The Last Airship

by Christopher Cartwright

  “Then our previous list of five places to hide her, would increase to thousands,” Sam didn’t sound convinced. “But, what if they knew precisely where they were and thought that they could fly her through the giant mountain passes?”

  “You mean, weave her through the Tyrol Valley?” Tom asked, incredulously.

  “It must have been possible.” Sam said.

  “But very unlikely.”

  “Well, clearly they didn’t make it.”

  “There is that,” Tom conceded, and then went on to say, “Besides, what were they even doing there in the first place?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Okay, say you wanted to escape Hitler’s stranglehold – where would you have flown from Munich in order to escape?”

  “Switzerland, of course,” Sam answered immediately. “It was the only neutral country located nearby.”

  “Of course it was. So, why did the Magdalena fly due south, towards the Southern Limestone Alps and towards Italy? Mussolini had already partnered with Hitler. If they’d somehow managed to clear the Dolomites, they would still be within Hitler’s grasp. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless they simply didn’t realize where they were?” Sam commented.

  “There is always that possibility. GPS was nonexistent in the 1930s.”

  “Perhaps someone on board was a traitor? Or there’s always the possibility that one of the passengers or crew might have been coaxed to take the treasure-laden ship somewhere else entirely?”

  “Anything’s possible,” Tom said. “The other thing that troubles me is this, if the Magdalena really has been resting somewhere on the southern side of the Alps, don’t you think someone would have noticed her remains by now? I mean, the biggest climbing haven in the world runs throughout the Dolomites; skiers in the winter, paragliders and base jumpers in the summer, and helicopter joy flights all year round. I’m sorry to say it, pal, but if she was on the other side of the Alps, someone would have already found her!”

  “When all the likely causes have been ruled out, the only natural course of action is to investigate the unlikely ones. Now, you have to remember that the Magdalena wasn’t a zeppelin, per se. She was a dirigible, built by Peter Greentstein, a very rich, former employee of Zeppelin Enterprises. He himself had seen the decline of the era of the great airships after the Hindenburg disaster, and he had decided to reinvent the glory days of airship travel. Is it not possible that he built the Magdalena to make this journey? One of the greatest problems with airships in Europe at that time was its impassable mountain ranges. Had he discovered a way to overcome that?”

  “I don’t buy that theory at all. Perhaps, if the mountain rose to a height of only two, or even three thousand feet, it might have been possible, but we’re talking about almost ten thousand feet! No, my money says that they turned around and went back the way they came. We’ll find them on this side of the mountain, if anywhere at all.”

  “Okay, show me where on the map, on this side of the mountain, where you think you could possibly hide a 150 foot airship for 75 years?”

  Tom’s intelligent, hazel green eyes scanned the topographical map for almost five minutes.

  Then, he studied Google Earth on his laptop for another forty five minutes before saying, “It couldn’t be done. Not there. Someone knows where she is. Maybe the Nazis already discovered her, took her apart in pieces, and never acknowledged it, just as they never acknowledged so many of their other war crimes?”

  “Now it’s my turn,” Sam said, “to say, I don’t buy that story. If someone successfully shot her down, and captured the sort of prize she was carrying, someone would have heard about it by now. War crimes or not, these stories have a way of getting out.” Sam stated, confidently.

  “Okay, so hypothetically, if this ship actually did somehow succeed in making it over the mountains, then where the hell did she end up?

  “Somewhere on the southern side of the mountains,” Sam grinned, his all-knowing, I’m about to show you my winning hand, smile. “Have a quick glance here, and tell me, as a pilot, where would be the first place to come to your mind if you had to put an aircraft down quick.”

  Tom’s eyes scanned Google Earth’s map of the other southern side of the mountains. He smiled, when he saw it, “Oh, you mean here?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sam studied the lake pictured before him.

  Lake Solitude.

  It was perfect. As huge as it was remote, inaccessible to all, with the exception of mountaineers and helicopter pilots. It was also known to remain frozen for most of the year. Its elevation being 8,500 feet.

  Measuring more than six miles long by five miles wide, and perched near the top of the mountain, Lake Solitude would have been more than adequate to hold such a large airship. Who could even guess how deep the lake could possibly be?

  He imagined the Magdalena somehow clearing the mountain peak, and then making her descent. Something must have gone wrong and forced them to land. To the pilot, in the middle of winter, the rocky, tree lined mountainside must have looked like a nightmare; its jagged rocks resembling giant teeth, and then, seeing a perfect clearing up ahead. Blanketed beneath the thick covering of snow, it could have just as easily appeared to be an open field, cleared for farming.

  What happened to you, Peter? What were you thinking?

  “She’s here, I know it is.” Sam stated, fervently.

  “I hate to burst your pride bubble and all, but, the last time this lake reportedly thawed out in winter was before the turn of the nineteenth century.”

  “Or, was it on the night of the September 24th 1939?”

  Tom tapped the keys on his laptop a few more times, and then looked over at his friend.

  “You’re wrong again. Wow, I’ll bet you wish you never invited me along for the ride. The night in question was particularly cold. There was no way this lake would have thawed.”

  “Okay, I have another idea. What if they somehow clipped the top of the mountain?”

  “And if they did the clip the top of the mountain, then what?” Tom asked.

  “We all know that it was nearly impossible for them to have any chance of clearing it in the first place. What if they didn’t quite make it, and instead clipped some of the rocks off the top of it? Is it possible that such a collision might trigger a landslide of some sort – something that just may have been enough to at least crack the ice covering the lake?”

  “That’s possible. At the start of the war, no one would have been at all interested in a landslide that affected an alpine lake, especially one accessible to only the best mountain climbers of the time.”

  Tom zoomed in to the western face of the mountain, depicted on Google Earth, and then grinned, mischievously.

  “Does that mountain look like it’s missing something?”

  “It sure does to me. Can you find an earlier image – anything before 1939?” Sam asked.

  “Here we go.” Tom brought up a picture of the mountain peak taken in 1920. It showed an Italian man, with a rope casually hung over his shoulder, standing on the large rock outcrop – it was a perfect match, to the one that was clearly missing in the 1939 picture. “For once, Sam, you’re right. Now what?”

  “How do you feel about some high altitude diving, Tom?”

  *

  John Wolfgang was glad that his daughter had made the effort to see him before returning to Massachusetts. At first, he’d been concerned that she was there, but it had been nice to see her. Then, when he realized what had to be done, his concern turned to terror.

  How could he use his own daughter like this?

  But, as had been the case in previous times, in the end, the need outweighed his ethical reservations.

  It took some convincing, but in the end, she understood what was required of her, and said she’d make the call.

  *

  The phone rang just once before Sam answered it.

  “Sam?” The reception was poor, but he tho
ught he recognized the eloquent soft voice; that distinctly American accent that contained a hint of European ancestry.

  “Yes, who’s this?” Sam asked.

  “It’s Aliana. Are you still in Europe?”

  “Yes, I’m staying in Ötztal, how about you?”

  “Ötztal! I spent some time in Ötztal when I was growing up. I’m in Berlin now, until the end of the week, but I was thinking about seeing you again before I leave for the States. If you’re interested, maybe this weekend, I could show you more of the area, from a local’s point of view?”

  “I’d love to. Let me know when to expect you, and I’ll change my schedule.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Blake Simmonds felt every single one of his 68 years of life.

  It had been a long time since he’d been so involved in field work, particularly one with such catastrophic consequences. It was certainly the most mentally demanding he’d done in years.

  He felt like he was right in the midst of a second nuclear arms race. In truth, he still wasn’t certain whether or not the involvement with his employer made him the good guy or the bad one.

  At first, the thought of the work ahead had invigorated him, but now, after two weeks of putting in long hours, getting almost no sleep, and wondering about his floundering morality, Blake Simmonds was utterly exhausted.

  He cursed himself for losing the upper hand. He was the only one who knew that Sam Reilly was still alive, and that he had flown to the Alps to join the rest of the damn treasure hunters. Savages, every last one of them!

  At least he had the good fortune of knowing that Sam had hired one of their helicopters. The GPS locating device, mounted atop the Robinson 44, kept him updated on their every fruitless movement.

  But what could they accomplish, which others had failed in the past 75 years?

  It wasn’t until he noticed their helicopter next to Lake Solitude, that he understood the severity of his mistake.

  Blake had, at first noted their landing site, and assumed that it was just like every other place they’d landed and searched during the past two weeks. It wasn’t until he focused his satellites towards the lake that he realized which side of the Alps they were on.

  Then, it only took mere seconds before the mental image of Peter Greenstein somehow clearing the mountain pass, losing altitude, and landing in the middle of the frozen lake, entered his mind.

  His mind then made the same connection that Sam Reilly’s had – that an avalanche might have opened a rift in the frozen lake surface for the first time in probably a century. A quick internet search showed him that he was right.

  But it wasn’t until he brought up the centuries old map on his computer, that he suddenly knew with certainty, that Sam Reilly had been right about the final resting place of the Magdalena.

  It was time to make his move – but could he do it in time?

  *

  Sam finished removing the last of the dive equipment from the back of the helicopter.

  He was glad that Tom had managed to put the 44 down on an enormous piece of solid granite, which formed a small island near the edge of the lake. Upon their first fly-over yesterday afternoon, he wasn’t sure if this maneuver was even going to be possible. Considering the giant pine trees lining the lake’s edge, there was a chance they might have to land miles away and hike in.

  As it was, Tom had found this rock, as though it had been set in place just for them. Sam decided that the chunk of granite appeared to be slightly out of place in the turquoise-green lake, which was made up almost entirely of limestone. Sam could picture this rock forming part of the missing peak of the mountain above them.

  The dive equipment was set up in front of the helicopter, ready for them to begin their safety checks and formalize a dive plan for their first descent.

  They had spent the night camped on the edge of the lake. One of the hardest equations to predict with any certainty, is how much residual nitrogen a person may have from ground level to when they reached altitude. Although few scientific studies had been performed on diving at altitudes above 8,000 feet, it was generally considered sound diving advice to acclimatize to the altitude for a minimum of twelve hours before making a first descent.

  At higher altitudes, atmospheric pressure is lower than it is at sea level, therefore surfacing at the end of an altitude dive leads to an even greater reduction in pressure and thus causes an increased risk of decompression illness. Such dives are also typically carried out in freshwater at high altitudes, and fresh water has a lower density than the seawater used in the calculation of decompression tables. The amount of time the diver has spent at altitude is also of concern, as divers with gas loadings near those of sea level may also be at an increased risk.

  Sam sat and simply looked at the lake around him.

  Despite the cold, Lake Solitude glistened in the sun’s rays. They had picked one of the few weeks of the year in which the lake’s surface had thawed, presenting the pristine waters below its surface.

  In the distance, the enormous mountain peak of Mount Oztal could be seen, followed by a steep row of thousands of giant pine trees. At this distance, they looked like blades of grass until they reached the banks of the lake. There, the lake’s shallow edge was a soft turquoise, and the crystal clear water of the recently thawed ice allowed Sam to see the limestone bottom as easily as if he were looking through a window, but impossible to hazard a guess as to its depth. He was able to follow the lake’s bottom for some distance before the sunlight failed to penetrate the extreme depths at the center of the lake.

  It was here that Sam hoped that the Magdalena had come to rest, thus remaining hidden, for all these years.

  “Of all the places we’ve seen since we came here Sam, this must be the most magical of them all.” Tom said, reverently.

  “That’s for sure. It’s magical enough that I’m worried someone else must have surely dived it before now. Heck, if I had known about this place, I’d have made a trip to dive here years ago. Let’s just hope that it releases its secret – the final resting place of our missing airship.”

  “Agreed. There’s just one way to find out.”

  They each wore an inch-thick dry suit, under which they wore a thick layer of thermal clothing and a woolen beanie. The water was going to be icy cold, and having already checked and rechecked the math of their decompression requirements at this altitude, hypothermia would be their greatest risk.

  On their heads, each wore a Neptune Space Diver Mask with a push-to-talk communications system (PTT), double LED lighting, and a camera to record the trip.

  Loading their equipment first, Sam and Tom climbed down into the inflatable Zodiac, in which they were able to motor to the middle of the lake. Where the lake turned from light green to an almost black aquamarine signified that they’d reached the deepest section of the lake. There, they ran a dive line to the bottom.

  “Let’s see how deep this thing goes…” Sam said, as he started to feed the dive wire.

  “100 feet, and still running freely,” Tom said a few minutes later.

  “Keep her going until she reaches the bottom.”

  “150 feet, and still going.”

  “If our airship is sitting at the bottom, I can see why she remained hidden so long,” Sam said. “Diving near ten thousand feet is one thing, diving to depths below 150 feet while at such altitudes, is another thing entirely for the recreational diver.”

  “Forget the recreational diver. I’m a professional, and I’m still not keen on it.” The wire stopped running at 180 feet, and the line went slack. They had reached the bottom. Tom looked at Sam, and asked, “Shall we see what’s at her bottom?”

  “Let's.”

  They would do their deepest dive first. Besides, they both were eager to know whether or not their hunch was right, and the most likely answer to that question was waiting for them at the deepest part of the lake.

  Sam placed the regulator in his mouth, checked that his buoyancy contr
ol device (BCD) was inflated, placed his right hand on his facemask, and rolled backwards off the zodiac.

  He broke the still of the morning’s water with a giant splash, the icy water sending lightning signals up his spine.

  I don’t care how beautiful it is, I hate altitude diving.

  A moment later, Sam was floating on the surface of the lake. He placed his hand on his head, forming a simple symbol for the letter “O” which meant that all was okay.

  Above him, in the Zodiac, he watched Tom respond, using the same symbol, before following him into the water.

  Once the bubbles settled, he heard Tom’s voice through the PTT device in his facemask.

  “You didn’t mention how fucking cold the water is!”

  “I didn’t think you’d follow me in if I did.”

  “Come on, let’s start the descent.” Tom said. “Hypothermia’s going to be a bitch the longer we wait.”

  The two of them started to descend.

  The clear water made it all but impossible to determine distances. Sam was always baffled when people would talk to him about how scary it was diving in murky water. When the water was crystal clear like this, your depth perception became so warped that it was easy to make the kind of mistakes that get you killed, either during a descent or ascent. For that reason, both men kept their depth gauges out in front as they made their descent.

  Sam’s eyes feasted on the surreal environment they had entered.

  The limestone gave a distinct green glow through the water, as the sun’s rays penetrated the surface above. Near the rock where their helicopter rested, Sam could see a series of tunnels, all of which were much too small for the Magdalena to have entered, but which caused a myriad of reflective displays as the light traveled through. He made a mental note to come back and explore them later, if given the chance to do so before they left.

  At a depth of ten feet, he opened his jaw, subconsciously equalizing for the change in pressure, as he continued his descent.