Was I ready to die for tonight’s theater crowd in London?
A reflex voice in me cried yes. Faintly though, coming through a welter in my head. I knew the answer would be louder and clearer if it was Broadway. If it was my own country. Or if my mother was playing Hamlet at the Duke of York’s.
But I had to believe that even tonight I’d be dying for more. I’d die for a chance at exposing and discrediting poison aerial attacks themselves.
Seemed like a good cause.
But no. I wasn’t ready for that. Not the dying part. I had to work hard now to try to have it both ways.
Which made me think of Albert’s plan.
His parachute.
I had a way to survive if I could figure out how to blow up the LZ 78 while it was in the air.
But the how had to include a long enough fuse.
First things first.
A few hours before takeoff, Dettmer had a man subtracted from his ship. For this, he’d be thinking to take things on board — compensating ballast — not off. Maybe that’s why the parachute was still sitting there. But I couldn’t depend on it remaining. I needed to secure the parachute.
I stood up and closed the lid on the tin box and picked it up with me. As if it were still useful. Without something to serve as a blasting cap, the dynamite wouldn’t blow. Not till the airship did. Still, by reflex, I kept the box. I had few enough resources. It was all I had. Something might come to mind.
I opened the dispatch case and slid it back in.
I shined my light and strode forward.
At least for now I could get around the ship without anyone’s close scrutiny. A Zeppelin had a crew of about twenty. At least half of them were mechanics. They were all with the engines. More than half the rest were presently in the command gondola. Everybody on board had a focused task. That would probably last till the ship was airborne.
A footlight shone ahead.
The hatch was still open.
I arrived.
No one was around.
I took the parachute from the shelf. It was heavy, a good thirty pounds. I put it under my arm.
I skirted the hatch on the walkway and walked forward, keenly aware of the distance I was covering, my distance from the parachute launching hooks and the hatch.
I was instinctively heading for the place I’d targeted when I still thought I had a time bomb: the run of tanks piping fuel forward and downward to the engine compartment of the command gondola.
That was still a volatile spot.
And it was only about a third-base-to-home sprint to the hatch.
I arrived at the fuel tanks and shined my light on them.
I lifted the light to the bloated clouds of hydrogen bags hovering overhead.
I looked back toward the hatch, a distant glow.
And back to the bags.
Gas.
A flame burning low and gas leaking in. The pace of the gas could provide its own fuse.
I had my Luger. For a quick, tight cluster of shots high up in one of the bags above me.
I had matches.
I needed something to burn slow and low.
I didn’t know if my gasp made me clutch the tin box tight against me or if clutching it made me gasp. But I knew there was something inside. Sweetly, it was a thing Erich Müller never thought to render useless.
Cotton wool.
Cotton wool burned slow. Especially compacted tightly.
Of course, the first stroke of a match might ignite the fumes that already scented the air.
Or the contrary problem might assert itself. Cotton wool could burn itself out.
It was all timing. Timing. And I had no idea what the timing might be.
But the ticking in my watch pocket was the only time that counted now and it was reminding me that I needed to act.
I struck out forward along the walkway, moving as fast as I could into the dark with the beam of tungsten before me.
I had to get back to Dettmer and ask permission to stay aboard. He would surely let me fly with them tonight. After all, he’d been prepared for an Englishman to do so. Instead, he’d have a chance to impress the Foreign Office.
He’d want me to watch the takeoff of his airship with him. But I needed to get off his bridge and go to work as soon as possible afterward. For my larger aspiration in this mission, vivid, unmanageable word had to get out. The ball of fire should be seen at Spich, at least distantly. The Zepp and its phosgene had to fall on German soil.
I’d pull the trigger on the LZ 78 soon after takeoff. But long enough after to put jumpable distance between that hatch and the ground.
And then there was the scene from limbo being played out at the Hotel Alten-Forst.
I stopped abruptly, even though I needed to rush. This was a complication that only now reminded me of itself.
Who was Jeremy? What was his intention? He was sitting in Room 200 with a pistol on Stockman and my mother. Or at least he was when I left him. The two men could have been working together. Or they had lately begun to do so. They certainly had the same immediate objective: the gas bombing of London.
But I knew the truth wasn’t simple.
And whatever it was made no difference to my actions in the next half hour or so.
I moved on.
Another hole of light in the floor was growing bright up ahead.
And then I was down the ladder and through the roof of the command gondola.
I landed and found Major Dettmer handing off his clipboard to his executive officer. The cast on the bridge was a little different now. The navigator and the telegraph lieutenant were off to their posts. The helmsman was at the rudder wheel and a junior officer was at the elevator control.
The executive officer crossed before me, caught a glimpse of me, and paused to salute.
“No saluting,” I said. I would put them at their oblivious ease around me. “I am a fly on the wall.”
But I realized I’d just translated an American idiom into German. It sounded odd in my mouth even as I spoke it. “As they say in America,” I quickly added.
The executive officer laughed.
“The place is full of flies,” I said.
He laughed again and Dettmer did too, having drawn near.
“They are all rubes in America, I think,” Dettmer said. Not an exact equivalent of “rube” in German, but close enough.
The executive officer continued on his way and I turned to face Dettmer. “Major,” I said, “may I ask a favor? Not only for myself personally, though it would certainly be that as well, but as a favor to the Foreign Office. We have removed the English amateur from your midst. Please allow me to take his place. Berlin has telegraphed me to ask for a firsthand report on the work the airships do. Particularly, of course, on the night when you deliver this important package.”
As I expected, Dettmer snapped to. He would have saluted, but I lifted my own palm quickly to stop him. He stayed his hand and said, “Of course, sir. I’d be honored.”
I offered him my own hand to shake, and he took it with warmth.
Behind me the executive officer shouted an order to someone below. “Prepare airship march.”
I said, “I will freely explore the ship in flight, if I may have your permission. I want to experience everything. Your Lieutenant Schmidt gave me an excellent tour. And your Lieutenant Kreyder wishes to share more of his important procedures with me.”
“As you wish, Colonel,” Dettmer said. “As you wish. You’ll forgive me if I am preoccupied for the next hour or so.”
“Of course,” I said.
Dettmer’s eyes shifted over my left shoulder.
I looked.
His executive officer was crossing back our way.
“Captain,” Dettmer said to him. “The colonel will fly with us tonight. At weigh off, release the extra ballast. And bring the extra cold gear. Only the takeoff necessities for now.”