In last week’s episode, John-Pombe Maganga’s life was destroyed by a terrible flood. In this week’s episode, David is back aboard the St. Paul as she begins her rescue mission…
David was just falling into a deep sleep when he was awakened by the sound of the quartermaster knocking on his cabin door.
He nearly bumped his head on the upper bunk as he sat up, rubbing his eyes groggily. David looked around the room to get his bearings. He had the uncomfortable but familiar sensation of not knowing where he was. It all came rushing back to him; he was on board the St. Paul, a quick glance out of the porthole by his bed informed him that it was still dark outside, before dawn. There seemed to be a lot of activity outside with the ground crew. He slipped on his flight suit, grabbed his shaving kit, and made his way to the latrine, which he had been informed was more properly called the ‘head.’
Freshly cleaned and shaved from long habit, David made his way to the galley where the quartermaster was already preparing a meal. David glanced longingly at the coffee brewing in the stainless steel coffee maker. From where he was working, rolling dough out thinly on a cutting board, Ranell noticed the direction David was looking and said, “Go ahead and grab a cup. Then I’ll show you how to make croissants.”
As the two men worked, Ranell explained to David that everyone on board the St. Paul had multiple roles to perform. The crew was just too small for any sort of specialization, so everyone had to pitch in to accomplish the tasks at hand. That’s why Ranell, the ship’s logistics officer, also served as the ship’s chef. Now David would be expected to assist him in the capacity of sous-chef. David had absolutely no experience with any form of cooking, but it was clear that the culinary arts were one of Ranell’s passions.
Fortunately, the quartermaster was patient and took the time to make his expectations clear. He also kept the tasks simple enough for David to perform. Ranell handed David triangular-shaped pieces of raw dough, and David’s job was to roll them from the fat end toward the pointed tip and then bend them slightly into the shape of croissants and place them on the baking pan. The whole ship was soon suffused with the delightful aroma of baking bread.
The distinctive sound of feet ascending the aluminum staircase heralded the arrival of the rest of the crew. Three men, dressed in the gray-blue PIRA flight suits, had already completed the external inspection of the great airship. Now, as they entered the hatch, they made hearty exclamations of appreciation for the fragrant scents of hot coffee and fresh bread.
The first man to enter was someone he had seen before at the mission brief, Captain Douglass Pruitt, the Pilot of the St. Paul. The other two were first officer Jim Foote, the co-pilot, and Lieutenant Ivan Singh, the navigator.
You always want to remember the faces of the officers, David. Lieutenant Rodriguez’s voice whispered in his ear, like you remember mine. So you know who you belong to.
Foote was a tall, heavy-set man with a serious countenance that stood in marked contrast to the open, expressive face of the diminutive Captain Pruitt. Singh had close-cropped black hair with dark, almost black eyes and appeared to be much younger than either of the other men, but he somehow managed to wear the PIRA flight suit in a rakish style that made him appear adventurous or heroic. David took an instant dislike to him.
With fresh coffee poured into non-spill cups, David brought out the tray of croissants, and introductions were made all around. A knock came from the door behind the galley that led to the cargo hangar, and in came a group of four technicians carrying tool cases and smelling faintly of diesel fuel.
The leader of the group addressed Captain Pruitt: “We’ve got the new BATT fuel tank installed. You should be able to see it registering now on your control panel.”
First officer Foote was closest to the control panel. He bent down to examine the gauges more closely and confirmed, “I’ve got it.”
The newly installed fuel tank was a simple, gravity-fed system that fed the spare fuel stored in the cargo hold down into the regular fuel tanks located below the gondola’s deck. The bright orange fuel tank was constructed of high-density polyethylene and infused with a non-corrosive UV stabilized resin for durability. The collapsible bag was fitted with a series of tie-down straps and interior baffles to minimize the effect of fuel sloshing around inside the tank, potentially causing an imbalance to the St. Paul while she was aloft. However, due to the remarkably smooth flight characteristics of airship operations, this wasn’t deemed a significant risk.
The BATT almost precisely doubled the St. Paul’s standard fuel payload and extended her maximum flight range from 1,650 to 3,300 miles. Even with all the vagaries of airship navigation, the Atlantic crossing was calculated at just over 2,900 miles, so the St. Paul should be able to make the distance with a comfortable margin of error.
Dr. Ranell and a technician went back to inspect the new system’s fittings and control valves, and David followed, trying to learn everything he could. The payload of fuel was dense and heavy, and the new fuel tank seemed to stretch out long and low across the cargo bay floor. Like the rest of the system, the controls were designed for maximum simplicity and consisted of little more than an on/off valve, a small electric pump, an emergency shutoff switch, and a fuel gauge. It was currently set to open and would feed fuel automatically to keep the St. Paul’s tanks topped off. “Once this tank runs dry, the system will shut off automatically. You shouldn’t have to mess with it,” the technician explained.
Back in the main cabin, there were handshakes, well-wishes, and even a few hugs. The technician crew departed down the aluminum staircase. The five members of the St. Paul’s crew stood silently for a moment until Dr. Ranell said softly, “Let us pray.”
The crew members joined hands, and David, somewhat unsure about what to do, joined hands as well. Ranell said, “Heavenly Father. As we begin this voyage, we give thanks for the many labors and the endless hard work required by so many to bring this small team together on this great vessel. We ask for your blessing as we endeavor to undertake this mission of mercy for those suffering from the ravages of the weather. We ask that you use this ship and this crew for your purposes, and to relieve that suffering where we can. We further entreat you, oh Lord, for our safety as we make this perilous journey across these vast expanses. We put our lives in your hands and our continual faith and trust in you. Amen.”
“Amen,” intoned all of the crew members, except for David, but no one noticed that.
Then, the crew of the St. Paul settled into their seats, pulled on their headsets, and began the pre-flight procedures in preparation for takeoff.