stricken vessel.”

  No one spoke.

  Everyone in the room knew that the fact that Global Shipping, their subsidiary's owner, was responsible for the potential disaster, was why they had been diverted to this mission.

  Matthew spoke again. “We have received reports that the Hayward Bulk has dragged both her anchors and is headed for the coast of Cairns. The greatest problem however, is that she will never make land since the Great Barrier Reef lies between the two.”

  They were too late.

  “What’s she carrying?” It was the first time Tom had spoken since the start of the meeting.

  “It’s classified.”

  “Bullshit! Global Shipping is a civilian cargo fleet. All ship contents must be logged in and identified.”

  “Look, let’s just say that the cargo the Hayward Bulk is carrying would be lethal to every bit of sea life, and human life, for that matter, for hundreds of miles.” This time, the speaker was one of the engineers who had recently boarded the Maria Helena.

  “I can’t believe they’ve done this! What the hell are they carrying?” Tom didn’t bother to hide his complaint.

  “Tom, that doesn’t matter right now. Can you land on the Hayward Bulk in this weather?” Matthew, the skipper of the Maria Helena, brought him back to the problem at hand.

  “I can’t even take off in this weather, let alone land in it.” Tom was incredulous that he was even being asked such a ridiculous question.

  “There are twenty three of our guys working on board her right now. If we can’t get this new impeller to them, their deaths will be nothing when compared to the three hundred thousand deaths that will occur when they collide with the reef.”

  “What is she carrying?” Tom persisted.

  “I told you, I can’t tell you that.”

  “Piss off! You expect me to risk my life for my duty, but you won’t tell me what it is I’m trying to save. No way!”

  “Okay, can we speak about this privately?” Matthew implored.

  “No, we’re a team here. By the sound of things, old man Reilly’s already put all of our lives at significant risk. I think we all deserve to know why.” Tom raised his voice only slightly, but to everyone in the room who knew him well, it was akin to a declaration of war, coming from an otherwise entirely placid man.

  “It’s carrying uranium. It’s not supposed to be anywhere near the reef, but it is.” The speaker’s badge identified him as Malcolm Ford. He wore a black Armani suit, which made him look like a businessman rather than an engineer. He was most likely a company representative – there to make sure that Global Shipping didn’t bear the blame for this venture.

  He’d been sitting quietly amidst the other engineers. Behind his fine glasses was the face of a man who confidently held complete authority over the situation. The man had taken his place among the other engineers who had also remained silent until that point, but this man seemed different. He was not simply an intelligent engineer. He was there for another purpose, although what that purpose might be, Tom couldn’t imagine. The man hadn’t apologized at all, but simply confirmed what Tom had suspected.

  Who is this guy?

  “But there’s no way she could do that without special approval! The ship would need to be specifically certified for it. There’s only one way that it could get that kind of approval…”

  Tom stopped short, remembering the close relationship James Reilly had with the Obama administration.

  What has that self-absorbed prick got us into this time? Sam was really going to be pissed off at his old man when he found out what had happened. Not that Sam had seen eye to eye with the old man since his mother split with him in the aftermath of Danny’s accident.

  “We don’t have time for bickering.” Matthew’s voice was stern, but not antagonistic. “Can you fly or not?”

  “If you can ride out the worst of this cyclone until she meets the eye of the storm, I might be able to take off and make the transfer.”

  “Okay, it’s not an ideal solution, but at least it’s a chance. How much of a window do we have?”

  “If I time the takeoff perfectly, it will only be a matter of minutes between takeoff and landing on the stricken ship. We’re not likely to get another chance to try to take off again if this plan doesn’t succeed. So, what are the chances this will work?”

  “I know the chances are slim, but they’re absolutely zero if you don’t get that part to the crew of the floundering Hayward Bulk.”

  “I get it…” Tom said, acknowledging that he would do it. It was never a question of whether or not he would risk his life to serve the greater good, but a matter of knowing why he was risking his life at all. “I’ll go warm up the chopper.”

  *

  Tom looked out the rear hatchway of the Maria Helena’s doghouse.

  The enormous Westland WS-61 Sea King helicopter could only just be seen through the spume of violent windswept water, resting precariously atop the small helipad located on the aft deck of the sky blue Maria Helena. Its skids had been secured to the deck as a normal precaution to prevent it from shifting as the ship naturally rocked on the swells of the open ocean. Today, their strain could be clearly seen, as the ship dramatically lurched in the violent swells. In this weather, Tom imagined that any sudden release from its restraints would result in it being flung off into the sea, just like a bull rider in a rodeo.

  The storm was raging at its worst as they neared the eye of the cyclone. It was a scientific fact that the narrower the base of a cyclone was, the faster were the wind speeds it generated.

  The restraints used to secure the helicopter were rated to hold more than forty tons, considerably more than the helicopter’s fifteen ton weight. Even so, Tom would have much preferred to wait until the weather eased before preparing it for take-off. The problem was that they would have such a small window of opportunity to successfully make the transfer to the Hayward Bulk that the helicopter would need to be completely ready to take off the second they entered the eye of the cyclone.

  Tom watched as the deck rose and fell several times before he mentally pictured a pause long enough to race from the Maria Helena’s protected doghouse to the helicopter’s cockpit door.

  Seeing his best chance, he sprang into motion.

  Reaching the Sea King just as the entire rear deck of the Maria Helena dropped thirty feet
down a trough, his hand gripped the winch man’s bar on the right hand side, as his legs fell out from under him.

  Tom didn’t wait for the ship to fully right itself before opening the cockpit door.

  Stepping up into the large cockpit, he started his meticulous checklist, preparing for take-off.

  With his left hand, he switched the Master Battery/Electrical Switch to the ON position. Instantly, the lights behind the cockpit instruments glowed a soft red. Next to it, his hand flicked the Master Avionics Switch to ON. The backlight of the avionics turned a reassuring soft red.

  Looking to the right side of his control panel, he confirmed that the fuel level was reading FULL, as he always maintained it after any mission. The Fuel Valve Master was then switched to ON; the Nav Lights were switched ON, not that anyone else in their right mind would be in the air right now.

  He gave the ‘all okay’ signal with his thumb and fore finger, signaling the engineers to join him. The spare impeller they were to deliver had already been brought on board.

  Tom turned his head to face the back of the Sea King and watched as the four men climbed inside. Each man was sweating and unwilling to meet his eyes. Unlike the Navy SEALs he’d met in his former life with the U.S. Marines, these men were private engineers and unaccustomed to this level of risk.

  Then, the fifth man opened the front passenger door.

  “How soon before we can go?” It was the business man from the earlier meeting. Unlike the other engineers in the helicopter, this man exhibited none of the telltale signs of a person in distress. He might just as easily been jumping into a taxicab on the way to an important meeting.

  “Soon,” Tom said. He then looked around at the scared faces of his passengers, and said, “Are you gentlemen feeling lucky?”

  “They tell me that you’re the best helicopter pilot in either hemisphere,” the man seated next to him said. The grey hair at his temples indicated his age, and he carried his strong, athletic build, one befitting a much younger man, with an air of confidence. “So, do we need luck here?”

  “We’re about to fly inside the eye of a cyclone,” Tom said, as he tried to fake an untroubled smile. “I’d say we could use a little bit of luck. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll get you on the Hayward Bulk and you just make sure that you get her to operate under her own power in time to save all our lives.”

  “It’s a deal.”

  Tom turned his head to the window, watching as the storm raged in front of him. The high winds were literally lifting the water out of the ocean.

  How much worse could it get?

  Tom then watched as the radar system produced a clear image of the opening ahead. The Maria Helena was about to enter the eye of the cyclone.

  Tom’s left hand adjusted the throttle until the main rotary blade RPMs reached 100%.

  His right hand tapped the reset button, zeroing altimeter.

  “Maria Helena this is Sea King, Yankee Victor Charlee Zero Niner.”

  “Go ahead Sea King.”

  “We’re ready to jump ship the second we’re through the razor’s edge.”

  “Copy that, and good luck.”

  The Maria Helena’s bow rode the enormous wave.

  Once entering the eye, the storm was gone.

  As though God had turned off a washing machine. In place of the turbulent sea, there was a placid lake. On board the ship, the pitch of the powerful diesel dropped, as its twin propellers ceased the hard work of trying to maintain forward momentum in the swell. There was an eerie absence of wind, and a seaman could easily be forgiven for thinking the storm was over and that he’d been lucky to have survived it.

  Tom’s mind returned to the present, as he saw the stricken Hayward Bulk in the distance.

  “Here we go, gentlemen.”

  The ground crew then manually disconnected the tethers.

  His left hand pulled on the collective.

  Instantly, the collective pitch of the rotor blades increased, creating lift. The sound of the Sea King’s powerful Rolls Royce engine could be heard, as Tom increased the throttle to maintain RPMs, and then they were airborne.

  At eighty feet, Tom could see just how small the eye of the cyclone really was. He wished the Maria Helena could have closed the gap between the two ships.

  Approximately one nautical mile ahead of him was the damaged super tanker, bobbing around in the relatively calm water, with no more control over its destiny than a floating plastic bottle.

  Tom immediately adjusted the pitch for fastest straight and level flying.

  Behind the damaged vessel, Tom could see a vast crest, a barrage of water. It was at the far end of the eye of the cyclone, quickly approaching. He realized that it was highly unlikely that they would make it in time.

  No one aboard the helicopter spoke, yet everyone had the same thought – they were all going to die.

  For each hundred feet they flew towards the Hayward Bulk, the outermost wall of the eye seemed to advance two hundred feet closer.

  Tom felt like a child who feared with certainty that he would be the last one standing at the end of a game of musical chairs, he would be crashing his helicopter at the same time the storm would reach the Hayward Bulk.

  Five hundred feet from the Hayward Bulk, he watched the small ripples crease at the back of the vessel’s hull, then turn white – the storm had returned.

  They were too late.

  With the wind speed at over one hundred knots, it was going to be very hard to put the Sea King down on the helipad.

  Tom started making the descent.

  Unlike a normal descent by helicopter, this was more like a controlled fall than a standard approach.

  Below him, the storm blew the enormous antennae off of the radar tower on top of the ship.

  He was coming in fast.

  When his rotors finally hit the other side of the eye of the storm, he could do little to maintain control. It was more a case of his forward momentum and gravity keeping him moving towards the helipad.

  His arms and feet fought with the pedals, joystick, and collective to keep the helicopter from crashing into the sea, at a speed much faster than his mind could ever grasp purposefully. He was now relying solely on his subconscious ability, developed over many years of flying.

  No longer concerned about crashing, but simply about staying out of the sea, Tom threw caution to the violent wind.

  In doing so, he overshot the helipad.

  Two hundred feet past the helipad, further along the hull of the Hayward Bulk, he slowed his rate of descent, hovered for an instant, and then elegantly dropped onto the deck of the crippled vessel.

  The skids could be heard breaking apart as the Sea King set down hard.

  Tom immediately reversed the pitch of the rotor blades, so that instead of creating lift, they forced the helicopter down hard against the deck, stopping it from being blown off into the sea.

  They were alive.

  For now.

  “Okay, everyone out!” Tom turned his head and saw the pale faces of his terrified passengers.

  No one moved.

  “The wind is going to blow her overboard pretty soon, so I suggest you all get out of here if you want to live.”

  It was enough to get them moving again.

  Tom watched as the four passengers struggled with the 150Kg impeller.

  “Good luck.”

  “Where are you going?” said one of the engineers, who looked even more startled than before, if that was even possible.

  Tom smiled.

  “Just cleaning up the deck.” He then raised the collective to full, locked it in position, rotated the angle to the portside, and stepped gingerly out of the helicopter.

  The Sea King then disappeared into the ocean.

  “Well gentlemen, there goes the only chance we had of taking off again,” Tom said calmly. “I’ve done my part. Let’s hope to hell that you’re able to do yours.”

  “Come on, let’s get this stuff down below,” s
aid the oldest engineer with an air of fatalism.

  Chapter Three

  Sam watched as the wall of water rapidly approached.

  There was little that he could do about it. Second Chance would survive or she wouldn’t. His only option was to hold on.

  He turned away, his back facing the oncoming barrage of water and closed his eyes. Taking one last deep breath, he grasped the inside grab bar with all the strength in both hands, and hoped that today wasn’t going to be his last.

  The turbid wave of water hit him with the force of a Mac truck. The initial impact nearly rendering him unconscious. The strong flow swept his feet out from under him, and his hands, locked onto the grab bar, fought to prevent him from being flushed down the galley passage way.

  The water was just starting to recede as a second wave struck the port side.

  Sam had just enough time to take one more deep breath before the entire area was swamped with water again.

  He thought his ship may broach and then roll, but Second Chance held true to her name.

  Slowly, the water receded. Sam heard the familiar drone of the powerful automatic pumps deep in the bilge kick into life.

  Picking himself up, he scanned the cabin.

  It was going to take a lot of work to clean her, and some of the electronic equipment would need to be replaced, but all told, he had escaped lightly, he decided.

  Another large wave struck, and he heard the mechanical workings of the autopilot struggling to maintain her course.

  Then, he heard the sound that is every sailor’s worst nightmare.

  It was the sound of a cable snapping under pressure, followed by the sudden jolt of the yacht as its rudder stopped struggling to maintain her direction. The tiny storm jib, the only sail which remained, and formed a triangle no longer than a couple feet, could now be heard flapping in the wind.

  Sam didn’t wait to feel the pounding of the giant swell on his port side. Without the rudder, there was no way to control how Second Chance would face the oncoming swell.

  In these seas, failure to run with the swell could only result in catastrophic damage to his yacht and his certain death by drowning.