Matthias Scott - Air Pirate; Part 2

The gray sky was lit with a series of white-gold flashes as lightning arced through the heavy, low-hanging clouds. The storm was a large one, and easily powerful enough to be rated as a low-end hurricane. Rain fell in sheets, and thunder rolled, vibrating and shaking the glass of the rigid airship's bridge. Even the very floor of the lighter-than-air vessel's command center jostled like an earthquake, but the cargo carrier's commander, Captain Stirling, didn't issue a single order to take them out of the storm's wrath. He saw this wicked bout of weather as a blessing. The sky lanes had been getting hit more and more often by pirates, and he was so very sure that they wouldn't dare attempt boarding his vessel in such a gale. Unfortunately, he did not know the man that he was destined to be facing this day. The storm would prove to be his undoing, rather than his savior.

Above the roar of the thunder, cracking of the lightning, and whirring of the Silver Fayer’s propellers outside, nobody could hear the other airship that loomed over them. The watchmen in their covered positions atop the airship's frame might have been able to see it in clear skies, but not through the storm. They'd given up trying to see out through the glass panes that formed their lookout bubbles hours ago. The clouds seemed to be pressed right up against the glass, and the relentless rain distorted their vision even worse. Adding to that, the lightning that surged through the clouds and so brilliantly lit the sky was blinding – even through the dark lenses of the goggles that they wore. The lookouts were useless, and with the bridge being slung beneath the airship as part of the massive gondola that spanned from one end of the vessel to the other, they could only see downward.

Above the Silver Fayer loomed the Crimson Albatross – her drop lines prepared and the first wave of her boarding party standing at the ready next to their tethers in the maintenance hangar. Just like the Fayer, the Albatross was a dirigible, but it was half again the length and diameter of the cargo vessel. While the cargo airship was held aloft with tanks of helium, the former military airship above her was held up with large gasbags full of hydrogen. Yet, she was not considered an antique to the extent that one might think. Those bags had two linings, and between the two was a gel-like substance that would seal them if they were punctured. The skin of the craft was, likewise, not the combustible fabric of older military lighter-than-air vessels. Rather, it was comprised of a tightly woven silk-like material that was not only resistant to bullets, but fire as well.

The men standing by their tethers were not dressed like what one might expect of men that were meant to repel down lines from one airship to another. But then, they weren't really repelling down, so much as being lowered. Each of them wore a long black trench coat that was fastened in the front, steel-toe combat boots, a black helmet, and a crisp black uniform set beneath. Each bit of clothing was made (or at least comprised in part) of the same material as the airship's fabric hull. Their hands were not visible either, each one having them shrouded in a leather-covered arm brace that ended with a wicked-looking hook. The braces were connected to a vest that was beneath their uniform shirt. The purpose? Simple; the hooks were meant to hook into the fabric hull so that the men could grab the side of the vessel below them when they were lowered down. At the moment, the hatches they would descend through were sealed tightly.

They were standing nearby, waiting for their order, but it would not be coming until the Fayer was appropriately highlighted below the Albatross. Due to the storm, the Albatross hardly knew where the Fayer was, aside from when there was a flash of lightning below the other vessel that would highlight it. They had used that to find their target, but didn't dare send their men down lines without knowing exactly where the vessel was as they did so. To that end, they had a way to mark the vessel – four bright red light beacons that could be attached to the other ship and seen through the storm thanks to their color and intensity. In some sense, they were more like an oversized road flare inside a bulb, but they worked.

The way to attach them was also simple, though incredibly hazardous if one was not trained to do so. To attach them, a crewman had to be placed on the other vessel. How? He would be flown over in a two-seat recon plane and jump from it onto the back of the other vessel when the plane was near its stall speed. The idea was that the plane would be going slow enough so that, when the man leaped, he could grab the airship with hooks and then climb down to where he needed to go to plant the beacons. Fortunately, they did have one man that had this training, and even experience in doing so – unfortunately, he was also the Captain, and while most officers in such a position knew that they should be on the bridge issuing commands... Captain Matthias Scott was not that sort of officer.

Down below the Albatross, coming up on the rear of the Fayer, a two-seat scout plane approached at what appeared to be a leisurely pace. Her broad wings, however, made her difficult to control in the storm when she was at such a slow speed – barely above stalling for the gray painted biplane. Her all-metal body made her able to take the taxing strain better than her wood and canvas ancestors might have, but she had to fight the wind for every inch she progressed as she neared the Fayer.

Timothy Masters, the recon aircraft's pilot, was a tall, lean, mustachioed man with coal-black hair and eyes that sparkled blue like the sea – who, in his younger days, would have likely found himself in the middle of a bare-knuckle boxing match for the thrill of it. He didn't have it in him anymore after his string of victories to keep going back in for simple thrills, though. For every victory, he'd also suffered a laundry list of injuries – including the loss of his left eye after a particularly nasty bout.

The blonde man in the rear seat of his aircraft was none other than Matthias Scott, the emerald-eyed Captain of the Crimson Albatross, and the man that had helped Masters to the hospital after that 'particularly nasty bout' when the man could hardly hold himself up anymore. Both men wore leather flight caps with built-in goggles, a flight jacket, boots, a wool shirt, and wool pants that – had they still been in the military – would have been starched and pressed at all times. Both were also nearly soaked to the bone thanks to the storm they were flying through, though neither paid that fact much mind.

“I still say that you're insane!” Masters called over the storm and got a simple laugh in response. “Absolutely out of your bloody mind, Matthias!”

“Of course I am! If I wasn't, things would never get done.” Came the retort from Scott as he glanced around Masters' head for a look at their target. They were within a hundred feet of the airship's stern, and even this close it simply looked like a darker blotch within the clouds. “Can you match her speed, Tim?”

“Sorry, Matt – any slower and this crate will stall; that, or get rolled by the storm. She doesn't like flying in this stuff. Can't say I blame her, really.”

“Nor can I.” Scott agreed, “And if that's the case, just get me as close as you can. Once I'm off, ease away nice and slow – then throttle up and get back on the Albatross. I should have these beacons planted quick enough.”

“You got it, Captain.”

Over the next few minutes, the recon plane inched closer and closer to the Fayer, until finally it was running parallel, high on her stern. Timothy had made sure to keep his wide-winged plane below the level of the lookout bubbles atop the airship, and in doing so had positioned the aircraft in the best position possible. True, they were over a wing's length from the dirigible's hull, but with the vessel's round shape, it meant that when Matthias jumped he'd be jumping out over the hull, and be in a better position to latch onto it. A final check of the pack on his back that held the beacons, the coil of rope at his hip, and the hooked arm braces and vest that he wore – much like the intended boarders did – and he was ready to go; confident that the pouch, rope, and braces were secure.

Looking at the vessel he was about to leap to, he forced himself to remember that it was different than his own. The skin was thinner, more easily punctured, and when he jumped he was more likely to rip open twin gashes in the airship's hull than he was to simply latch onto the side. That meant that he would have to hang on while he slid down, and wait for the hooks to find purchase on part of the hull's skeletal frame. It wasn't exactly the most pleasant experience one could go through, but he'd done it before. He was simply thankful that his informants had told him about the Fayer's design, or sliding down the hull might have come as a bit of a shock.

There were other differences too. Unlike the older style cargo airship below it, the Albatross was not constructed with a simple gondola like the airships of days long passed. No, it had been built from the ground up with the idea that it would be something akin to a flying aircraft carrier. The first thing to be built was the “gondola” - the same word having been used to describe the much larger, and longer, part of the vessel that was visible beneath the fabric-covered body. In some manner, the full-length gondola almost looked like someone had taken a barge as long as the airship's airframe and attached it directly to the metal skeleton that the fabric was covering.

The Albatross' gondola was five levels atop one another; each one twenty feet high, with half below the main hull, and half within, divided at the command deck. The one at the very bottom was the maintenance hangar, where fuel, ammunition, parts, and tools were stored for the aircraft, as well as about half the aircraft at any given time. It was also the crew quarters for the mechanics. The next level up was the main hangar, which also comprised the flight deck and gun deck of the airship. It could be opened at both ends for takeoffs and landings, was outfitted with a lift for aircraft to go between the two hangars, a steam catapult for launching aircraft, a cable for catching and slowing landing aircraft, and along both sides of the hull were the main weapons that the Albatross carried – a mix of twenty quad-mounted automatic 40mm flak guns and twenty-one 76mm high-velocity guns per broadside.

The center level served as the command deck and had much of the Albatross' storage space, as well as the quarters for bridge officers and aviators. The bridge lay exactly center of the level and had bulges on either side that consisted of steel encased windows that were a solid foot thick – ten inches of glass on the inside, and outside was a synthetic crystal, similar to diamond in strength, intended to prevent the glass from being spider-webbed by anything less than a direct hit from an anti-aircraft cannon. The aviators' quarters lay half on each side of the bridge, and storage was at the bow and stern – the assumption during construction having been that, should damage come from the front or rear, it would be to the cargo areas rather than crew quarters. It also served to be rather convenient if orders had to be given to the pilots and the vessel's internal communications weren't functioning for some reason. The officer's mess lay between the bow aviators' quarters and the storage area. The officer's gym was between the stern aviator's quarters and storage area. The level was also unique in that half of it was below the dirigible's rigid airframe, and half was within it.

The next level was dedicated to the vessel's standard crew quarters; each room being of moderate size and having a bunk bed, closet, and restroom. It also held a gym for the enlisted men and the vessel's enlisted mess hall. The uppermost level consisted of the quarters for engineering as well as the actual engineering deck and a maze of catwalks and ladders that spanned from one end of the airship to the other, as well as from the top of the airframe to the bottom. From here the engineers had access to every part of the ship that they could need to reach and could arrive where they were needed in a matter of moments.

It was this last bit of the Albatross' design that Matthias now was banking on being the same. Dirigibles for the last few decades tended to have a dedicated engineering section, and while the Silver Fayer appeared to be an older design type, if a bit large, she still likely had this one design point in common. Whatever the reality, the aerial corsair's captain steeled his resolve a final time, took a deep breath, and then leaped from the side of the recon plane. A combination of the storm's gusts and the aircraft's prop wash buffeted him and slammed him into the Fayer's hull, stunning him for but a moment. Those few seconds were enough to send him siding down the side of the airship; bumping over the ridges that were formed by the metal skeleton beneath the hull's canvas. His boots did nothing to slow him, but with a quick movement of his right arm, he drove the tip of that arm's hook through the canvas.

Unfortunately, though the canvas was thicker than he expected, it still did little to slow his descent along the hull. Then, suddenly, he came to a jarring stop – and had he not been wearing the vest and braces beneath the rest of his clothes, he was sure that he could have dislocated his shoulder, lost his grip on the hook, or both. As it was, he felt as if his body had just been stretched on a rack, and it was hard to breathe for about a minute, but he was alright overall. Sparing a glance over his right shoulder, he could see Tim using rudder to slowly turn his aircraft to the right and quickly slipping back into the dense clouds of the storm. Seconds later, he was gone, and for a brief moment he felt just how alone he was – but he didn't let himself focus on it.

A few short breaths and he took stock of where he had finally come to a stop against the airship's hull. The tail section was only a few yards away; he could just barely make out the rise of the tail in the darkness – though a crack of lightning to the vessel's stern highlighted it for a few blinding seconds. Closing his eyes, he rested his head against the airship's hull until the explosion of light faded behind his lids, and then slowly blinked them open. Looking down below him, he squinted and then grinned. About twenty feet below him was a narrow maintenance walk with a railing that likely stretched around the entire exterior of the hull – but like hell was he going to chance being blown overboard by staying out in the storm.

Stabbing the hook of his left arm through the canvas of the Fayer's hull, he pulled himself up and used his teeth to unfasten the hook from the rest of the brace, and then slipped his hand out from the leather covering. Grabbing the end of the rope at his hip, he slid the end up inside the leather covering, and slowly, carefully, looped it around the internal grip that his fingers had been clasped around moments ago before pulling the end out again. Pulling a few feet of it through, he grabbed hold of both lengths of rope and tugged them, ensuring that the hook was jammed tight. Once he had himself assured that it was, he slid the rope beneath his soaked sweatshirt and the vest before pulling it out of his collar and repeating the action once more before tying the rope so that it was fastened. Then, grabbing the length of rope that ran between his hip and the first hook, he unfastened the left hook with his teeth.

A grin came to his lips and his left hand slid down into the pocket of his coat, and into one of his flight gloves. Then his gloved hand gripped the rope and his right hand was slid into its respective pocket to slip on his other glove before it too gripped the rope. Once done, he slowly began lowering himself down the side of the dirigible's rain-slick hull. There were only twenty feet between him and the narrow walk, but with the storm's fury seeming to pick up he had to be careful. A single slip was all it would take to send him plummeting off the side and into oblivion. He was no novice to this situation, however, and his descent along the side of the zeppelin was uneventful for the first few feet.

Controlled movements brought him close to the maintenance walk – but the storm was determined that it would not be that simple, and as per Murphy's Law the gale force winds grabbed at his coat like a sail and pulled him out from the side of the vessel's canvas hull before abruptly slamming him against it again. His breath left his lungs and his grip slackened for a brief second as the wind pulled him out from the side once more. That minor slip was enough to drop him five feet, and this time when he swung back toward the hull, his shins banged on the railing of the narrow maintenance walk before he was slammed into the side. His grip on the rope failed finally, and he dropped, landing like a rag doll on the walk and trying to regain his breath. It took a minute or two, but it came, and as it did he unhooked the rope from his side and slowly removed it from where it was tied around his sweater and the vest beneath it.

Tossing it away with a frustrated grunt as he recovered his strength, he looked around again, noting that he'd been blown a few feet closer to the tail section, though not meaningfully so. Then he made the mistake of looking over his right shoulder and down into the emptiness that he had so narrowly avoided with little more than a lucky break. His stomach turned, and he looked away, shutting his eyes and focusing on breathing to avoid losing the contents of his stomach. Another minute passed and he rolled onto his side, his body slowly becoming aware of the pain that it felt. It wasn't an acute pain, no, but it was a dull and lasting ache that seemed to cover his body from head to toe, and he knew that the fact that he was able to pick it out at all meant the adrenaline of the jump was wearing off. A scowl came to his otherwise handsome face as he turned further and attempted to rise to his feet, a hand firmly gripping the railing as he did.

The wind continued howling around him, and a roll of thunder shook the entire walk like he was in the middle of an earthquake, but he held firm to the railing and let it pass. Once he was stable, he moved forward, fighting the wind with his coat blowing out behind him and raindrops pounding against him like marbles fired from a slingshot. When he finally reached the tail section, the walk grew wider, and as he looked up, down, and to the sides, he could see the four monolithic stabilizers that helped control the Fayer even in such weather as this – as well as the bulkhead door that lead inside from the walk. Slipping the pack off his back, he opened it and drew out the first beacon.

Pulling the thick glass that covered one end of it, the flare inside roared to life with a brilliant red glow. Pushing it back down a bit, he twisted it until the bulb screwed into place firmly, which activated another chemical inside and made the glow as bright as a star, and easily capable of cutting through the dark clouds. He had to look away from it to save his eyesight from needing to be adjusted again. Looking around the door, he grinned at the sight of the folded and machine-stitched canvas around the bulkhead and pulled off the cap that was on the other end of the beacon to uncover the sharp, pointed end of it. Positioning it just to the right of the door, amongst the bunched-up canvas, he angled it just the slightest bit before driving it down until only the star-bright bulb remained outside of it. Confident that the beacon was secure, he slipped the pack back on before trying the bulkhead door and was delighted to find that it was properly maintained and turned easily – but more important, quietly.

Ducking through the bulkhead, he eased it closed behind him and secured it – only a faint clank like the locking of a safe's mechanism telling that the door had been secured. Moving the flight goggles onto his forehead and glancing from side to side along the catwalk that he stood upon, he saw none of the engineers. Considering the weather and the time of day, most of them probably weren't on duty – and considering the purpose of the vessel, it probably didn't have a large crew to begin with. Seeing anything directly forward from the tail was difficult, as the numerous 'tanks' of helium ran the length of the vessel. In truth, they were similar to the Albatross’s gas bags which contained the vessel's hydrogen but were fashioned after cargo containers to hold as much helium as possible.

Cocking his head to the side, he listened for movement along the catwalks, and hearing nothing, he set phase two of his plan into motion. Shrugging the pack and his soaked coat off, he then pulled off his boots and put the pack on again; grabbing his boots up and rolling them up inside his coat. Doing another quick check, he didn't see or hear anyone in his immediate vicinity and moved toward a pile of oil-stained rags next to a hatch for one of the vessel's engines. Setting the bundle of his coat and boots down, he piled the rags on top of them and moved on; the sparse lighting in the engineering section of the airship ensuring that his items were well hidden. Light, quick steps moved him along the starboard interior catwalk a few dozen yards before he heard the plodding, metallic sounds of an engineer walking along one of the catwalks that ran between the helium tanks and connected the port and starboard walks.

The steps were drawing closer, he could tell, and with wraith-like quiet he backtracked a couple of paces and headed down the closest connecting walk, moving to the port side and heading forward again. Each time he passed a helium tank, he peered around the corner cautiously, waiting to see if the engineer was on the next walk, and then quickly moved to the next. After four, he finally peered around and saw the man checking a pressure gauge for one of the tanks. Squinting, Scott could make out the identifying marks that proved the man was the Fayer's Chief Engineer, and from the sheer size of him he could hardly imagine a fight with him that wouldn't end with a battered body and a few cracked ribs. The thought made him wince, and he quickly elected to avoid the man at all cost. A couple of minutes passed as the engineer tapped the gauge, waited, and then wrote on a notepad. Flipping it closed, he turned, and this time headed toward the port side again.

The pirate captain's emerald eyes went wide, and he ducked back, skittering along the crossing catwalk to the starboard side and around the corner as quickly and quietly as he could. Never before had he been so thankful for thick wool socks as he was now! Calming his breath, he moved onward, listening as he went and glancing back now and then to watch for the engineer. He seemed to be running general maintenance, and if the Chief Engineer was doing that, it was doubtful anyone else was on duty. Perfect.

About a third of the way up from the stern, he noticed a ladder that stretched up to the top of the airship's hull. Next to it was a pipe and what looked like a small fuse box. Looking up, he could see a light at the top, and what appeared to be a glass dome – and it dawned on him. It was a ladder for one of the two lookout posts. Jimmying open the fuse box, he saw that there were only two inside, and both were clearly marked. One was for a telephone, and the other was for sounding the alarm. Reaching into his hip pocket, he pulled out a folding pocket knife and removed the two fuses. He wasn't worried about the lookout trying to use the phone; he had no reason to – after all, it existed only so, once the alarm was started, the vessel's captain could get a report on the situation. Looking along the top of the hull, he spotted another ladder and pipe combo another third of the vessel's length away and decided he'd repeat the process once he reached it.

Moving once again to the starboard side, he glanced around the corner in both directions, barely sticking his head out far enough for his eyes to see. Down toward the stern he saw the back of the Chief Engineer just before he turned another corner between a set of tanks. In the other direction was an empty catwalk, and he moved with cat-like grace as he headed toward the starboard side maintenance walk access door. Just like at the stern, there would be an access door at the bow and along both sides of the vessel as per the Europa Airship Safety Commission's regulation standards. It was only when he reached it that he heard a pained groan.

It had come from a few rows forward of him. Looking down the line of tanks he could see that the crossing catwalk where the ladder and communications pipe for the lookout also had a bench and row of lockers. No doubt it served as a storage spot for the engineers, and if he had to hazard a guess, Scott was willing to bet that the engineer that was supposed to be on duty was feeling sick. It would explain why the Chief Engineer was the one making the rounds. There was no time to bother with this though; if the man was sick, there was no reason to lose time over him. Taking hold of the bulkhead's wheel, he span it easily and opened the door just enough to slip out onto the walk.

Thankfully, it seemed that next to each door the walk was wider – of course, it had to be for the door to open. Once he stood out in the storm again, he shut the door but left it unfastened. Another beacon was pulled from the pack, activated, and planted just like the first had been – and then he was right back inside and fastening the bulkhead door. Quick and quiet, he made his way across a connecting walk and did the same on the port side before moving forward. When he reached the next connecting walk that served the forward lookout post, he heard another groan and a sickening belch that turned his stomach. Glancing around the corner he could see a young man, likely an immigrant from the Far East, leaning his forehead against the row of lockers. He was muttering under his breath, and while Scott couldn't quite hear what he was saying, it was probably a string of curses or a prayer for his stomach to settle.

Either way, he was distracted, and now would be his best chance to take him out of action. Moving silent as a submarine, he made his way over and behind him, then tapped him on the shoulder. As the man turned, the pirate captain grinned – and gave him a hard right, straight into his breadbasket. The man was staggered as the breath fled from his lungs, but Scott pressed his advantage, grabbing his arm and spinning him around so that he could put him in a headlock. Pulling him back against his chest, the man squirmed and flailed, but Matthias held his arm tight around his neck, counting off seconds one by one until the man slowly went limp.

Slowly he eased the pressure around the man's throat, and then glanced toward the wall lockers. He felt like a real heel for what he was about to do, for it simply wasn't typically in his nature, but he had to put the man somewhere, now didn't he? And like that it was done – the young man was stuffed into his locker, and then the fuses were removed from the fuse box. The whole event took less than five minutes, and he was on his way again; this time toward the bow. The same was done there as along port and starboard – but this time he had a grin on his lips when he was finished, and above him, in the Albatross a cheer went up among the men on the hangar deck, including Tim who had landed safely minutes before.

Below him, however, Captain Stirling had just gotten a call on the Fayer's telephone from the Chief Engineer. While inspecting the engineering section, he'd stopped to check one of the engines. At first, he hadn't seen anything unusual, and while the engine had been in perfect condition, he'd happened to glance down at the mound of rags next to it. With a scowl, he'd begun grabbing them – for a few he didn't mind, but a small hill of them was ridiculous – only to discover that a coat and pair of boots had been hidden beneath. The Chief suspected a stowaway, and Stirling agreed with him. A simple order was given then, for his communications officer to phone the lookouts and have them help the Chief search Engineering and Storage for their stowaway. After all, they were practically useless in the storm anyway.

However, the communications officer quickly reported that he couldn't reach either lookout post – both lines were dead. Stirling furrowed his brow, asking the Chief when the last time the lines had been checked was, and the Chief answered that he had just done so during his inspection. They'd been fine; the fuses were even new! Despite that, Stirling ordered him to go check the lines again; saying he would remain on the line until he returned. It only took seeing the nearest box's fuses gone for him to rush back to the phone and give Stirling the news. The Fayer's Captain didn't like the sound of his lookouts' phones and alarms being down. He was just about to tell the Chief to wait where he was for a security team when he heard a commotion.

“Robinson?” Stirling called through the phone. “Robinson, are you there, man? What are you doing? What in blazes is going on? Answer me, damn it!”

He got his answer alright, in the form of a shotgun blast and the sound of something hitting the catwalk with a thud. Then came the croaked word: “Pirates...” And the line went dead.

Stirling paused, his body in shock for a long moment after that dreaded word came over the line. The only thing that made the gears of his mind turn again was his communications officer asking him what was going on. Slowly, he looked at the man, then at the phone that was still in his hand, and set the latter down with a soft click as the earpiece relaxed into its cradle. Then without looking to the other man, Stirling spoke gravely. “Alert security. We're being boarded.”