7:10 p.m.—fifteen minutes until the explosion
Pruss 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.”
THE AMERICAN
7:15 p.m.—ten minutes until the explosion
The 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.