Clive Cussler; Craig Dirgo (38 page)

An airman repeated the instructions.

“Course two, seven, zero,” Rosendahl said.

“Roger,” the helmsman said.

The time was 7:15 A.M. Akron was flying south toward Annapolis.

“There’s the academy,” Milton Perkins, the rumpled Associated Press reporter, remarked.

His compatriot from the
New
York Times,
Harold Temper, stared down at his wristwatch. “I make it twenty minutes past nine.”

Less than an hour later,
Akron
was above Washington, D.C.’s naval yard.

Lunchtime came with
Akron
high above the Pennsylvania countryside.

Temper stared at his plate of food. “Think the crew usually eats like this?”

Perkins cut a piece of steak and left it on his fork while he wolfed down a shrimp. “Nope,” he said, “this spread is just for the special guests and reporters.”

“They must want a nice story to come out,” Temper said.

“They must want Congress to give them more money,” Perkins said, “so they can build some more of these.”

“Why not?” Temper said. “Why not?”

Later that afternoon,
Akron
passed over Philadelphia and steered down toward Trenton. Near sunset, she landed back at her base at Lakehurst.

All in all, it was a successful debut.

FOR THE ORDINARY sailor, choosing an airship instead of a water ship was usually rewarded with better working conditions. The fact was, airship duty was dangerous. Crashes at the start of the program were frequent, but they were becoming less so. Still, if an airship went down, the chance of dying was great.

However, if one put that aside, the actual work aboard was a great deal better than that at sea. For one thing, there was almost no rust to contend with—the great bane of sailors at sea. The duraluminum did not rust, and because of weight limitations, iron was almost nonexistent. As far as food and shelter went, airship travel had a lot going for it—for one thing, the crews were smaller.

Instead of the cook needing to feed thousands of sailors at a single sitting, the pace of work aboard a dirigible lent itself to small groups of men in the mess at one time. Everyone got a hot meal. As far as bunk arrangements went, because of the crew rotation the berths were never crowded. In addition, the motion of
Akron
gently rocked the canvas hammocks while under way.

Even so, the work was not simple and required a recruit with a higher-than-average intelligence and physical stamina. The numerous systems that made up Akron were complex and constantly in need of monitoring and adjustment, and it was important that accurate records were kept. As for stamina, movement inside the hull was along a series of ladders and walkways. The distances were great, and there was sometimes a need for speed.

And then there was the view—an endless carpet of America beneath you.

The view made up for any trying times.

COMMANDER ALGER DRESEL thought he was running late.

Steering his 1926 Pierce-Arrow Roadster past the guard gate at the entrance to Lakehurst, Dresel quickly accelerated down the access roads leading to the blimp hangar. The Pierce was a beautiful two-tone blue, with a tan top, and featured a golf bag compartment that was accessible from outside. He patted the thick buckskin leather on the seat in the forward compartment, then stared at the dash, where an ornate windup clock was set in the stainless steel engine-turned dashboard. Like everything aboard the aged automobile, the clock worked perfectly. Dresel was a lover of all things mechanical, and he personally maintained the Pierce-Arrow to perfection. Nine-fifteen A.M. He would arrive right on time.

Quickly parking, Dresel turned off the engine and removed his luggage.

“ASCENDING,” THE RUDDER man said loudly.

It was Sunday May 8, 1932, just before 6 A.M.
Akron
rose above Lakehurst on the first leg of a cross-country cruise. So far, only one of the new Curtiss planes, XF9C, had been delivered. The new plane and the older-model N2Y would fly up and attach to the amidships hook hanging under Akron’s belly once the airship was over Barnegat Bay, some sixty miles south.

This was Captain Rosendahl’s last cruise as commander of
Akron.
His future replacement, Dresel, stood alongside him in the control car. At 7:20 A.M., just past Toms River, the telephone rang. Rosendahl lifted the receiver.

“Captain,” a crewman in the aircraft dock said, “both planes are safely aboard.”

“Very good,” Rosendahl said. He turned to Dresel. “Both planes are secured. How would you like to take over command for a time?”

“That would be fine, Captain,” Dresel said.

“Command to Commander Dresel,” Rosendahl said.

Rosendahl turned to leave the control car. For the last couple of weeks, he had observed Dresel while on the ground. Rosendahl’s observations had led him to believe that Commander Dresel was a calm and sober officer who cared about his men and his command. Rosendahl was not worried about turning Akron over to him, he just wanted to give the junior officer the benefit of as much flight experience as possible.

Rosendahl had learned that ground training went only so far.

LIEUTENANT HOWARD YOUNG started back down the ladder into his Curtiss. It always felt odd to enter the plane when she was hanging below
Akron.
Climbing up out of the plane was not so strange—the huge fuselage of the airship was overhead, and the mass signaled safety—but descending was another matter. First, the plane was attached by a hook that did not appear to be all that stable. Second, when climbing down, a person had a bird’s-eye view of the ground passing thousands of feet below.

Young made it inside. He retrieved his logbook and a pack of Beeman’s gum he had left inside. Slipping the book inside his leather flight suit, he pulled up the zipper so the book rode close to his stomach, then started back up the ladder. Young was no stranger to blimp operations—he had nearly five dozen takeoffs and landings under his belt—so climbing the ladder was nothing new. He quickly bounded up the rungs. Halfway between the plane and the opening into
Akron,
Young missed a rung. Luckily, his hands were firmly attached to the steps above. As Young’s feet broke loose, he hung in the air by his hands as the wind outside buffeted him. A crewman above started down the ladder, but Young quickly recovered and continued up the ladder.

“You okay, sir?” the crewman asked, when Young entered the cockpit.

“Fine, fine,” Young said, smiling.

“I’m glad,” the crewman said, “because that’s one long step down.”

Young stared out the opening at the ground passing below.

“One real long step,” he said.

THE EASTERN SEABOARD passed underneath Akron as she cruised south.

With the officers, men, and pair of pilots, the total personnel aboard numbered eighty exactly. Staying over the ocean, Akron passed Cape Hatteras, then turned to land. By lunchtime, she was passing over the navy yards at Norfolk, Virginia; just after eight that night she was over Augusta, Georgia.

While the airship was under way, there was a litany of jobs to be performed. Along with the cooking and serving the food, the cooks and mess men were responsible for cleaning the galleys and planning the menu. Electricians prowled the walkways inside the hull, checking connections and tending to any minor or major troubles that might arise. Radio operators handled the communications chores, while engine men tended to each of the eight engines. Riggers climbed inside the hull, making sure that the cloth covering was taut and not leaking, while mechanics tended to the frames and supports. Akron was a miniature city while in flight.

MONDAY THE NINTH,
Akron
passed over Houston just before 4 P.M.

An hour later, the first problem arose.

“Sir,” the crewman shouted over the telephone, “we have a leak in a port fuel tank. Gasoline is entering the hull.”

Rosendahl was in command of the blimp.

“Shut down all the engines save number seven,” he said over the telephone to all hands. “We have liquid fuel inside the hull.”

Next he adjusted the telephone to recall the crewman reporting the spill.

“How much have we lost?” he asked.

“Fifteen hundred gallons, sir,” the man answered.

“Is the fuel still flowing?” Rosendahl asked.

“No, sir,” the crewman said. “It was a crack alongside a weld. The level in the tank is now level with or slightly below the crack. If the ship remains stable, we should not have any further flow.”

“I’ll send a mechanic,” Rosendahl said, “to see if we can temporarily patch the tank.”

“Yes, sir,” the seaman said.

Rosendahl turned to Dresel. “We need to vent the fumes,” he said. “Will you take charge of that?”

“Yes, sir,” Dresel said.

Akron
limped along on engine seven as the fuel was vented.

An hour later, things were looking up. The thick fumes in the control car were receding, and Dresel was reporting that most of the liquid gasoline had flowed out of the hull between spaces in the covering. It seemed the worst had passed.

“Sir,” the radio operator reported by telephone, “San Antonio is reporting thunderstorms.”

Rosendahl stared ahead. The ominous black clouds were still miles ahead, and right now the only ones near Akron were a few white puffy clouds that looked like cotton balls. Just then the hair on Rosendahl’s arms stood out.

“Wow,” he said seconds later, as a huge bolt streaked from one of the innocent-looking clouds and struck the ground below, “all this air is charged.”

Dresel returned to the control car. “The fuel is vented as best we can,” he said. “The rest of the fumes will just need to work themselves out.”

“We’ve got a line of heavy weather ahead,” Rosendahl said. “I’m ordering a course change to the north.”

That night and all of the following day,
Akron
fought the storm.

Wednesday, May 11,
Akron
reached San Diego.

MOORING A BLIMP is not unlike mooring an aircraft carrier—there is a lot that can go wrong.
Akron’s
planes flew down through the cloud cover and landed safely; now it was the huge blimp’s turn to try. Camp Kearney outside San Diego sat on a plateau of scrub brush and dust. Prone to gusts of wind and changing temperatures, she was far from the ideal spot for a blimp base. Still, Rosendahl had little choice—
Akron
was low on fuel.

Fog and clouds made visibility difficult as Rosendahl ordered Akron to descend. They were less than 1,000 feet above the ground before the view cleared. Rosendahl caught sight of the primary winch. The time was 11:42 A.M.

“Get a line down to that winch,” he shouted over the telephone.

And then it all went wrong.

A freak of nature caused the temperature suddenly to drop ten degrees, causing a temporary loss of buoyancy. Rosendahl ordered the engines turned downward, but that stirred up the dust, making visibility difficult.
Akron
barely moved.

“Full open on the helium valves,” Rosendahl ordered.

But Akron’s
angle kept growing.

Then several of the water ballast bags tipped over, pouring some three thousand gallons of water on those below. Nothing was going right.

“That’s it,” Rosendahl ordered. “I want free flight.”

Orders were given to cut the cable holding
Akron
to the winch.

Two men were assigned to the forward cable, but one had abandoned ship by sliding down the cable to ground when the ship had taken her last lurch upward. The single man left was unable to cut the 7/8-inch steel cable. He dropped the bolt cutters to a group on the ground, asking them to cut the cable from below.

At numerous points along
Akron’s
hull, sailors from Camp Kearney were holding lines that would later be attached to anchors. Only their weight held them to the ground. Once the cable was cut, Akron began rising.

APPRENTICE SEAMAN “BUD” Cowart suddenly found himself dangling from a line some twenty feet in the air. Three other seamen had dropped safely to the ground, while Cowart and two more hung on for dear life. As Cowart watched, one of the men on the rope let go. The man plummeted downward. Akron was at a height of one hundred feet and continuing the ascent.

Cowart stared toward the ground in horror.

While the body plummeted down, the other remaining sailor was hanging on by one hand. Just before the first man struck the ground, the second man dropped. Akron was at a height of two hundred feet. A sailor dropped through the air with his arms windmilling. Cowart watched as the man slammed into the earth, bounced a few feet in the air, then came to rest facedown.

Neither man would survive the fall.

Cowart was now alone, and the giant airship continued to climb. Finding toggles on the manila rope, Cowart managed to fashion a crude boatswain’s seat as
Akron
hovered at fifteen hundred feet of elevation. On board the airship, the situation was coming back under control.

“Men,” Captain Rosendahl said over the telephone, “the landing was aborted and now we have a situation on our hands. One of the landing crew is dangling from our mooring line, and we need to get him aboard. Proceed to that objective at a safe pace.”

Hanging the receiver back in the cradle, Rosendahl turned to Dresel.

“You just witnessed the worst that can happen,” he said. “Remember it, and don’t let it happen to you.”

“Yes, sir,” Dresel said.

“Now take over the helm. I’m going back to see how Lieutenant Mayer is doing on bringing aboard that sailor.”

Cowart shouted up at the
Akron.
“When are you going to haul me aboard?”

“It may take an hour or better,” Mayer shouted back, “so secure yourself to ride it out.”

“What’s the deal?” Rosendahl asked.

“We need to get a line to him,” Mayer said, “then try to winch him aboard.”