Page 99 of Flight of Dreams

The crew is restless. They want this ship on the ground. The passengers are restless. They want to be off the Hindenburg and on their way. But six hundred feet is a long way to descend safely when the weather turns unstable. His shift ended two hours ago, but he has come back to the control car to assist with landing.

Max can see the struggle play out on Commander Pruss’s face. His gaze is on neither the sky nor the soil, but straight ahead at that midpoint on the horizon where the two meet. They all hope the path is clearer ahead and that by some miracle they will be able to land, but things are not looking good. Pruss leans forward, tense. His jaw is clenched. His eyes, not tight but wide and round, are unblinking.

The airship glides over the New Jersey Pine Barrens, dotted by the occasional flat scrub oak, and begins its initial approach toward Lakehurst. The enormous bulk of Hangar No. 1 dwarfs everything else in the vicinity. Max notes that the landing crew has not assembled on the field. A bad sign. There are spectators and a handful of reporters—he can see the tiny pop of flashbulbs—but the great hangar doors are closed. And then the telegraph machine sends out a series of abrasive little chirps in the radio room above. Max doesn’t wait for the order. He goes to retrieve the message and then understands why the landing crew has not assembled.

He hands it to Commander Pruss, who reads it aloud: “Wind gusts now twenty-five knots.”

Max can feel the faintest drag of the ship as the crew struggles to keep it from bearing port side. It has not begun to rain. And though the sky threatens lightning, it has yet to manifest. But Pruss will not be able to land the ship. Not now, at any rate. Not with this wind.

The commander’s shoulders drop, just an inch, and his body uncoils from the strain of determination. A sigh. A muttered curse. “Head southeastward,” he finally says, “toward the coast. We will wait out the storm.”

THE AMERICAN

4:15 p.m.—three hours and ten minutes until the explosion

“Where are we going? Why aren’t we landing?” What little hair Moritz Feibusch has sits on the top of his scalp in an unruly pile that he has twisted into something resembling a Brillo pad.

It is an odd camaraderie the American has formed with the two Jewish businessmen. They seek him out whenever the passengers congregate in groups. They join him at meals. They speak with him, as though speaking with a friend. The American is not used to being liked. It makes him uncomfortable.

“We can’t land in a storm,” the American says. And then, “What have you done to your hair?”

Feibusch lays his palm on the tangled nest. Laughs. “It’s a bad habit. I tug my hair when I’m nervous.”

“You’ve been twirling your hair like a schoolgirl for the last ten minutes. It’s disturbing,” William Leuchtenberg says.

The American wanders away, leaving the men to their good-natured jabs. He had not counted on the delay. He had not counted on the headwinds over the North Atlantic or the fact that the Hindenburg itself would not cooperate with him. When he sat in his office in Frankfurt all those months ago reading the telegram and considering, really considering, this opportunity and all it would mean for his life and his career, for the chance at revenge, he had never once taken into account that the airship would arrive twelve hours late, that there would be virtually no time between landing and the next takeoff. He has killed an innocent man—a fellow American—just for the chance to kill Ludwig Knorr. So the thought of abandoning his mission feels untenable. Wasteful. He could always dispatch Knorr and leave his primary orders unfulfilled, but that leaves the Nazi government in possession of the largest, most technically advanced airship in history. It leaves them in a position of worldwide aviation dominance. He may be a small, petty man hell-bent on personal vengeance, but he is also a zealot. He believes in this cause. So there is nothing left to do now but keep himself occupied. He must think. He must sort through all the available options and find the one—there has to be one—that enables him to accomplish what he came on board to do.

The American wanders through the passenger areas with restless energy. He creates a pattern without giving it much thought. The smoking room and then the bar. He chats with the passengers and then Schulze. He orders a gin and tonic but doesn’t drink it all. He ambles off with it in his hand, then leaves it two-thirds full on the first flat surface he can find. Next comes the dining room and the promenade. He drifts among the tables, initiating conversation, provoking arguments. He approaches this task as though he is conversational carbonation, forcing air and livelihood into the dialogue. But he’s quick to abandon the banter once it flares to life. He moves on to the lounge. The reading room. The observation deck. These areas are last. He finds them tedious. This is where the women and children are gathered, fretting over needlepoint and romance novels. But, still, he cannot afford to linger in any place for too long, so he adds these rooms to the rotation, then starts over, making sure to avoid Feibusch and Leuchtenberg on the second rotation. He does not want friends. Friends complicate things.

For now he will stay busy. He will keep his mind sharp. And when the moment is right he will make his move.

THE NAVIGATOR

6:00 p.m.—one hour and twenty-five minutes until the explosion

Max settles into his favorite booth in the crew’s mess as the Hindenburg flies low over Asbury Park, New Jersey. He can see the boardwalk directly beneath them and the small forms of lovers strolling hand in hand on this warm May evening. Some crane their necks and wave. Others whistle. A child jumps up and down, ecstatic, and Max can see a small dog spinning in circles, barking at them madly. For one short moment Max is captivated by the picturesque scene and grateful for his place in it. Then he presses back into his seat and feels the uncomfortable bulk of the envelope and he remembers what he must do. He has fetched the documents from his room, and he feels the weight of them like an anchor lashed to his waist.

But first, dinner.

Max has had so few opportunities to feel superior to Xaver Maier in the last seventy-two hours that he indulges the lesser side of his character now, grinning with delight as the chef pushes the swinging door open and drops a tray of finger sandwiches onto the table.

“Not a word,” Maier says.

Max doesn’t have to say anything. He simply plucks a roast beef sandwich from the tray and bites off a corner. The bread is fresh, the beef is perfectly seasoned, and the creamy horseradish sauce is perfect. It’s hard to hate a man who cooks so well, but Max gives it his best effort anyway. He won’t soon forget the image of Maier kissing Emilie.

In the end Max can’t resist. “Do you think she will remember your name? This girl who’s waiting for you?” Max asks as the chef stares longingly out the window. “Or does she even know it?”

Maier is known for making the most of their short leaves in New Jersey and for the lecherous grin he wears when reporting for duty again. But this delay has ensured that the chef will not make whatever appointment he has been looking forward to. Max experiences no small amount of satisfaction in this. Maier glares at him like a fractious child and returns to the kitchen with a huff. He sends one of the assistant chefs to bring the platters of fruit and cheese into the crew’s mess in his stead. It seems that Maier has had quite enough of the navigator.

Max turns from the window as Werner rushes through the door, a couple of minutes late. His cheeks are flushed and his eyes are bright as he begins pulling plates and silverware from the cabinet to serve the crew. He loads a plate for Max without asking his preference and sets it in front of him, avoiding eye contact. Max is about to ask the boy why he’s blushing, but the door opens then and a handful of riggers enter. Max doesn’t want to embarrass Werner. Ludwig Knorr ruffles Werner’s hair, and the cabin boy turns away to serve them.

It seems to Max that Werner is euphoric. So it’s the girl, then. They’ve kissed again or done something equally stupid. He just hopes that whatever the boy is doing goes unnoticed by her parents as well as the officers. It would not go well for Werner if he were caught fraternizing with the daughter of a wealthy passenger. He makes a mental note to scold the boy later.

Max adjusts the envelope at his waist before pushing his plate away. He beckons Werner over with a hand.

“Have you seen Emilie?” Max asks. “I need to have a word with her.”

“She was headed up to A-deck a few minutes ago. Probably going to start tidying the cabins for the return trip.”