Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (11 page)

“Papa!” He tugged against his father’s hand. “Papa, that’s a lady!”

The man looked both annoyed and embarrassed, and Alma gave him her best smile. “I’m the owner and the pilot, so if you have any questions, I’d be glad to answer.”

“Of course, thank you,” the father said, and turned his son toward the passenger compartment. His wife followed, but one of the girls hung back a little, looking doubtfully up at Alma.

“Really?”

“Really,” Alma said, and then the girl was tugged away, her mother scolding her for being rude. Alma sighed — sometimes she got tired of having to explain herself — them straightened her shoulders and turned to greet the next group with a smile.

By three-thirty, she was thoroughly tired of answering the same questions, especially from people who assumed she was the interpreter, and she wasn’t entirely sorry to see larger group bustling down the length of the hangar toward them.  She ushered the last group of visitors ashore, then stuck her head through the forward hatch.

“Mitch! The Air Marshal’s on his way.”

“Right.”  A moment later, Mitch joined her by the main hatch.  Tiny peered down at them from the flight engineer’s seat.

“That coffee’s just about new, ma’am,” he offered.

“Thanks, Tiny.” Alma looked at Mitch. “How’s it looking up there?”

“What I can see of the harbor looks fine,” Mitch answered. “Looks like the wind might have died down a little.  You want me and Tiny to do the pre-flight?”

“Do the first part.  I’m going to invite Signor Balbo to the cockpit if he wants.”

“He’ll want,” Mitch said, and she nodded.

“Yeah, I figured.”  Balbo’s party was getting closer, almost to the base of the gangway, and she drew herself up again, dredging up a smile that she didn’t feel. Yes, there was Balbo himself, not as resplendently dressed as he’d been at the ball, but very neat in his belted uniform, impeccably tailored, with a double row of ribbons above his pocket and an odd cap, pointed fore and aft, on his curling hair. There were other uniformed men with him, another Italian and a big man in a pale gray uniform that Alma recognized abruptly as the German Air Marshal, Hermann Göring. The blonde who had been with Göring at the ball was on his arm again, very handsome in a dark blue day suit, and Count von Rosen brought up the rear.  She felt her eyebrows rise, and heard Mitch whistle under his breath.

“It’s a mixed bag, all right,” Alma agreed, and braced herself to welcome them aboard. “Air Marshal,” Alma said, extending her hand.

“Dear lady.” Balbo bent politely over it, these gestured broadly to the people with him. “May I present Herr Göring and his lady? Herr Göring is the Reich’s Minister of Aviation.”

“Delighted, Minister. Ma’am.” Alma didn’t dare look at Mitch or at Tiny, who was staring open-mouthed.

“My aide, Captain Sante, and Count von Rosen.”

“The Count and I met last night,” Alma said.

“My first wife’s nephew,” Göring said with a smile. “And an excellent flyer in his own right.”

Alma matched the smile, and introduced Mitch and Tiny, aware that all the men were examining the plane and each other with leashed intensity.  “As you can see, the Catalina is set up in its civilian configuration — there’s been a great deal of interest in it for the Pacific routes. Could I offer you some coffee?”

“Very kind, dear lady,” Balbo said.

Alma nodded to Tiny, who fetched a tray and cups from the passenger compartment and made a respectable job of serving the coffee while Alma began her practiced spiel. Predictably, Mrs. Göring exclaimed at the luxury of the passenger fittings, and at her husband’s urging, settled herself one of the well-padded chairs, stretching out small feet in blue kid pumps and expensive silk stockings.  Göring sat down next to her, nodding, and smiled up at Alma.

“This really isn’t bad. I could imagine crossing the Pacific this way.”

“Better than what we had in ‘33,” Balbo said.

“There are bunks in the rear compartment,” Alma said, “and of course the cabin could be configured to allow for more sleeping space. The design is very flexible.”

“Which is what you were looking for, right, Carl?” Göring glanced at his nephew, still smiling, and pushed himself to his feet.  He moved well despite his bulk, his hunter’s eyes missing nothing as he pulled back the curtain to examine the sleeping compartments.

“If I were going to buy such a plane, I would certainly need it to be versatile,” von Rosen said. “One would need to carry both cargo and passengers, and to be able to vary the loads according to need.”

“Though I’m not at all sure how this would work on a transatlantic route,” Göring went on. “One would still need to refuel, I believe, Mrs. Segura?”

“Oh, yes. In fact, there are several possible routes, given our range.” This was a question she could answer in her sleep, and she let herself go on, listing facts and figures, while she watched von Rosen examine the interior fittings and Göring watched him. “For an American destination, I think the Air Marshal’s route through Reykjavik would be my choice.”

“More practical for North America, certainly,” Göring answered. “Though there’s certainly a market for flights to South America.”

“For some people,” von Rosen said. “In any case, I have been thinking I might look toward the Far East. There is money to be made there.”

Was she imagining it, Alma thought, or did Göring relax just a fraction? “If you’d like to come forward, I’d be glad to show you the working end of the plane.”

“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Segura, I’ll just stay here.” Frau Göring smiled up at her politely. “This is lovely coffee, and to be blunt, my feet are aching.”

“You don’t have to come with us, darling,” Göring said. “Sante would be glad to escort you ashore.”

“But then I would have to move.” She shook her head. “No, I’ll just stay here. I can provide a passenger’s perspective on the whole thing.”

“Of course.” Göring smiled. “Whatever you’d like.”

“I’ll send Tiny back with some more coffee, then,” Alma said. “And if you gentlemen would follow me…”

She led the others forward while Tiny fetched more coffee, let Balbo and Göring climb up to look over the flight engineer’s station, then brought them on into the next compartment. “Navigation and radio,” she said, waving at the chart table and the bank of radio equipment tucked in between the ribs of the fuselage. This looked more like the Cat they’d flown in Hawaii, all business, though Floyd’s people had covered the raw metal with a coat of pale blue paint, and there were sturdy mats carpeting the deck. Göring and Balbo examined the radio with interest, and von Rosen said, “How many men in the crew, Mrs. Segura?”

“We can fly with as few as three,” Alma answered, “which is what we’ll be doing today. The recommended minimum crew is five, but we tested routinely with four. Of course, we weren’t doing any serious navigation at that point.”

Von Rosen nodded thoughtfully. “Pilot, co-pilot, flight engineer, radio operator — navigator?”

“Right.”

“And on a long flight, you’d want someone to spell the pilots and the engineer,” Balbo said.

Alma nodded.  “Mitch and I were figuring we’d want a crew of ten for a transpacific flight. Three pilots, two engineers, three people to handle radio and navigation, and then two stewards to take care of the passengers. Although we don’t have them installed, there’s room in the flight engineer’s compartment to put another pair of bunks.”

“You’d certainly want staff for the passengers,” Göring agreed. He was looking at von Rosen, who shrugged like a sullen schoolboy.

“One must always take the passengers into account, of course.”

And what was that about? Alma wondered. She pointed them to the cramped cockpit, standing back so that they could take turns stepping through, and let Mitch answer questions for a while.

“Excuse me, Mrs Segura.” Tiny put his head through the hatch. “The harbormaster says they’re ready any time.”

“Thanks.”  Alma took a breath, and plastered her best smile on her face. “Gentlemen. The harbormaster is ready for our flight. You’re welcome to make yourselves comfortable in the back, of course, but I thought you might like to take the navigator’s position.

“That’s very kind of you, dear lady,” Balbo said. “I most certainly will.”

“And I.” Göring gave a polite half-bow.

Von Rosen looked pointedly at the available seats, one at the radio position, the other at the navigation table. “I will join Frau Göring, I think.”

“Nonsense.” Göring pointed to the jump seat folded against the bulkhead beside the hatch. “Sit there, Carl.”

“If you wish,” von Rosen said. He pulled down the seat and latched it in place, then seated himself, arms crossed. “As long as it doesn’t inconvenience Mrs. Segura.”

“Not at all,” Alma said. Göring was a careful man to have spotted that, she thought. But then, you’d expect that from a fighter ace with the Pour la Mérite. She got them settled, found headsets and showed them the intercom channels, then stepped quickly back to the passenger compartment. Frau Göring assured her that she was perfectly comfortable, and accepted a refill of her coffee, and then at last Alma was able to slide into the cockpit next to Mitch.

“I’ve got the harbormaster on channel three,” he said. “And I’ve started the checklist.”

“Thanks.” She had left the cockpit door open, knowing that they would have visitors as soon as they were in the air. “I’ve got everyone on the intercom.”

And that, she hoped, would be warning enough for her crew. Mitch gave her a crooked grin, and reached for the radio.

“Harbormaster, this is Gilchrist. We’re just finishing our checklist now.”

“Roger that, Gilchrist,” the harbormaster answered, with what Alma felt was admirable patience. “Inform us when you are ready to taxi.”

“Will do,” Alma answered, and bent her attention to the checklist. When it was complete, and the two big engines were running, she called the harbormaster and received permission to taxi out of the hangar.

As promised, the wind had dropped over the course of the day, and the harbor no longer showed the heavy chop that would have made takeoff and landing unpleasant.  Even so, she hoped none of the passengers were subject to seasickness as the Cat jounced over the waves, steering with engines and rudder to line up at last in the buoyed takeoff lane. The harbormaster cleared them, and she advanced the throttles, her eyes flicking from her instruments to the water ahead. It stretched open and inviting in the watery sunlight, and she couldn’t suppress a grin as she felt the tail lift and hauled back on the control yoke. The Catalina lifted, the stepped hull breaking cleanly from the water, and the harbor fell away beneath them.

“Gilchrist, this is harbormaster. You are cleared on heading 035. There is still traffic inland over Boccadifalco, but if you stay out to sea, you will be clear.”

“Roger that,” Alma answered. “We will be leveling off at five thousand feet.”

“Roger, Gilchrist, five thousand feet, heading zero-three-five.”

Alma kept the big plane steady as they climbed, running north along the coast away from the harbor. At five thousand feet, she leveled out, then began a sweeping turn back to the east. They were entirely over water now, a few wisps of cloud five hundred feet above them, and a more solid layer a thousand feet above that, filtering the sunlight to a silvery haze. The Cat was running perfectly, engines throttle back to their most economical cruising speed, the enormous wing grabbing every bit of lift.

“Belissima!” Balbo shouted from the cockpit door, and Alma glanced back, wondering how long he’d been there. “A most lovely machine — and, of course, a lovely pilot, too.”

“Thank you.”

“May I ask where you plan to take us, Mrs. Segura?” And that was Göring, his voice pleasant in her headphones.

“I thought we’d turn east along the coast, down to, say — um, the second cape.”

“Cefalu,” Mitch supplied.

“Yes, Cefalu, and then come back along the coast.  We’ll be in the air about half an hour.”

“Perfect, Mrs. Segura,” Göring said, and she could almost see him settling back in his seat beside the radio.

“Ideal,” Balbo shouted, leaning forward to study the controls.

Alma reported her flight plan to the harbormaster, and turned east again, keeping the edge of the island just in sight off her right wing. They passed over one of the ferries from the mainland, its wake a silver arrow against the deep blue — even the Mediterranean was darker in the winter, a rich and perilous color. As she came abreast of Cefalu, the coast seemed to come out to meet them; she saw the flash of the lighthouse and banked gently toward it, straightening once they’d made the full one hundred eighty degree turn and were facing back toward Palermo. Now the coast was on their left wing, and she followed its curve south again, passing over the smaller cape south of the city and back over open water.

Mitch contacted the Palermo harbormaster, and Alma focused on her landing, waiting for the harbormaster to give them a clear lane and then setting the Cat down as gently as if it were a much smaller plane.

“Beautiful,” Balbo said again — he hadn’t budged from his place in the cockpit door.  “I assure you, Mrs. Segura, Consolidated couldn’t find anyone better to demonstrate their airplane.”

“Thank you.” Alma concentrated on bringing the Catalina alongside the hangar, where a tender was waiting to tow it back to its dock. Then there were the farewells — Balbo effusive, Göring and his wife politely enthusiastic, von Rosen still hanging back silently. If I didn’t know better, Alma thought, I’d say he was sulking. Finally they were gone, and Mitch dogged the hatch behind them. Alma leaned against the bulkhead.

“Well, that’s over. Is there any coffee left, Tiny?”

“Maybe a little?” He checked the pot. “I could make more.”

“Just give me what there is,” Alma said.

“I think it went well,” Mitch said. “Balbo seemed interested — I reckon Floyd wouldn’t turn down an Italian Air Force contract.”

“I wouldn’t think so.” Alma held out her hand for the coffee, noting that it already had milk and sugar added.  “Thanks, Tiny.”

“Did that von Rosen guy talk to you?” Tiny asked.