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  Sky Ship

  By Robert P. McAuley

  Published By

  Robert P. McAuley and Smashwords

  Copyright 2014 by Robert P. McAuley

  Special Smashwords Edition

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  Copyright © 2014 Sky Ship. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Zeppelin, Zep – pe - lin: a rigid airship consisting of a cylindrical trussed and covered frame supported by internal gas cells; invented by Count Ferdinand von Zeppelin 1838-1917, the German inventor who designed and manufactured the first motorized, rigid-frame dirigible balloon (1900).

  Sky Ship: a rigid airship consisting of a cylindrical trussed and aluminum covered frame supported by internal Nitrogen gas cells. Designed and built by Jim P. MacFarlane, the Scottish engineer and visionary, using the specifications of the original zeppelin, but updating them by using modern technology such as: high compression piston engines; stated-of-the-art navigation aides; electronic flight controls and using non-flammable helium gas for lift.

  Sky Ship

  It was a typical Scottish rainy day and MacDonald’s’ Sip & Chat Tea Shoppe was full, which was not unusual at three in the afternoon, for that was when the University of Glasgow classes were let out. University students have been going there for over one hundred years enjoying their afternoon tea, and sometimes something stronger when owner Brian MacDonald wasn’t looking.

  Brian followed his father, and his father’s father, in turning a blind eye as each student tried to find a spot on the wooden booths and walls to carve their initials; not an easy task after so many have passed through the shop over the years.

  In a corner booth sat four young men, all with a mug of tea and a cigar. The biggest, by far, was Jim P. MacFarlane. He stood at six feet two inches, and his thick brown hair must have added another three inches to that. He inherited his thick brown eyebrows from his father and they framed his deep blue eyes. Jim was more beefier than muscle, but he proved to be faster than most of the leaner, young men in a soccer match. Opposite Jim sat Ian MacLangster, a short, thin fellow who said over the roar of young men and women, “So Jim, you’ve got us tingling with anticipation. Just what is it that you’re finally going to share with us?”

  Sean Ferguson nudged Ian and said; “He’s been up drawing well after lights-out for more than five months now.” He pulled deeply on his cigar and continued, “I suspected at first it was a novel about vampires, but when I once caught him at it, he was doodling on a sheet of brown meat market paper.” He spread his arms out wide, “You know the one that comes on a long roll to wrap meats in.”

  “Here, hear, now,” said the fourth men, Jan Svejourn as he patted Jim’s back. “I who come from the land that has sun for months at a time, know the power of the moon when it’s out. And to me, it’s quite evident that Jim Macfarlane is a Swede dressed in a Scotch kilt. For he seems to do his work at night while all the others are sleeping.” They all laughed and Jim stood and held up his hands.

  “Hush! You bunch of Magpies.” His Scottish burr became thicker as he went on. “Because before you lads, a great man stands.”

  They all broke up at that, but Jim continued.

  “Tut, tut laddies,” he said as he reached for his large backpack, unbuckled the stays and pulled out a large sheet of brown paper, rolled to resemble a tube. He held it up for them to see and continued.

  “Behold, the project that allowed you all to sleep in peace. For, had it not been for this, I would have put my mind to various ways of torturing you as you tried to get your forty winks. Short-sheeting being just one of the many ways, but!” he held up his index finger to emphasize his point, “as I said, this project kept my, very active and inventive mind, busy.” He paused and very theatrically took a sip of his tea before going on.

  “Now we all know the many wonderful inventions the Scotch have brought to the world to allow their fellow men and women to be at ease in their everyday chores . . .”

  Friendly boos came from the three as they waited for his project to be unfurled. But Jim was not about to be rushed as he held their attention and once again went for his tea as his friends rolled their eyes at his dramatics.

  “As I was saying, the Scot’s invented; the Macadam road, the raincoat, adhesive on the back of stamps, the telephone, the bicycle, penicillin, and I could go on for hours, but now we have another Scots idea to show the world.” He suddenly threw open the rolled paper as one would put a tablecloth on a table. It opened and covered the wooden table from end to end.

  “Behold gentlemen, the Sky Ship!”

  The three stood and looked at it. Part of it was drawn in pencil, part in ink and parts in magic marker and in one spot, by crayon. There were eraser marks in many places and at least four spots had a square of paper taped over a part that was evidently rendered in ink and couldn’t be erased. They stood silent as Jim watched with a big grin on his face.

  In a hushed tone of voice Ian asked, “Sky Ship, you say James? Is it a rocket then?”

  “Naw,” said Sean before Jim could answer, “That’s an aerial torpedo. Right Jim?”

  Jim sat down and slapped his forehead in mock shock. “Ach! You’re all daft in the head lads! Can you not see the majestic lines? The power of her? The placement of her engines? The gondola on her belly? The mighty rudder and elevators at the tail? Lads! She’s a lighter-than-airship . . . a zeppelin so to speak.”

  The men sat down. It was obvious to Jim that they recognized what it was he had designed, and they looked at it as young engineers would. That they faked ignorance was the way the group taunted one another. Now they settled down and got serious.

  “So,” said Ion as he pointed to the specifications, “she’s eight hundred feet long.” He looked at Jim and continued with a look of concern. “What’s she made of? I mean, at that length she needs strength, man.”

  Jim nodded as he sipped his cup of tea. “Aye, Ion. Strength is what she needs and strength is what she gets. She’s to be built with Kevlar and composite materials.”

  Jan shrugged and added, “Kevlar and composite material. Both are stronger than steel, yet lighter. Good, good.”

  “Here gents,” Jim said as he stood. “I took the drawings and specs from the 1930s German airship, Hindenburg, and updated them using today’s technology. I replaced old-fashioned wire controls and pulleys with fly-by-wire controls, as the airliners have. I used modern high-compression piston engines that are housed in moveable pods for maneuverability and added scimitar propellers. The thick, paddle shaped propellers give more thrust and better gas mileage plus they are quieter. Of course, I used helium instead of the highly combustible hydrogen the Hindenburg used. I figure she can fly as fast as ninety-five miles an hour or hover at zero.”

  Sean chimed in, “What would her mission be?”

  Jim sat back, crossed his arms, took a puff of his cigar and said, “I want her to be the queen
of the skies! I want her to do what no airline can promise their passengers: fly, low and slow.” He suddenly sat forward, his blue eyes wide. “Trips from, say, Glasgow to Africa, South America or the North Pole! I mean, imagine flying two hundred feet above the ground at thirty miles an hour? The passengers would line the windows as they watched sights go by only seen by the National Geographic’s photographers. Why, you could almost pick an apple off the top of a tree! Now, I ask you: what airline could offer that to you? None!” He sat back and Ion said it for them all, “Ach, James, P. MacFarlane, you’re a dreamer.”

  Twenty-two years later.

  REPUBLIC OF IRAJH

  The sun beat down on the hard-caked, almost pure white sand. The only movement was a snake, which slowly slithered across it and left a slightly smudged trail in its wake. The deadly silence suddenly exploded in a roar of engine and propeller noises as a black helicopter slid surrealistically into place overhead and blocked out the sun. Ropes fell from the both sides of the copter and a group of gas-masked commandos rappelled onto a massive, white building, firing Uzis and tossing grenades as they descend. Muffled grunts are all that heard from the commandos between the sounds of gunfire, as they ran through sand that crunched beneath their feet. To the trained eye it’s evident that these men don’t need orders to accomplish their task of destruction. As one kicked a door in, another tossed a grenade in and followed it in after the explosion, firing from the hip. The first man is already kicking the next-door down and this scene is being repeated, as the building appeared to crumble under the onslaught of the highly efficient killers. A big man kneeled down as another group of commandos used his back as a stepping stool and in seconds all were on the buildings’ balcony. They burst through doors that over-looked a long table and unleashed a long, steady, automatic weapons’ fire at the twelve figures sitting there.

  Finally, the shooting ended, and all was quiet save for the rolling of a spent cartridge shell on the concrete of the balcony floor. The action lasted less than ninety seconds.

  A tall man wearing steel-rimmed glasses and fatigues entered the balcony and clapped his hands in applause. Colonel Abdul Aziz of the Royal Guard Commando Unit of the Republic of Irajh entered the room crunching broken glass beneath his highly polished combat boots. All eyes were on the fifty-year old who maintained the looming, muscular presence of a formidable athlete. The Colonel gestured and the commandos removed their gas masks. The faces of the fourteen commandos showed that all were young Arab men. Colonel Aziz walked over to the bullet-riddled table and with a smile, patted one of the shot-up bodies slumped over the table. He suddenly pulled it up into a sitting position and stuck his finger into one of the many bullet holes that had white cotton stuffing sticking out of the realistic looking dummies. Now torn up by the fusillade, the life-like figures are slumped, or pitched forward in their chairs in a disturbingly human way with stuffing, rather than blood coming out of them. A small, crudely made sign sat in the center of the table: 'OPEC.' The colonel did a small salute to his men as they stood at attention, walked down the stairs and out into the hot sun.

  As he exited the smoking building he was quickly joined by one of his command, Hadi Bakr. Bakr was built like cinder blocks, but he looked small next to Colonel Aziz. They approach five Arab men - Irajhian government officials - in traditional desert dress who stood beside an aqua BMW and a four-wheel drive vehicle. The men broke into applause and Colonel Aziz nodded graciously; Hadi was unmoved.

  A small man stood slightly in front of the other four and did a slight bow to Aziz. “Well done Colonel Aziz. Well done.” He shaded his eyes even though he wore dark glasses. “Just as you said it would be.”

  “Thank you, your Excellency.”

  One of the men behind the leader opened a large blueprint and another joined him as they spread it across the hood of the 4X4.

  “Now, Colonel Aziz,” the leader continued, ”let me introduce you to the Sky Ship. The Americans like to say it is the greatest airship that has ever flown.”

  Aziz grinned and answered, “Well, then, I’ll have to be careful with it, won’t I?

  They laughed as Aziz took a close look at the schematic. It depicted a side view of the spectacular, 800 ft. long dirigible, Sky Ship.

  Miami, Florida, U.S.A.

  The Miami sun had gone down, but the small, two-room apartment seemed to always be hot. Mel Kankin kicked off his shoes, stood up and looked at his five feet, four-inch chubby frame in the mirror attached to the door of his closet. He pushed back his thinning brown hair and rubbed his finger along the front of his teeth. He smiled at the forty-two year old man that looked back at him in the full length mirror and said in a whisper, “’Ya still got it Mel, ya still got it.” He sucked in his belly as much as he could and let it out as soon as he realized how uncomfortable it was to try to change what Mother Nature had given him. The pipes in his bathroom banged in protest as water suddenly flowed through them. Mel’s’ eyes twitched nervously as he realized that he had to do something he hadn’t done in years; make love to a woman! And, he thought, not just a woman, a very beautiful woman. How could that have happened? Out of all the guys in the bar she smiled at me. Oh well, let’s not dissect this. She evidently likes my type and that’s all.” He sat on his bed to remove his socks and jumped up again as she called him.

  “Mel, are you coming in to wash my back?”

  Mel’s suddenly dry-mouth hung open.

  She called again. “Mel, are you okay, honey?”

  “Ye- yes Rennie, I-I’m fine.”

  “Well,” she answered, “I hope you’re as naked as I am.”

  “I-I am hon-honey,” Mel answered as he removed his socks then his pants. He walked slowly to the bathroom door and opened it a crack.

  Rennie was standing in his shower with her back to him. She was at least five inches taller and ten years younger than him. Mel watched mesmerized as the water ran down her back and over her full hips.

  She looked back over her shoulder and with a smile said, “Mel. Don’t tell me you’re shy? Come on in and wash my back.”

  He opened the door and fumbled as he entered sheepishly. She turned and faced him, her hands on her hips, “Mel, get in this shower right away.” She wiggled a finger at him and with a sexy smile continued, “What’s a girl have to do, to be with a handsome guy these days.”

  Mel lowered his eyes at that and stepped into the shower. She ran her hands over his shoulders as she looked down at him. He was embarrassed at his lack of excitement. “Turn around honey,” she said softly. “Let me wash your back.” He turned and she put one hand on the back of his head and cupped his chin with the other from behind. She spun his head quickly and with a sickly snap, broke his neck and he collapsed dead in a heap on the shower floor. She stepped out and pulled his body half out. She rubbed some soap on his feet and on the floor outside the shower and leaving the water running, dried off and went to his clothes. She removed his wallet and fished out an identification card. It showed his picture and printed beneath it was Mel Kankin, Steward, MacFarlane Corporation. At the bottom of the card was an electronic bar code. She put his I.D. card in her pocketbook and took an exact duplicate from her pocketbook and slipped it in his wallet. She left his apartment making sure there were no prints left behind. The next days’ newspaper had a small article in the obit column stating that Mel Kankin slipped getting of his shower and broke his neck.

  Littleneck Road, Miami, Florida, U.S.A.

  The road went straight through a large cornfield before the house appeared. “Stay here,” said Ahmid Quaffed to Quami, a dark skinned man as he left the parked car. Half way to the house, the front door opened and an elderly, gray haired man stepped out and limped towards him. Quaffed smiled as he shook hands with the man. Quaffed’s dyed blond hair stood out strikingly against his dark complexion.

  “Jim Froman, he said as he introduced himself and eyed the man for any sign of suspicion.

  “Bill Reid,“ the man answered as he turned
to the barn. “Guess you want to see her right off, right, Mr. Froman?”

  Quaffed, not sure of the mid-west language nodded as he kept a smile on his face. “Then, come right this way young feller.” The man then limped towards a barn as Quaffed followed. He pulled open the door and the sunlight showed what Quaffed had come for: A yellow, fabric covered, single engine Piper Cub J3 aircraft.

  “Sure hope you take good care of her feller.” said the elderly man with sincere sadness in his voice. “She took me and the missus to all the county fairs for hundreds of miles around.” He put his hands on his hips as he looked at her with obvious love in his eyes. “Yep, Ol’ Yeller did a great job all these years. But, what with Emma gone now, I don’t like flying around too much anymore.”

  Quaffed played along with him, “You’re right, she’s a beauty! Exactly what I was looking for. I hope my wife and I will be able to spend as much time in her as you and your wife did.” He opened his backpack and asked, “Now, you said on the phone, eleven thousand dollars, right?”

  The man nodded, “Yes, but if that’s too much, I’ll . . . “

  Quaffed handed him the eleven thousand in cash and the man was speechless. “Mr. Reid,” asked Quaffed, “is it too much to ask if I can leave it here for a month? I have no hangar yet and I want to put a set of pontoons on her so we can do some lake fishing.”

  The gray haired man patted him on the back. “No problem, Mr. Froman. You can keep her in the barn long as you want.” He walked Quaffed back to his car. There was another man waiting in the car and Reid smiled at him. He wondered why the man just stared back at him with fire in his eyes. Oh well, he thought as the car sped off in a cloud of dust and thrown back gravel, guess Mr. Reid can’t help if his friend is unfriendly.