Flight of Dreams (33 page)

6:45 p.m.—forty minutes until the explosion

S
he owes Max an answer.

This is all she can think of as he walks away, hands tucked in his pockets. His kiss still warm on her lips. His plea echoing in her ear. Emilie lays three fingers across her mouth. A prayer. An apology.

She can envision two different versions of her future. One is certain and thrilling, filled with adventure and borrowed wealth and a loneliness that the Doehner family, lovely though they are, cannot fill. And the other contains Max. Max and a million unanswerable questions. But it also contains passion and love. Companionship. Lurking danger. Both options are impossible. And yet she must choose.

The
Hindenburg
will land in less than an hour and the passengers will disperse. The next departure is still scheduled for later that night, and the crew members will have no time to leave the ship. There will be no trips to New York or dalliances in Lakehurst. No time to sleep or even rest. There will be no time to let her subconscious mind sort out this mess. She will have to make the decision, and she will have to live with the consequences.

She checks her watch. Ten minutes. That's all the time she has to spare for this task. Best to get it over with before she can change her mind.

Emilie descends to her cabin on B-deck and places the pillowcase with Matilde's clothing and the newly returned documents on the bed. A pen. An envelope. One sheet of paper. She sets these things flat on her writing desk. Emilie Imhof, stewardess, widow, brokenhearted woman, picks up the pen with her hand and begins to write, her left wrist bent at an awkward angle, her fingers clenching at the first stroke of ink.

Max.

His name and three more words—
I am sorry
—before her hand begins to tremble. She drops the pen and flexes her fingers. Summons every ounce of courage. And then she continues. Two short paragraphs. Her answer. Her reasons. Her heart splattered on the clean page, as bold and plain as the ink itself. It will have to be enough. She does not have time nor heart for more than what she has written.

Emilie folds the letter in thirds and slides it into the envelope. She seals it and writes his name on the front. Then she goes in search of Kurt Schönherr.

Like Max, he has been called to the control car for landing, and she finds him entering the radio room.

“Kurt!”

“Fräulein.” He nods his head. Smiles. The older man has always been kind to her. Always respectful. “How can I help you?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

He turns his wrist. Glances at his watch.

“Please,” she says before he can argue. “I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important.”

“What do you need?”

“Do you still have your mailroom keys?”

A hesitant nod. “I do.”

She pulls the letter from her pocket. Holds it out to him. “Will you put this in the lockbox? For Max. Please?”

“I can take it to him in the control car. He's there now.” Kurt takes the letter from her hands and holds it between two fingers the way he would a cigarette or a playing card.

Emilie smiles, sad and winsome. “He asked me to send my answer by post.”

Kurt appraises her with keen, sharp eyes. “Then we wouldn't want to disappoint him, would we?”

Too late for that. She doesn't say it out loud, but he can see the sadness in her eyes. “Very well, then,” he says, and Emilie watches him step across the hall and enter the mailroom.

6:55 p.m.—thirty minutes until the explosion

T
he stewards pass around trays of finger sandwiches, cheese, and fresh fruit while the passengers hover beside the windows watching Lakehurst come into view once again. They see the mooring mast first, its black triangular form rising above the airfield like a crane, and then the arched form of Hangar No. 1. Members of the ground hover at the edge of the landing circle, waiting to secure the lines.

The American is hungry, but he doesn't eat. He likes the hollow feeling in his stomach, this base, human craving. He savors it. Focuses on it. Denies himself the ability to meet it as his thoughts, so erratic all day, finally begin to settle and focus into a single point of action. It is time to kill Ludwig Knorr.

The American would have preferred his original plan. He would have preferred to wait in his cabin in the dark recess beneath the berth, letting the ship empty and lie quiet through the long daytime hours. He would have preferred to find the chief rigger in the belly of the ship and dispatch him quietly. To hide the body and then send a spark hurtling into this giant, combustible bag. It would have been better for things to play out like that. He would have truly enjoyed watching the airship burn to ash.

But the airship is late, and it will not sit in this New Jersey field over- night. It will not lie empty for hours. He doesn't have the luxury of time. He must adapt. The American leaves the other passengers at the window, then winds his way around the corner, down the gangway stairs, into the keel corridor, and to his cabin. He does not spare a glance at the window but goes straight to his berth and pulls the green canvas bag from where he has kept it hidden for the last three and a half days.

He lifts the pistol and checks the cylinder. Five bullets. He will need only one. The Luger of a
Hindenburg
officer. That's what he requested. The mechanics of delivering it were rather complicated, he suspects. He was told only that the Gestapo would inspect the ship prior to liftoff as part of security measures due to the bomb threats, and that one of those men had been paid to locate a gun and place it in this cabin. He knows nothing of motives or payments involved. All men have secrets they want kept. All men have pressure points. And he doesn't care how his employers persuaded or bribed that young Gestapo officer to comply. He provided the gun and the American has it now. He tucks it into his waistband. He straightens his jacket. He pulls the door open.

Captain Lehmann stands before him, accompanied by an officer so young and clean-shaven the American doubts he has finished puberty.

“Herr Douglas.” A nod, not the least bit polite.

“Captain.”

“May I have a word with you?”

It takes every ounce of self-control for the American not to shoot the captain or his companion. He cannot afford this delay. “Can it wait a few moments? I'd like to watch the landing.”

Lehmann smiles. “You'll need to do so from your room, I'm afraid. You have a window after all. A luxury most of the passengers don't enjoy.”

A bristling anger begins to heat his blood. He flexes his fingers. Struggles to stay calm. “I don't understand.”

“We've had complaints from the crew that you have been wandering into areas of the ship that are prohibited to passengers. We will need to look into these accusations. And until the matter can be cleared up you will remain here.”

“You are placing me under…what? House arrest?”

Lehmann surveys the small room and, upon seeing nothing out of place, replies, “
Arrest
is a strong word.”

“
Arrest
is the word used for detaining a man against his will.”

“Ah. I see you're familiar with the process at least. Then this should be easy. I have ordered Captain Ziegler here to wait outside your cabin until my return.”

Ziegler rests the heel of one hand on the pistol at his waist. It's the first time the American has seen any of the officers armed since the ship left Frankfurt. The captain tries to look menacing, but the threat is lost on the American.

“Is he going to
shoot
me if I leave?”

Lehmann shrugs, as though leaving that possibility entirely up to him. “I'd rather that it not come to that.”

The American pauses, recalculates. “May I know the name of the man who has accused me of this behavior?”

“I think you know his name already. You've had a very keen interest in him during the entire flight. And that is something I plan on discussing with you as well. When I return.”

7:03 p.m.—twenty-two minutes until the explosion

T
he naval air station in Lakehurst, New Jersey, is surrounded by empty fields and dotted with scrub brush, patches of grass, and bright, colorful pinpricks that Werner guesses to be wildflowers. And there, on a dirt path, are two young boys peddling beneath the airship on their bicycles. The frantic pumping of their arms and legs looks comical from above. But they wave and whoop, trying desperately to keep up with the
Hindenburg
as it loops around the massive airfield, getting into position. Like much of the population of Lakehurst, the boys have come to watch the landing.

In moments the children are out of sight, and Werner turns back to his work, eager to get the crew's mess clean so he can go watch the landing on A-deck with the passengers. He blushes, even though the room is empty and no one can see him, as he imagines the delight on Irene Doehner's face when the airship lands. He knows it's silly and he knows he will never see the girl again after today, but Werner wants to witness her awe. It's how he wants to remember the first girl who ever kissed him.

7:10 p.m.—fifteen minutes until the explosion

P
russ hands the telegraph to Max. It reads:
CONDITIONS DEFINITELY IMPROVED RECOMMEND EARLIEST POSSIBLE LANDING
.

“Give the signal for landing,” Pruss says, and a few seconds later Max cringes as the discordant blast of the air horn rips through the air. His eyes twitch at the sound.

Max wonders at Colonel Erdmann's absence. He would have thought that the man would be so eager to get off this airship that he would not miss the ritual. But he is nowhere to be seen. He assumes they will discuss the package later.

The storm has abated and they are now traveling through an insignificant misting rain. The sky is not as dark, the wind has decreased. Max feels confident that they will be able to get the ship on the ground this time.

“Weigh off,” Pruss orders, and the crew begins the familiar routine of valving the gas to lower their altitude.

The wind is still rougher than they are comfortable with, so Pruss has them circle north and then west of the airfield in a series of tight figure-eight turns. Max feels the strain of the airship as the floor beneath him shudders in response. Pruss is in a hurry to take advantage of this short window of opportunity, so they make another abrupt left turn at full speed, and Max can hear the engines reverse—a slow, grinding whir and then a rapid popping—as the
Hindenburg
shudders and slows. They loop over the airfield once more and the mooring mast rises up beside them.

“Final approach!” Pruss bellows. There's no need to yell, but it's his habit, and they are all accustomed to it by now.

“We're a thousand kilograms stern heavy, Commander,” Bauer says. Unlike most of the crew inside the control car, his eyes are not on the ground below but fixed to an instrument in front of him where a needle wavers right of center.

“Empty the ballasts at stern,” Pruss answers.

Bauer pulls the toggle, waits a few seconds as the instrument registers an insignificant change, then pulls it again. He holds the lever for a count of five as water from the ballast bags at the rear of the ship cascades onto the ground below. He shakes his head. Looks at Pruss. “We're still tail heavy.”

Pruss glowers. “Drop another five hundred kilos.”

The crowd of spectators gathered on the field below are slightly portside and downwind of the airship. Max sees the tiny, dark forms stiffen in shock as the water drenches them.

Bauer shakes his head. “Sorry, Commander, we're still out of trim.”

“Call the kitchen. Order six crew men into the bow for counterbalance.”

7:15 p.m.—ten minutes until the explosion

T
he landing signal sounds with a raucous blast. A minute, maybe two, he's been staring at the closed door, recalculating. He could kill the guard outside. It wouldn't be difficult. But the likelihood of being seen or caught is high. And he's only one man among a crew of more than sixty. Count in the male passengers—he's not worried about the females—and the odds are ninety to one. Even he can't beat that.

Damn it.

There is a moment when the American is certain he has failed. It is such a new sensation that he cannot properly name the emotion that assaults him. Disappointment? No, that's not strong enough. Anger? No. Not that either. He settles on grief because this emotion, this feeling, this assault on his senses is the same thing he felt the day his brother died in that hospital in Coventry.

His brother. He will not miss the chance to avenge his brother.

The American is pointing the revolver at the cabin door, in the approximate location he guesses the guard's right kidney to be, when another option occurs to him.

The steak knife.

He presses hard on one of the foam-board walls to test this new possibility.

It could work.

He locks the door.

The ship is descending and there is no time to second-guess himself, so he slips into action. The American pulls the steak knife from where he left it beneath his mattress, then he shimmies beneath the berth, his stomach pressed to the floor and his arms stretched out in front of him. He sets the knifepoint against wall and pushes with a quick thrust. The blade slides easily through the foam, down to the hilt. The American begins to saw a straight, deep line through the wall he shares with Heinrich Kubis. Once punctured, the foam board cuts easily. He tears a strip of fabric away. Shoves it aside, and continues to carve an opening in the wall.

Within a minute he has cut a square two feet wide—as much as he can remove between the duralumin posts that frame the walls. It will have to be enough. He goes to work on the foam board on the steward's side of the room, cutting more quickly now, motivated. The sawing, ripping sound is loud to his ears, but Ziegler outside does not cry out in alarm or attempt to enter.

The American does not wait. He is through the hole and out from under the bed and standing in the middle of Heinrich Kubis's room in a matter of seconds. The knife goes into his pocket, and he dusts the foam particles from his clothing. Takes a deep breath. Steps into the antechamber. Opens the door. Scans the hallway.

The officer assigned to watch his room grumbles in German, hidden around the corner. Stomping his feet impatiently. Irritated at having to babysit.

The American leaves him without another thought. He's at the gangway stairs and around the corner in three seconds. He passes someone in the keel corridor but doesn't pause to acknowledge them. The security door is fifty feet ahead. He walks faster.

Forty feet.

Thirty feet.

Twenty.

Ten.

He leans his shoulder against the door and pushes into the great, yawing body cavity of the
Hindenburg.

There is no roar of engines, only the distant, echoing voices of men as they shout orders back and forth, orchestrating the intimate dance of water ballasts and gas valves and rudder fins. He sees men dotted around the structure at their stations and begins to run toward the crew quarters near the cargo hold, his feet pounding the keel catwalk. The noise, loud and rumbling, draws shouts from above, but he does not look up to see who might be watching him from above on the axial catwalk. He does not stop. He rushes forward, determined.

He finds Ludwig Knorr standing on the catwalk between the crew quarters and the cargo hold, looking up. His hands are on his hips and his chin is turned so high the American can see the tendons in his neck stretch tight. Knorr stares at the hydrogen cell directly above them with such intent that he does not even register the American's presence. And now he understands why. There is a hole in the gasbag—perhaps the size of a melon—and the material around it is fluttering as the hydrogen escapes. There is a slight whining sound, like air being let out of a balloon. One of the duralumin girders holding the gas cell in place has snapped, and a narrow rod of metal has punctured the cell.

Ludwig Knorr is trembling.

The American pulls the pistol from his waistband and points it directly at the chief rigger. Only when he cocks the hammer does Knorr turn around and look at him. The American has thought of this moment for almost twenty years. He has planned for it. Dreamed of it. But he underestimated the feeling of total satisfaction he would experience as realization flickers in Knorr's eyes.

The rigger's voice is hoarse with panic. “What are you doing, Herr Douglas?”

“I really wish people would stop calling me that. It's not my name.” The American is deeply satisfied by the look of profound confusion on Knorr's face. “Edward Douglas is dead, has been since the morning we departed Frankfurt. I took his papers. I took his ticket. And I took his spot on this flight. His body will never be found. My employers made sure of that.”

Knorr says nothing, merely stares at him in horror.

“If it makes you feel better, I didn't enjoy killing him. He was a good man. I liked working with him.”

The American has drawn a paycheck from the McCann Erickson company for well over a year, but that isn't who he works for. Not really. He doesn't bother explaining this to Ludwig Knorr, however.

The rigger returns his gaze to the gun. He speaks slowly. “Why are you doing this?”

“Revenge.”

“I have done nothing to you.”

“I didn't expect you to remember. It was eighteen years ago. And you were little more than a boy, just like my brother. And it was a war. Some would even call your actions heroic.” The American steadies his hand. “No. I didn't expect you to remember. But I do. That's enough.”

Hydrogen does not have an odor. It is colorless and tasteless. And the American cannot feel it entering his lungs, filling the little pockets and membranes with each rise and fall of his chest. It spreads around him like an invisible, deadly fog. He does not care.

Ludwig Knorr raises his hands, palms out, in surrender. His eyes flicker from the American to the hole in the gas cell. “Please don't,” he says. “You will kill us all.”

“I wonder, did you think of death when you dropped bombs on that hospital in Coventry? Did you care that men were dying below? That those who survived the actual blast were left to rot beneath the rubble for days?”

He can see it on Knorr's face. Panic. Desperation. Bewilderment. The poor bastard doesn't remember that flight over England. He has probably never thought of it again. To the American this is unforgivable. He has killed many men in his life, but he always looked at them when he did so, and he never forgot them afterward. Never. Not the first one decades ago and not Edward Douglas three days ago. He lives with the memory of each frightened face. Their fear and confusion is a burden he must carry.

“If you kill a man you should remember it,” the American says.

“Are you even paying attention?” Knorr waves at the gas cell. He's no longer a soldier. He's only a man. And he is deranged with fear, screaming. “If you fire that thing you will kill everyone on this ship!”

“If that's what it takes.”

The American doesn't realize how committed he is until the words are out of his mouth. There are two reasons he came on board this airship: to avenge his brother's death and to destroy the
Hindenburg.
Nazi Germany cannot be the world's aviation leader. Not if he has the ability to stop them. The world's largest, most luxuriant, most technologically advanced aircraft is emblazoned with swastikas and funded by Adolf Hitler? This is untenable.

Yes, he would have preferred his original plan. He would have preferred to burn the airship once it was moored at Lakehurst. But the landing is twelve hours late and he has no choice now. The collateral damage will be higher than expected, but not total. There is a chance that some will survive. But not him. No. For him this ends today. It ends right now.

The American pulls the trigger.

The last thing he sees is the muzzle flash. A long strip of flame—pure, clean, white, and searing hot—that shoots from the end of the pistol and then ignites the air itself. The combustion is almost beautiful. And then he is blind. He breathes once—a single gasp of surprise—and his lungs are filled with liquid flame.

He feels nothing else. Hears nothing else. Sees nothing else. The American is simply consumed.

T
he slug tears from the muzzle. It is a molten, flaming chunk of lead, a comet streaking through this small, gas-filled universe, its tail growing larger and more destructive as it goes. The fireball builds and then roars upward through the gas cells, igniting everything in its path.

Outside, a single member of the ground crew sees a glimpse of flame licking the great silver spine of the airship. A phosphorescent blue blaze known as Saint Elmo's fire. This is the last visible trace of the bullet as it rips from the
Hindenburg
's body, its ascent slowing, and then stopping altogether. The bullet falls unseen. It lands in the grass unnoticed. It will never be found.

Because now every horror-stricken eye has turned to the great burning airship.