walkway, being very careful not look over the rail that his hand had latched onto for dear life. The catwalks where the launches docked were little more than an iron framework that hung below the smooth surface of the airship. Along each side, several staircases ran up into the interior of the ship, above. Feeling that it would be safe to look up, Braxton craned his neck back to get a good look at the massive ship above him. He could see the ribs of its internal skeleton as the canvas stretched over them, running up and over the top and out of sight. He hadn’t worked with airships before, but he knew that between each rib was a separate bag of volatile hydrogen, holding the entire vessel up.
“Snap it up, Captain,” Sherman growled. He’d climbed a staircase to a polished wooden door whose brass hardware gleamed in the afternoon light.
Braxton hurried up the stairs and followed Sherman inside the body of the airship. Sherman led him along at a quick pace, down a narrow corridor passing many doors and ending up, eventually, in the ship’s armory. Racks of rifles and cases of shells lined shelves along the walls along with tube-shaped mortar launchers and several Gatling guns. At workbenches spread around the open area, men in coveralls were loading cartridges with powder and shot. No one looked up as they entered and made their way along the edge of the room to an opening in the far wall.
Next came the mess hall, where a dozen cooks labored over hot ovens and steaming pots. A framework of pipes crisscrossed the ceiling, undoubtedly connected to the ship’s water tank, ready to douse the room if a fire broke out. Braxton’s stomach growled in protest as he passed the kitchen. The hall ended just beyond, dropping down out of the ship and into the pilot-house.
If anything, the pilot-house was worse than the catwalk. It was long and wide and ringed all around with windows, even under the metal grate of the floor. To Braxton it felt a little like walking off a cliff. He hesitated a moment before stepping off the last stair. A complex control column that looked like a ship’s binnacle with a prominent ship’s wheel mounted to it stood at the front of the pilot’s deck. A second column, slightly less complex but mounted with an equally impressive wheel, stood on the left side facing outward. On the right side, a third column supported what looked like the most complex engine telegraph system Braxton had ever seen. Three sets of drum-like telegraphs were situated on the column, one above the other, with a handle on each side. Each of these three control columns was manned by pilots and officers who looked far too young to entrust with their lives. Above each of the pilots’ heads was a panel with an impressive array of gauges, dials, and valves registering everything from pitch and yaw to boiler pressure and ballast.
On each side of the pilot house, and at the rear, sat a lookout armed with field glasses. Even here, above New York City, they swept the skies intently, calling “all clear” every few minutes. The only other person present was a signals officer, sitting in front of a row of different colored voicepipes that communicated with various parts of the airship.
“Is the fleet ready to get underway, Mister Hughes?” Sherman called as he arrived. The young man at the helm saluted.
“As per your orders, sir,” he said.
In the center of the space was a narrow table under a hooded lamp that hung from the ceiling. Maps and charts were neatly rolled in a low shelf on one side and Sherman extracted one and spread it out on the table.
“Make your course due west; we’re heading for Pittsburgh,” Sherman said, then turned to the telegrapher. “Pass the word to the signalman, all ships are to follow our course.”
Hughes reached up and pulled one the levers on his overhead console and a steam whistle sounded throughout the airship.
“The ship is yours, Lieutenant Hughes,” Sherman said in a factual
“Snap it up, Captain,” Sherman growled. He’d climbed a staircase to a polished wooden door whose brass hardware gleamed in the afternoon light.
Braxton hurried up the stairs and followed Sherman inside the body of the airship. Sherman led him along at a quick pace, down a narrow corridor passing many doors and ending up, eventually, in the ship’s armory. Racks of rifles and cases of shells lined shelves along the walls along with tube-shaped mortar launchers and several Gatling guns. At workbenches spread around the open area, men in coveralls were loading cartridges with powder and shot. No one looked up as they entered and made their way along the edge of the room to an opening in the far wall.
Next came the mess hall, where a dozen cooks labored over hot ovens and steaming pots. A framework of pipes crisscrossed the ceiling, undoubtedly connected to the ship’s water tank, ready to douse the room if a fire broke out. Braxton’s stomach growled in protest as he passed the kitchen. The hall ended just beyond, dropping down out of the ship and into the pilot-house.
If anything, the pilot-house was worse than the catwalk. It was long and wide and ringed all around with windows, even under the metal grate of the floor. To Braxton it felt a little like walking off a cliff. He hesitated a moment before stepping off the last stair. A complex control column that looked like a ship’s binnacle with a prominent ship’s wheel mounted to it stood at the front of the pilot’s deck. A second column, slightly less complex but mounted with an equally impressive wheel, stood on the left side facing outward. On the right side, a third column supported what looked like the most complex engine telegraph system Braxton had ever seen. Three sets of drum-like telegraphs were situated on the column, one above the other, with a handle on each side. Each of these three control columns was manned by pilots and officers who looked far too young to entrust with their lives. Above each of the pilots’ heads was a panel with an impressive array of gauges, dials, and valves registering everything from pitch and yaw to boiler pressure and ballast.
On each side of the pilot house, and at the rear, sat a lookout armed with field glasses. Even here, above New York City, they swept the skies intently, calling “all clear” every few minutes. The only other person present was a signals officer, sitting in front of a row of different colored voicepipes that communicated with various parts of the airship.
“Is the fleet ready to get underway, Mister Hughes?” Sherman called as he arrived. The young man at the helm saluted.
“As per your orders, sir,” he said.
In the center of the space was a narrow table under a hooded lamp that hung from the ceiling. Maps and charts were neatly rolled in a low shelf on one side and Sherman extracted one and spread it out on the table.
“Make your course due west; we’re heading for Pittsburgh,” Sherman said, then turned to the telegrapher. “Pass the word to the signalman, all ships are to follow our course.”
Hughes reached up and pulled one the levers on his overhead console and a steam whistle sounded throughout the airship.
“The ship is yours, Lieutenant Hughes,” Sherman said in a factual
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