Chapter 50 – Rendezvous

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In last week’s episode, we examined the Response Team’s arrival in Tanzania, as well as a developing plot to harm the St. Paul in the Canary Islands. In this week’s episode, the St. Paul rendezvous with the Galeka in the port at Gran Canaria…

“Look over there, Mr. Wilson.” First Officer Foote gazed out of one of the forward windows in the main cabin. David looked up from the book he was reading. It was well after two A.M., and he’d just finished cleaning the galley. He worked alone tonight, giving Ranell a chance to rest because the quartermaster wanted to go to the markets in Gran Canaria to restock the St. Paul’s larders. David usually got his best sleep before the midnight watch, so he was wide awake. Foote was just coming off his pilot’s shift. Both men were relaxing.

“Where?” David asked.

“On the horizon, about three o’clock,” Foote replied, indicating the direction.

After nearly two days flying over the Atlantic, David was rather shocked to see the glow of city lights illuminating the vast darkness of the sea. “Are those the Canaries?”

“That’s probably Tenerife,” Foote confirmed. “Our port of call is on Gran Canaria, just past it. We’ll get there in about two hours. The LT’s got a landing solution that takes us across the narrow isthmus that separates the City of Las Palmas from the Port of Las Palmas. Then the captain will turn her bow north to take advantage of the trade winds for extra lift when he sets her down.”

Foote was the quietest member of the crew, and other than routine radio traffic and a few minor conversations, David could not recollect ever having an actual conversation with the man. Foote was distant, and there was something vaguely sad about him. But he seemed animated now, and David felt a warm glow of comradeship as the first officer shared something of his passion for airship travel.

“Have you ever been there?” David asked.

“Oh, yes, many times.” Foote leaned back in his chair and grinned nostalgically. “The Canaries have always been a crossroads connecting Europe, Africa, and North and South America. The GML Corporation identified the Port of Las Palmas as critical to our long-term strategic interests well over a decade ago. It took the Spanish authorities forever to recognize airships as best suited to maritime ports rather than airports. Most commercial jets can carry a little cargo in their below decks, but they concentrate primarily on passenger travel. Ships like the St. Paul require a much more robust cargo handling infrastructure, like forklifts and multi-modal container handling equipment. Plus, flying these slow airships in and out of shipping ports keeps us from clogging the skyways for the fast jet aircraft.”

“So, you came here with GML?”

“Oh, no,” Foote corrected. “That was way before my time. The captain was involved in all that. I first came over here a couple of years ago with PIRA. Once we realized that the Red Cross, the Red Crescent and the UN World Food Programme maintained warehouses for humanitarian aid here, Las Palmas became a natural strategic focus for our disaster relief efforts.”

“I thought this was the first time an airship had ever crossed the Atlantic?”

“Oh, goodness, no!” Foote erupted in a deep, jovial guffaw. “Airships have been making Atlantic crossings since way back before WWI. The Graf Zeppelin would cross the south Atlantic up to eighteen times a year, and of course, the Hindenburg crossed the Atlantic from Germany before she crashed at Lakehurst. This flight of the St. Paul is only the first time a hybrid airship has made the journey. Still, it is historic in that sense, and as a proof-of-concept flight, it has enormous strategic ramifications. That’s why the captain’s been so obsessed with it.”

“So…” David mulled this information over, “No one has ever landed the St. Paul at the Port of Las Palmas?”

“I’ve done it on the simulator hundreds of times,” Foote said matter-of-factly. “We all have. We would fly to the Canaries on commercial air and then use the simulators to demonstrate to the Spanish authorities that it could be done. Since then, a couple of British HAV ships have landed there, but we’re the first American outfit to do it.”

“I thought Hybrid Air Vehicles was a GML competitor?”

“Well, they are, and they aren’t,” Foote answered enigmatically. “Of course we compete with them for specific markets, but as far as airship infrastructure is concerned, it benefits us all to work together. The Las Palmas Port already services something like thirty separate maritime cargo lines connecting over 180 ports around the world. There’s no reason for GML and HAV not to cooperate to open it up for airship operations too. Our arrival here benefits them almost as much as it benefits GML.”

“What’s it like, Las Palmas?” David asked.

“You’re about to find out, Mr. Wilson,” Foote’s face cracked into a broad grin, and there was a distinct gleam in his eye. “The Canaries are known as the Land of the Eternal Spring. You’re going to love it. Too bad we’re in such a hurry that you won’t have time to enjoy it properly.”

Ricky Thibido was hungry, and he would not stop letting Craigen hear about it. When the team stepped off the ferry terminal in Zanzibar, Thibido was sorely disappointed to discover that Mercury’s Restaurant, located on the beach right next to the terminal, was closed.

“That’s a nightclub for tourists, Scooter,” Craigen chided. “What did you think you were going to find at a bar named after Freddy Mercury? They don’t serve breakfast.”

“I don’t care where we eat, Rattle,” Thibido growled back, “I jes got to get some food in me.”

“Just hold out for Lukmaan’s bro,” Craigen said patiently as he slid his arms through the straps of his jump bag. “They’ve got a buffet there that will blow your mind.”

“Well, where is it?” Thibido would not be mollified. “Do I got to get us a cab or something?”

“No,” Craigen said smoothly. “Everything in Stone Town is close by. We don’t need a cab. We’ll just walk it.”

“Walk it?” Thibido asked in dismay. “How far we gotta walk it?”

“A half-mile, three-quarter tops.”

“You gotta be kidding me, Rattle! I ain’t eaten since back on the plane, and I’m hungry.” With his thick Cajun accent, the word sounded more like “Hongry.”

“You’re not going to waste away Scooter,” Raquel Kedzierski said gruffly as she shouldered past the two men, holding her cell phone in front of her while she studied the GPS navigation app. “Besides, it wouldn’t hurt you to miss a meal once in a while.”

“Now that jes ain’t polite Curly,” Thibido objected as he scooped up his gear. “You might not care ‘cause you’re no bigger than a little bird. But I’m a full-grown man, and I’ve got to keep my strength up!”

David was still sitting in the main cabin when the St. Paul made her slow and methodical approach to the landing site at the Las Palmas Port. The view through the large cabin windows was magnificent, the municipal lights of the sleeping city outlining her boundaries with brilliant points of gold and silver.

With the fuel from the spare tank exhausted from the Atlantic crossing, the St. Paul essentially flew empty. She was ‘light,’ and there was a minimal requirement for aerodynamic lift, so she could afford to come down nearly vertically on the broad expanse of the dock. The ship seemed to hang suspended in midair until the familiar whine of the ACLS spun up, inflating the hovercraft-style landing gear that would maneuver them across the gravel compound to their assigned berth next to the freighter, Galeka.

It was just after four in the morning, and dawn was still hours away. Unlike at her landing in Hermiston in Greater Idaho, there was almost no one around. The docks were nearly deserted, save for a few workers moving quietly about their tasks. I thought the St, Paul’s successful Atlantic crossing was getting a big online viewership?

 Ranell, awake again, came to join David with two cups of coffee. “Do you remember the drill, Mr. Wilson?” he asked. “Top the ballast tanks off first. Then fuel is always next, but there are operators here who will take care of that. I’ve got one team meeting us this morning to dismantle and stow the spare fuel tank, and another one that should be arriving soon to take a look at the snapped tailfin wire. We’re meeting the BarrelSafe Shelter reps at ten o’clock. So that basically leaves…”

“I’ll get my rubber gloves, Doc.” There was a rueful note in David’s voice as he said, “I’ll have to empty the lavatory holding tanks and refill the fresh water system.”

“No time to look downcast, Mr. Wilson. Being on the ground crew means having to hustle.” The smile lines around Ranell’s eyes crinkled. “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart.”

I understand that more than you can know, Doc. David threw himself into his work.

The two maintenance crews were busy working on the St. Paul when Ranell pulled up next to David. He was riding in the passenger seat of a pickup truck and motioned towards David. “Jump in, Mr. Wilson. I’m going into town to pick up some supplies.”

The local driver of the rented truck asked, “A donde quieres ir, Señor?”

“El Mercado Central, por favor,” Replied Ranell rapidly and without a hint of an American accent, or so it seemed to David.

“What did he say?” David asked.

“He asked where we wanted to go, and I told him the Mercado Central. It’s the main fresh food market in Las Palmas.”

“I thought we had provisions being delivered.” It was more of a question than a statement. “I saw it on the manifest.”

“That’s fine for staples, Mr. Wilson,” Ranell replied, “but the crew needs fresh food too. I stopped by the Mercado Central once before during an airship cargo handling workshop, but I’ve never had a chance to order for the St. Paul. We’re going to grab what we can today and make some personal connections so I can begin building my network for the future operations I am sure will come.”

The driver sped recklessly through the streets that were just beginning to come alive with morning traffic. This guy’s going to get us killed, David thought as they made their way down the Calle Galicia through the tall buildings of the densely packed city. 

Once they arrived, Ranell acted like he was in heaven. The ground floor was filled with everything from freshly ground coffee to local varieties of cheese, meat, and fish. Ranell loaded David and the driver up with as many plastic bags as they could carry as the three men rushed along the black and gold tiled floor of the brightly painted red building. David was impressed by the admirable job Ranell did of collecting business cards and phone numbers as he worked his way through the various departments. This guy’s a real operator. The next time we come through here, they’re going to be like old friends.

On the way back to the St. Paul, the driver continued racing through the streets at a breakneck pace despite the fact that the traffic was now much heavier. David gripped the handle above his head and looked towards the port to take his mind off the possibility of experiencing a fatal crash at any moment. He was surprised to see a small flotilla of sailboats and other pleasure craft gathered into a large knot in the waters outside the main port entrance. “Look at that.” He nudged Ranell to draw his attention.

“They’re gathering to greet the St. Paul, I believe,” said Ranell. “You know, we’re getting pretty famous.”

Craigen could tell that Thibido was immensely pleased when the team finally strolled beneath the branches of an ancient baobab tree and into a building with a blue and white striped awning. It was late in the morning, and Lukmaan’s restaurant was already crowded. The menu wasn’t terribly helpful, so Craigen helped the team members make their orders. 

Breakfast was served buffet style. Thibido chose a spiced biryani rice dish with fried mackerel. Because his first choice looked too small for his appetite, he also ordered a second rice pilau dish seasoned with cinnamon and cardamom. It was garnished with a bowl of kachumbari salad made with red onion, fresh tomatoes, a touch of hot pepper, and a squeeze of lime. He was especially fond of the grilled prawns, “Oohwee!” he cried with gusto, “This ‘ere place sure reminds me of home.” It was a high compliment.

“I told you it would be worth the wait bro,” Craigen reminded him with a grin.

With breakfast complete at last, the Response Team made their way into the tangled mass of narrow streets and alleyways that defined Stone Town. Known also as Mji Mkongwe, which means “old town” in Swahili, the name Stone Town came from the extensive use of coral stone in the construction of the buildings.

As the Response Team pressed deeper into the maze, they worked to dodge children, bicycles, small motorcycles, and the occasional donkey they encountered in the crowded confines. The buildings were an eclectic mix of Arab, Persian, Indian, European, and African designs. The tall buildings seem to crowd together above streets lined with shops, mosques, and houses. These Stone Town houses featured an amazing assortment of finely carved wooden doors, and most of the team members paused to take pictures of one of this region’s most prominent features.

Much of the warm, reddish colored buildings of this thriving city seemed to exist in a sort of crumbling suspended animation, with bursts of ornately carved lotus flowers, or Islamic verses of the Qur’an, mingled together with the cacophony of human activity and the scents of spiced tea and hot grilling of the unleavened bread called ‘chapattis.’

Using the GPS in her phone, Kedzierski guided the team up New Mkunazini road, then on to Kajifichenii Street for a brief moment before turning down an unnamed alleyway that brought them out to a wide pedestrian area known as Jaws Corner, named for the brightly painted mural of ravenous sharks that adorned the brick and plaster walls. She became lost momentarily on Soko Muhogo Street until she finally spotted the turn-off for Cathedral Street that led them to their final destination, St. Joseph’s Cathedral.

Craigen was not the only member of the team to notice Kedzierski breathe a sigh of relief when she spotted the distinctive twin spires of the cathedral built by French missionaries in the 1890s. The discovery also helped to quiet the good-natured ribbing she’d been getting from her teammates.

It was Tuesday, and there was no Catholic service being conducted inside. Still, the doors were open, and once the team went inside, they were greeted by Father Damas Mchomba, whom Craigen previously called to inform of the Response Team’s arrival.

“Hello!” Father Mchomba greeted them by making a scratching motion with his hand, palm down, to indicate they should come inside.

“Jambo,” Craigen replied, taking the priest’s hand and shaking it for a somewhat longer time than would be customary in the United States.

“Welcome to St. Joseph’s!” Mchomba was a middle-aged, somewhat heavier man dressed in black with the traditional white clerical collar. Warmth radiated from his smile. “I trust your long journey was not too difficult?”

“We’re used to traveling,” Craigen replied nonchalantly. On the walls and ceilings of the cathedral were beautiful murals of scenes from the Old Testament. “Besides, it was worth it to come here and see all this.” He gazed around at the tall pillars supporting a high vaulted nave and soaring domed apse. All beautifully illuminated by sunlight pouring through stained glass windows that were imported from France long ago.

Mchomba beamed in response to Craigen’s observation. “We have had it recently restored,” he said proudly.

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