Page 58 of Flight of Dreams

Leonhard has most of her clothing off at this point. “Well, I don’t want to hear the sordid details. Nothing before my time, mind you.”

“It was just practice, Liebchen.”

“Ugh. You’re not even sorry about it!”

“Well, I was married once before, you know.”

“I don’t want to hear about her either.”

The only thing left on Gertrud’s body at this point are her underclothes, and Leonhard tries to dispatch those as well. She steps away from him. Sets her arms on her hips in protest. “We’re late for drinks.”

He sighs. Pulls a tailored red dress from the closet and hands it to her. “It’s not wine I’m thirsty for.”

Gertrud takes the dress from him, being careful to stay out of reach. They will never make it to the bar otherwise. “We have work to do.”

THE NAVIGATOR

It’s two o’clock on the dot, and Christian Nielsen steps into the chart room just as Max’s concentration begins to waver. After so many years working aboard ocean liners, and now airships, he finds that his body works to the clock. He has trained himself to operate at an acute level of performance for the exact duration of his shift. But when the clock turns, his mind and body are only too happy to follow.

There are only a few details to make Nielsen aware of, and he goes through the list quickly. “Keep an eye on the engine telegraph dial for gondola two. I had to make an outboard repair this morning.”

“You did? Why not Zettel?”

“Don’t ask.”

“All right. But—”

“We’re still fighting strong headwinds,” Max interrupts, “and it looks as though they will get stronger overnight. We haven’t made up much time today. Less than an hour at most. I’ve been checking coordinates every fifteen minutes to make sure we stay on course.” He taps the chart, drawing Nielsen’s eye to the complex grid of lines, a language of longitude and latitude decipherable only to their kind. “If we’re not here by midnight”—he points at a specific point on the grid and lowers his voice to a whisper—“I’d suggest you increase that to every ten minutes. Pruss is feeling…hostile at the moment.”

Nielsen looks through the door at the rigid form of Commander Pruss, who stands over the elevator man, questioning every small adjustment. The young man looks frayed with the effort of not arguing with Pruss.

“Good luck.” Max hands over the logbook and clears his belongings from the navigation desk. Watch. Compass. Pen. He fastens the watch around his wrist and tucks the other items in his pocket. Max goes through his mental checklist: sign out of the logbook, make sure the officers’ safe beneath the chart table is locked, verify that all of the navigational instruments are operating correctly.

Nielsen has worked aboard the Graf Zeppelin, and he survived a spectacular wrecking of the sailboat Pinnas. Yet Max still has to prepare himself to hand over command of his post every night. Nielsen is thorough, attentive, and cautious. Traits every navigator is recruited for. But this small space is Max’s territory. His kingdom. And relinquishing control is a battle, especially since he was not able to fully correct the delay. But he has other things to attend to at the moment. He must perform his postmaster duties and he must find Emilie. He has to warn her about what Wilhelm Balla has done.

THE AMERICAN

The American has never been a fan of beef Wellington. It’s a meal that tries too hard, not to mention being damned hard to get right. The Hindenburg’s chef is clearly adept, for the dish is cooked perfectly. Still the American is unimpressed. He would have preferred a steak and roasted potatoes. A stout beer. A cigar. And if there weren’t such a dearth of women in the immediate vicinity, perhaps one of those as well.

“Are you not enjoying your meal, Herr Douglas?” Captain Lehmann asks.

The American slices off a piece of the tenderloin and places it in his mouth, chewing slowly as if savoring it. “It is easily the best beef Wellington I’ve ever tasted.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

National pride can extend to so many bizarre things. Now that the Hindenburg has become irrevocably linked to the Third Reich it seems that serving any meal that falls short would mar the Führer’s reputation.

The American and Captain Lehmann have one of the smaller tables to themselves. Tonight’s flower is a dahlia the size of a soup bowl. A profusion of orange petals at the end of a long, thick stem. It’s quite lovely. But the American can’t fathom where they came by such a flower at this time of year. The tables are impeccable. Bright linens. Fine china. Shining silver. The tenderloin is soft enough to cut with a spoon, but the stewards have provided steak knives anyway. The American wonders at his chances of sneaking one into his suit pocket. Perhaps it isn’t necessary, but it might come in handy. All is going according to plan so far, but he learned long ago that things can go pear-shaped at any moment. It’s always good to be prepared. And armed. He thinks better of pocketing the knife when he notices the smallest Doehner boy watching him from the next table. He relaxes his hand, drawing it away from the knife. No point giving the little rascal any ideas. He will wait for a better opportunity. Hermann and Matilde Doehner are talking in the quiet, lazy drawl common to exhausted parents. Their children chatter and pepper them with questions while they hem and haw, offering noncommittal answers.

“I was surprised to get your invitation,” the American says, switching to English so as not to be overheard by his neighbors.

Lehmann adjusts his language to accommodate him with only the slightest sign of irritation. “How so?”

“I fear I did not make a favorable impression on Commander Pruss last night.” He pushes the haricots verts to the edge of his plate. Spears one. Eats it without much enthusiasm. It tastes like a plant. Nothing more.

“He did mention your peculiar theories.”

“I’m not the only person who holds them.”