Seize the Reckless Wind. John Davis Gordon

after all there’s only one in “God”.’

      She came into the room. She was a good-looking, weary woman. She slipped her arm around Malcolm’s shoulder. ‘Come on, old gas-bag, reveille, this man’s got to fly aeroplanes tomorrow.’

      ‘Less of the old,’ Malcolm muttered. ‘He’s got to bang the C.A.A.’s head together next month.’

      ‘Our attitude’, the very precise, hard-to-charm civil servant said, ‘is that we’ll believe it when we see it. Until then …’ Mahoney waited. ‘Until then, I’m afraid you can’t expect us to do any work on this. People have been talking about bringing back the airship for fifty years – ever since the Hindenburg. Nothing has ever come of it. Because the airship proved itself a thoroughly unreliable, dangerous machine. Oh, I’m aware that hydrogen caused those disasters and you want to use helium.’

      ‘The Graf Zeppelin’, Mahoney said, ‘flew between Germany, South America and New York for years without a single accident – even though she was filled with hydrogen.’

      The neat man nodded. ‘Mr Mahoney, the C.A.A. is a very busy government body which acts as watchdog on aircraft safety, and we’re very expensive. If you design a new aeroplane, our experts would check minutely whether it conformed to these safety regulations.’ He tapped a thick book. ‘Now, we’ve got no regulations on airships. And we’ve got no aeronautical experts on airships, because airships simply don’t exist. And I don’t know where such people are to be found.’

      ‘I do.’

      ‘I mean expert by our standards. And we’d have to put a lawyer exclusively on to drafting the legislation – and you’d have to pay for all this. We don’t give free legal advice, you know.’

      ‘I know,’ Mahoney said, ‘I’m a lawyer.’

      The man was surprised. ‘I thought you were a commercial pilot?’

      ‘I’m both. I went to Aviation flying school a few years ago.’

      ‘I see. How very odd. Then how is it you’re a captain already?’

      ‘I own the airline. The major partner. In fact, I only fly as co-pilot, not as captain.’ The civil servant looked at Redcoat with new suspicion. ‘But, as a lawyer, I’ve started drafting the legislation to shortcut …’

      ‘I need a proper lawyer, Mr Mahoney – the C.A.A. doesn’t take shortcuts.’

      ‘I am a proper lawyer, Mr White. And I do understand airships, which your lawyer won’t. All I’m asking for is cooperation, so we know what you’re worried about.’

      ‘We’ll be worried stiff about everything! Good Lord, a monster twice as long as a football field, flying over London in a gale … Mr Mahoney, before you ask us for guidance, you’ll have to convince us our effort is not going to be wasted.’

      Mahoney smacked the pile of files. ‘There are the plans, prepared by an expert. And there’s my effort so far at drafting the legislation. Now, are you going to read them or not, Mr White?’

      Mr White sat back and looked at the ceiling. ‘Mr Mahoney, how much is one airship going to cost?’

      ‘Between ten and fifteen million pounds, once we’ve got a production line.’

      ‘And’, Mr White said politely, ‘has Redcoat got that kind of money?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘No,’ Mr White said, lowering his eyes. ‘And the banks won’t lend it to you. And where do you propose building such a huge thing? No building I know of is big enough.’

      ‘At Cardington,’ Mahoney said grimly. ‘There are two old airship hangars.’

      ‘Cardington?’ Mr White mused. ‘Where the ill-fated R 101 was built? Charming connotations. And will the government lease them to you, do you think?’

      ‘They’re a white elephant, and government will be delighted that we’re providing employment.’

      ‘If the Civil Aviation Authority endorses your plans. And what about airports, Mr Mahoney? You can’t land these things at Heathrow. You’ll want government to build airports? Where? At what tremendous cost? That’s the sort of thing—’

      ‘That’, Mahoney said, ‘is exactly the sort of thing I want to talk about. I have here provisional plans for airports, plus full-scale ones for the future, all diligently prepared by Major—’

      ‘Indeed? And who’s going to pilot these things? You have been awfully busy, Mr Mahoney, but who is going to instruct the instructors who’re going to instruct the trainee pilots? It’s a whole new ball-game.’

      Mahoney took a breath. ‘We are, Mr White,’ he said. ‘Redcoat.’

      Mr White stared. ‘But what’, he said, ‘are your qualifications?’

      Mahoney leant forward. ‘Mr White, I’ll soon know more about airships than almost any man alive. Now, the C.A.A. is going to have to allow somebody to test-fly the first airships. And you’ll have to grant concessionary licences to those test-pilots for that purpose.’

      Mr White looked at him. ‘I see …’ Then he scratched his cheek. ‘What about the banks? What do they say?’

      ‘We haven’t been to the banks yet. They’ll want to see that the C.A.A. are taking it seriously.’

      Mr White glared at the formidable pile of files. ‘The chicken or the egg?’

      ‘Yes,’ Mahoney smiled.

      Mr White suddenly shook his head wearily, like an ordinary human being. ‘You know damn well I’m required to look into this bumf.’

      Mahoney put on his most charming smile. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said.

      Cash flow. That’s what airlines desperately need, to pay their huge operating costs: and plenty of it. Cash flow, that’s what the Civil Aviation Authority insists on seeing in airlines’ books, to satisfy themselves that this airline can pay engineering maintenance so their aeroplanes do not come crashing down out of the skies. (So you can’t even cheat on your income tax.) Cash flow, that is what bank managers insist on from little airlines who haven’t got big shareholders behind them: cash constantly flowing in, to justify the huge amounts of revolving credit the airline needs to keep it aloft from one week to the next: no sufficient cash flow, no more credit, no more airline.

      ‘Five million pounds was our gross cash flow last year.’

      ‘Yes, but our local branch had to lend you over four and a half million while you earned it,’ the bank executive pointed out.

      It was Mahoney’s first venture into the City. He didn’t like messing with bank managers, men who could cut off his lifeline at any time, but if he had to he preferred the suburban variety who held Redcoat’s purse-strings at Gatwick, not these silver-haired, heavy-duty gentlemen of the City.

      ‘You’ve earned a lot of interest,’ he said. ‘We’ve been good business for Barclays.’

      ‘Indeed,’ the banker said, sitting up. ‘Mr Mahoney, we are not belittling Redcoat. We respect you as hard-working and ingenious. In fact we’re amazed that you’ve survived, let alone prospered. Your local manager’ – he consulted a letter – ‘says that, when you first arrived, the airline wallahs expected you to collapse in two weeks.’

      Mahoney knew he wouldn’t get the money. ‘But?’ he said grimly.

      The banker decided to cut through all this.

      ‘Mr Mahoney, five million pounds turnover a year is a great deal of money to you and me. But to banks, Redcoat is a very small business.’

      Mahoney nodded. ‘But if British Airways were asking you for fifteen million pounds, it would be different.’