Kirov Saga: Darkest Hour: Altered States - Volume II (Kirov Series) by John Schettler
Authors: John Schettler
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of the photos, a silence about him that seemed very troubled.
Part IV
Alliances
“Friendship is but another name for an
alliance with the follies and the misfortunes of others. Our own share of
miseries is sufficient: why enter then as volunteers into those of another? ― Thomas Jefferson
Chapter 10
June 20, 1940
The crews were working
feverishly, the Air Commandant’s voice harsh as he bawled through the voice
pipes to the nose of the ship. “Cast off! All lines away! Ballast Chief, release
ground anchor an lighten load!”
The sun gleamed on the round nose
of the ship where the dull red of its serial number was painted on the slate
grey canvas—S6, “Siberian Six,” otherwise known as Siberian Airship Abakan .
Its broad tail fins were prominently marked with the Cross of Saint George, the
war time symbol of the Free Siberian State. The elevatorman was exerting
himself to spin the wheel, his eyes fixed on the elevator panel to note the
airship’s pitch, deflection and inclination. A glass leveling tube told him
much of what he needed to know, and his effort was to “chase the bubble” when
he wanted to level off the ship.
Abakan rose slowly, its
interior gas bags struggling to get the necessary lift on the cold morning air.
This ship, like most all the others still in service, was a model by the
inspired genius of the German airship engineer Karl Arnstein, one of the great
pioneers of rigid airship design who had worked closely with Count (‘graf’)
Ferdinand von Zeppelin. The airship was every bit as big as the ship that first
bore the count’s name, the Graf Zeppelin , all of 770 feet long and just
over 100,000 cubic meters in total gas volume. A helium lifter, as all airships
in the Siberian fleet, it had incorporated the new Vulcan self-sealing gas
bags, eighteen in all from nose to tail, and this single breakthrough had
extended the life of the airship for decades.
The first designs had used
hydrogen, highly prevalent and easy to obtain, and the lightest of all gasses
to give it the best lifting power. Yet its Achilles heel was its volatile
nature and flammability, which was driven home during the First World War.
Overmatched in the deadly proving
ground of the war, airship technology was once on the verge of dying out when
the airplane was seen to be a much less costly and effective means of
controlling the skies. The duels of bi-winged canvas fighters fluttering around
the big airships like flies stinging the back of a rhino were legendary in the
first great war. The Germans had found out the hard way over England when their
hydrogen inflated zeppelins were ravaged by agile fighters with incendiary
rounds. Too many had plummeted from the sky as flaming wrecks, prompting
Germany to all but abandon its zeppelin fleet.
The Russian states had stubbornly
held on to their fleets, finding them too useful on the vast open heartland as
their lifting power saw them capable of transporting a full battalion of armed
troops as an air carrier.
The planes were still a threat,
but the greatest danger to an airship in the new war would come from the long
range anti-aircraft guns that were getting bigger and more effective every
year.
Non flammable helium was adopted
as the key alternative lifting gas. After the Hindenburg disaster of
1937, not a single airship now dared to use the more efficient hydrogen.
Instead, rigid airship frames were made lighter and stronger with “Duralumin,”
an alloy of aluminum with exceptional durability, and its composition and heat
treatment were a wartime secret. But the real advance that had extended the
life of the airship was the discovery of “Vulcan,” a self-sealing gelatinized
latex rubber lining that was used in the shell and all gas bags. If penetrated
by machinegun fire from enemy aircraft, it could reseal within seconds, and the
bullets would simply end up going right through the gas bags or clattering
against the
of the photos, a silence about him that seemed very troubled.
Part IV
Alliances
“Friendship is but another name for an
alliance with the follies and the misfortunes of others. Our own share of
miseries is sufficient: why enter then as volunteers into those of another? ― Thomas Jefferson
Chapter 10
June 20, 1940
The crews were working
feverishly, the Air Commandant’s voice harsh as he bawled through the voice
pipes to the nose of the ship. “Cast off! All lines away! Ballast Chief, release
ground anchor an lighten load!”
The sun gleamed on the round nose
of the ship where the dull red of its serial number was painted on the slate
grey canvas—S6, “Siberian Six,” otherwise known as Siberian Airship Abakan .
Its broad tail fins were prominently marked with the Cross of Saint George, the
war time symbol of the Free Siberian State. The elevatorman was exerting
himself to spin the wheel, his eyes fixed on the elevator panel to note the
airship’s pitch, deflection and inclination. A glass leveling tube told him
much of what he needed to know, and his effort was to “chase the bubble” when
he wanted to level off the ship.
Abakan rose slowly, its
interior gas bags struggling to get the necessary lift on the cold morning air.
This ship, like most all the others still in service, was a model by the
inspired genius of the German airship engineer Karl Arnstein, one of the great
pioneers of rigid airship design who had worked closely with Count (‘graf’)
Ferdinand von Zeppelin. The airship was every bit as big as the ship that first
bore the count’s name, the Graf Zeppelin , all of 770 feet long and just
over 100,000 cubic meters in total gas volume. A helium lifter, as all airships
in the Siberian fleet, it had incorporated the new Vulcan self-sealing gas
bags, eighteen in all from nose to tail, and this single breakthrough had
extended the life of the airship for decades.
The first designs had used
hydrogen, highly prevalent and easy to obtain, and the lightest of all gasses
to give it the best lifting power. Yet its Achilles heel was its volatile
nature and flammability, which was driven home during the First World War.
Overmatched in the deadly proving
ground of the war, airship technology was once on the verge of dying out when
the airplane was seen to be a much less costly and effective means of
controlling the skies. The duels of bi-winged canvas fighters fluttering around
the big airships like flies stinging the back of a rhino were legendary in the
first great war. The Germans had found out the hard way over England when their
hydrogen inflated zeppelins were ravaged by agile fighters with incendiary
rounds. Too many had plummeted from the sky as flaming wrecks, prompting
Germany to all but abandon its zeppelin fleet.
The Russian states had stubbornly
held on to their fleets, finding them too useful on the vast open heartland as
their lifting power saw them capable of transporting a full battalion of armed
troops as an air carrier.
The planes were still a threat,
but the greatest danger to an airship in the new war would come from the long
range anti-aircraft guns that were getting bigger and more effective every
year.
Non flammable helium was adopted
as the key alternative lifting gas. After the Hindenburg disaster of
1937, not a single airship now dared to use the more efficient hydrogen.
Instead, rigid airship frames were made lighter and stronger with “Duralumin,”
an alloy of aluminum with exceptional durability, and its composition and heat
treatment were a wartime secret. But the real advance that had extended the
life of the airship was the discovery of “Vulcan,” a self-sealing gelatinized
latex rubber lining that was used in the shell and all gas bags. If penetrated
by machinegun fire from enemy aircraft, it could reseal within seconds, and the
bullets would simply end up going right through the gas bags or clattering
against the
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