Shocked silence reverberated through the compartment, broken only by the engine’s scream. Ludwig looked into his navigator’s wide eyes and let the man see his steely determination. Maas looked away, and Ludwig glanced at the airship’s senior noncom.
“Aye, sir,” his senior enlisted man said, swallowing hard and nodding.
“Go,” Ludwig said, keeping his tone low and hard as iron. In the back of his mind, he began to consider how he’d paint this incident in such a way as to save his young, momentarily foolish, officer. Perhaps he could blame it on fumes, or lack of sleep, or a legitimate suspicion of enemy action. He’d think of something. Maas was a good sort, and he’d never caused problems before.
The men scurried away to do his bidding and Ludwig turned back around to look out at the desert floor that stretched impossibly far in the moonlit night.
They saved her, but barely. Wilhelm didn’t know how close they’d come to crashing in that frigid night, but he’d seen the altimeter reach as low as one-thousand five hundred feet, and suspected they’d gotten even closer than that. But the captain’s order to jettison cargo and ballast had stabilized the ship and gotten her flying again.
He wished he felt relieved.
The truth was, the journey thus far had been hellish. Easily the most difficult mission of his life, and he knew he was not alone in that. Reports from the engine compartment spoke of increasing hallucinations and men passing out from the severe pains in their heads. It only got worse once they’d come about, as well. Men could push through a lot of pain in pursuit of glory. It was much harder once defeat was assured.
By the time the sun rose to warm the air and expand the gasses in the bag again, they had established a course back to the north, across the enemy territory through which they’d just come. Tension ran high throughout the crew, sure that the damned British fighters would be on them at any moment.
The day wore on and on. Wilhelm refused to leave his station again, straining his ears for any transmission, any break in static, anything that might give them warning as to the presence of enemy fighters.
But nothing came. The static stayed steady, and through the grace of God alone, nightfall saw them crossing the Egyptian coast and soaring out over the Mediterranean once again.
Ludwig felt like weeping.
He could do no such thing, of course. Not in front of his men, ever, but certainly not now, at the end of a grueling mission that had ended in ignominious failure. It didn’t help that he ached with a fatigue that burned through his muscles and pulled at the edges of his mind, making it nearly impossible to focus. Still, his men no doubt felt worse than he, and so he summoned every bit of will he had to keep his spine straight, his chin lifted.
Remember, he whispered to himself. Remember who you are.
Ahead, the wide landing meadow at Jambol beckoned just below the horizon. He could imagine the scramble of the ground crews as they watched his ship’s unscheduled approach. Though they flew at nearly one hundred kilometers an hour, it seemed impossibly far away; and their pace seemed an impossibly slow crawl. Normally, at the end of a mission, the men would be all smiles and jokes at this point, with hearts light and merry at the prospect of a few weeks at home.
Not so today.
He listened as his noncoms and officers—including poor Heinrich, who had not said another word out of line since Ludwig had threatened his life—performed their landing routines. He gave the appropriate commands at the appropriate times, and L59, battered and bruised from her marathon journey, finally settled softly to the ground once more.
Ludwig lowered his head, closed his eyes, and lifted his thoughts in a very heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving, for his life, for the lives of his men, and for the safety of this truly magnificent ship.
Remorse rippled through him. She deserved better.
They all did.
“Captain?”
Ludwig looked up to see Heinrich, his face pale, his hands shaking as he held out the ship’s official diary. Ludwig took the book, which was open and ready for him to record their landing entry and mission summary data.
“Captain, I am so sorry—”
Ludwig lifted a hand. Shook his head.
“You forgot your place for a moment, Heinrich. That is all. It will not happen again,” Ludwig said, his voice hard, but not unkind.
“N-no, sir,” Heinrich said. “It will not.”
Ludwig nodded. “The summary data, then, if you please, Leutnant?”
Maas blinked rapidly, inhaling through his nose as if gathering his composure, and then nodded crisply. “Yes, sir. On her latest mission, codenamed China Show, Imperial Navy Zeppelin L59 flew a total of 6,800 kilometers in 95 hours. Due to a recall from the high command, her mission was aborted, and this flight was conducted without pause or refuel, making it the longest flight by a military aircraft in history.”
Ludwig froze, looked up from his record of this summary.
“You’re sure, Heinrich?” he asked.
Heinrich gave him a tremulous smile. “I am, sir. They taught us that in university. The pre-war record is significantly shorter, and none of our other missions have been so ambitious.”
“And the enemy doesn’t fly long-range zeppelins,” Ludwig finished, speaking half to himself.
“No, sir, they do not.”
A slow smile spread across Ludwig’s face as he bent to finish his sentence. He signed off the log, signaling the end of the mission, and closed it with a flourish, then shared his smile with Heinrich.
“Thank you, Leutnant,” he said, formally, “for that data. And for making our mission less of a failure.”
“Sir?” Heinrich said, confusion furrowing his brow.
“We did our job, but we were recalled through no fault of our own. The men are demoralized by that, as you, yourself, are well aware. But now, with this information… well. You’ve given us something to celebrate! Come with me, my boy. You can help me tell the crew. If we can do this, we can do anything!”
Interlude
Tatiana: Many summers
It was not our fault that the guards turned on us.
Today we celebrated the birth of our Lord. We were grateful to be together under the small dome of Tobolsk’s church, kneeling before the altar. Most of the soldiers of the Second remained in the narthex but one, then a second, followed us cautiously into the nave. I could feel the weight of their gazes on my back as we took our places, Mama and Papa and Alexei in front, we girls behind.
I couldn’t shake the weight of their sight from my shoulders. It made me shudder, not from the cold that had followed us in, but from the scowls on their faces, the way they looked at the saints painted on the walls.
Looking away, I sought the friendlier faces of the choir standing at our left and our right. I recognized among them some of the people that had crossed themselves as we had passed them in the street.
Father Vasiliev entered through the Beautiful Gate and took his place, his voice rising above us as he led the service, but the words were lost to me. I wanted, more than anything, to lose myself in the imagery of the icons, in the vibrant colors of their robes, the gilded halos, the looks on the faces of the saints painted on the wall before us. I wanted the comfort that the images of our Lord and His blessed mother could bring. Unlike the sternness of John the Baptist, and the Archangels Michael and Gabriel, she had a gentle look on her face.