The Warlord of the Air Read online

  Eventually my notoriety faded and I began to feel uneasy about my long ‘holiday’ in the Future. I refused offers from publishers to write my memoirs (rather difficult if I really were suffering from amnesia!) and began to consider the various forms of honest employment open to me. Since my career had originally been in the army, I decided that I would prefer to continue, if possible, to serve my country in this way. However, I also entertained the notion that I should like to fly in airships and after making a few enquiries discovered that, without a great deal of training in the various functions of airship flying and navigation, I could obtain a position in the recently formed Special Air Police, There would be various exams and I should have to train for a minimum of six months, but I was confident that I could get through all that without too much trouble. It would not take me long to learn service discipline, for instance!

  The new branch of the service, the Special Air Police, had been formed from the army, primarily, but there were also volunteers from the navy and the air service. It had been formed because of the need to pro­tect civil aircraft against acts of piracy in the air, against potential saboteurs (there had been threats from fanatics but so far no serious damage done) and to protect passengers who might be bothered either by thieves aboard or criminals, for instance, on the run.

  And so I applied and was accepted. I was taken to the Air Service Training School at Cardington and taught some of the mysteries of the wireless telephone —used to communicate within the ship and also with the ground, when necessary. I learned how an airship was flown and what the various technical terms meant. I was given a little practical experience in flying—this was really the only exciting part of my training—and taught the mysteries of meteorology and so forth. Although an air policeman was an army officer rather than a flyer, therefore not expected to fly a vessel, it was considered necessary to know what to do, in case of emergencies. Thus, by the end of my first year in the future (a strange sort of contradiction that, in a way) I was commissioned as a Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Special Air Police and assigned to the A.S. Loch Ness.

  For all she invited the name, the Loch Ness was no monster, but a trim little airship of not much more than 80 tons, with a useful lift of about 60 tons, and she handled beautifully. I was lucky to be assigned to her, though the captain pooh-poohed the necessity of having me aboard and at first was a bit cool towards me.

  The bigger an airship, the more docile she normally is, but the little Loch Ness was quick witted, good natured and reliable. She was never a long hauler. I think the longest run we ever went on was to Gibraltar and the Loch Ness was not really equipped for that, being what was called a ‘soft-covered’ ship (her hull was fabric not ‘plastic’), and she didn’t have an automatic temperature control, so it was the very devil keeping her gas from expanding in the sort of heat you got in the Med. She taught me a lot about airships. It was a bit of a wrench to leave her, for you become attached to an airship rather as a navy man becomes attached to an ordinary ship. But I had only been assigned to her in order to gain some practical experience and I gather I did pretty well because the Macaphee house (who owned the Loch Ness) asked for my C.O. to put me on board the pride of their line, the recently built Loch Etive.

  The Loch Etive was similar to the first commercial ship on which I’d flown, the Light of Dresden. But now that I was familiar with the details of airships, I could fully appreciate her marvels. She was a thousand feet long, with eight diesel engines mounted four a side, with reversible propellers. Her helium capacity was 12,000,000 cubic feet, contained in 24 separate bags inside the hull. Her frame was ‘duralloy’ and she could carry a maximum of 400 passengers and fifty tons of cargo. She could cruise easily at 100 miles an hour and her top speed was 150 mph in good weather. All her works were housed inside the hull, with the exception of the engine casings and propellers. The inspection catwalks on the top and sides of the hull were covered in and for emergencies we had parachutes, inflatable boats, life-jackets and a couple of non-rigid balloons. For the entertainment of the passengers there were kinemas, ballrooms, phonographs, deck sports and party games, restaurants—all anyone might desire concentrated in a space of a quarter of a mile floating two or three thousand feet above the surface of the Earth!

  We were doing the round the world cruise on what was called the All Red Route

  (i.e. the colour on the map of the countries in question) but with a trip over the U.S.A. thrown in for good measure. We went from Britain via Canada and the U.S.A. down to British Ecuador and across to Australia, Hong Kong, Calcutta, Aden, Cairo and back to London. My job was to keep a look out for suspicious customers, check for weapons, bombs, that sort of thing, and—the least pleasant bit-deal with passenger complaints ranging from petty thefts and card-sharping to suspected sabotage attempts. It was a job which, on the whole, left me plenty of time to enjoy the flights and there were rarely any serious emergencies. We had an interesting selection of passengers from all nations and of all colours and creeds—Indian princes, African tribal leaders, British diplomats, American congressmen, high-ranking soldiers, and once we carried the ageing president of the Chinese Republic (which was scarcely more, I’m sorry to say, than a collection of provinces under the control of various warlords). I was particularly impressed by the education and sophistication of the native leaders, particularly the Africans, many of whom might have been mistaken for English gentlemen, save for the colour of their skins.

  The man who had overall responsibility for every detail of the running of the Loch Etive and for every soul aboard her was old Captain Harding, who had been flying airships almost from the start, when it had been altogether a much more perilous business. He had, I learned, been one of the last to command a ‘flying bomb’ as they called the ships which had been filled with explosive gasses, like hydrogen, before the Elephant disaster of 1936, when all hydrogen-filled ships had, by international agreement, been grounded and broken up. I gathered that he was not altogether happy about commanding a passenger liner, particularly one as modern as the Loch Etive, but on the other hand he hated the idea of retiring. The air, he said, was his natural environment and he was damned if he was going to spend more of his life than he had to in some blasted birdcage in Balham. I got the impression that he would die if he was forced to give up flying. He was one of the most decent men I had ever met and I developed an enormous affection for him, spending much time in his company during the long periods aboard when there was nothing much to do. “They don’t need a blasted captain on that gadget-run bridge,” he would say, a trifle bitterly. “They could command it by telephone from London if they wanted to.”

  I suppose it was my strong affection for Captain Harding which led to the first disaster of my new life. A disaster which was to lead to others, of increasing consequence, until the final one.... But again I’m running ahead of my story.

  It all began with a freakish change in the weather after we had left San Francisco, bound for British Ecuador, Tahiti, Tonga and points west. You could blame it on the elements, I suppose, or on me—but I’m rather inclined to blame an offensive little Californian ‘scout-leader’ called Reagan. Certainly, if Reagan had not come aboard the Loch Etive I should not have found myself at the centre of subsequent events—events which were to alter the destinies of a good many people and perhaps even the whole world.

  Chapter II

  A Man with a Big Stick

  WE WERE MOORED at Berkeley Airpark, taking on cargo and passengers. Because of a delay in finding mast-space, we were a bit behind schedule and hurrying to make up the time as fast as we could. I was keeping an eye on both cargo and passengers, watching the great crates being winched into the bowels of the ship through her loading hatches underneath the lower deck. The liner was secured by about fifty thick steel cables, keeping her perfectly steady at her mast. In the bright sunlight, she cast a wide shadow across the field. I couldn’t help feeling proud of her as I looked up. Her hull was silver blue and the round Union Jac
k shields shone on her huge tailplanes. Her particulars were emblazoned on her main hull: RMA 801 (her registration number) Loch Etive, London; Macaphee Lines, Edinburgh.

  All about me were moored ships of American Imperial Airways, the Versailles Line, Royal Austro-Prussian Aerial Navigation Company, Imperial Russian Airship Company, Air Japan, Royal Italian Air Lines and many smaller lines, but the Loch Etive, it seemed to me, was the finest. She was certainly one of the most famous aerial passenger liners.

  Some distance away from the airpark buildings I made out a green electric omnibus, bouncing over the turf towards our mast. These would be the last of our passengers. Rather late, I thought. I had been warned that the William Randolph Hearst, of American Imperial, had developed engine trouble and that, since we flew basically the same route, some of her passengers were being transferred to our ship. Probably these were they. We were almost ready to go. I watched the last item of cargo being winched aboard, saw the loading doors shut in the ship’s belly, and with a sense of relief went back towards the mast.

  Although there was a lift moving up and down in the central column of the mooring mast, this was for the use of passengers and officers. The ground crew were using the spiral staircase which wound round the lift shaft I watched them hurrying up to take their positions. The fuel lighters had long-since been towed away.

  At the entrance to the lift shaft I stood beside the embarkation officers who stood on both sides of the doors, checking boarding cards and tickets. There was nothing suspicious about the well-to-do Americans who were coming aboard, though they seemed a trifle annoyed at discovering they were to fly on a different ship.

  I smiled a little as I saw a man at the end of the queue. He was about fifty and dressed rather ridiculously in Khaki shorts, knee stockings and green badge-festooned shirt. He carried a polished pole with a little flag on it and on his head was a wide-brimmed brown hat. His comical appearance was heightened by the look of stern self-importance on his red, lumpy face. His knees shone as redly as his nose and I wondered if he were, perhaps, a kinematograph or music hall comedian who had not had time to change. Behind him were a score of similarly clad boys of about twelve years old, with knapsacks on their backs and poles in their hands, all looking as deadly serious as the man.

  “Why on earth is he dressed like that?” I asked the nearest officer.

  “It’s the American version of the Baden-Powell Youth Brigade,” said the man. “Weren’t you ever in the Brigade?”

  I shook my head. “And what are these?”

  “The Roosevelt Scouts,” my informant told me. “The Young Roughriders, I believe they’re called.”

  “Their leader doesn’t look too young.” The man had now turned his back on me, presenting a bulging posterior on which the khaki cloth threatened to burst.

  “A lot of these people stay in the scouts,” said the officer. “They never grow up. You know the type. Enjoy ordering the kids around.”

  “I’m glad I’m not in charge of that gang,” I said feelingly, casting my eye over the pimply faces which glowered nervously now from beneath the brims of their hats. They had plainly not been on an airship before.

  Then I noticed something which made me realise I was forgetting my duties. Around the scout-leader’s rather portly middle was strapped a leather belt and on the belt was attached a large pistol holster. When he came up to the officer inspecting tickets I waited until he was finished and then saluted politely.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid all weapons must be given into our care until you disembark. If you wouldn’t mind handing me your revolver...”

  The man gestured angrily with his pole and tried to push past me. “Come on, boys!”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t allow you to go aboard until...”

  “It is my right to wear a gun if I choose. What sort of tomfool...?”

  “International airshipping regulations, sir. If you’ll allow me to take the gun I’ll get you a receipt for it and you can claim it—“ I glanced at his tickets—“when you reach Sydney, Mr Reagan.”

  “Captain Reagan,” he snapped. “Roughriders.”

  “Captain Reagan. Unless you give me your pistol, we can’t allow you to join the flight.”

  “I wouldn’t have this trouble on an American ship. Wait until...”

  “International regulations apply to American ships as well as British, sir. We shall have to leave without you.” I glanced significantly at my watch.

  “Snotty-nosed upstart!” Purple with rage he snarled something else under his breath, then fumbled with his buckle and slid the holster off his belt. He hesitated, then handed it to me. I snapped it open and looked at the gun.

  “I know,” he said. “It’s an air pistol. But it’s very powerful.”

  “The regulations still apply, sir. Are—um—any more of your chaps armed in this way?”

  “Of course not. I was in the Roughriders. The real Roughriders. One of the last to be disbanded. Come on, men.” He pointed forward with his pole and marched into the lift, the earnest troop behind him all glaring at me in outrage at my having caused their leader to lose face. There was room in the lift for me, but I decided to use the stairs. I wasn’t sure I could keep a straight face for very much longer.

  Once aboard I gave the gun to the purser and received a receipt in exchange. I gave the receipt to the first steward I encountered and told him to take it to Captain Reagan’s cabin. Then I went up to the bridge. We were about to let go. This was when it was worth being on the bridge and I never tired of the experience. One by one the anchor cables were released and I felt the ship surge a little as if impatient to be freed completely and get back aloft. The motors began to murmur and in the side-mirrors I could see the propellers slowly turning. The captain looked forward and then below and checked his periscopes to make sure our stern was clear. He gave the instructions and the catwalk was drawn away from the mast, back into the hull. Now all that held the ship were the couplings attaching her to the mast.

  Captain Harding spoke into the telephone. “Stand by to slip.”

  “Ready to slip, sir,” replied the Mast Controller’s voice from the receiver.

  “Slip.”

  There was a slight jerk as the couplings fell free. The Loch Etive began to turn, her nose still nestling in the cone.

  “All engines half-speed astern.” By his tone, Captain Harding was relieved to be on his way. He stroked his white walrus moustache rather as a satisfied cat might stroke its whiskers. The diesels began to roar as we pulled out of the cone. Our bow rose.

  “Half-speed ahead,” said the captain. “Two degrees to port, Steering Coxswain.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Two degrees to port.”

  “Take us up to five hundred feet, Height Coxswain, and hold steady.”

  “Five hundred feet, sir.” The Height Cox turned the large wheel at which he was positioned. All around us on the large bridge instruments were whirring and clicking and we were presented with a display of readings which would have thoroughly confused an old-time ship’s captain.

  The vast airpark fell away below us and we turned towards the sparkling ocean of San Francisco Bay. Below us we saw the hulls of the land-bound ships dwindling in size. The Loch Etive was behaving as beautifully as usual, almost flying herself.

  Now we were over the ocean.

  “Five degrees to port, Steering Coxswain,” said Captain Harding, leaning over the computer console.

  “Five degrees to port, sir.”

  We began to turn so that from our starboard portholes we could see the skyscrapers of San Francisco-painted in a thousand dazzling colours.

  “Take her up to two thousand feet, Height Coxswain.”

  “Two thousand feet, sir.”

  Up we went, passing through a few wisps of cloud, into the vast sea of blue which was the sky.

  “All engines full ahead.”

  With a great roar of power, the mighty engines pushed the ship forward. She surged on at a st
eady hundred and twenty miles an hour, heading for South America, carrying 385 human souls and 48 tons of cargo as effortlessly as an eagle might carry a mouse.

  By that evening, the story of my encounter with the scout-leader had spread throughout the crew. Fellow officers stopped me and asked how I was getting on with ‘Roughrider Ronnie’ as someone had nicknamed him, but I assured them that, unless he proved to be a dangerous saboteur, I was going to avoid him punctiliously for the rest of the voyage. However, it was to emerge that he did not share my wish.

  My second encounter came that night when I was making my tour of duty through the ship, normally a long and rather boring business.

  The fittings of the Loch Etive were described in the company’s brochures as ‘opulent’ and, particularly in the first class quarters, they were certainly lavish. Everywhere the ‘plastic’ was made to look exactly like marble, like oak, mahogany and teak, like steel or brass or gold. There were curtains of plush and silk drawn back from the wide observation ports running the length of the ship, there were deep carpets in blue and red and yellow, comfortable arm chairs in the lounges or on the decks. The recreation decks, restaurants, smoking rooms, bars and bathrooms were all equipped with the latest elegant gadgets and blazed with electric lighting. It was this luxury which made the Loch Etive one of the most expensive aerial liners in the skies, but most passengers thought it worth paying for.