Oath Bound - Book V of The Order of the Air (7 page)

The men were waiting in the hall, Tiny Foster pale and sweating, and Alma made sure to give him a reassuring smile as she took Lewis’s arm.

“You look very nice, Tiny.”

The lanky young man tugged at the hem of his jacket. “If you say so, ma’am.”

He looked as if he were about to bolt, and Alma put her other hand through his elbow.  “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine.”

“It’s just like a Legion dance,” Mitch offered.

“It had better not be,” Alma said in spite of herself, remembering a very memorable Legion dance just before Mitch and Stasi’s marriage, and Mitch blushed to the roots of his hair.

Stasi laughed. “Don’t worry, darling, I’m not dressed for that.”

Lewis leaned back to catch Tiny’s eye. “Just smile and be polite, and if anybody asks you anything you don’t understand or you don’t want to answer, send them to Al or Mitch.  Or me.  Enjoy the buffet, and be careful of the liquor. The wine doesn’t taste like it’s got a kick, but it’ll go straight to your head.”

“Yes, sir.” Tiny looked reassured, and Alma squeezed Lewis’s arm in thanks.

“Well,” she said. “Shall we?”

The ballroom was even more like something out of a movie. They were stopped at the doorway by a severe-looking man in an impeccable tailcoat, who collected their invitations while contriving to glance at the names, and then two more footmen threw open the door.

”Mr. and Mrs. Segura, Mr. and Mrs. Sorley, Mr. Foster. Gilchrist Aviation.” The announcement made, the tail-coated man bowed sharply. Alma took a deep breath, and started into the room.

They made their way down the receiving line, Alma relieved to find her Italian adequate. The hosts all knew exactly who she was, everyone carefully briefed that she was the aviatrix and Stasi wasn’t, and she fetched up in front of Air Marshal Balbo with a sense of relief. Governor-General, she reminded herself, he was Governor of Libya now, and for a panicked moment wondered which title she should use.

“Signora Segura.”  Balbo was short and stocky, with a moustache and a beard that covered the point of his chin and crept along the edges of his jaw.  His dark hair was cut short, but that failed to hide the tight curl that he’d subdued with a dose of pomade. His uniform was impeccable, short white mess jacket with an order star and a row of ribbons beneath his pilot’s wings, and there was a scarlet sash beneath the jacket that ended at his left hip in a rosette and another impressive-looking cross.

“Air Marshal,” Alma answered, extending her hand, and he bowed politely over it. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.” His English was only slightly accented. “And Signor Segura. And of course I am extremely interested in this new flying boat of Consolidated’s. I hope that if I am able to get away I can prevail upon you for a personal tour?”

“I’d be delighted,” Alma answered. “I’d be glad to take you on a test flight, too, if you can find the time.”

Balbo put his hand over his heart and bowed again, the gesture only faintly theatrical in this setting. “Dear lady, it would be my greatest desire.”

“Any time,” Alma said, feeling terribly American, and she and Lewis moved away.

“Now what?” he asked, when they had reached a suitable distance.  The dance floor opened to their left, a marble floor inlaid with what looked like a giant, multi-colored compass rose. The orchestra was confined to the low mezzanine above it, and the conductor was peering over the edge as if trying to choose his next tune.  Beyond the dance floor, a row of arches led to a second room, and through it Alma could see the tables set up for the buffet supper, as well as the first of a crew of waiters carrying trays of what looked like champagne. “Nobody’s dancing yet —”

“Drinks,” Alma said definitely, and Lewis grinned.

They made their way toward the supper room. Alma exchanged greetings with a couple of the Italians who’d been part of the mass fly-over, and Lewis excused himself to fetch their drinks, leaving her to chat with two young men in what looked like brand-new dress uniforms and a slightly older man in civilian dress. They made stilted conversation for a few moments, until Alma made a lucky remark about conditions in the harbor, and they all relaxed into complaint. The two lieutenants excused themselves after a moment, but the civilian remained, introducing himself as Arturo Tiozzo, from Venice. He must have seen her face change, because he cocked his head to one side.

“Do you know Venice, Signora?”

“I was married there,” Alma said, and then, because she and Lewis had been married at City Hall in Denver one Thursday afternoon when there wasn’t any work, “my first husband, that is.”

“Gilchrist?” Tiozzo asked, not quite mangling the name, and she nodded.

“He fought in the Veneto. After he died, Mitch and I kept the company name.”

And that was a remarkably bland description of a hectic, complicated, and profoundly happy part of her life, but it had been over for a long time. Gil had died in 1927; she’d met Lewis two years later, and married him a year after that, and at the moment it was the future they were building that mattered, not the well-loved past. Though it was hard not to feel Gil’s presence here in Italy, where they had served together…

“Just so,” Tiozzo said, but his eyes slid past her. “Ah, Count.”

“Arturo.” The speaker was a slim, elegant man in a flawless tailcoat and white tie, light brown hair parted neatly on the side and a blade-like nose. “A pleasure to see you again. Perhaps you could introduce me to the lady?”

“But of course,” Tiozzo said, with another little bow.  ”Mrs. Segura, may I present Count Carl Gustav von Rosen? Alma Segura of Gilchrist Aviation. “

“A pleasure,” Alma said, extending her hand. Something prickled at the back of her neck: despite von Rosen’s casual attitude, she didn’t think this was a chance meeting at all.

“You’re the lady in charge of the Consolidated flying boat,” von Rosen said. “I think someone told me your company did some of the testing over the summer?”

“That’s right.” Not a casual meeting at all, Alma thought, and kept her smile serene.  “Floyd eventually intends to offer a civilian version to companies doing the Pacific long-haul routes. We did the preliminary testing in Hawaii.”

“And were your people satisfied?”

“I liked the Cat very much,” Alma answered, and saw the quick blink as he adjusted his expectations. “Mitchell Sorley and I were lead pilots for the test.”

“Quite so.  I don’t suppose you know what the maximum cargo load would be? Roughly speaking.”

“The maximum takeoff weight is 35,420 pounds.” Alma suppressed her annoyance. “That should work out to roughly 13,000 pounds, not including fuel weight. But that hasn’t been fully tested yet.”

“That’s still impressive, though,” von Rosen said, and seemed to relax for the first time — as though, Alma thought, she’d passed some test.  “Do you know if there are any plans to turn it into an amphibian?”

“I don’t really know,” Alma said cautiously.  She thought the Navy had asked Floyd to make that conversion, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to discuss that too deeply with a — what was he, anyway? He couldn’t be a German, they’d gotten rid of their nobility after the war. Unless Hitler had brought them back, though that didn’t seem to be his style.  “Carl Gustav” sounded Scandinavian — Swedish, maybe? She couldn’t tell.

“If it’s a possibility, I’d be interested in looking over the plane,” von Rosen said. “With an eye to an eventual purchase, of course.”

“I’d be glad to give you a walk-through,” Alma answered. That was her job, to show the plane to potential buyers, and it didn’t matter where they were from.  “We’ll be doing some demonstration flights on Saturday, and there will be places on board for interested parties.”

“Thank you.” Von Rosen bowed slightly.  “That is very kind.”

With some relief, Alma saw Lewis approaching with two glasses of champagne, and accepted the one he held out to her. “My husband, Lewis Segura. He’s a Reserve Captain in the Army Air Corps. Lewis, this is Count Carl Gustav von Rosen.”

“A pleasure,” von Rosen said, sounding almost sincere, and they shook hands gingerly. “I think you were flying Republic’s Dart today?”

“Kershaw’s pilot was sick,” Lewis said. “And I had done some of the earlier testing.”

“Did you fly in the war, then?” von Rosen asked.

“I was on the Western Front,” Lewis said. “AEF Air Service. Two-seaters, and then promoted to fighters.”

Before Alma could say anything — she could brag about Lewis’s medals, even if he couldn’t — a voice interrupted.

“There you are, Carl!” The speaker was a lanky, good-looking man about her own age, his fair hair brushed straight back from his high forehead. He was loose-limbed and smiling and, she thought, a bit tight, and the woman on his arm looked just as elevated. She was pretty and curvy with curly brown hair held back in gold clips shaped like little biplanes. Another flyer? Alma wondered.  She hadn’t seen her at the show, but then, she’d been kept mostly in the harbor. “Your uncle-in-law sent me to fetch you.”

For just an instant, an expression of annoyance flickered across von Rosen’s face, but he controlled it instantly. “I suppose he must not be kept waiting.  If you’ll forgive me, dear lady, Mr. Segura.”

He bowed and turned away. The fair-haired man watched him go, swaying slightly, then turned back to Lewis. “You’re the man who flew the Dart today.”

“And you flew the — Stuka?” Lewis tested the pronunciation, and the fair-haired man grinned.

“That’s me.” He held out his free hand, and Lewis took it. “Ernst Udet.”

“Lewis Segura.” Lewis put his hand gently on Alma’s arm. “My wife Alma.”

“Enchanté, dear lady,” Udet said, klicking his heels. “And this is Francesca Mueller, who’ll make a pilot someday. Mrs. Segura flies the big planes, Flick.”

“
Hownicetomeetyou
,” the girl said, in a rush.  Alma suspected that exhausted her English, and wondered if she spoke Italian.

“And Mr. Segura — let’s just say it was a good thing for us that he came late to single-seaters.”

“Very kind,” Lewis said.

“I like that Dart,” Udet said. “If I ask Mr. Kershaw to let me look it over, will you put in a good word? I’d do the same for the Stuka.”

“I’d like that,” Lewis said. “And of course I’ll do what I can.”

Francesca — Flick? — tugged at his elbow, and Udet looked down at her, laughing. “Flick, liebchen, you’ll have to be more discreet.  But, yes, I promised we’d dance. If you’ll excuse us?”

They slipped away through the crowd, and Alma shook her head. “He’s — a character.”

“And one hell of a pilot,” Lewis answered. “Sixty-two kills. And he made it to the Armistice.”

He’s got a right to get drunk, then, Alma thought. She tucked her hand more tightly into the crook of Lewis’s arm and sipped at her warming champagne.  Under her fingers, she felt Lewis stiffen, and followed his gaze across the room. Von Rosen had found his uncle-in-law, it seemed, stood talking to a big man in a well-tailored uniform swagged with braid, but the medal at his throat was familiar: the Pour le Mérite, the Blue Max that was Imperial Germany’s highest honor.  A Hollywood-pretty blond stood with them, diamond bracelets on both wrists, but Lewis’s eyes were on the German.

“I know that man, too,” he said.

“The one von Rosen’s talking to?”

Lewis nodded. “He took over the Flying Circus after von Richthofen was killed.  He was in command at the Armistice — twenty-two kills. I met him once, one of those meandering dogfights that goes on and on, circling and circling and never getting the advantage. I got close enough to see his face—”  He stopped, shaking his head, and Alma didn’t prompt him.  “But that’s him all right. Hermann Göring.”

T
he dancing was well underway at last. Lewis had partnered Alma in a careful waltz — they were neither one of them particularly practiced dancers — and they’d attempted a foxtrot before retreating to one of the little tables in the dining room. They’d gotten another glass of champagne and a plate of exotic canapés, peering through the arches at the dance floor, where Mitch and Stasi were performing a perfectly sedate and impeccably executed foxtrot of their own.

“Not at all like a Legion dance,” Alma said, with a quick smile.

Lewis grinned. “Not in any way, shape, or form.” The Legion hall back home had been Chip Gunderson’s grandfather’s barn before Chip agreed to rent it to the Legion for a dollar a year, and everyone had chipped in to make the improvements — like a sanded floor and actual indoor plumbing and some hastily knocked-together partitions that did nothing to keep in the heat from the inadequate wood stove. But with forty or more people dancing, the place was warm enough — nothing like this place, though. Nothing at all. He could see Henry across the dance floor, talking to a very pretty young woman and a man in a uniform that Lewis didn’t recognize; Tiny was at a table at the end of the hall, talking with a group of boys in a mix of civilian dress and uniforms — staying out of trouble, it looked like, and Lewis set down his glass to clap as the music ended.

Mitch and Stasi came off the dance floor in a rush, Mitch pulling out Stasi’s chair and leaning close to be heard over the sudden rumble of conversation. “I need a drink. Can I get anyone else anything?”

“Champagne, darling,” Stasi said, and Alma nodded.

“Me, too, thanks.”

Lewis shook his head, and Mitch waded into the crowd gathering beside the bar.

“You look splendid out there,” Alma said.

Stasi touched her hair and seemed to relax as she felt all the pins in place. Lewis reached for his lighter, lit her cigarette, and she took a deep breath of the smoke. “Thank you — and thank you, too. It’s a lovely orchestra, isn’t it?”

“As good as the ones in St. Petersburg?” Lewis couldn’t resist the earnest question, and Stasi gave him a sidelong glance, her mouth prim but her eyes filled with mischief.

“Well, no, darling, but they were very special. And of course they had more incentive than most —”

She broke off as Count von Rosen loomed up out of the crowd, clicking his heels to bow generally to the table. “Ladies. Mr. Segura. I wondered, Mrs. Segura, if I might persuade you to dance? If Mr. Segura permits.”