Scan McMullen - The Pharaoh's Airship

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The Pharaoh's Airship

by Sean McMullen

other rights are reserved. Thank you for honoring the copyright.

Published by Seattle Book Company, www.seattlebook.com.

* * *

When we arrived at the Amberley Air Force base, the wreckage of his machine had been collected in

one of the hangars, along with the remains of the F/A-18 Hornet fighter that had killed him. My

companion was Adele Taylor from the CIA, and one of her agents waited in the car outside.

A guard checked our passes at the hangar door then sent for Dr. Richards, technical adviser to the

inquest into Stephen's death. I picked him for an academic as he hurried over to greet us, a short, greying

man, a civilian who coped badly with the guards' deference to his authority. I toyed with a small, black

rock in my pocket. It had jagged edges, but the surface was mirror smooth where one corner had been

sliced away.

"Welcome, welcome," Richards said excitedly as we shook hands. "I'm so glad to see such important

people taking an interest in Stephen's work."

The government of the United States was taking Stephen's work a lot more seriously than he could

ever have guessed. Taylor was posing as a propulsion engineer, while I represented the services. In a

sense both identities were technically correct.

"You preliminary report did cause some interest," said Taylor noncommittally.

In fact, the report on his report had my seniors gasping for breath and reaching for their 'TOP

SECRET' stamps. I fingered the rock in my pocket again.

"I suppose the military potential of Stephen's craft is what interests you most," said Richards as we

entered the hangar and approached the piles of wreckage.

"What military potential?" snapped Taylor, alert and alarmed.

"Why, a submarine with a limited flight capacity could have quite a number of applications, I should

imagine. Surprise attack, sabotage, even nuclear weapons delivery."

That had been a bad moment. Richards still had no idea what Stephen Cole had done. Any suspicions

at all would have been in his report, but there had been nothing.

The Pharaoh had been shattered by its collision with the jet fighter. All that had been recovered from

the sea bed was the cabin, a tangle of wires and tubes, some small gas tanks, a cheap industrial robot

arm, and a heavy metal container. The cabin was a modified propane gas tank, and it had been partly

split open by the impact.

Richards had built a mock-up based on what had been recovered. It resembled nothing more than a

small submersible, the type that is used for prospecting on the sea bed. An access hatch and a window

had been cut in the main tank, and a frame for the robot arm welded on just below the window. The

whole assembly rested on two steel tubes that served as skids.

"Welding marks on the original cabin indicate that quite a lot more was attached," Richards explained.

"That would have been the propulsion units and fuel tanks, of course. Those are indicated by the red

circles. A cylindrical container is bolted on the left skid, and this was found to contain rocks in the original

vehicle."

"Just a simple little machine for prospecting on the sea bed, except that it could also fly," I observed.

"Yes, yes, but there are several design faults, too," he said with that pedantic obsession that one sees

in some engineers. "See here? The access hatch hinges inwards, and the seals compress in the wrong

direction: dangerous under water, you know."

A collection of items from the cabin was laid out beside the mock-up. There were several plastic food

and drink containers, some garbage bags, a pile of nappies, and a sleeping bag. I peered inside the hatch.

Just below the window was a control panel with several dozen lights and switches, and six small

joysticks. The cabin was heavily padded and insulated.

"Have you any idea how much of the original vehicle is missing?" Taylor asked.

"Ah yes. I conducted some tests to determine that just after I submitted my report. The night that he

left, Stephen dragged the Pharaoh out of the garage and left it sitting on the lawn for about an hour,

according to his mother. From the indentations that it left I estimate that it weighed nearly a ton. The

wreckage recovered, plus Stephen's weight and the rocks, comes to about two thirds of that."

"Yet 98% of the jet fighter was recovered," I added before I could stop myself. Behind Richards

Taylor was frantically shaking his head.

"Well yes, I follow your reasoning," laughed Richards. "I think that the drive unit was still functioning

when the crash tore it loose. It could have flown for miles before finally hitting the sea and sinking. Getting

back to what we did manage to find, though, his consumption of food and use of nappies indicates that

he was sealed inside the cabin for the whole three days from when his mother last saw him to when he hit

the jet. The condition of the catalyst in the air purifier bears out this estimate, too."

Taylor walked over to the pile of twisted metal that was the original Pharaoh and knelt beside the

sample container. Releasing a spring loaded cap she reached in and withdrew a small, dark rock. It had

jagged edges, and gleamed wet in the hangar's floodlights.

"Dr. Richards, I must be frank with you," she said, turning the rock over in her fingers. "The material in

this cylinder is of great strategic importance."

"Really? What is it?"

"I'm afraid I can't say, but we need to know where he got it."

"But he left no maps."

"The microflora attached to the rocks will give us an idea of the depth and latitude, but we need all the

material available."

Richards began to nod reflexively in agreement, then stopped.

"You want to take all the material?" he asked suspiciously.

"That will be necessary, Dr. Richards. I've checked with your government and we have permission--

as long as you think it has no direct bearing on the crash investigation."

"Well, ah, I suppose not." He was reluctant, but he still signed the papers releasing the rocks to us.

"How did your people in the US come to learn about the rock samples so quickly?"

"An investigator from the US recognised the rock sample and had it sent back home for analysis," I

explained as I looked into the container. "What puzzled us, though, was why you included it with your

report."

Annoyance darkened his face for a moment.

"It was just a mistake," he said quickly. "A new assistant misunderstood his instructions."

Taylor and I were very excited as we returned to the car. I suspect that her own feelings were related

to snatching such a secret from under the very nose of a foreign government. I, on the other hand, was

fascinated by Stephen's work. The Pharaoh's simplicity was amazing, but even so it was quite a feat for

an undergraduate student working by himself.

"He must have had help, Adele," I said as we walked. "There was some very skilled welding in the

Pharaoh, and a lot of other high quality work that a short-sighted mathematics student just could not have

mastered."

"I don't know. The seal on the sample canister was not watertight."

"It doesn't have to be. His work is very good where it counts, though."

* * *

We sent a coded report to Washington over the car's radio, then drove out to Stephen's home. It was a

timber house in an old suburb of Brisbane, with a large garage in the backyard. Richards had already

been out there, looking for clues to the secret of the Pharaoh's propulsion unit. There were none. There

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ThePharaoh'sAirshipbySeanMcMullenThisstorycopyright1986bySeanMcMullen.ThiscopywascreatedforJeanHardy'spersonaluse.Allotherrightsarereserved.Thankyouforhonoringthecopyright.PublishedbySeattleBookCompany,www.seattlebook.com.* * * WhenwearrivedattheAmberleyAirForcebase,thewreckageofhismachineh...

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