received by the General Staff, but it’ll be years before it is implemented because of damn-fool politicians.’ He took a breath. ‘So, I decided to retire and devote myself to the resurrection of the airship commercially – as cargo-carrying and passenger aircraft. I formed a private company to consult aeronautical designers. We now have all the necessary designs. With modern technology we can build perfectly safe airships.’ He burrowed into his raincoat pocket and pulled out a large envelope, which he slapped on the bar. ‘Here is a summary of our achievements – please read them.’
He looked at Mahoney. ‘From your letter to The Times, it’s obvious that you’re concerned about the under-developed nations and how oil costs are crippling them.’ He tapped the envelope. ‘The airship is their answer. Uses a fifth of the fuel. It would enable them to exploit remote, mountainous, desert and jungle regions where there are no roads or airfields: the airship could simply hover to deliver the mining equipment or whatever, winch up the produce, and carry it away. It would revolutionize their economies!’
Mahoney was grappling with the enormity of the idea. ‘Marvellous,’ he agreed sincerely. He left out, ‘If it works.’ He had a feeling he would get an earful from the Major if he said that. ‘But what do you want from me?’
The Major suddenly looked thoroughly uncomfortable. ‘Not money.’ He cleared his throat. ‘But, in short, until I float my company on the Stock Exchange, I’m flat broke. All my savings, and my military pension, have been used up in research and in buying a lot of important tools and equipment that have come my way cheaply.’ He cleared his throat again. ‘I’m not asking for money, but Redcoat Cargo Airlines owns a chunk of farmland near Gatwick Airport, which has an old cottage on it, in disrepair. I would like to rent it.’ He blinked. ‘I confess I will be unable to actually pay any rent until happier days come along. But meanwhile I undertake to make the cottage fully functional again.’ He smiled for the first time. ‘I am an engineer, and as good with my hands as I am with my head.’
It was a windy, overcast day, and Joe Mahoney was grateful for it, though he detested the cold. He even wished it would come pissing down with rain. He stood in the goods-shed and watched the forklift crossing the tarmac towards his aeroplane. It stopped at the open tail, lifted the crate into the plane. A second forklift was trundling back for another.
‘Slow down,’ Mahoney said to the superintendent, ‘she’s half full already.’
The super smiled. ‘It’s your money.’ He called, ‘Have a smoke-oh, Bert.’
‘But be ready to look busy when they arrive.’
Mahoney turned and paced through the bleak corporation shed. It was packed with cargo, consigned with different airlines. The whole cold place was filled by plaintive cheeping and all the cargo was dominated by thousands of stacked cardboard cartons holding two hundred thousand day-old chicks. Mahoney walked to the nearest stack, lifted a lid. One hundred fluffy, yellow chicks cocked their little eyes up at him, cheeping. He looked at them. They were twenty-four hours old and they had not yet taken their first morsel of food or drop of water. They were still living off their body fluids, but in twenty-four hours they’d die without food and water.
Mahoney took one out. It sat in his hand, little wings hunched, completely unperturbed. Mahoney smiled sadly at it. In three months it would have its head chopped off. It was enough to turn you vegetarian.
His walkie-talkie radio rasped: ‘Here they come, Joe!’
He hurried through the shed, straightening his tie. ‘O.K.,’ he yelled, ‘get those forklifts working!’ He strode on to the tarmac.
Coming past the row of hangars were two black cars. The second car was a Rolls Royce, flying the Ghanaian pennant. In the back sat three black gentlemen.
The leading car came to a halt. It had two white men in it. Mahoney put on his most charming smile, and opened the door.
‘Good day, Mr Pennington! Welcome to Redcoat!’
A dapper little man, Mr Pennington looked thoroughly peeved. ‘This is Mr Johnson, PCC’s house-magazine photographer.’
Mahoney shook hands. ‘Well,’ he said brightly, ‘your cargo is nearly all loaded!’ He pointed.
‘I thought’, Mr Pennington said, ‘that you would be ready for take-off by now.’
‘Well,’ Mahoney said, ‘all airlines use the Corporation’s shed and labour, so sometimes we do have small delays.’ He strode towards the other car as it came to a halt. He flung open the door. ‘Good day, Consul-General! Welcome to Redcoat!’
A large black gentleman climbed out. He shook Mahoney’s hand amiably. ‘This’, he said, ‘is the head of our Information Department, and our photographer.’
‘How do you do.’ Mahoney took the Consul-General’s arm. ‘You have met the publicity director of PCC, of course?’
‘Indeed, sir!’ Mr Pennington’s manner had changed entirely. ‘I’m sorry it’s such a miserable day but it’s a very important one for PCC. We hope this is only the first of many contracts with your government.’
‘And Redcoat will always be ready to fly your goods,’ Mahoney got in cheerfully, rubbing his hands. ‘Well, gentlemen? Do you want to take your photographs immediately, or after some refreshment?’
‘But you haven’t finished loading.’ Mr Pennington’s manner had changed again. ‘We need a picture of the plane taking off!’
Mahoney’s heart sank. ‘But isn’t it better to get photographs of the forklifts working, more action and all that?’
Before they could answer, he turned to lead the way to the aircraft. Mr Pennington hurried up beside him. ‘Mister, er … ?’
‘Mahoney.’
‘Whether or not Redcoat get any more contracts from us depends on prompt delivery. These fertilizers are urgently needed in Ghana and they were supposed to fly out yesterday.’
Mahoney wanted to say: Listen, Mr Pencilton, I’m sorry about the delay but if you knew Africa you’d know that it doesn’t matter a damn that your fertilizers are late because in Accra they’re going to sit for weeks while corrupt officials haggle with other corrupt officials about who gets what rake-off. Instead he said, ‘Mr Pennington, our motto is “The Redcoats Are Coming” … We deliver. To out-of-the-way places with strange-sounding names. More, Better, Cheaper, Faster …’
It was an excruciating hour, standing in the cold, a fixed smile on his face as they posed for the photographers, shaking hands with each other, under the wings, on the forklifts, on the flightdeck. All the time Pennington whispering complaints that the loading was still not finished, that Redcoat better pull up its socks. Mahoney assured him Redcoat would. For an hour the handshaking exercise went on. Then the last crate was loaded, the tail closed, the plane crammed with PCC’s fine products. ‘Well,’ Mr Pennington said, ‘I presume you’re now ready for take-off and we can get our final photograph?’
‘Indeed,’ Mahoney said. ‘And while we’re waiting for the crew, would you join our staff in a few drinks? They’re all waiting to meet you!’
‘Mr Mahoney,’ Mr Pennington said testily, ‘I thought the crew were ready!’
‘Any moment now, Mr Pennington.’ (He so nearly said Pencilton.) ‘They only sign on duty shortly before take-off because they’re only allowed to do so many duty-hours a month, by law. They’ll be arriving any moment. This way please, gentlemen …’
It was a big galvanized-iron hangar, but it never had an aeroplane inside it because it was full of engines under repair, plus Redcoat vehicles, spares and gear. Redcoat Cargo Airlines had only two aircraft